Here There Be Dragons

I've heard it said that the average American adult will change careers approximately three times in their lifetime. I have no idea who said it or if it is true, but if it is true, I can proudly say that I have finally found one area of life in which I am well above average.

I've been a waitress and cashier. I've worked for an insurance company as an administrative assistant, word processing technician and machine transcriptionist. I was a cosmetologist, hotel front desk clerk, jewelry salesperson, lunch lady, and more.  Oh, and let's not forget to add author to that list.

I have a sneaky suspicion that I may be the living embodiment of the phrase "Jack of all trades, master of none."

So does it really come as a surprise to anyone that I've recently started a new career as a substitute teacher?

It's not really that much of a stretch, to be honest. This is what I studied in college. I finished three years' study in Secondary Education; granted, that was almost four decades ago, but the knowledge is still there in my brain. It may be buried under four decades worth of crap, but it's in there. Behind my kids' birthdays and shoe sizes, under the recipe for lemon meringue pie, and shuffled in with account numbers, miscellaneous passwords, and phone numbers for phones that no longer exist. 

It's all in there, man. Odds are about 50/50 that I'll be able to access it when I need it, but I got this.

I got this.

It's been an adventure, that's for sure. Some days, I think I'm learning more than I'm teaching. For example, I learned that it is crucial to tell ninth graders that playing Hangman on the board must only include school-appropriate body parts. Crucial.

Day one, the teacher left a note saying they could play the game after all work was finished. I watched in all my inexperienced, unsuspecting glory as the teenager drew the head, then torso, two arms, two legs, a third leg--

Oh.

Hang on.

Not a leg. 

"Erase that, please."

To my credit, I don't think any of the kids saw me laughing. I managed to keep it together until the bell rang, but all bets were off after that.

I got to teach a middle school science class where we talked about Newtons Laws of Motion. Middle school. Guys, I learned that in college. How in the heck are middle schoolers learning this stuff?

There's a pretty good chance that my high school gym teacher starts rolling in his grave every time I sub in a gym class. Of course, if I get smacked in the head by a few more well-aimed soccer balls, I may start spinning in my own grave.

The soccer team swears it's accidental, but I have my suspicions about a few of them.

I'm old, not stupid.

I spent a day in a fifth grade classroom with two pet geckos, one of which was apparently convinced it was a possum. It played dead very convincingly. So convincingly, in fact, that I'm still not sure it was playing at all. Reaching in and doing a wellness check on a potentially dead gecko was not part of my job description.

The same can be said about the bearded dragon in the science classroom at the high school. The teacher left a dish of food with a note that said "Dragon Food, do NOT eat" along with another note saying, "Don't worry about the dragon. I'll feed her tomorrow."

Bold of her to assume I would try to feed something with the word "dragon" in it's name.

I am, however, concerned that she felt the need to warn me away from eating the dragon's food. Are other subs in the habit of eating random bits of pet food that may be left lying around?

Honestly, I can't imagine this is a situation that is going to come up very often. Then again, two geckos and one bearded dragon are already three more lizards than I expected to deal with as a substitute teacher, so what do I know?

Obviously, not as much as I thought I did.

Out Of Tune

 

One would assume that anyone licensed to drive in the state of Michigan for over forty years would have a pretty solid grasp of the finer points of what you need to know to drive comfortably in this fine state

When it comes to me, however, that assumption would be wrong.

I get the basics. I totally understand that the roads here are always going to be more pothole than road. I know that there will always be more roads under construction than roads not under construction, and that construction plans here have recently had a weird predilection for building roundabouts in inexplicable places. I can even accept the fact that making a left turn in the town of Holland requires an advanced college degree, training in tactical military maneuvers, and a prescription for Xanax.

What I just can’t seem to grasp is the fact that people outside my car can see what’s happening inside my car.

Oh, I’m not alone in this transgression. And folks, just let me say here for the record – it doesn’t matter what kind of car you drive or where you’re  driving it, we can all see that finger in your nose. And when that finger is two knuckles deep, no one believes you’re  just itching.

Own the pick, dude. But do your booger-mining in private, please.

My in-car embarrassment isn’t quite so vulgar. Mine is more performative in nature.

That’s right: I sing. With the radio or without accompaniment. I sing loudly. And badly. I have zero delusions about my singing ability – or rather, lack thereof.

My automotive concertos also have to include instruments, naturally. Air guitar is a specialty, although experience has shown that my air drumming is a crowd favorite. Now that I think about it, that may be due to spectator fear that my swinging “batwings” may take out a window or even a nearby cyclist during a particularly enthusiastic crescendo.

I’ve also been known to carry on all kinds of conversations behind the wheel. Maybe I’m pre-planning a difficult discussion at work, or reliving a recent conversation to include all the jazzy comebacks I wish I’d said. Sometimes I talk my way through an upcoming blog post or an a bit of dialogue for my next novel. And let’s  face it, sometimes I’m just having a really important discussion with myself.

Hey, I live with my sons, aged 15 and 25. They both stopped listening to me long ago, roughly the same time they realized they were taller than me.

So, around their tenth birthdays.

They tend to wander away while I’m talking, or interrupt because they’ve  tuned out the sound of my voice and don’t realize I’m still speaking.

In my car, I have a captive audience, even if that audience consists of just me. I’ll take any opportunity to carry on a conversation with anyone, myself included. I mean, if I bore myself enough to tune out or walk away while I’m driving, I’ve got much bigger things to be worried about.

On my way to work yesterday, I did some fairly epic multitasking. I chatted through both sides of an intense conversation between main characters in my novel while enjoying a live recording of REM’s “Catapult." Everything was going great until I had to stop for a red light just in time to channel my inner Bill Berry for a fabulous drum solo.

I rocked it. The red light was a great opportunity to get both hands involved. I even worked up a bit of a sweat—although it's only fair to admit that I’ve also been known to work up a sweat putting on shoes and socks, so make of that what you will. Suffice it to say that I was seriously getting into it.

Right up until the moment I realized that the vehicle next to me at the stoplight was a school bus.

A school bus full of kids.

A school bus full of kids watching in open-mouthed wonder.

I immediately began praying that the students on that bus did not attend the school at which I was scheduled to substitute teach that day.

Let me just make it perfectly clear that God did not answer my prayers that day. Questions rolled in from students all day long.

“Ma’am, do you drive a little white car?”

 “Miss, what song were you listening to this morning?”

And my personal favorite: “Ma’am, should you be working today after whatever that was that happened in your car?”

It occurs to me that if I want to continue teaching in this town, it might be time for me to look into public transportation.