Another Day in the Salt Mines

So I have accomplished whatever I needed to do at work today, which was actually quite a bit, but thanks to the wonders of modern technology, it really does take a lot less time to, for example, order books or process them, or all kinds of other stuff. My main activity for the rest of the day seems to be supervising children and checking every five minutes to see if my most recent Amazon order has been shipped yet. And taking trips to the #%^&*@#% bathroom, which really should be closer to where I am, or at least on the same floor in the building.

I guess I'll have to call other mouse people when I get home today, or see if there's a message from yesterday's no-show mouse people. My sister says that they will put out bait that makes mice thirsty, and then they'll leave the house to get something to drink. Okay, I have a continuing problem with anthropomorphizing these mice, because now, you know, I'm seeing a few of them standing at a bar, little feet on a rail, ordering a couple of brewskis. When what actually happens is they flee the house to look for water, and then once they're outside, they die. I'm not keen on the dying part, just the relocating part. (Which conjures images of moving trucks, boxes labeled "Attic" and "Basement" and little mice tykes having to make new friends when they get to their new homes.) I think the source of my mice problem -- the psychological one, not the physical problem of actually having mice in the house -- is all the cartoons I grew up on. There were those few old Warner Brothers cartoons that parodied famous TV shows, like The Jack Benny Show and The Honeymooners, but the characters were portrayed as mice. And of course, Pixie and Dixie, because I was really at the forefront of the Hanna Barbera generation. I also used to watch those horrid black and white cartoons as a younger kid, called, I think, the Farmer Gray or Farmer Brown cartoons, but the mice in those really were kind of vermin. Oh, and I liked Krazy Kat, too, and Ignatz. (Ignatz was the mouse.) Anyway, I know full well that none of the mice in my house are equipped with rock-climbing gear, or furniture to move, or little sneakers -- I also love Mouse Tales by Arnold Lobel; my favorite story is "The Journey" -- but I can't help thinking of them in this bizarre way. It's okay, I'm in therapy.

Okay, so there are three girls in school this year who wear the hijab, the headscarf that Muslim women wear. We have a prohibition against any kind of headwear in the building, but exceptions are made for religious reasons; there are many Sikh boys who wear turbans and a few Jewish boys who wear yarmulkehs. The three girls are all new in school this year, although one of them is new because she's a freshman, and could have lived in town all her life, for all I know. Of the other two girls, one was new after the first week or two of school and one is new today. Both are extremely bright and well-spoken, good in English because they were good students in the countries they came from. The girl who has been here since September is quite a reader, so I see her and speak to her often. On my way back to the library through the halls after lunch, I happened to witness the moment when she and the girl who's new today first saw each other. Imagine that you are in high school and you are dead certain that there is nobody else there like you at all, and then suddenly, there is. It was a very cool moment. You could just see how incredibly happy these two girls were, especially the new one, to realize that they were not completely standing out in the school as different. A good thing for kids to feel.

Later, at home.

Well, the mouse man called and was very apologetic and swears he will be here tomorrow between 3:30 and 5:00. We shall see, chickies, we shall see.

But a totally cool thing happened just before the end of last period, which is that the Colleague called me to hurry down to the office because her grandchildren were there! These particular two have lived in one of the Carolinas -- I forget which -- but just moved to New England, so I have never seen them before, although I was sitting next to their grandmother when she got the call each was born, and I have known their father for 25 years. I was very excited. One of these children was quite ill at a very young age, so it's extra special to see her so bouncy and adorable and bright. (She's nearly five.) A special treat for me on an otherwise dull day.

Yearbook pictures tomorrow. I think I'm going to make the photographer keep taking one of me until he gets a good one. I could be there all day.


WATCHING TWO AND A HALF MEN :: ENTRY #1908
READING: The Nine by Jeffrey Toobin