Tales from the Shark Tank

I’ve been substitute teaching for a couple of weeks now. I’d heard our little district had a distinct shortage of subs, but the reality of that has been born in upon me in that I’ve been getting 2 and 3 calls for each day, and I’m still an unknown quantity here. Indiana now licenses substitutes as well as teachers (pretty much a matter of passing a criminal history check), and since that comes through the state it takes awhile to wend its way through the red tape. So while I applied when school opened, my license just came in…and the calls began to follow.

I’m told I’m a rare creature – a substitute who isn’t actually a regualr teacher who still actually teaches. But I wouldn’t know what else to do, really. I mean, I can’t think of anything more likely to create chaos than a bunch of bored 10 year olds. So I’ve taught 5th grade a couple of times, and 4th, and really had fun doing it. I’ve also gotten sneaky; when I heard some anti-immigrant twaddle being repeated, I started a social studies discussion of immigration (fortuitously the subject of the current section in their book) that began with finding out where grandparents and great-grandparents had come from, and when…and pointing out that the descendants of all those immigrants were the Americans present in the room. And the discussion got lively enough that I think it likely at least a couple of them will remember it. Such a subversive I am.

But the fact remains that I am still establishing myself as reliable and capable, and so when I was asked to take the special-ed room at the same gradeschool, while I told the principal I had never in my life done such a thing, I agreed. He said that the primary requisite was patience, and that in his observation I was well endowed with that. And so it was that this morning found me unlocking the door to the learning-disability resource room, laptop in hand because every day I’d had so far had featured several hours of downtime in it while the kidlings were in music or the library or what have you.

Today featured no downtime at all. It was the closest I would imagine most schools now come to the old “one room school”; at any given moment, I could be helping a 4th grader who reads at about 1st grade level (and a struggling 1st grade at that), shepherding an autistic six year old through a meltdown, or trying to explain division to a 5th grade kid who had to be redirected about every 90 seconds. Sometimes I was trying to do it all at once.

I don’t know how those who do that daily manage. I couldn’t. I deal well with fairly normal kids of pretty much any age, and delight in teaching the bright ones. I could handle the meltdown king of the first grade. (Poor guy, he thought he could get out of doing his work by screaming, and was much taken aback when I was utterly unimpressed.) The ones whose letters turned backwards on them I understand; that’s a a disability, not a matter of intelligence. But the ones who couldn’t figure out that the plural of “leaf” is “leaves”, or that of “child” was “children” even when we went over it 20 times, the ones who had to sound out “cup” and then came across the same word in a sentence immediately following and didn’t recognize it – those I had trouble with. A mind that does not grasp the simplest concepts, when I can see clearly that the child is working terribly hard to do so is another world. I don’t know how to deal with that. But I can say with certainty that it requires far more than simple patience.

Much to my own annoyance, I have utterly scrambled my sleep schedule. The household juveniles, both human and feline, seem to have determined that it is their job to help me get it back on track by wakening me at 7:00 a.m., and never mind that I’d gone to sleep at 2:00 a.m.

The actual awakening was accomplished by our son. He came into the bedroom to tell me that there was “a ‘mergency”. As I gathered my wits, somewhat impeded by the fact that I know what his concept of an emergency is, he went on.

“Kitten is on the roof again.” That got my attention. It’s not that the kitten is in any particular danger up there. I mean, the front eaves are low enough that I can reach the kitten on a two-step kitchen stool. She really could jump, but she’s a cautious little girl. But my son really does get terribly worried, so I got up, put on shoes (sleeping in sweats does have its benefits, one of them being that you’re automatically decent) and hied myself out the front door to check status.

Note that I did not need to retrieve the step stool because it was already outside from last night’s rescue mission. So I simply stood there and called to her in my best imitation of mama-cat’s “come here this minute” trill-sequence. After a minute I heard a small, subdued little “mew?” from a little above my head. Sure enough, there was Tornado, peering down at me from the eaves and looking entirely woebegone. So ok; I am after all the human she comes to. I put up my hands, she stepped forward, I wrapped them around and pulled her down to snuggle into my arms, and we came into the house as I reflected on the fact that walnut-sized feline brains have a really long learning curve.

And then, as my husband was up to keep our son company, I went back to sleep for another couple of hours, leaving the small black cat to be licked and comforted by her mother.

On the way into Indy to spend the next couple of days with friends and family, our son asked me to start telling him funny cat stories. I’m not sure if it’s the stories about the cats he finds funny, or if he likes my style of storytelling, but his favorite, which I had to repeat several times over, was the tale of the kitten chasing her own tail in the bathtub (which is of course somewhat slippery), catching it in her front paws and yanking, and falling over on her side as she knocked herself off her own feet. Much harder to balance on two feet than four, I guess.

So the conversation got onto whether the cats think they’re people with fur, or that I’m a cat without claws. My beloved husband opined that indeed I was a cat, and that I do in fact have claws. “Not the kind that catch mice” was my response, in reference to cat-standards.

My husband gave me a rather wry sideways look and responded “And small comfort that is to your prey.” I thought about that for a few minutes. “I don’t think I’ve sharpened them on you…I can’t remember doing it.” “No” quoth he “but I’ve seen the results, and they weren’t pretty.” That got him a grin.

It’s lovely to have a husband who knows me so well. And on this Thanksgiving Day, along with the more usual things like my son’s expressiveness and intelligence, and our solvency, and the continuing health of myself and those whom I love, and some of the best, most wonderful friends any person could have, I am thankful indeed for a husband who both knows I have claws and hasn’t put off by it in the 20+ years we’ve been together.

1. A pink towel dropped on the bathroom floor is the mortal enemy of a black kitten, to be fought tail, tooth and claw.

2. Biting a towel-wrapped tail still hurts.

3. If you jump into the tub right after your human has showered, your paws will get wet.

4. Things stick to wet paws. Those things taste nasty when you lick them off.

5. If you go outside when the ground is white, your paws will get very cold.

6. When you come in, your cold paws will inexplicably become wet paws. See (4), above.

7. Cold, wet paws will become warm, dry paws if walked across your favorite human.

8. If you touch bare human skin with cold wet paws, the human will make inexplicable squeaking sounds that are very amusing.

9. Scritching at the Closed Door to the Forbidden Land of Bedroom is a gamble. If the female human emerges, you will get picked up and petted. If the male human emerges, you will get a spray of water in the face.

10. It is not possible to tell from the way the knob rattles which human will emerge. It is far safer to simply mew.

11. Sharpening claws on furniture will get you sent outside to utilize a tree. See (5) and (6), above.

12. Sharpening claws on designated sharpening device is much more comfortable than being sent outside when the ground is wet or white. If in doubt, look to see where the two-legged furless cat (aka the female human) sharpens her claws.

13.  Brown toy mice are much more fun than pink or blue toy mice.  This is because they are self propelled.

14.  Brown toy mice break much more easily than pink or blue toy mice.

15.  Pink and blue toy mice are not good to eat.  Brown toy mice are delicious.

15.  If the human female sees you playing with a brown toy mouse, she will descend upon you armed with a towel, gather up the toy mouse, and remove it to parts unknown.  She will be moving as fast as she is capable of moving.

16.  After removing the mouse-colored toy mouse, she will give you Good Cat Food.  That tastes even better than broken toy mouse.

This is Tornado, for Feline Network News, signing off

Friday morning, bright and much too early, I betook myself over to Chicago to take care of my Indiana professional continuing education requirement.  I expected the weather to be cold and spit rain, and it was pretty obliging through the day.  Then, on the “I’m half way there” theory, I headed west to have dinner with my friend K. before heading home.

Oh. my. $Deity.  What should have been a drive of an hour and a quarter to an hour and a half took me four.  I’d no trouble personally, but it was evident that the same could not be said of many other drivers.  The reason?  Not did it turn into a cold thunderstorm, but sometime after that development it began sleeting.  By that point I was far closer to my destination than to home, so I went on, with intent to dine and head home after the weather settled down.

Only it didn’t.  Around 7:00, I spoke to my beloved husband.  Doing much the same over where we lived, he told me.  We agreed that I should proceed to K’s home instead of trying to return to ours, and stay the night.  That was fairly easy, too; I’d packed an overnight bag on a hunch, complete with all my assorted medications.  Some control asthma, some migraine – don’t want to do without those, really.  So on I went, finally arriving at K’s.  She’s the sort of friend to whom when I say “I need to crash, the weather’s too wild for driving home” says “Great – I just got a couple of DVDs in from the UK; we can watch them together!”  So we did that, and talked, and each worked on our respective needlework/ sewing projects, and sat by the fire as it finished burning down, and generally enjoyed ourselves quite thoroughly.

Unfortunately, the journey home was as fraught as the drive out had been.  My car’s been misbehaving intermittently for about three weeks now.  I took it into two different mechanics (one in Indy, one here), and neither could find a problem.  But today it made the nature of the problem abundantly clear, as the transmission suddenly began to slip and surge worse than a storm tide.  On the interstate.  In Chicago, where if you signal to get over, they hurry to pass you.  I finally forced my way not only over to the right, but off an exit and into a mall parking lot, and there the car remains.  I called my husband, who immediately left to rescue me, then K., because I know she has family in the area and I’m betting they will know good mechanics.  Then I tracked mall security and told them the car was out there, with description, and got assurances it wouldn’t be towed until I could find a repair facility and deal with getting it in on Monday.  That’s gonna be its own kind of interesting, as Sears wouldn’t let me leave the key with them so I could get it towed once I knew where it was going.  I’m not surprised they couldn’t do that, but it sure would have made life easier!  What it means is that I’m going to have to find my way back to the northwest side of Chicago on Monday somehow.  Like Paul McCartney, I suspect I’ll get by with a little help from my friends.

So it was a wonderful evening and a most frustrating day, but it really could have been much worse.  I got off safely.  It wasn’t 10:30 at night, which is not an unreasonable hour to be driving home but likewise when most things are closed and when our boy is asleep and rescue correspondingly complicated.  The car’s not going anywhere further without the aid of a tow truck, but it did get into a parking lot and even into a parking space.  It’s a very logical space, too, outside Sears Auto Center.  And I am home, safe and in one piece, no matter how much later it is than I ever intended.  The adventure will continue on Monday, but I can live with that.

I’m probably going to garner a lot of unpleasant comment from strangers for this one. I don’t really care. I am both delighted and deeply outraged by the election results. I’m delighted that the there has been such a resounding “This. Isn’t. Working.” message sent to Washington, complete with the necessary teeth to change what isn’t working. (I’m talking about things like the deficit here, guys, and the lack of practical, tangible support for the troops fighting with no apparent strategy for actually accomplishing anything, and the total disregard for environmental problems that are becoming obvious not only to scientists with monitors capable of detecting tiny changes, but to John Q. Public commenting that winter has gotten much warmer, summer much drier, and that the mosquitoes are so bad they’re out by day as casual grocery-store-line conversation.) I’m delighted that states in which the issue was on the ballot are voting to increase the minimum wage without waiting for Washington to do it, almost across the board. Those are all Good Things(tm).