Life can throw some pretty hard curveballs, and if you don’t duck fast enough, you’re gonna get smacked in the schnoz. On what I thought would be a leisurely stroll, I suddenly found myself in a front row seat on the Discovery channel. Around me, amazing beasts waged the fiercest battles for survival I had ever seen, and these unfolding dramas stunned me so much I almost forgot to dig out my camera. The photos speak for themselves:

As I showed Alan these photos, he began laughing, much to my chagrin. Didn’t he realize the great peril I was in?

“What’s so funny?” I demanded.
“It’s just… they look like stuffed animals.”

Okay, so maybe they were stuffed animals. Yesterday, my mom and stepdad insisted on bringing cupCAKE and me to Cabela’s. My curiosity was piqued, because all I had ever heard about the place was that a river runs through it, and so I had envisioned some sort of Frank Lloyd Wright Fallingwater affair.

As my sister and I vegetarianly stepped through the sliding doors, the first thing we noticed were the heads. LOTS of heads. Heads covering every vertical surface. Antlers were sprouting off of every wall, glass eyeballs fixed us with eerie gazes, and representatives from all over the Mammal Kingdom were representin’.

Creeped out, we kept our eyes averted as we followed our tour guides to the famed inside river. I was a little sad that the river is actually manmade, but the stuffed moose in the middle of it kept me busy pondering how long it would take to disintegrate under water. Then, lo and behold! The taxidermist’s version of Pimp My Ride:

I surrendered my previous revulsion and took in the sight for what it truly was: the most insanely ridiculously appealing diorama I have personally seen. There are goats leaping in midair, cougars pouncing on prey, rams butting horns, and polar bears shredding apart musk ox. Looking forward to tricking Alan with my amazing nature photography, I began taking shots, careful to avoid the telltale identification signs. A toddler started waddling toward me, and I heard his dad say, “Don’t get in her way, she’s taking pictures of dead stuff.” That made me laugh.

The thing that I found the most amusing, however, was my sister’s complete disgust. While I had originally been grossed out, Crazy Mountain was so over-the-top that it won my heart. She, however, felt morally obligated to silently protest, glumly slouching on the stairs, lower lip sticking out ever-so-slightly. A faint scowl clouded her face. I finally convinced her to go upstairs with me to check out the dessert case in the snackbar, and at the very top of the stairs, we were greeted with the most comprehensive selection of meat grinders on earth. Even better, the sign above indicated we were in the “Meat Processing Center.” This, I think, constitutes a Vegetarian Adventure Vacation.

I’ve been reading Amy Krouse Rosenthal’s Encyclopedia of an Ordinary Life, and her entry on Dessert spoke to me. When her kids asked her which Halloween goodies they could eat after dinner, she had a strategy.

“I take a quick look at the items they are holding up in their hands and, without hesitation, assess the inventory and respond accordingly. You can have half the candy cane and the mini Baby Ruth. They accept my arbitrary ruling as gospel, as if it stems from some great unwavering truth.”

When I substitute teach, I try to make the kids happy. Mostly it’s because I like when they’re happy, but it doesn’t hurt that it makes my life a lot easier, too. It doesn’t take all that long for a class to figure out what kind of sub you are. Over the years, they’ve finely honed a radar that tells them, within the first 30 seconds, exactly what they can get away with and to what extent. In my case, their sub-dar inevitably reveals that I’m a doormat.

When I first started, I made the mistake of trying to appeal to the kids’ sense of reason.

“Can I lie on the floor?” one bold little rapscallian would ask.
“Welllll…” I’d say, stalling for time, “I wish I could let you, but what if the principal walks by? He wouldn’t like it if you were on the floor.”
“Oh, he won’t see me.”
“The floor’s dirty. It will get your shirt all dusty.”
“I don’t care about dirt.”
“What if someone steps on you?”
“I won’t let them.”
“Um….”

Over time, I’ve learned that the best thing to do is make up an excuse, because there’s really no reasoning with a kid hell-bent on doing something devious.

“Can I tape this ‘Kick Me’ sign on Ty? It’ll be really funny.”
“Actually, your teacher mentioned in her note that no one’s supposed to do ‘Kick Me’ signs today. Sorry! Maybe you could ask her about that tomorrow!”

A teacher’s note is an inalienable, legally-binding document, and I’ve learned that the easiest way to get a kid to stop doing something is to claim that their teacher expressly forbid it. You want to eat Jolly Ranchers in class? Sorry! Your teacher said no candy today. Oh, you want to play your Marilyn Manson CD? Unfortunately, your teacher wrote that she doesn’t want anybody to use her CD player. Sorry, we’re not supposed to [stick licorice in the pencil sharpener/jump on the tables/burn the classroom down] today.”

Amazingly enough, this kind of specificity works, and all most some kids take these prohibitions at face value. It’s not that I personally am restricting your right to catapault Laffy Taffy across the room, it’s just that your teacher asked me to make sure no one used slingshots today. There is no greater authority than an absent teacher’s note, and by claiming deference to it, I get some immunity.

My other secret weapon is to postpone the problem. If a kid begs me to let her draw on the chalkboard, all I have to say is, “Great idea! Ask your teacher tomorrow if you can do it!” Defeated, the student slinks back to her desk.

Arbitrary responses have made such a profound difference in my life. They’ve also helped me keep the number of hall passes down. Kids are constantly asking for random passes to go whoknowswhere so they can really meet whoknowswho. Every time kids complained of stomachaches, I’d dutifully write them passes to the infirmary, but it didn’t take long for me to realize that statistically speaking, it’s unlikely that half the class needs to go home sick at any given time. I was beginning to worry that the infirmary would call Child Protective Services on me for sending 3 kids down every hour.

To separate the tricksters from the legitimate patients, I’ve invented lots of dubious cures.

“My throat hurts.”
“Why don’t you go get a drink of water? That should make the pain go away.”

“Someone dropped a book on my foot. I need an icepack.”
“You know, if you rub your foot a little, it will make it feel better. If it doesn’t get better in 5 minutes, let me know.”

By then they’ve usually forgotten all about it. Dr. Kiki at your service.