Little Heathens

For Valentine's Day I got a...

noreply@blogger.com (Heathen) — Wed, 15 Feb 2012 03:03:00 +0000

...monkey.

(He has no idea that I call him Monkeyboy, by the way.)

Grrrr.

noreply@blogger.com (Heathen) — Sun, 12 Feb 2012 16:42:00 +0000

I've been thinking a lot about how shitty the field of education is recently, ever since I heard that a friend received a bad job performance review and is likely losing her job. I think about how shitty the field of education is on a regular basis anyway, but still, this kind of news fills me with rage.

When I first started doing my student teaching, I was enamored of it. I was working in a second grade class with a darling group of kids from all over the world, and I adored my cooperating teacher. She was so patient and kind with them. After three years in front of a computer at a boring, dysfunctional office where my boss dictated emails to his lover over the phone to me and spent most of his time in the office snoozing, I thought nothing could be better than being a teacher. After all, people who want to get into this field love kids, right? They want to set a good example for the children, so they believe in treating each other with respect.

I first realized that not everyone believes in treating kids with respect shortly before school started at my first real teaching job. I was instructed to treat the kids as though I were a drill sergeant: make them practice the routines over and over until they got it right. If necessary, make them practice during recess. Do not smile at them.

Shortly thereafter, it dawned on me that, just as we were expected to treat the kids without respect, the administration did not believe in treating us with respect. My principal announced a new rule during the first staff meeting: "No one but the office assistant should touch the photocopy machine," she instructed. "I love you guys, but I don't want the photocopy machine to get broken." Wait, what?? A bunch of teachers with an average of 1.4 master's degrees per person is not intelligent enough to use a photocopy machine without breaking it?? Clearly, the 19-year-old assistant was the only person who could be trusted.

My principal believed in humiliating kids in front of everyone. She punished children by taking their school lunches from them (I heard, I never witnessed this myself since I didn't do lunch duty) and consuming it in front of them. She made a special-needs child stand in her office until she pooped in her pants, ignoring her requests to go to the bathroom. And she humiliated us, too: Whenever one of her frequent disciplinary letters was delivered, she made sure to deliver it when we were in the middle of teaching a lesson, forcing us to fight back tears in front of our students and try to go on teaching like nothing had happened. It was like something from a Roald Dahl book.

I've never seen anything quite that bad since, but I have continued to notice a parallel between the way personnel are treated and the way kids are treated in schools. Some schools believe in giving kids a lot of autonomy, encouraging creative thinking, and treating everyone with respect. I believe this is the kind of school that creates the most successful children long-term. They are taught to think for themselves and to be good, upstanding people. Unfortunately, this is not the way that schools are judged; they are judged by their test scores, which focus on an entirely different kind of thinking. I've seen the kinds of kids who do great on tests. They've learned all the test-taking strategies, so they can figure out the right answer even if they don't really understand the question. They've memorized the right equations and know how to rephrase the essay question into a topic sentence. The school I taught at last year believed teaching should be rote, and teachers should not think for themselves. Likewise, kids were encouraged to fill out worksheet after worksheet, never using the creative parts of their brain. Will these kids be successful in life? Perhaps, but certainly not because of their early education.

Education in this country has become a joke. Teachers are criticized right and left for all the "bad teaching" that is occurring, by everyone from President Obama to teachers themselves. If teachers were respected and given support and autonomy, I believe most would rise to the challenge. Why not focus on helping teachers to learn to be better at their craft instead of focusing on getting rid of all the "bad teachers" that are around?? Frankly, I have witnessed some bad teachers, and they are not the people who get fired when it is time to purge the "bad teachers." Instead, it's people like my friend who get cut, people who are smart and thoughtful.

The Onion published a hilarious article the other day entitled, "Report: Increasing numbers of educators found to be suffering from teaching disabilities." It's funny and silly to imagine teachers getting special teaching accommodations. But it's also not completely off the mark. If we believe kids learn in different ways, and we believe in supporting all kinds of learners and helping them to be as successful as they can be, why don't we believe in supporting teachers and helping them be as successful as possible? Teaching is a learned skill, not something we're born with.

Over lunch on Friday, one of my co-workers made a joke about the news that NCLB has been waived in Massachusetts: "As of today, we can start leaving children behind again!" Again, it's a joke with a ring of truth to it. Not that we ever stopped.

Shrimps

noreply@blogger.com (Heathen) — Sat, 11 Feb 2012 15:35:00 +0000

This has been my year of falling in love with kindergarten. I teach a lesson every morning in a kindergarten class, and I find those little munchkins to be so darn sweet and charming. They are excited to see me every day; sometimes I pass one or two in the hallway as they are taking the attendance to the office, and they'll say things like, "Oh, no! I'm going to miss the beginning of phonics!" It's quite a stark contrast to the fifth and sixth graders I work with, who tend to give me a strange look when I say hi to them in the halls.

The past couple of weeks, the kindergarteners have been studying ocean animals. The kids chose which animal they were most interested in -- the options were sharks, manatees, sea stars (apparently they're not called starfish anymore), whales, jellyfish, etc. I worked with the shrimp group. As you can imagine, it's not every kindergartener who will choose shrimp as the animal they find most fascinating. I had myself a pretty special little gang of shrimp enthusiasts (including Ethel from the class I work in, who frequently calls out to me as the class is saying goodbye to me, "I love you, Ms. Heathen!!!").

We learned all about shrimp: what they eat, what animals are similar to them, what body parts they have, how they grow new legs when one falls off, and how much protein they have (a lot, making them a delectable dish; I suspect the kids may have been more passionate about eating them than anything). The kids made books and labeled shrimp body parts. We made a very creative Cray-Pas poster of a shrimp. They wrote facts about shrimp and practiced reading them out loud.

Finally, Wednesday was the big presentation for the parents. The task: to present their shrimp poster and read shrimp facts. My little shrimp-lovers are pretty self-aware, so not everyone volunteered to read a fact, knowing they'd feel nervous about it. Two of my little guys said they only felt comfortable reading a fact together, and suggested they alternate reading words. I quickly dismissed this suggestion: "They'll be able to hear you better if you read it together," I instructed.

After the whale group, it was our big moment. Ethel spaced on her fact, so I whispered it to her, trying to avoid whispering into the microphone and partly failing. Then she handed the microphone to the two co-readers. "Shrimps," said the boy alone, and I thought, oh no, she's too nervous to chime in. But instead, she said, "eat,' into the microphone, and it continued: "dead," he said, then she said, "and," he said, "rotten," and she ended with "things." For a moment I was annoyed by their insurrection, but frankly, it was adorable (and not at all difficult to hear). The parents laughed, then erupted into spontaneous applause.

"You changed it!" I said to them.

"Well, that was the way we really wanted to do it," the little girl explained, smiling up at me. So I told them it was fantastic, and made a mental note to myself to be less bossy next time, and to stop assuming that teachers know best.

The Manly Boy, or the Boyish Man

noreply@blogger.com (Heathen) — Mon, 06 Feb 2012 23:32:00 +0000

Monkeyboy and I are in like. We had another long date over the weekend, followed by a shorter date the next night, and now we're a little bit smitten with each other. It's fun.

The past couple of months, as I've been Internet dating again, I've been somewhat purposefully seeking men to date who are more manly than boyish. Manly types have their lives together; they know what they want to do with their careers, and live by themselves in nice apartments. They pay for dinner, and suggest dates in nice restaurants or jazz clubs. The boyish ones are endearingly cute and can be more emotionally accessible. They live with roommates, or occasionally, in dorms (in Boston at least). They eat lots of takeout. Often, they're still in grad school, and they sometimes have the bad habit of taking you for granted.

Dreamy was most definitely the boyish type, and I got sick of it. By the end, I longed for someone who was more together, more thoughtful, who knew better how to navigate life.

With Monkeyboy, I've come to realize that it doesn't have to be a dichotomy. He's got lots of charm like the boyish types, but he also has his life together. He lives by himself in a tastefully decorated duplex apartment; his kitchen looks decidedly grown up -- apart from the murdered man knife block. On Friday, during a visit to the Museum of Science, he oohed and aahed over dinosaur lunch boxes and rocket kits in the gift shop. When we arrived at the glow in the dark stars and planets section, he mentioned that his bedroom ceiling is already adorned. He offers a wide range of date ideas, from jazz to a home-cooked dinner (cooked by him) to a planetarium trip to laser tag to fondue to archery (!). And then of course there was the skating date, his idea. He pays for all our dates, and isn't afraid to take charge or to let me do the leading, like when I offered to pick him up the other night and drive us to the Museum of Science.

Like I said, it's fun. And now I gotta go get ready to head to Monkeyboy's in a bit for an episode of the Daily Show and a nightcap.

Priorities

noreply@blogger.com (Heathen) — Tue, 31 Jan 2012 00:03:00 +0000

The past week, as I've been getting to know Monkeyboy better through the steady stream of hilarious texts he's been sending plus a long ice skating/Chinese food/beers date on Saturday, I've been comparing my current list of must-have qualities in a boyfriend to what my priorities were five or six years ago. I had recently broken up with my long-term boyfriend, l'Artista, and was hoping to find someone similar to him but without the commitment issues. My list of non-negotiable qualities would probably have looked something like this:

Smart
Good-looking
Has his life together (although at the time if I'd met a cutie whose life was a mess I might have been willing to compromise on this one)
Funny
Wants to get married and have a family

Unfortunately, I ended up with La Moustache, who met (or seemed to meet) all the requirements. I like to think I've learned a thing or two in the meantime. The list hasn't completely changed -- some of the items are identical, and a few are only slightly adjusted -- but here's the current list with new items in bold:

Smart and thoughtful
Has his life together and a job he is passionate about
I'm attracted to him ( how objectively handsome he is is immaterial)
He thinks I'm awesome
Funny
Willing to talk about his feelings
Wants to get married and have a family

So far, Monkeyboy is doing well in all categories. His biggest selling point (other than the fact that he's the funniest guy I've ever dated) is that he's really excelling in the "He thinks I'm awesome" section. Which is maybe the most important quality of all.

Anyone have any different qualities on their lists, or suggestions for additions to mine?

Enter Monkeyboy

noreply@blogger.com (Heathen) — Wed, 25 Jan 2012 00:24:00 +0000

As of last night, I have a new love interest who has rapidly set a number of dating records for me, including:

Most excitement (on my end) for a first date
Funniest guy I've gone out with
Best follow-up (texted to thank me for being the "best thing since sliced bread" immediately after the date, picked up hat I forgot at the restaurant the following day, already asked me out on date #2)
Closest resemblance to the husband of a friend (he looks a lot like my friend Miami Nice's hubby, Mr. Miami)
Most eco-friendly guy I've ever dated (he drives a Prius!!!)
Most observant (he complimented me on my nailpolish; my nail guru, Slinky, says that means he's a keeper)
First guy I've dated who owns a kayak

Overall, Monkeyboy seems really great so far. But the aspect I feel most positive about is something I've been thinking about ever since I noticed Doctor O back on OkCupid a couple of days ago, which is that it feels like Monkeyboy and I are in really similar places in life. We both moved from other cities a year or two ago after big breakups; we both live alone with a pet or two for company, and have careers we're happy with; we both go on lots of vacations with our parents. Differences can be interesting, too, but in my last few relationships it's felt like there's an inequality between us that makes things difficult long-term. Actually, let me change that: there's been inequality in ALL my relationships, on one side or the other. And I definitely felt that inequality with Doctor O -- I was flattered by the attention from such an accomplished man, a bit intimidated by the grown-up life he lives, and didn't quite feel like I was at the same level as him.

I'm not sure what I'll do if Doctor O does get in touch, but I think it's probably best if he doesn't. It would be nice for him to remain a strange, interesting little anecdote in my dating history.

You can find anything on the Internet

noreply@blogger.com (Heathen) — Fri, 20 Jan 2012 20:22:00 +0000

A few weeks ago, a friend who's a somewhat recent transplant to Boston and I were chatting about dating in Beantown.

"A lot of people have offered to set me up with different guys," she said. "I'm not sure I even need to use the Internet. What do you think?"

I told her that personally I would have a very empty date book if it weren't for the Internet. But when I thought about it more, I realized that even if I did have friends who wanted to set me up right and left, I'd still want to meet guys from the Internet.

The last guy I dated before Moustache, in my pre-Internet days, was a banker named White Pants who funded open-top mines. He made a good living in an incredibly boring and even (in my opinion) immoral way. Without revealing too many details, here are some of the guys I've met from the Internet:

An artist who made futuristic machines and participated in lots of international exhibits
A man who was famous for winning several hundred thousand dollars on a TV gameshow
A comedian who worked for one of the most well-known comedy troupes in the country
A writer who quoted the New York Times review of his book on his OkCupid profile (it was negative)
A lawyer who specializes in welfare cases
A painter who teaches underprivileged kids at a local university and hunts for mushrooms in his spare time
A musician who was named one of the country's most promising young songwriters
A scientist who studies the importance of play
A man who trained people all over the world in mediation

Plus a whole slew of other guys with only slightly less interesting jobs. Moreover, all of these people (with just one exception) were really nice guys. I met all of them on OkCupid, which you don't even have to pay for. And when I briefly tried a paid site -- Match -- the guys I met were far less interesting.

Why would I want to be set up with my friends' boring accountant friends and lawyer cousins when there's the Internet? Seriously, it's a no-brainer.

Rejection

noreply@blogger.com (Heathen) — Sat, 14 Jan 2012 19:05:00 +0000

So far during this round of dating, I feel good about my stats. Until last Monday, I had gone out on ten dates with four guys, all of whose company I enjoyed, and all of whom wanted to go on second dates with me. It didn't work out with any of them (mostly because the only one I was really interested in was Doctor O), but still, I enjoyed most of the dates and felt like they were a worthwhile use of my time.

On Monday, though, the inevitable happened: I went out with a guy who wasn't into me. After four enthusiastic suitors, it came as a bit of a shock, and it took me a while to clue in to his disinterestedness. At the end of the date, though, it became crystal clear. We walked out of the bar, I turned to my date and started to say, "That was fun!"

He interrupted me when "fun!" was halfway out of my mouth. "Nice meeting you. Good night," he said, turned, and walked away.

I was hurt and a bit horrified by his rudeness. I've gone out with many guys I'm not into, but I'm always polite to them and pretend like I had a good time -- mostly because usually I did have a good time, I just knew I didn't want to see them again. My strategy in this situation is to pretend I'm into them, then when they contact me I send them a polite breakup email (composed by my sister, Ms. Swamp) that goes something like this:

It was great to meet you the other day. You seem like a smart, thoughtful, outdoorsy guy, and a great teacher. I didn't, however, really feel a spark, whatever that means -- the more I do this, the more I trust my gut instinct on this stuff. I don't want to keep taking up your time if I don't feel that potential, but good luck with everything.

They usually take it very well, and I feel that this approach makes the situation as pleasant as possible for everyone involved. In fact, I half considered letting my Monday date know that the experience of going out with him was unpleasant for me, and suggesting he take an approach closer to mine.

On the same night as my date, my friend Surfer Girl went out on a first date, too. She texted me afterwards: "My date was awesome!!! How was yours?"

Unfortunately, it turned out that her date was, in fact, adopting my approach. He wasn't into her either, but while he was with her he pretended to be. By the end of the week, Surfer Girl was obsessively checking her email every five minutes and questioning what she had done wrong.

Hearing Surfer Girl's sad tale, which so many of us have experienced at one point or another, made me wonder if my date's approach wasn't so bad after all. I wasn't that into him, so in this case I wouldn't have minded in the least not hearing from him. But if I had been into him, I would have found out right away that the feeling wasn't reciprocated, and avoided those torturous days of waiting.

In any case, I'm pretty sure I don't have the cojones to reject someone to their face, so I'm going to stick with my approach. Which reminds me, I need to send the breakup email to my date from last weekend.

Opening doors

noreply@blogger.com (Heathen) — Fri, 06 Jan 2012 02:41:00 +0000

Last spring, shortly after I found out I was getting laid off from my job, a colleague came to offer her condolences. "I know it's probably not much comfort," she told me in her heavily accented French, "but sometimes, when one door closes, another door opens."

She was right -- it wasn't much comfort. At the time, I couldn't conceive of another door opening. And when I was passed over (several times over) for the job I was hoping for in favor of an internal candidate over the summer, my feelings were confirmed. But eventually another door did open, when my friend M invited me to participate in a craft fair at her house this fall, where I sold my knitting and pottery. Sales were a bit slow, but one craft fair led to another, and before long I had sold all my remaining pieces of pottery.

Suddenly, I'm glad to have a job that leaves me several hours free each afternoon, because those hours are kept busy filling orders -- $250 worth so far in 2012, including six sales and two (yet-to-be-filled) commissions. And it's not as tough as I thought it would be getting by on my meagre pay; it's actually been fun much of the time. It turns out I need way less money than I thought I did, I'm using more of my farm share than ever before, and dinner parties with friends are both fun AND cheap.

All of this is making me question what I really want and where I should put my energy. I know I absolutely love kids, and I can't imagine a life that doesn't involve spending time with children in some form. But do I really love teaching? I certainly don't love the stress and long hours. I do like being challenged and feeling busy and useful, which I don't always feel at work these days. And I've been surprised by how fulfilling it feels to sell my work and to spend lots of time being creative.

And now, I'm off to fill my first Etsy order and to decide how to spend my earnings. A fancy art deco iphone case, perhaps? A Missed Connections print to go with the awesome new Missed Connections book Slinky got me for Christmas? Or should I wait and when I've sold more get a beautiful hat?

Hmmm, Etsy might not be good for my austerity measures...

Breakup gifts

noreply@blogger.com (Heathen) — Fri, 23 Dec 2011 01:52:00 +0000

Last night, I came home to find a gift of a somewhat cheesy little gold necklace with a dragonfly pendant waiting for me, along with a note from Doctor O:

Heathen:

I'm afraid I have sad news. I've decided to start an exclusive relationship with another woman.

I've been seeing her a couple months longer than I've been dating you. Only in the past two days did our relationship progress to the point where we both decided to explicitly agree to stop seeing other people.

I wanted to tell you in person as soon as possible, but despite Love Letters' ideas, it's often difficult to make this happen in real life. I fear if I delay any longer that it would be unfair to you, so I apologize for this email version, but I really wanted to try to see you in person. I also didn't want you to alter your plans or make you unnecessarily worry about what we'd be talking about.

I think you're very special. Though I'm not certain how you feel about me, I definitely feel you're "my type" and I've enjoyed getting to know you and I find you very attractive. It simply appears I've met you at an inopportune time--I'm insanely busy with work, and I started dating the other woman earlier when I did have more time. Otherwise, who knows what might have unfolded between us. Nevertheless, since I'm very serious about my commitments, I'm going to give my new relationship everything I have and with regret I'm going to have to say good-bye to you.

I still got you a gift because I wanted you to know that I treasured the little time we've spent together. You're a terrific woman, Heathen. I wish you the very best.

While I find it a bit strange that my Instaboyfriend was seeing someone else he was excited about even as he was saying things to me like, "I told my mom about you the other day. I told her that you are kind, pretty and VERY stable," and was inviting me to parties to meet his friends, I have to give Doctor O props in his breakup technique. I couldn't help but compare the thoughtfulness of this breakup (after five dates) with the utter thoughtlessness Dreamy displayed in our breakup after a year and change. So, I've decided to remember Doctor O fondly, as a kind, somewhat odd but very communicative guy, and to mail him the Christmas gift I bought him after he told me he had one for me.

I hope he enjoys On Chesil Beach by Ian McEwan, about a relationship that fails on the first night of a marriage. It seems even more appropriate now than it did when I bought it.

The power of suggestion

noreply@blogger.com (Heathen) — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 18:10:00 +0000

Doctor O invited me this weekend to a holiday party at a friend's house in his building. "Funny story," he said when he told me about it, "Last year, I got really sick not long before the party. I thought I was better, but then I collapsed in the middle of the party. Good thing my place is right across the hall! I just dragged myself over there."

I laughed, then forgot all about his story. We had a nice time at the party, eating yummy chocolates and chitchatting with some of his friendly neighbors. But after a while, one of the friendly neighbors who had been asking me lots of questions stopped asking questions and started talking about how frustrated she has been lately at work. I began to get bored, and to notice that the champagne I was drinking was going to my head a bit, and that it wasn't helping the sore throat that was just beginning to develop. Then, I noticed that my vision was getting black around the edges and I was feeling woozy. I put my champagne glass down and tried to surreptitiously move about without seeming like I wasn't listening to the woman's monologue, which by now had stretched long past ten minutes. I ran my fingers through my hair, pushed up the sleeves of my sweater, and wondered if there would be a short break in her story so I could excuse myself to go to the bathroom. Nothing was helping, so I started coaching myself: "Heathen, do NOT pass out. That would be really embarrassing. You can prevent it if you concentrate hard enough." (I have a history of passing out occasionally, once every five years or so, due to low blood pressure.)

To my relief, the blackness started to dissipate. I smiled and tried to tune in again to the friendly neighbor's ongoing monologue. By now she had moved on from her particular situation to the general sexism rampant in her profession. The blackness faded to the very edges of my vision, but then it turned around and came back, stronger than before. For a moment I tried to push it back again, but soon I was past the point of caring. Next thing I knew, I was looking into Doctor O's face as he said alarmedly, "Are you all right?" He had caught me mid-tumble.

Hopefully that lady will think twice about telling a really boring story next time she's at a party. I wonder what will happen next year at this guy's party?

Instaboyfriends

noreply@blogger.com (Heathen) — Tue, 06 Dec 2011 22:14:00 +0000

A friend and co-worker of mine started dating a man recently, and it soon became apparent that this was going to be an Instaboyfriend situation. Within two weeks, they were introducing each other to friends and spending entire weekends together. She was sleepy every day at work from staying up all hours of the night talking on the phone with him. He told her he felt the term "girlfriend" didn't sound serious enough to describe their relationship. At the 5 week mark they met each others' families. At week 6, he told her he's in love.

During a recent crafting session with my friend M, I related all of this to her.

"I wish that would happen to me!" she sighed.

"Me too," I agreed.

Who doesn't want to skip all the pain of dating and go straight to Instarelatioship? It sounds so appealing -- skip the questions about if they're seeing someone else, where this is heading, whether you should keep dating other people, and go straight to comfortable commitment. But shortly after week 6, the downside of Instaboyfriend reared its head when I came into class one day to find my co-worker looking depressed and exhausted.

"I think we're breaking up," she whispered to me as soon as the kids were busy with their work. She surreptitiously peeked at her phone to check for text messages from him. "He told me he wants kids, but now he says he's not sure. He's not sure he wants kids, AND he's not sure he wants them with me."

I've experienced Instaboyfriend situations many times at this point, both personally and through friends. Several Instaboyfriends ended up as good, solid husbands. My high school boyfriend's parents married after they had known each other for just a few weeks, and they still seem very happy. One friend introduced a boyfriend of two weeks to me as her "partner;" six months later they were married, and not long after that came Instadivorce. La Moustache was my Instaboyfriend, who told me just a few weeks in that he could see us getting married. Apparently, this was much harder to envisage several years later.

After that experience, I took things very slow with Dreamy. We didn't exchange "I love yous" until we had known each other for 6 months, and every step we took was slow and deliberate. And in the end it didn't matter; our relationship didn't have a very solid base despite our caution.

Now I have a bit of an Instaboyfriend situation on my hands again. Doctor O is making it clear that he likes me, a lot. He pulled his online dating profile two days after we first kissed, giving as his explanation that he doesn't want distractions from work. He showers me with compliments and tells me that he likes me and feels good with me. He's a divorcé who's a few years older than me, and he's very open about how much he wants to remarry and have kids. I'm not gonna lie: I like being wooed in this way. Because I like him a lot, too.

All of this is making me wonder, how fast is too fast? Is it an automatic red flag when someone wants things to move quickly? Was my co-worker making a mistake by allowing herself to get swept off her feet? Did I end in that quagmire with Moustache because I let things go too quickly, or because he was a master of deception? I don't have answers to all these questions, but my conclusion is that it's a personal decision. Of course feelings are tenuous after a few weeks, but that doesn't mean they won't morph into something more real and solid. (If they're the kind of person who meets people frequently they feel that way about, that probably IS a red flag.) Dating means putting yourself on the line, and no matter how you go about it, there's always the possibility of failure and hurt. That said, there is such a thing as too fast for ME, and I've made it clear to Doctor O that I'll go at a speed I'm comfortable with. I declined his invitation to go out on a second date two days after our first, and my dating profile is still active. And I'm also eagerly awaiting our next date.

In the end, my co-worker and her beau had a lot of long, difficult conversations and decided to stick things out. He's in therapy. She's thrilled and glowing again. I'm crossing all my fingers and toes for her that things work out. Maybe it's the romantic in me, but I think there's a good chance it will.

Just say no

noreply@blogger.com (Heathen) — Sat, 03 Dec 2011 17:39:00 +0000

I've become aware of a problem I have recently: It is very difficult for me to say no and disappoint people. I came to realize this soon after Dreamy and I broke up, when, after overcoming my initial sadness, I felt a huge sense of relief. It dawned on me that I would have broken up with him much earlier if I hadn't felt bad about disappointing him.

I actually did try to break up with him in early August, on the eve of Ms. Swamp's wedding to the Sensitive Bostonian (now my brother-in-law). I felt weird bringing Dreamy as my date knowing that I'd probably break up with him soon, so, on my friend Miami Nice's advice, I called him and was brutally honest. I told him that I'd still like to go through with our plans to attend the wedding together and go on a vacation together, but I didn't see a future for us. He asked if there was any chance I'd change my mind, and I said I didn't think so. And then he said that he was fine with coming to the wedding and going to Costa Rica, and we did those things, and I pretended to myself that I'd changed my mind even though I hadn't really and even though I often felt that I'd much rather be by myself than with him.

In the end, things worked out fine. His departure for New York made for a convenient break, and I don't regret staying with him for those extra couple of months. In a way it made it easier to remember our relationship fondly, since I had a lot of negative feelings toward him over the summer that dissipated during the early fall. Dreamy wasn't a bad guy; we had a pretty good relationship, even though we weren't right for each other. But I wonder what would have happened if he hadn't moved to New York. How long would I have continued to try to convince myself that maybe I'd start to feel in love with him again? And who did I think I was doing any favors for by staying with a guy who I knew I didn't want to marry? Having experienced several times how difficult it is when someone (La Moustache, the Brazilian) didn't want to be with me but had trouble telling me so, I know firsthand how much easier it would be if they would just say it.

Now I'm faced with the task of disappointing someone again, a guy I've gone out with three times and had an unpleasant, makes-me-want-to-scrub-my-mouth-out kiss with at the end of our third date. I was pretty sure after our first date that I wasn't into him (as were some friends who happened to be in the same bar and were observing our interactions), but I kept going out with him partly to make sure, and partly because it was easier than disappointing him. Now the time has come, because I REALLY can't go through with another one of those kisses, and I've set myself a deadline of 3 p.m. today and pulled out Ms. Swamp's much-used breakup email to revise and send off.

The good news is I'm also dating someone who I like a lot, who is smart and interesting and likes me too and tells me three times before every date how excited he is to see me and wants to make me dinner next week (date #4). I'm excited to see him, too, and to get to know him better and continue adding to the lists of green, yellow and red flags in his section of my Man List. And if I should uncover some red flags in my research, please remind me to SAY NO.

Dreamy fledges the nest

noreply@blogger.com (Heathen) — Mon, 26 Sep 2011 19:54:00 +0000

Dreamy took off for New York last week. Since then, during phone conversations in the evening after work and a weekend visit involving an epic trip to IKEA, I've had several moments in which I've asked myself, "Who is this person??" and, "Did aliens abduct Dreamy and replace him with Martha Stewart?" Here are a few examples:

Me: Hey hon, what's up? I just finished cooking and eating dinner.
Dreamy: Oh, me too!
Me: What did you have?
Dreamy: Pasta made from quinoa, with sauteed veggies like bell peppers, onions, kale [I didn't even think Dreamy was aware of kale's existence], and garlic. I started with the garlic and onions just like you taught me!

Dreamy: What do you think I should do about getting internet at home?
Me: Why don't you ask your neighbors if anyone wants to share?
Dreamy: How do I get in touch with them?
Me: Just knock on their door and introduce yourself. Or wait until you meet them in the hall.
Dreamy: Or maybe I could bake something and bring it to them as a little gift! It could be a fun project for us to do together this weekend.

[Late night text message from Dreamy:] These heirloom tomatoes from the farmers market are so delicious!!! I can't wait to get more next week.

Dreamy [repeated about 10 times throughout the weekend]: I'm just so excited about that kitchen island. I think it'll work really well in my kitchen. The blue is the right shade to go with my blue color theme in the kitchen, it's the right size, my silverware tray fits in the drawer, and I think it'll make cooking a lot easier. It's been so hard to cook without much counter space! I can't wait to assemble it.
Me: I know. You really love your kitchen island. I'm so happy for you.

Is this the same guy who needed detailed instructions for how to wash and chop carrots? Who needed constant reminders to wash his dishes and take out the garbage? And is his next request of me going to be to teach him how to knit so he can make an afghan for his new IKEA couch?? All of this is making me reflect that, much as I miss him, in the long run it is a very good thing for him to be living on his own for a while. Turns out he's got his own inner Martha Stewart just like the rest of us. He just never got the chance before to let her shine.

Fickle-o-meter, part II

noreply@blogger.com (Heathen) — Fri, 16 Sep 2011 01:09:00 +0000

I opened my computer this afternoon to discover the following new entry on my fickle-o-meter:

9/15/11

Was printing a document this afternoon from my girlfriend's computer when this came up. Annoyed that she seems to be keeping a daily ledger of issues in our relationship and scoring my "performance."

I got a score, too: an F. Which he subsequently deleted.

Apparently it doesn't do much good to give your document a fake boring name, like "Financial records 2011," if you then forget to close the document on your computer.

The fickle-o-meter may not be long for this world, since Dreamy doesn't seem to like it for some reason. But perhaps it's not so much the actual document that counts -- after all, I hardly ever consulted my Man List -- as the purpose behind it, to remind me not to get bogged down in the moment and to try to keep track of the big picture. I am smart enough to do that without the help of a document on my computer.

Still, I couldn't help but tell him, when I discovered that he did the laundry AND the dishes today, that he might just get a 10 for the day.

The Fickle-o-meter

noreply@blogger.com (Heathen) — Wed, 14 Sep 2011 20:45:00 +0000

In a few days, Dreamy is taking off for New York for his year-long job. This leaves me pondering the same question I've been trying to get to the bottom of for months: Is he my future husband? Because if he is, then a year of long-distance is just a blip on the screen. And if not, it's a colossal waste of time.

I was hoping that things would become clearer over the past three months, since we started co-habiting in June. The problem is, my feelings about Dreamy have fluctuated crazily during that time. A trip to Italy involving a visit with my ex, l'Artista, made me feel for weeks afterward that I don't feel as connected to Dreamy as I once did to l'Artista. But then Dreamy was sweet, supportive and an amazing dancer during my sister's wedding, even though I had told him two days before it that I didn't see our relationship lasting past the summer. We bonded while ziplining and feeding hummingbirds during our Costa Rican vacation. Nose surgery in July that involved four days of nostril tampons made me feel a strange mixture of tenderness and revulsion. And last Sunday, as he stroked my hair while I puked following a few too many vodka shots, I felt sure he was the one.

Somehow, even though I may have felt totally differently five minutes earlier, I always feel convinced that what I'm feeling in that particular moment is a true reflection of how I really feel deep down about Dreamy. I've finally decided that to get to the bottom of this I need to start keeping records, à la my Man List. So I'm starting a new document on my computer (top-secret with a fake, boring name, of course) in which I'll keep track of how I'm feeling about Dreamy every day. I'll write a few notes as well as rate my feelings on a score from 1 to 10. I'm calling it the Fickle-o-meter because I've never felt so fickle in all my life, even when I was two and got kicked out of the candy store because I couldn't choose which candy to buy.

The crazy thing is that between when I first came up with the idea during my bike ride home and now, two hours later, Dreamy's score for today has somehow skyrocketed from a 6 to an 8, even though I haven't seen him during that time or had any communication with him. Talk about fickle! I guess I'll have to wait until after our date tonight to finalize his score for the day.

Austerity Times

noreply@blogger.com (Heathen) — Sat, 10 Sep 2011 12:44:00 +0000

To deal with reduced financial circumstances, I've temporarily had to implement austerity measures. I'm hoping it won't be for long, because two weeks in I'm already missing the little perks in life, but in the meantime here are a few things I am not allowed to indulge in:

Bars. Drinking is allowed only within the confines of a house.
Eating out. But, austerity measures are not about being cheap, so if a friend treats you, you still need to reciprocate.
Parking tickets/towing fees. So hard to resist their allure.
Pottery lessons. Big frowny face.
Yoga? Still trying to figure that one out because I'm not sure I can live without it.
Clothes. If you have enough clothes that they overflow your ample drawer space AND several boxes in the basement, it's enough. (I may have slipped up a bit this afternoon when I HAPPENED to be on the JCrew website and saw some crazy sales. But I put it on a gift card, so it doesn't count.)
A Smartphone. I'm up for a new phone from Verizon, and had planned on joining the masses and getting an iPhone. But it'll have to wait. (On a related note, when did it become so rare to only have a Dumbphone??)
Gas. Hence, I am biking everywhere. Which means I am often sweaty, a bit smelly, and very buff.
Cheese that costs more than $8. Not totally sure I can live without that, either, but we'll see.
Mani/pedis and waxes. Sorry in advance for all the extra hair.

And here are a few things that can help one get through Austerity Times:

Friends who are also on austerity measures to plan fun, low-cost activities with and help you stick to the plan.
Benefactors who ship you boxes of free clothes. Because there's always a LITTLE bit more space in those drawers. Or in the basement. Or on the floor. (Thanks, D.)
Foraging. Rather than head to the farmer's market and purchase pricey organic berries for my annual late summer jam-making extravaganza, as I have in the past, I visited a few crab apple trees near my parents' house last week and picked away, free of charge. On the way back, my arms laden down with apple bags, I was inspired when I passed some Rugosa roses and noticed their bulging hips, and I picked some of those, too. I also found some elderberries, but at that point I was running short on time and had to stick with my first two finds (but I have high hopes for next year!). Downside to foraging: Lots of worms. Like, really lots. I'm pretty sure neither my apple jam nor my rose hip jelly can be considered vegetarian. Upside: extra protein.

Please stop calling me, New York

noreply@blogger.com (Heathen) — Mon, 29 Aug 2011 17:35:00 +0000

Over the past five days, as Hurricane Irene wended its way slowly but surely toward the Northeast, I have gotten a total of 8 phone calls from the City of New York, directed toward its city workers:

Your city needs you in this time of crisis! You have been called upon to work at a hurricane evacuation center. You will be expected to report for duty tomorrow. Press 1 if you would like to work the first shift, from 10 a.m. to 10 p.m. Press 2 if you would like to work the second shift, from 10 p.m. to 10 a.m. On behalf of the city of New York, thank you!

Hey, New York! I think you're having a little memory lapse. Remember how you fired me two years ago? Remember how I had to move to a new city because a mysterious lawyer called every public school that tried to hire me within the 5 boroughs?

So, which button should I press for "Screw you, New York"?

Incontro in Toscana

noreply@blogger.com (Heathen) — Mon, 18 Jul 2011 18:58:00 +0000

Last Wednesday, I left the villa we were staying at in a tiny town in Tuscany and set out on foot. I veered right at the vineyard, down a steep hill, and up again into the old half of the town. The paved road petered out eventually into a rutted dirt road, then ended at a gated villa, and I continued on a path so narrow that brambles plucked threads from my dress and scratched my legs. Finally, I came out onto another road in the slightly-less-teeny town nearby (about 25 houses over our town's 8 or so), and in front of me, sitting at the only bar in town and drinking an espresso as though it were the most natural thing in the world, was my ex-boyfriend, l'Artista.

It had been close to six years since the last time I saw him, in the fall of 2005 in England. The first few hours were surreal, in part because of how normal it felt, as though no time had passed whatsoever. I wasn't sure if I wanted to throw my arms around him or run the other way, but as the time passed we began to feel more normal around each other. Eventually, we made our way back to the villa in his little Yaris, where he got over his initial embarrassment at seeing my family again, settled into a chair next to the pool with a slice of watermelon, and chatted with my aunt, uncle and immediate family.

I wasn't sure how much I'd want to see him, but it turned out to be a lot, to try to get used to our new relationship and learn how to interact with each other non-romantically. Not that he didn't try; I politely declined his suggestion that I leave with him that evening and spend the next few days in Florence. I did make my way there as planned on the weekend, though, and on Saturday was able to realize my dream of eating a home-cooked l'Artista meal (he continues to be the best cook I have ever met). Watching the way he moves in the kitchen, how he slices vegetables, pinches salt and times everything perfectly, is mesmerizing. Unfortunately, I was so tired from waking up at 3:45 a.m. to catch the train that after a plate of pasta and a small glass of wine I conked out on his couch and missed course #2.

Last night, I came home to a clean house, a vase of flowers, and a sweet little "welcome home!" sign that Dreamy made with Crayola markers. I told him about the past few days since we had last spoken, including the plate of pasta. "You know," he said sweetly, "I could be a great cook, too, if someone would teach me."

Based on the contents of the kitchen (Honey Bunches of Oats, Alfredo sauce, sardines, and spaghetti), he's got a ways to go. Nice that he wants to try, though.

Backlash

noreply@blogger.com (Heathen) — Sat, 18 Jun 2011 22:07:00 +0000

Mom: Laura, Mademoiselle isn't going to be coming back to school next year.

Laura: What?? Why?

Mom: I think it's because some kids didn't always do their homework.

Laura: No! I did! I did always do my homework! I swear! [She didn't.]

Mom: Oh, well I guess it must be something else, then.

On Thursday, my school had the 1st grade Field Day. While sipping a lemonade and chatting with several moms, they asked me about next year. Not knowing what else to say, I told them the truth: I'm not coming back, it's not my decision, and I'm not sure why.

Before I had fully gotten the sentences out of my mouth or managed to extricate the lump from my throat, the shit hit the fan. Expletives flew. Next came the text messages; the news spread like wildfire. Soon I was getting BCC'ed on emails to the superintendent and principal, telling them how happy the parents have been with me, that I'm one of the best teachers their kids have had, how they've loved what they've seen in my classroom, etc. Others have made appointments to meet directly with the superintendent. In addition, I received some incredibly thoughtful, touching personal emails:

"Dear Mademoiselle, I haven't been able to stop thinking about this since I spoke with you on Thursday. It makes me feel sad and upset to know that I live in a town that treats its teachers this way. Please don't hesitate to ask me for anything."

"It is outrageous that they never asked our opinion when we are the ones who really saw your work through the kids. This REALLY pisses me off."

"I am so sorry about your departure... I really think you were truly awesome! I would not quit that early yet... Maybe they will change their minds..."

All of this, of course, is incredibly affirming and gratifying. At the same time, it makes me feel sad and disheartened to see what a disconnect exists between my parents' opinions of me and the people who make the decisions. And I wonder: will I ever find a school to work for that is not dysfunctional?

Last week, I was scheduled to go in to a school for a demo lesson at 9 a.m. on Friday. At two o'clock the day before, they emailed me to cancel: "At this point, we've decided that we need to continue interviewing candidates before we move on to the next step. It's a really busy time of year. We will keep in touch as we move forward with the process. And would you mind mailing the book we gave you to read to the class back to me?"

No apology, not even a little tiny "Sorry for the inconvenience" or an offer to reimburse me for the cost of mailing the book. I would think that schools, of all places, would be employers who would treat teachers with dignity and respect, to be a positive role model for the kids if for no other reason. Sadly, that does not seem to be the case.

But, with one and a half days of school left to go, maybe now is the time to stop worrying about it and just enjoy the summer.

Prolonged adolescence

noreply@blogger.com (Heathen) — Sat, 18 Jun 2011 20:32:00 +0000

My friend Slinky and I met up last night for some Friday night drinks after a long, hard week. I was a few minutes late and by the time I got there there were no seats left at the bar, so I awkwardly pulled up a stool behind Slinky. Thankfully, a few minutes later a middle aged woman having a cocktail by herself got up to leave. I started pushing my stool back to its original spot to get ready to take over her seat when the woman turned to Slinky.

"I'm leaving, but she can't sit here," she informed Slinky in a firm but pleasant manner.

"Why is that?" asked Slinky.

"Because she's underage," the woman replied, without a hint of doubt in her voice.

"Ummm... she's 32," Slinky informed her.

"Really! I thought you were 14," the woman said, turning and addressing me directly for the first time before disappearing out the door.

I am not actually 32. I have a good solid half-dozen days before my 32nd birthday. Still, even though it has not quite been two decades since I was 14, it has been a while. Four years ago, I went on a trip and ended up sitting in the emergency exit aisle in 3 out of 4 flights, and was asked every time if I was old enough to sit there (you have to be 16). Last year, when I was 30-going-on-31, I was mistaken by a mentally disabled lunch lady for an 8th grader. Now, this. I have to wonder: How long will this continue?? Will I still be asked for ID to get in to R rated movies when I am in my forties? Will it ever at least move on to the point where I'm mistaken for being in my twenties, a mistake that's at least somewhat flattering?

A different kind of Hospice lady

noreply@blogger.com (Heathen) — Thu, 16 Jun 2011 22:08:00 +0000

On my way back from a visit to Northampton last weekend for my sister's bachelorette party, I stopped in for visit #2 with my new Hospice lady. We chitchatted about this and that while she chainsmoked and we watched Hoarders, until eventually the subject of the bachelorette party came up.

Tammy: Oh, yeah, a bachelorette? Did you get any strippahs?
Me: Nope, no strippers. But we did have some balls. We asked the waiter to deliver them on my sister's dessert plate. Then we put a purple mustache on them.
Tammy (pokerfaced): That's cute. No strippahs, eh? That's too bad. I suuuuure do like strippahs.

She went on to tell me about a time when she and her friend went out to a stripper bar, leaving her kids alone at home and telling them that they were going to the movies. ("We did see some movies that night, but not the kind my kids THOUGHT we saw!") There were lots of details, and indeed, it does sound like she really likes strippers. Another thing she seems to really enjoy is shocking me.

Gone is the era of the demented old Catholic Hospice ladies. I gotta say, this new era is shaping up to be interesting.

Finger violation

noreply@blogger.com (Heathen) — Tue, 14 Jun 2011 22:16:00 +0000

My little lovebird, Persil, turned one year old recently. He's changed a lot over the past year, from a tiny little antisocial ball of pin feathers to a lovable, friendly parrot. Next week I'll be marking the one year anniversary of the day my previous lovebird, Haricot, flew away. They say pets can't be replaced, but frankly, with lovebirds I haven't found that to be the case. I still feel sad that Haricot's gone, but for the most part it's pretty hard to tell the difference between him and Persil.

Of course, as well as his personality, Persil's sexuality has developed over the past year from a newborn to a young adult, and like any young adult, he's got a high libido. Like Haricot, Persil enjoys occasionally partaking in mating rituals with me -- he regurgitates seeds, for instance, and does a little mating dance that involves making clicky noises with his beak. However, for the actual business of masturbating, Haricot liked to find dirty tissues lying around and mount them. Persil, on the other hand, prefers the more traditional route of masturbating with something alive -- and there's unfortunately only one living thing around: ME. Specifically, he tries to mount my fingers. It's hard to imagine feeling taken advantage of by a creature who weighs a scant 50 grams, but having my fingers raped by him feels very disturbing. And it's harder to put a stop to than you'd think. You can get him off, but as soon as you stop paying attention he's right back in the saddle.

I don't mean to boast, but this isn't the first time an animal has wanted to have sex with me. My pet rabbit used to try to mount me, too, though with less success than Persil. At the time, it seemed less disturbing, probably because I was ten years old and didn't really understand what he was doing.

Sigh. Maybe he'll discover the eyass soon and move on to greener pastures. In the meantime, I really need to go take a shower.

My very own eyass

noreply@blogger.com (Heathen) — Mon, 13 Jun 2011 22:05:00 +0000

Dreamy flew back from a quick trip to Mexico last night, and bought me the gift I never thought I could have: my very own baby eaglet (eyass), just exactly like the one on the New York Times Hawk Cam that I've been obsessed with. Well, pretty much the same, anyway. Here's the comparison:

My eyass

Pip from the NYTimes

Hard to tell the difference, right? I'm naming mine Topes, after my favorite Mexican word. It means speed bump. (They love speed bumps in Mexico.)

Frocks and Frets

noreply@blogger.com (Heathen) — Fri, 10 Jun 2011 02:59:00 +0000

When I was 3 years old, my mom took me to the candy store in our town and told me I could choose one thing. ANY one thing. This store was, like, the Maine version of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, with gigantic chocolate moose heads galore, delicious, mouth watering chocolate covered blueberries, those gummy coke bottles that now disgust me but seemed so yummy when I was young, saltwater taffy, etc. (I worked there as a teenager so I know their selection pretty well. Lotta accidents involving chocolate dropped on the floor happened while I was their employee.)

When I couldn't decide right away, my mom told me I had two minutes to make up my mind.

At the end of the two minutes, she took me out of the store. I was kicking and screaming, and I did not have any candy. The candy store lady remembers the incident to this day.

I wish I could say my decision-making skills have improved in the past 29 years, but really, I can't say that they have. Most of my life decisions I've made pretty much by playing some version of eeny-meeny-miney-moe, and even minor decisions sometimes paralyze me.

For instance, I've been shopping recently for a dress to wear as bridesmaid at my sister's wedding in August. I'm the only bridesmaid, so I have full authorization to pick whatever dress I want -- any color, style, etc. I went shopping a couple of weeks ago, and found two dresses that I liked: one cost $240 and was on final sale; the other cost $125 and could be returned for a full refund.

I was able to narrow it down to the two dresses, no problem. But that's where I became totally stuck. So, I did the logical thing and took pictures of myself in both dresses, bought the dress that was cheaper and returnable, and then sent the photos to everyone I know to ask their advice.

Turns out that everyone was on pretty much the same page. They all liked the more expensive dress (which I'll call #2), NOT the one pictured to the right that I had bought (#1). My friends Miami Nice and Ms. B both voted for #2. My mentor at school ooohed over the first dress, until she saw the second one and liked it much better. My mom sent the following cryptic email regarding dress #1: "Hi Heathen,
I like this dress so so. It is very short and I think I prefer one color.
Love, Mom."

There was just one exception... MY SISTER. The bride. The one who I'd be wearing the dress for. She liked dress #1, and wasn't crazy about #2. At this point, I should have just asked myself which one *I* liked better, but I was so divorced from my own perceptions that I had no idea. I threw caution to the wind and spent $240 on the second dress, figuring that it would probably look better on me if 99% of my friends preferred it.

Dreamy is moving in in a couple of weeks for the summer, until his September move to New York, another major life decision that I've worried about at times (not as big a decision as what dress to wear to my sister's wedding, of course!). He will be the third boyfriend I've moved in with, if you count my temporary stints at my ex-boyfriend l'Artista's. We have talked a lot about how we both want things to work out between us, but we are also very different, and there are plenty of times that I worry that things won't work out and that I'm being naive by hoping that they will. And then I worry that if I'm worried after 9 months things are definitely doomed. While Dreamy seems very well-adjusted on the surface, underneath he's got some heavy baggage that he doesn't readily show. I made a joke the other night about how he seems like an open book, but actually he's an open book written with invisible ink; Dreamy thought it was very apt. But when I think about my own baggage that Dreamy has been so kind about, and how much I care about him, and how wonderful it is that he's able to talk about his baggage with me, I feel very lucky and hopeful.

Sometimes I wish I had a life coach who would tell me what to do, which dress will make me look best, whether Dreamy is a hopeless cause, what I should do with my career, even what I should eat for breakfast (sometimes I sit and stare at the choices for a good ten minutes). Since I don't have one, I guess I'll just rely on my imperfect instincts and maybe a few rounds of eeny meeny miney moe, hope that I look okay at my sister's wedding, and that the fact that Dreamy really loves me and wants to make things work is enough. Because, as I learned from my mother when I was three, it's better to make a decision than to stay on the fence. People who stay on the fence end up with nothing.