Top 10 things that are making me happy lately

10. The feelings board in my classroom. Each kid has a magnet and puts their name on a "sentiment" every morning. I thought the "content" square would be overrun, but in fact the magnets are quite evenly spread, and with a quick glance I can see who is "inquiet" (worried), "en colère" (angry), "fatigué" (tired), "excité" (you can figure that one out) and "triste" (sad). It's amazing. Especially amazing was when a little girl approached me after recess to say, "Mademoiselle, can I move my magnet to worried? I got wood chips in my shoes at recess and I'm worried I'll get a splinter." (I told her that after she moved her magnet she should be sure to dump the wood chips out.)

9. The conversations I've been having with Dreamy lately about the emotional lives of men. He tells me he is a typical man in that he externalizes his feelings (he's reading a book about male psychology), but he's awfully good at talking about them. And this after only 4 dates!

8. The way that when my students pass our class plant, which we voted to name "Leafy" a couple of days ago, they wave and say "Bonjour, Leafy."

7. The description of my student who told us about what it is like to celebrate Rosh Hashanah: "It's a little bit fun, but mostly it's really boring." (The girl who told us about Eid made that sound a million times more fun -- candy, games, etc. If I could pick my religion I know which one I'd go with!)

6. The fact that I did something every single schoolnight this week and did not feel exhausted and overwhelmed! I had drinks with Slinky one night, pottery one night, and dinner with Dreamy another night. I think I can work hard at my job AND have a life outside of it! Amazing!

5. The list of thank-yous I got from Dreamy at the end of our date the other night: "Thank you for making dinner, thank you for being a good hostess, and thank you for being beautiful."

4. The drawings my students made after I read "The Red Balloon" to them two days ago. Even though it was all in French, they understood the gist of it and loved it. They made amazing pictures of all different parts of the story -- scary parts, like when all the kids were surrounding him and threatening his balloon; happy parts, like when he found the girl with the blue balloon and finally had a friend; exciting parts, like when he floated off with all the balloons at the end. Great book.

3. The fact that I gave a child a rock for her birthday today and she was ecstatic. First graders are so sweet and easy to please! We had a "rock ceremony" in which we passed the rock around, held it tight, and gave her wishes for her 8th year (either out loud or in our heads). By the time the rock made its way all the way around the circle, it was warm because it had all our wishes inside it, and she looked like she thought it was the best present she had ever gotten.

2. Kissing Dreamy. He's hands down the best kisser I've ever kissed -- so much so that I kissed him until my chin was raw and formed a gigantic scab, then kissed him again before it was even fully healed.

1. The fact that it's Friday night and I have a date with my bathtub and a good book, followed by last week's Mad Men episode.

Signals

I told Slinky yesterday that in an ideal world Dreamy would get in touch with me within 48 hours, but 72 would also be acceptable. He must have read my mind, because exactly 48 hours after our date -- midnight on Saturday -- I got a message from him:

Hey Heathen,

I had a really nice time on Thursday at the museum and in that cute courtyard. I wasn't really sure at the end of the night how you were feeling about things and if you'd want to hang out again. But I know I'd enjoy seeing you again if you're up for it. If not, no worries!

Have a great Sunday...and enjoy Mad Men! (I can't wait...)

Cheers,
Dreamy

I like it when men aren't afraid to email a girl on a Saturday night. Given that I spent much of our five-hour marathon date on Thursday thinking, "I like this guy a LOT. I think he really could be my husband," I was a bit taken aback that he was unsure of my feelings toward him. Why would I have spent five hours with him if I didn't like him? I've certainly never had a five-hour first date before.

Then again, I had the same doubts. At first I felt certain that we had a strong connection. Then, I started to wonder: did I talk too much? Should I not have told him that I had a horrible breakup last fall? Maybe I went overboard when I told him about my frustration that men are often bad communicators. I felt so comfortable with him -- TOO comfortable? Perhaps I should have been more careful about what I told him about myself. Did he really mean it when he said he had fun and was happy to meet me? Or was he just saying that because he's so nice?

It was a relief to hear that my initial reaction was correct and he wasn't turned off. I know you're not supposed to put all your eggs in one basket, but let's face it, all my eggs have been in Dreamy's basket since I first read his profile a month ago. So I decided to go for it and put myself out there, and see if he meets me halfway. I wrote him back right away, at 1 a.m. Saturday night. I told him about my fish taco party that I had just gotten back from, and how I spent the day making tomatillo salsa and 52 tortillas in preparation for it. I told him about my trip to Cape Cod on Friday. Then, I told him that I would really like to see him again, and I apologized if I sent mixed signals at the end of our date. I asked if he'd be available to get together sometime this week. I hesitated for a moment and wondered if I should wait till morning to send it, then hit send.

Eek! Can't wait for our next date!

Meaningful Work

When I last spoke to my Wise Woman, it was my penultimate evening in New York. As we closed the conversation, she said to me, “Send me a letter in a month and a half or so, around the holidays. Let me know how things are going for you.”

I haven't done so yet. I did break down and call her shortly after I arrived in Boston, so she has had news of me, but I haven't gotten it together to write her a coherent account of my post-New York life. Partly that is because I am not entirely sure how things are going: am I adjusting to life in Boston, putting myself out there, building new relationships and finding things to do? Or am I a depressed, directionless couch potato who spends way too much time with my pet lovebird and obsessively Googles my ex?

Perhaps a little of both. In many ways, things are progressing well for me. I signed up for a pottery class, and go to my new yoga studio once or twice a week. I've gone on two dates so far (and have more coming up), and I feel quite satisfied with the amount of attention I've been getting from men recently. I had one interview this past week and have another coming up next week. Occasionally I visit my sister's classroom and do what I can to help her with her own rascally bunch of little heathens. I've reached out to acquaintances who live in Boston to ask if they want to be my friend (not in those words though, cause that would be awkward), and I've poached friends from my sister. I passed two of the four teacher tests in Massachusetts, and last time I checked my bank account I was still in the black.

But still, something is missing. Something very, very important. And that something is not a boyfriend; I've been quite happy in the past without one, and my self-worth is not dependent on the man in my life. It is, however, dependent on my job. Having a job I take pride in is what gives me a sense of purpose in life, a structure to my existence, and a reason to get out of bed in the morning. While I've never exactly taken it lightly, this forced period of unemployment has made me realize just how much I value my career.

I recently read “Not Becoming My Mother” by Ruth Reichl, which is a thoughtful reflection on her mother's life. In her previous books Reichl had portrayed her mother as an oddball, annoyingly high-maintenance, and possibly mentally ill. She used to serve extremely bizarre food when Reichl was a child, like moldy chicken slathered with chocolate sauce and topped with raisins; clearly, Reichl's subsequent career was, at least in part, a reaction to this strange relationship with food (Reichl was the editor of Gourmet until it closed, and used to be a restaurant critic at the New York Times). Now she's taken a look back and realized that her mother, who was born in 1908, lived a frustrated existence that caused her erratic behavior, and that things could have been very different for her if she had been born in a different era. She didn't have an unhappy marriage. On the contrary, her husband was supportive and loving, and encouraged her to work outside the home. However, it was the common belief at the time that the ultimate happiness for a woman was to be a housewife, and her unhappiness stemmed from the fact that she didn't realize until too late that this wasn't the case for her. Toward the end of her life she wrote: “I am so sorry I did not pursue a career. If I teach Ruthy nothing else, I must make her see this. In the end, it is meaningful work – serving people – that matters most. It is what we were made for.”

The description of Reichl's mother's life brings to mind the women of Mad Men, which I have been quite addicted to of late. It is painful to watch poised, intelligent, Bryn Mawr-educated Betty Draper sit like a beautiful doll at her kitchen table, chain-smoking cigarettes and gossiping pettily about the neighbors while her black maid raises her children. She has so much potential (and so, by the way, does her maid), and yet goes around saying things she clearly doesn't believe, like “Can you imagine being single at our age? How awful!” (In Season 2, when she said that, she was – ahem! - 30.) Like Mim Reichl, Betty's unhappiness manifests itself in mental illness. She has panic attacks, and goes to see a psychiatrist to deal with them; after each session, her husband calls the psychiatrist and is filled in on what happened.

It's not that I think it's impossible for women to be happy who don't work outside the home. I can only speak for myself, and would never presume to know what works for other people. But I am very thankful that we live in a time when it's not only acceptable for women to have careers, it's encouraged, and I look forward eagerly to the moment when my own career will be back on track. Were I to have been born at the same time as Mim Reichl or Betty Draper, I would doubtless have been one of the women described in this advertisement, a quote from Reichl's book: “A fifties ad for Dexedrine pictured a sad, pretty young woman holding a dish towel and surrounded by dirty dishes. ‘Why is this woman tired?’ asked the copy. ‘Many of your patients – particularly housewives – are crushed under a load of dull, routine duties that leave them in a state of mental and emotional fatigue. For these patients, you may find Dexedrine an ideal prescription. Dexedrine will give them a feeling of energy and well-being, renewing their interest in life and living.”

Anyway, I should probably buckle down and write that letter. After all, one can't neglect one's Wise Woman – or at least I can't. It's just not a modality that works for me.

A New Year

I'm happy to report that, contrary to 2009, 2010 is treating me very well so far. I spent a few days in New York over New Year's, and the year started for me with an excellent Felice Brothers concert (they're back in the groove after the difficult loss of Simon, the hot brother, from the band) and breakfast in bed on New Year's day provided by my friend and hostess Miami Nice. Shortly before midnight on New Year's Eve, I received a text message from my sister informing me that she and her friends were burning pieces of paper with things written on them that they wanted to leave behind in '09, and they had been sure to include the two people who had ruined the year for me: La Moustache and Godzilla. I was filled with joy that my life is now free of both of them, and hopeful that they will one day get what's coming to them.

On the second day of the twenty-teens, or “the age of Refarling” as I like to think of it, Miami and I headed to Spa Castle with a couple of other friends. Spa Castle is not just another spa. It's an experience. It's located in College Point, Queens, a neighborhood I didn't know existed before my first trip there, but which now holds mythical significance in my mind. The spa consists of two floors of baths, one of which is separated by gender and has a no-clothes policy, and the other is half indoors and half outdoors with a view of the Queensborough Bridge (at least, that's what I assume it is; correct me if I'm wrong). Another level is filled with saunas of a variety of themes, including a salt sauna with salt walls, an LED sauna where one gets light therapy under brightly colored lamps, and a gold sauna lined with, that's right, real gold. (Being a New Englander, my favorite is Iceland, with ice walls and a temperature of 34 degrees.) Finally there is the food court filled with delectable Korean delicacies like Korean sundae, a delicious mix of shaved ice, fresh fruit, chocolate sauce, vanilla ice cream, red beans, and chewy little rice thingamajiggies called mochi. There are also nooks scattered throughout the building where people can nap, sit under purifying lights, get foot massages, do yoga, watch TV, and scrub their bodies in front of mirrors.

Unfortunately for me, when I was preparing to head to New York I forgot to pack my bathing suit. Miami Nice was unfazed. “No problem,” she said with her usual cheeriness, “you can borrow one from me.” When I mentioned this plan to Miami's boyfriend, his eyes widened. “Your bodies types are very... different,” he said.

He was being diplomatic. My body is like Ally McBeal's minus the anorexia. Miami's is more like Joan Holloway from Mad Men, which is why she dressed up as Joan for Halloween (I was a lumberjack). When I tried on her bikini, I looked like a two-year-old dressed in her mother's bra. “It makes you look like you have big boobs!” chirped Miami, lying through her teeth.

Luckily, she unearthed a sports bra, which, while not exactly flattering, at least didn't look indecent. We happily trekked out to Queens and dove into the pools. After a few minutes, I noticed that my friends were giggling. I wasn't sure why, but I was euphoric enough that I joined in. Suddenly I saw something big and black out of my peripheral vision. The jacuzzi jets were blowing at just the right angle, and my sports bra top had blown up like a balloon, as though I were the Nutty Professor coming off his fat meds. All of a sudden I looked like I had a bust bigger than Dolly Parton's.

Remind me to pack my bathing suit next time I go to New York.

The spot where my bikini top blew up