On Messing with Nature (Or, This was supposed to make it better?)

I love lizards. Being a native South Floridian, I really have no other choice. I grew up with them running in my house at the call of any open door, so catching them became necessity, especially since I didn't want them to suffer a fate worse than death - being toyed with by my cats. (It's the only cruel side of felines I've seen so far.) And since my husband is not a fan of lizards, it's a good thing I am. As is my daughter. Which is why I took her today to the Miami Museum of Science. After all, it was Lizard Day!

Imagine a dog show but with lizards. And I ain't talkin' about the kind that sneak in your door and become cat prey. No, no, no. These lizards could be cat predators. So you can imagine my daughter's thrill to discover she could not only pet these reptiles but even hold them.

Holding a Bearded Dragon (this one was missing three of its feet and part of its tail because, as a baby, it had been in a cage with too many lizards and the food supply ran low. Yeah, you heard me...lizard cannibalism.)

The lizards on display included Bearded Dragons, as shown above, various breeds of Monitors...

Monitor Lizard (http://www.bbc.co.uk/)

...and lots of large Iguanas. How large, you ask? Well, let me show you.

This guy needed a harness, and to give you a little perspective... 

...my daughter is petting him while his owner struggles to keep his hind legs from kicking. She said it was like holding a toddler over her arm.

In addition to the lizards on display, humans were given the opportunity to "eat like lizards" (minus the tongue thrusting). Chefs were lined up stir frying worms and crickets, and small bowls of fried worms were available for snacking. For dessert, there were cookies that looked like the chocolate chip variety, except they were cricket-chip cookies. To answer the question burning in your head, NO! I did not taste any of this, but my brave daughter had a fried worm and my father (a fascinated tag-along) really like the cookies.

Now, since I've mentioned my father, I should get to the point of this post, which is the horrible discovery he and I made while touring the hall of lizards on display by proud owners.

A young man was holding a strawberry-blond colored dragon with no scales. It's called a Silkback Dragon. He invited us to touch its skin, bragging about how rare this breed was. The skin felt smooth (silky) and dry, and it had wrinkles in many spots as if the skin couldn't bounce back from having been rubbed there seconds earlier. The guy said their skin is so sensitive without its scales that you have to rub lotion on it frequently to prevent cracking and infections. He added that if the Silkback got out, it would die almost instantly. The rest of the conversation went more or less like this:

Dad: How did this breed come about?
Guy: Oh, we breed them like this?
Dad: Why?
Guy: Well, it started as an accident, while trying to improve the breed. You know, make a better gene pool.
Dad: Another lesson in why you shouldn't mess with nature.
(At this point, I'm thinking the conversation is over since Dad has ventured sarcastically into socio-political territory. But the guy doesn't get the hint.)
Guy: Oh, no. Look how beautiful they are. The color is so vibrant. We breed them like this now because they're so rare and exotic.
Dad: (incredulous) On purpose?
Me: (infuriated) Are you kidding me?
Daughter: How sad.
Guy: No, these guys go for almost $500 for an adult, $250 for a baby.
Me: This is so wrong. You made a mistake that hurts the lizard and now you're doing it on purpose?

At this point, Dad grabs my elbow and politely tries to escort me away from the man, mumbling in my ear, "Not the time to get political." I give him a look but surrender because I know it will be much more satisfying to blog about this than to take on a man with a five-pound lizard in his hand.

So here I am saying THIS IS WRONG. I'm all for stem cell research to help cure or prevent diseases, birth defects, and the sort, but causing a genetic "accident" and then intentionally propogating it because it's fasciniating and brings in big money...this is worthy of an OMG. Or an OMFG. (And I hate those acronyms. Don't get me started on LOL, or LMFAO.)

If there are any of you out there considering purchasing an exotic lizard as a pet, please, please, please make sure it has scales. A scaleless lizard is as cruel a breeding trick as is a hairless cat. (Though admittedly much more attractive. I mean, what good is a cat who can't entertain me by hacking for minutes before upchucking a hairball?)

But seriously folks, bald may be in fashion for human men these days, but men have that choice to make. (And I must say, I like it.) Lizards, on the other hand, need their scales. Don't let the uber-exotic lure you into making inhumane choices.

On Cockroaches (Or, When It’s Appropriate to Get Foul-Mouthed in front of Your Students)

The other morning, as I was trying to administer an exam to my students, an uninvited guest made a mockery of my professionalism.

I had just handed out the exam booklets and asked for quiet when a student in the front row informed me that a cockroach had just run under my rolling backpack.

Now, send me a lizard, a beetle, a garden snake, even a spider, and I’m all right. I can handle it. But not a cockroach.

I ask the student, “Was it a little one (holding my thumb and index finger so close that they’re almost touching) or a giant one?” (I don’t even estimate the size with my fingers since the thought terrifies me.)

“Oh, not that giant,” my charming student says and then holds his fingers about three inches apart.

It’s a Palmetto bug…and they fly. I freak. I lift the backpack quickly hoping the roach will scurry away, but nothing comes out.

“I saw it go under there,” the student swears, and I begin to wonder if this isn’t a ploy to distract me during the exam.

I look up at the class and shout, “Keep your eyes on your own paper!”

Everyone laughs.

“I’d let this go,” I explain to them, “but I absolutely cannot tolerate roaches.”

One student suggests, “Maybe it crawled inside your bag.”

My face contorts like a stroke victim’s as I imagine this, and I reach into my backpack and pull out my pencil case, throwing it feet away from me onto the floor.

Nothing.

“No talking!” I command, knowing how panicked I sound. I pull out folders and let them sift through my fingers haphazardly as they also become strewn on the floor.

Still nothing.

I look up. “Quiet!” I yell, though nobody is saying anything.

They are simply staring at this scene as I dance around on tiptoes, waiting for the roach to show himself or fly into my face, as only Palmetto bugs can do. It’s amazing how silly I look. And I know this because I have temporarily floated out of my body and am watching this scene from above. Consciously, I want to maintain control and just let my students take their stupid exam. But my body is restless with fear. My disembodied self shouts to my physical self, Stop moving! Just for one minute, stop moving! But I can’t.

Finally, I kick the backpack over, and sure enough, the roach is clinging to the bottom of my bag.

“There he is!” shouts a female student.

“Is he alive?” I ask and then notice his antennae moving nervously. I grab a dictionary from atop my desk and bravely smash the roach, which runs under my backpack now lying on its side. I kick the backpack away again, and the roach goes running. The student who originally advised me about the roach’s existence sucks in his breath excitedly. Again, I smash the roach with the dictionary, and he begins to quiver and spasm (the roach - not the student).

“He’s still alive!” yells Female Student.

At this point, I lose all decency. I stand over the already injured roach and smash it repeatedly with the dictionary, shouting through clenched jaw, “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

I hear myself saying this, knowing that impropriety is not what has endeared me to my students. Still, I cannot stop myself from muttering the “F” word repeatedly…and I hear them laughing.

With the roach finally dead as a doornail (what do live doornails look like?), I start to breathe again. I hear my heart pounding in my ears and remember I have a class of students in front of me. I stand up straight, point my index finger and waggle it at them, saying, “Now get to work.”

Diligently, they lower their eyes to their papers and commence their exam. They look frightened, and I’m not sure if it’s due to the challenging nature of the test or the knowledge that their professor is a lunatic who will be assigning their grades and determining their fate for the next semester.

But I don’t care. That roach made me lose face with my students (I surely had nothing to do with it), and I hate him. I take no responsibility for what transpired in that classroom. But just in case that roach was the embodied spirit of a yogi guru, I will meditate with full dedication this evening and ask for forgiveness. Maybe I’ll even record myself doing so and post it on You Tube so my students can see the serene side of me.

Or maybe I’ll just start carrying bug repellent inside my backpack.