Random Thoughts

A Well-Petted and Properly Revered Cat

When I was a child I was not allowed to have a cat. I wanted a cat though, badly, and not just because I couldn’t have one; I loved everything about cats, their soft fur, their motorboat purr, their silent stealth, their ability to sit like statues then leap into a blur of motion. The closest I ever came to having a cat of my own was the time someone dumped–literally–a tiny kitten outside the stable where I took horseback riding lessons. I happened to be there as the car sped off, and I volunteered to take the little orange tabby cat home with me.

My mother forbade me to bring him in the house, and I wasn’t about to repeat what had been done to him earlier that day, so in the growing dusk of the summer night, I took him door to door through my neighborhood, asking if anyone would like a free kitten. After about two blocks night had fallen, and the kitten had grown tired of being carried. Struggling, he dug his tiny claws into my wrist, and I reflexively dropped him. He dashed off into the darkness, and I never saw him again.

I spent the rest of my childhood petting neighbor’s cats, secretly feeding the gray shorthair who lived across the street, and playing with another neighbor’s pitch black feline aptly named “My Sin” (for his owner’s favorite perfume, as I recall) who ordinarily shied away from everyone but inexplicably allowed me to handle him. My mother’s hatred of cats was reinforced when My Sin took a swipe at a strand of my waist-length brown hair, inadvertently raking a claw across my left eye.

One emergency visit to the eye surgeon and a number of stitches later, I was forbidden from touching that cat again. Or any other cat, as far as my mother was concerned. I forgave the cat (who could blame him for instinctively swatting at something dangling in his face?) but reluctantly obeyed the parental edict.

It wasn’t until I had daughters of my own that I thought again of owning a cat. Eldest Daughter (all of 6 years old) was fascinated by kittens, and she wanted one. And I–willing to adopt almost any creature except those of the reptilian species–agreed.

We found a kitten at a local animal shelter. “Sunny” came with his name and a habit of chewing mercilessly on every single wooden corner in the house. Nothing was safe: The mantel, the banister, the corners of all our tables, dressers and cabinets, the dining room buffet, the ledge by our front door. He gnawed on them all. The vet said he’d probably been weaned too young.

Eldest Daughter adored him, and apart from the structural damage he caused, he was adorable.

He died suddenly, barely two years later. I have no idea why; after dropping my children off at school, I rushed his shaking body to the vet, but he was gone before we reached the parking lot. I cried all the way to work.

Hearing about the abrupt loss of our cat, one of my colleagues approached me later that afternoon. She was sensitive to the fact that you can’t simply replace one beloved pet with another, but she also wanted me to know that she had two half grown kittens who needed a home as she’d proven to be allergic to them.

And so, the next day, I drove home from my office with two kittens in Sunny’s old cat carrier, a calico for Youngest Daughter, and another ginger tabby for Eldest Daughter.

Eldest Daughter was ecstatic. Youngest Daughter had not particularly wanted a cat, but she was happy too. They named their new pets “Thomas” and “Angelina” (after Disney’s Thomasina and a classmate of Youngest Daughter, NOT the actress; this was 1994).

Another year passed, and Youngest Daughter’s affection turned to horses (that’s a subject for another post…or twenty), while her cat proved to be “difficult.” Angelina really wanted to be an only cat, and the presence of her brother Thomas in her space pissed her off, which she demonstrated by pissing on anything left on the floors of our home. Nothing was safe, not stuffed animals, nor shoes, nor gym bags.

Eventually we found a new home for her with a vet’s assistant, who knew exactly how to deal with her attitude. Eldest Daughter and Thomas became inseparable though. That cat knew who loved him best, and he fully returned her affection. He never scratched, never hissed, and tolerated everything from monthly baths to daily use as a snuggling toy with unusual patience.

More years passed. Eldest Daughter grew up, and Thomas grew older. When Eldest Daughter graduated from high school and moved first to Scottsdale for culinary school and then to Seattle to start her career, her cat stayed behind, king of his little realm. Despite the fact that we live in a hilly area near a canyon where coyotes prowl, Thomas was as protected as a cat could be. By feeding him only at night I ensured he spent his nights indoors, and our three dogs ensured no coyote would be foolish enough to invade our yard. More than one neighborhood cat met an untimely end (the sound of several coyotes howling in nighttime chorus is all too common in our area) but not Thomas. He remained smart and safe.

As he aged, Thomas’ love for prowling the neighborhood, catching rodents and leaving them in awkward places (like the nextdoor neighbor’s basketball court), climbing to the top of various neighbor’s chimneys to perch in the sun, and in general doing what he pleased wherever he pleased, became more circumscribed. Eventually he no longer roamed further than our backyard, and spent his days alternating between pillows in our house and a shady spot on the redwood bark next to our chimney.

In the absence of Eldest Daughter, he chose Youngest Son as his preferred cuddler and would not take “No” for an answer when he wanted attention. Every evening he assumed ownership of any pillow near me, and thought nothing of shoving our dogs out of the way. Or lying on them, if they refused to move.

Whenever Eldest Daughter came home for a visit, Thomas immediately switched his allegiance back to her. She was his girl, and he spent hours purring on her lap. He never grew fat, his eyes never dimmed, and other than spending the better part of every day and night sleeping, he remained the same fit, furry fellow he’d been all his life.

Last Wednesday morning, Thomas went outside and curled up on the bark next to our chimney. It was an unusually hot day, but the area is shaded by rose bushes and lavender. Spotting him there as I headed for our recycling bin, I paused and rubbed his chin for a moment. He stretched and rolled over, the picture of feline contentment.

Midafternoon I walked past the chimney again, and noted that Thomas wasn’t lying there anymore.

He did not come in the house that afternoon, nor that evening. Nor the next day, nor the day after that. By Saturday, I began to ask the neighbors if they’d seen him. Nobody had. Monday I put fliers in the mailboxes on my street and the streets above and below mine.

It’s Wednesday night again. Thomas has been missing for a week. He’s over 15 years old. I’m not naive, I know what that means.

He was the best cat. And he was a big part of Eldest Daughter’s childhood…which is also only a memory now.

“A home without a cat — and a well-fed, well-petted and properly revered cat — may be a perfect home, perhaps, but how can it prove title?” Mark Twain, Pudd’nhead Wilson

Doing Hard Things

The diplomas are safely on a shelf in my closet, and the desire to wreak irrational havoc upon them has thankfully passed.

I’ve learned that the most recent job I applied for which appeared to have been a perfect fit for me (teaching 5 periods of 7th grade English), was filled by someone already hired in the district, moved from another school because of “a shifting population.” Basically, I’ve been trying to get jobs that aren’t really available at all.

Well gee, at least now I know it’s not my age. Or the color of my slacks. Or the fact that I got my degree during the era of deconstructionism. Or anything of any relevance whatsoever–there’s just no job available for a newly credentialed English teacher. No matter how well educated she might be.

Meanwhile, more US companies face obliteration, guaranteeing fewer jobs for Americans in general.

How’s that “hope and change” working out for you?

Despite the fact that I’m unemployed, and therefore can’t really call myself a “teacher” now–I have no students, no classroom, nothing but this little blog and whomever I happen to converse with in the 3-D world–I am still educating myself.

One of the best books I’ve read in months:

Written by two teenage brothers, Alex and Brett Harris, it tackles head on the contemporary concept that teens are immature and incapable of handling serious responsibility. The boys point out that “teenager” is a 20th century construct. Throughout history up until the early 20th century, you were considered either a child or an adult; there was no decade of transition between the two. Now, they argue compellingly, we have a significant span of years where children are capable of mature behavior but treated like they’re not. Society sets low expectations for teens, resulting in laziness and self-centered (often self destructive as well) behavior.

In their words, it’s time for a “rebelution.”

When you look around today, in terms of godly character and practical competence, our culture does not expect much of us young people. We are not only expected to do very little that is wise or good, but we’re expected to do the opposite. Our media-saturated youth culture is constantly reinforcing lower and lower standards and expectations.

The word ‘rebelution’ is a combination of the words “rebellion” and “revolution.” So it carries a sense of an uprising against social norms. But in this case, it’s not a rebellion against God-established authority, but against the low expectations of our society. It’s a refusal to be defined by our ungodly, rebellious culture. Actually, we like to think of it as rebelling against rebellion.

The boys have a website too, The Rebelution.

If I ever get a classroom of my own, I’m having my students read that book. Even if I’m teaching in a public school. Especially if I’m teaching in a public school. I’ll probably get fired, unless I wait for three years to implement the book, then I’ll have tenure permanent employee status and they won’t be able to touch me. Ironic, as that’s one of the worst aspects of public school education, and directly responsible for the deplorable state of far too many schools.

Sometimes I really do feel like a chef trying to get work in a restaurant that’s been given a failing rating by the health department. And then I think about the kids whom I could help…

One of Those Moments

I’m having one of those moments where the temper I’ve spent years trying to subdue has resurfaced. And it’s directed purely at myself. Or, more accurately, it’s directed at the two framed diplomas I have.

I’m imagining smashing the crap out of both of them, while yelling “What the f—ing good are these anyway?! Nobody CARES if I have two degrees; they STILL won’t hire me.”

And then I remember how much I paid to have them professionally framed, and that I’d have to clean up the mess afterward, and that whenever glass breaks anywhere near me I invariably manage to cut myself on it.

So basically, thrift, laziness and fear of injury are balancing out anger.

See, life really is all about balance, Mom.

Great, I’m not just talking to a dead person, I’m blogging to her too now.

Applications

It’s taken me most of my life to figure out what I want to do with my life.

After a ridiculous amount of education, and at least four different career paths, I finally realized that I want to be a teacher. And I want to teach junior high or high school kids English literature and writing.

I have a Bachelor’s degree in English Lit.

I have a Master’s degree in English Lit.

I have a preliminary California teaching credential.

I can’t seem to get a job.

It is disheartening to send out applications, complete with all kinds of documentation and references, only to get no response.

It is disheartening to go on interviews, only to hear nothing back from the prospective employer.

It is so disheartening to interview for jobs you really want–not just any job, a job you truly would love to have–only to have the school hire someone else instead of you.

There was a time when I would have been happy to work at Starbucks. Even now, that seems like a reasonable option. As long as I don’t think about how much I want to teach kids. That’s when I feel like crying.

Spare me the Drama

Why does this blog get so much Russian spam? What is with that?

Imponderable questions…my life is full of them.

I’ve spent all summer hunting for a teaching job. Thus far, I’ve submitted about a dozen applications, and had three interviews. The first one, Job #1 was for a job I really, really wanted.

I have two English degrees, a teaching credential, and Eldest Son graduated from the private school in question, so I thought I would have a shot at the open teaching position.  I may have had a shot at it, but Job #1 hired someone else. Probably someone with more experience. Mr. Random Thoughts thinks that they probably hired someone younger, but he’s that way.

There’s nothing I can do about my age, or my level of experience. I yam what I yam.

Job #2 involved a more traditional interview given by a principal who looked like he was one step away from a heart attack, and not at all enjoying the hiring process. His questions were about my teaching style, my perspective on discipline, and how I would prepare students for STAR testing. I was the first of a string of interviews he had scheduled, and as soon as the alloted 1/2 hour was up he was done with me, onto the next, “We will call you, we may have you go through a second interview,” etc. etc. thank you goodbye.

On the way out I passed the next interviewee, a perspiring, stressed out young man. Impulsively I stuck out my hand and shook his, telling him “Good luck.” His hand was cold and clammy. Poor guy. He looked so desperate and so despondent even I, his competition, felt sorry for him. He probably needs the job even worse than I do.

Job #3 is a position teaching honors English, Debate, and Drama. The interview call came very unexpectedly (I had not submitted an application except to the district in general) from a school that suddenly has a teacher not returning, and needs to fill that hole immediately.

I don’t do Drama though. I don’t teach it either. Do you want me to learn on the job? Do I want to learn on the job? Do I really want this job?

Heck yes, so I did my best to wow them with all I have to offer, pulling out the “attended law school” card I normally bury deep in the pack–it intimidates people–to demonstrate that I could handle teaching Debate, and would be willing to tackle Drama.

Why did I ever think having an MA in English Lit was going to help me get a job teaching English? Obviously it’s not enough. I need to have minored in History Social Science, or Theatre. Or be 23 years old and far more attractive than I was when I was 23 years old. That is, if Mr. Random Thoughts is to be believed. He hires people. I haven’t been hired yet. So maybe he’s right.

I hate this part most of all though: Waiting for the phone call. The phone call that never seems to come, because they’re calling someone else.

This is the first time in my entire adult life that I haven’t been able to get a job simply by wanting it and presenting myself as fully capable of doing it. Oh, there was that one time an employer wanted to hire me away from a temp agency, but the negative reaction from her other employees (two of whom threatened to quit) made her back out of the deal. The temp agency told me I’d come across as “too capable.”

Somehow I don’t think that’s the problem now, but then what do I know?

All I know for certain is that I picked the worst time to enter the teaching profession in California.

I am certainly not the only one going through this sort of thing. Beyond the Pale has had an experience eerily similar to mine. And of all things, she wants to teach Drama! Maybe she could qualify for Job #3.

I’m trying to keep a sense of humor about the whole thing. This is me on the inside:

Okay, I am a woman not a man, and I will never see 35–or 45–again, and I am the mother doing the laundry, and the loans are about twice that much (thanks to the abortive attempt at law school), but otherwise it’s pretty accurate.

In fact, many of Kerry Soper’s cartoons describe my internal thought process about interviewing. On the outside, I’m smiling, answering questions ranging from “What Bible character do you think you most resemble” to “How would you teach writing using Bloom’s Taxonomy?” without breaking a sweat. On the inside, I’m wanting to say something like this:

Maybe I should teach Drama after all…so much of getting hired seems to involve acting.

Maybe I need to put my mind on other things. Things that are both simpler and weightier.

Like Crosscribe’s Ripples.

And I Was Just Thinking’s Challenging Words.

Anything to get my mind of the futile-thus-far job hunt.

Going to the dogs

I’m not even going to attempt to justify my sporadic blogging, except to say that, well, yes, I’m aware that it’s hardly good form to let a blog fall silent. The best laid plans…

In recent days, I’ve considered weighing in on the insanity of the Health Care reform act and Obama’s clueless arrogance in general. I’ve followed along as Brutally Honest gives us a look at how ignorantly people are responding to the empty promise of “Obama Care.” Confederate Yankee reveals that apparently according to Obama, Islamic extremists aren’t a threat to America. And Curt over at Flopping Aces details the way the Obama administration is destroying the college internship system (a direct threat to my own college offspring’s acquisition of career skills). There is so much chaos and catastrophe it’s tough to know where to start. Today though, something much smaller and closer to home tipped the scales and pushed me to write.

This really, really makes me furious:

Dogs attack baby left on floor of SoCal apartment
The Associated Press
Updated: 04/08/2010 10:34:15 AM PDT

MURRIETA, Calif. — Two large dogs tore off a 6-month-old’s diaper and mauled him after his mother left the baby alone in a carrier on the floor.

Murrieta police say the 22-year-old mother was at her friend’s apartment in Riverside County and had left the room.

Sgt. Bob Landwehr says the pit bull and pit bull mix attacked the baby, tearing off his diaper and biting his scrotum.

The mother and friend heard screaming and rescued the baby, who is hospitalized in unknown condition.

Police and child protective services are investigating, but no charges have been filed. The dogs are being euthanized.

No charges are being filed because you apparently can’t charge someone with being an absolute moron. No, I do not feel sorry for the mother, or her equally ignorant friend. I feel sorry for the mauled baby who had the misfortune of being born to a careless woman.

Dogs view babies as one of two things: Food or a toy. Sometimes both, as in this case. The smell of a dirty diaper is irresistable to a dog–ask any dog owner who has a child in diapers; dogs will go to great lengths to get at and eat dirty diapers. They’re more enticing than a cat litter box (and that’s saying a lot). Diapers on an unattended baby? You have an imminent disaster at hand.

You’re thinking “Oh cute!” The dog is thinking “Oh yum!”

Even worse, these dogs weren’t being raised with the child in question; the baby and his mom were visiting them. So the dogs had no reason whatsoever to view the baby as part of their human pack, as anything other than food or a toy, held captive in the carrier for their entertainment.

For doing what dogs in such a situation naturally do, they end up being killed. That’s really unfair to them, though understandable; once they’ve discovered how fun a baby is to chew, there’s no erasing that knowledge.

I have said it before, and I’ll keep repeating it: There is absolutely no excuse for parents not recognizing the danger of dogs around small children. Some of the best advice I’ve found regarding babies and dogs is short and to the point; it all boils down to one absolute: Babies never, never, never should be left alone near any dog for any length of time. Not even ten seconds. It simply is not worth the risk. And if you’re reading this, and saying “I know my dog would never hurt my baby,” ask yourself, would you set your baby in the middle of the street and turn your back on him or her, “knowing” that none of your neighbors would ever hit a child with their car? Actually, your child would be safer in the street. Someone would probably intervene if they saw such asininity. Not so, unfortunately, with dogs and babies.

If you intend to have dogs and babies together, training must be done. If you can’t see to it to follow instructions such as these, for your baby’s sake and your dog’s sake, find a new home for the dog. Nobody wants to read a story like the above about your child. It’s a totally preventable catastrophe.

We can’t take simple action to immediately fix our country’s political and economic problems, but we certainly can keep our own babies from being injured by our own pets. Can’t we? If something that basic, that obvious, eludes us, we might as well give up any bigger battles we attempt to fight.

Remembering “Remember Me”

As sporadic as my blogging has become, I’m really not interested in using it to write movie reviews. However, in a rare moment of “let’s go out tonight,” I watched Remember Me. I knew little about it other than the cast includes’ Lost’s Emilie De Ravin and Twilight’s Robert Pattinson. Professional critics have been mixed in their responses, and some have been downright hostile to the way the film ended. That actually intrigued me rather than put me off.

The acting in this movie is average in parts, above average in others. Pattinson plays what is quickly becoming for him his signature role: A brooding, alienated young man. In this case he’s trying to cope with the suicide of a beloved older brother and the apparent indifference of a wealthy, powerful father (Pierce Brosnan). His “coping” involves drifting through various college classes, working in a used bookstore, and living in a truly grungy apartment with an irresponsible if charming oft-drunken roommate. And most importantly, trying to be a good brother to his wistful little sister (played by Ruby Jerins in one of the film’s best roles).

Through a series of conveniently coincidental circumstances that only happen in fiction, Tyler begins to date Ally (De Ravin), the daughter of a policeman with anger issues (Chris Cooper), who earlier beat up and then arrested Tyler. Ally has no idea her father was responsible for her new boyfriend’s bruised face. Tyler has no idea Ally’s mother was killed in front of her when she was a child. These tragedies not only shape the two, they inform the way their relationship unfolds.

All of that seems secondary though to the relationship between Tyler and his little sister Caroline. Pattinson, 23, single and the youngest child in his own family, has a natural chemistry with Jerins that makes it hard to believe he doesn’t spend his weekends looking after a younger sibling. It was that natural. More believable in fact than the romantic chemistry with costar De Ravin.

On one hand, the story is an exploration of an angry young man on the cusp of becoming a disillusioned adult. On the other, it’s broader, it’s about how we all deal with unexpected loss, how we cope with loved ones who don’t, won’t, or simply can’t return our love, and how we choose to live.

If you plan on seeing Remember Me, and you don’t want to know how it ends, this would be the time to stop reading.

There is  no tidy resolution for the characters, though each matures and reaches a point where it’s obvious that their choices are becoming healthier ones. At the end, we see how they are not the people they were at the start. But that ending…that’s what has stayed with me, and I understand how it could upset some viewers.

The movie is aimed at a young adult audience, and one of the best reviews I’ve read comes from that demographic. Emily Harden in the University of Illinois’ Daily Illini writes:

Set in New York in 2001, each relationship is eclipsed by the disturbing knowledge that whatever happiness or sadness that may come to each character will only be fleeting in comparison to what will culminate in September.

As each minute passed, this knot in my stomach slowly began twisting away, until I almost felt sick. The final thirty minutes, I don’t remember moving much less breathing, as I waited for what we all once never saw coming: 9/11. For me, it was always in the back of my mind the second the screen faded from “Brooklyn 1991” to “Ten Years Later” in the opening scene of the movie. Because when a film starts out in the summer of 2001, no matter how much subtlety it strives for, the ending isn’t as shocking as the makers of the film intended it to be. …Even still, whether you saw it coming or not, there is something indescribably unsettling about watching an event you once never imagined happening being played out right before your eyes.

I live on the opposite side of the country from New York City, so I will not presume to know what New Yorkers would feel about the use of 9/11 in fiction. With all devastating historical events though there comes a point in time when enough distance has been reached that the tragedy can be used as an element in story telling, rather than be the entire story itself. Just as the Holocaust is now the backdrop for historical fiction, so the events of 9/11 will inevitably become.

Tyler Hawkins (Pattinson) gazes out an office window at the beauty of an autumn day

Are we ready for this with 9/11? Has enough time passed? I do not cry at movies as a rule, but the ending of Remember Me had me digging tissues out of my purse, in part due to Tyler’s final scene, but in greater part to the vivid recollection I have of how truly horrifying that day was. What those images of ash and shoes and papers on New York streets meant. How traumatic that loss of life was for us as a nation, because it was so brutally catastrophic and so utterly unexpected.

I read a review that suggested a more “ordinary” fate should have befallen Tyler. Why though? Why not use an ordinary, beautiful fall day that turned horrifically, indelibly awful? It is part of our national consciousness. If you want to embody the idea that life is indeed short, dessert ought to be eaten first, and the people we love do leave their fingerprints on our lives, what better way to do so than by evoking a remembrance of 9/11?

Maybe that was the point of Remember Me all along.

i-Tunes has a three part podcast with Pattinson, Director Alan Coulter and writer Will Fetters that illuminates their purpose in making this film. Worth a listen, particularly part 2.

Brad Brevett of Rope of Silicon has an excellent interview with Will Fetters explaining the genesis of the script and his perspective on the movie.