by Sister Grim

Once upon a time it was the beginning of a new year — 2006, to be exact — in the city of Chicago, which was, saaadly enough, still legally bound to and located in the sorry, scandal-ridden, cheapskate state of Ill-A-Noise, and the membersheep of the CTEwe were just starting to re-organize themselves into a regular school routine after their lengthy Christmas — oops, shame!! shame!! — Holiday combination vacation and layoff.

It was always somewhat depressing to return to work, even after a weekend. One could only imagine the mood of the aforementioned membersheep as they trudged baaack across the tundra to their respective workplaces following a two-week break in the daily drudgery of imparting knowledge to a largely reluctant audience.

The veterans among them had learned not to expect much upon their return: whatever had needed repairs before the break still needed repairs. Nothing much had been done in the way of cleaning classrooms or replenishing supplies, and, with lots of learning still largely undone, everyone had to jump right in, in order to prepare the students for the upcoming baaarrage of tests.

“Oh, who cares about tests, anyway?” asked Nancy Naive, who was still a fairly new teacher in the ways of the Big Baaad Bored of Education. “What does it matter?”

“It’s a matter of life or death,” said Millicent Militant, who had been around long enough to observe the misapplication and misinterpretation of test data as it impacted teaching positions and the viability of entire school buildings. “Whole schools have been closed down because of poor test results.”

“You’re making that up,” sneered Nancy.

“I wish,” added Ewenice, who was still Toonice for her own good. She was a good friend of Millicent, and a long-term veteran in her own right. “But the sad truth is, they force us to give a bunch of tests, and then they tell us our students have failed, because we didn’t teach them the things that were on the test.”

“But you’re not supposed to teach to the test,” said Nancy.

“A conundrum,” observed Scott Skeptic, journalism teacher in-exile, and somewhat of an expert in poorly written but assiduously administered tests, all of which represented a huge waste of funds and a major massacre of trees. “But,” he continued, “the worst thing is that the test results are mis-used to provide excuses to close so-called failing public schools; the those same buildings are converted to charter schools.”

“So?” said Nancy.

“So, teachers lose their positions.”

“Oh. Well, Pammy said that if they would have done their jobs properly in the first place, they would still be teaching at their original schools.”

“Pammy?” inquired Scott.

“You know. She’s famous. And she dresses really well,” added Nancy in the understatement of the year. New or old.

“You mean Pammy Pretty?”

Nancy nodded. “That’s her.”

“Where did you run into her?” asked Ewenice, who was quite curious.

“She was at my friend’s school a few weeks ago, and I was there to pick her up, to give her a ride to her car dealer, because her car broke down last week and —”

“Please. Just the faaacts, ma’am”, joked Millicent.

“ — and when I got there, they said there was a really nice reception being held in the social room, and that everyone was invited — except, of course,” she added, “for those Paaact people and other troublemakers — courtesy of the Pee-Yu caucus and Friends of the CTEwe, so I went.”

“And?”

“And it was really nice. There was a huge buffet, and even a dessert bar. We all got goody baaags, too.”

“Goody baaags? Whaat’s a goody baaag?” asked Scott, who didn’t watch Oprah very often.

“You know, all kinds of nice little gifts. Like a thank you. Or maybe a paaarty favor.”

“A thank you for stuffing yourself at a gourmet buffet?”

“I guess you could say that,” admitted Nancy. “But we did have to listen to some speeches.”

“Really? About what?”

“Mostly things we already knew. How the Pee-Yu caucus is trying to restore the integrity of the CTEwe, and how much damage the previous president did, and what a baaad contract we have.”

“Integrity?” choked Scott.

“Tell me more about the goody baags,” said Millicent, who knew what was really important. As always, her priorities were in impeccable order.

“Oh, the ewesual stuff — leather tote bag, caviar, champagne, Hermes scaaarf, Godiva chocolates, a gold chain, a Montblanc pen, a digital camera, one of those new iPods, a pashmina shawl —”

“Perfect for those draafty classrooms,” said Millicent. “Is that all?” she asked in a rather sarcastic tone.

“Well, I think the men got a muffler instead of a shawl. Oh.” she paused momentarily. “I almost forgot the best part. A snakeskin cover for our record books. We can get them monogrammed if we want at no extra charge. Isn’t that cool?”

“Very cool,” agreed Millicent. “Our dues money hard at work.”

“Pammy said that happy teachers are good teachers, and if we work with the Pee-Yu group, everyone will be happy.”

Meanwhile, back at the opulent riverfront offices of the CTEwe leadersheep, lots of people were very happy. The rental agency of the Merchandise Maaart was happy because the lease had just been renewed for ten years, at well over the previously negotiated rate of 1.5 million dollars a year. The current leadersheep of the CTEwe certainly knew how to negotiate important items.

“Only for ten years? Then what?”

“Don’t worry,” soothed Teddy the Obsequious Toady. “We’ll be in power forever. We’ve got everything all sewed up now, and you can all just relax and enjoy yourselves. No little upstarts will ever surprise us again. Maaaart Management never offers leases for more than ten years at a time.”

All of the leadersheep, field drips, office staff, hangers-on, and herds of double and triple-dippers were happy because they all had guaranteed indoor parking spaces within the building, which was part of the lease-renewal package.

“Well,” agreed Teddy, who was in an uncharacteristically cheerful mood. ”We don’t want our nice little Escalades, Mercedes or Lexuses—Lexii??— to get scraatched or all saalty, do we?”

“Remember that goofy former field drip who asked where the membersheep were supposed to park when they came down here?” laughed Naaasty Nicky, long-time do-nothing field drip.

“Oh yeah,” said Ellen-Helen Tootoomacho. “As if we even want them here at all. Remember?”

All the field drips joined in: “We only want the dues, guys. No one needs to see youse guys.”

Once upon a time, the CTEwe had formed a silent secret partnership with the Armandalegg Garage Corporation, which was semi-conveniently located across the street from the Merchandise Maart.

“Every time one of those chumps parks at Armandalegg, we get fifty percent! It’s brilliant!” declared Mercenary Mary, recording secretary of the CTEwe, who, like the rest of the CTEwe leadersheep, did largely nothing to justify her obscene salary.

Speaking of obscene salaries, the interior decorators were happy because Pammy had just arranged for a total redecoration of the offices, meeting rooms, hallways and other public areas.

“These colors are sooo last year,” explained Diana Heifer, CTEwe paarty planner and very, very special assistant to the ex-President -for-Life, Tom Reece.

The CTEwe lavatory facilities, however, were scheduled for a total and complete tear-down renovation. As Pammy was overheard (very possibly by someone who was hearing-impaired) confiding to Marilyn Mumbles, current president-select of the CTEwe, “the color on the imported hand-painted ceramic tile is a bit off, and it clashes with the hand-etched copper basins. And the jets on the jacuzzi are not perfectly symmetrical. It makes me very irritable, and —”

With unusual and uncharacteristic clarity, Mumbles quickly responded, “Whatever you say, Pammy. I’m sure you know best.” (That was close, she mumbled to herself. No one wanted an irritable Pammy. No one.)

Once upon a time there had been an almost crisis at the CTEwe offices. Fannie May, the famous local chocolate candy company, had unexpectedly gone out of business. While it was terrible for the employees and disappointing to the customers, it was, well —

“Appaaalling!! Ghaaaastly!! Dreadful!!” screeched Pammy Pretty. Everyone in the vicinity cowered under their desks, hands over their already abused ears. It was a rather unexpected eruption, and no one was prepared. That is, none of them had their well-worn pneumatic-drill-blocking 40 decibel-rated ear plugs handy.

“They cannot do this to me!!” she continued. “We spend thousands of dollars on Fannie May candy every year!! It is a traaadition!! How dare they!!” she hissed as she whirled around and headed for the elevators.

As the stomp-stomp-stomp of her Manolo Blahnik stilettos receded, everyone cautiously and carefully returned to their desks and other work locations, having safely stowed the aforementioned earplugs at the ready.

Once upon a time, not everyone immediately grasped the significance of the Fannie May crisis. It was, of course, a popular confectionery and it enjoyed a sizable and loyal customer base; it had been a Chicago standby for as long as anyone could remember. Unfortunately, despite the largesse of Pammy Pretty and the rest of the CTEwe leadersheep, the owners ran into financial difficulties and were forced to sell the company.

This resulted in the closing of all the Fannie May shops in Ill-A-Noise and the rest of the Midwest, which subsequently resulted in precarious predicament for everyone.

Pammy loved Pixies.

Say what one would about her, (and there was always plenty to say), she was driven, determined and difficult. Without her Pixie Fix, however, she was, well, the quintessential Pammy. Dreadful to deal with. In a word, she was totally terrifying.

Once upon a time it was a well-kept secret that the leadersheep of the CTEwe, as well as the office staff, enjoyed special perks. Everyone, and that means EVERYONE, received salary bonuses at Christmas — oops, holidays — as well as on birthdays, anniversaries, and any other occasion deemed worthy. Along with the every monetary reward came a three-pound gift box of Fannie Mae, hand-selected by Pammy’s personal Pixie picker.

Then, of course, disaster struck, and there was no more Fannie May to be found anywhere. Even the secret stashes had been consumed. With the exception of a ten-pound box of Pixies stowed in a safety-deposit box alongside other CTEwe holdings in the Cayman Islands, all the Fannie May was gone. The CTEwe leadersheep knew their days were numbered if something wasn’t done to rectify the situation, and some of them were privately concerned that Pammy would suffer a Pixie overdose during her weekly round-trip visits to Grand Cayman.

There were meetings and conferences and consultations. Substitutions were explored. Celebrity chocolate chefs were seen at the Maart, creating samples to please the Pammy palate.

Nothing worked.

Da Mare, li’l Hizzoner himself, was asked to assist in averting the upcoming disaster. Even he could do nothing. Time, along with the Pixies, was running out.

And then, once upon a time, a miracle occurred. Pammy was away for a few weeks. No one knew where she was. It was unnaturally quiet at the CTEwe offices, except for the bathroom renovations. Rumor had it that she had entered a Pixie rehab program in Peotone. It was all very mysterious.

And then, one day, it was in the newspapers and the nightly TV newscasts.

“Fannie May to reopen!!” read the headlines. “Chicago welcomes Fannie May!”

Scott and Millicent and Ewenice were all reading the stories. They smiled. They knew.

“Oh, I see,” they agreed. “Never underestimate the power of a Pammy in search of a Pixie.”

O.I.C.