Daughter is going with her dance studio company on a whirlwind trip to Disneyland. They'll be performing as well as taking part in a couple of workshops. They'll have a blast.
She will especially because the four high schools students who are part of the dance team get to travel with the teachers and not the parents. [Sweeeeeeeet! For her parents, I mean. But, sure, for her, too.]
There was a mandatory parent meeting last night following their last rehearsal before the big trip over spring break. I got there a bit early, which is always really stupid because none of her dance classes ever finish on time and certainly not the last one for the company folks. Worse, I got there early and discovered that my beloved relatively new Droid was dead. Just. Like. That. So I couldn't even tweet about the meeting.
Eventually, maybe 10 minutes late, the meeting starts. And it all sounds so fabulous for Daughter. Really happy for her.
Toward the end, one of the dance teachers holds up a sign and says she's hopeful that all of the families put their own individual signs one of the other teachers has made on their own hotel room doors so everyone will know where everyone is and they can visit and such.
The signs mention the dance company name and the names of the inhabitants of the room, including, of course, those girls. That seems odd to me so I mutter something about serial killers. But no one hears me except Daughter, who shoots me a dirty look.
They keep talking about the signs, though, and so I say far louder than I maybe kinda shoulda, "Here's hoping no serial killer steals one of the signs and puts it on his door."
If looks could kill.
In all seriousness, if they were all on one floor of the hotel, sure, maybe. Why not? But spread out through a hotel? I don't care how close it is to the Happiest Place on Earth that just seems risky. I mean, were I a serial killer and not just a "Criminal Minds" devotee, I would see this as the perfect opportunity.
And that, my dear friends, is why I will no longer be attending parent meetings. At least those which involve my humiliated and much-mortified teenage Daughter.