Eligible bachelors

I have a lot of close female friends, but there is a dearth of Y chromosomes in our circle. Usually our get-togethers involve four or five girls plus the Sensitive Bostonian, my brother-in-law. For his sake, we try not to talk about our periods or use the word "vagina" too often, but occasionally it slips out and he puts up with it good-naturedly. There are a few other males who sometimes show up, but more often than not it is just us girls.

When a new guy arrives in our circle, it is kind of like the beginning of Pride and Prejudice: "It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife. However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his first entering the neighborhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of the surrounding families, that he is considered as the rightful property of some one or other of their daughters." (Just like that, but minus the part about the fortune and the daughters.) We are all wondering who he is going to pair up with, and we generously encourage each other to date him. It has happened a few times that several of us has gone out with the same guy; so far, this has led only to lots of giggling, no hurt feelings or broken hearts.

First, there was Bagelbutter. He broke my friend Li'l JC's heart, then proceeded to ask ALL HER FRIENDS out on dates -- including me, kinda. (I went on a non-date with him.) Poor dating etiquette, I say.

Next came the Gay Music Man, a guy from the Internet who we all happened to date. My belief is that he wasn't interested in any of us because he is actually interested in men. Otherwise, I can think of no possible explanation why he would reject me and all my friends.

After that came Bagelbutter's nice friend. He went to college with my sister, and three of my friends went on dates with him. None reported feeling any spark, unfortunately. (But then we found out he doesn't want children, so maybe it's for the best.) We would like to continue to hang out with him as friends, though.

These days, JC got a new roommate -- and he's a man! Everyone has been enjoying her Tales of Living with a Guy. (They're strange, funny creatures.) He caused quite a stir when he looked at my OkCupid profile a few weeks ago -- suddenly there was a flurry of texts being sent hither and thither. Poor guy, he just thought he was browsing through profiles!

JC and I split a farm share, and tomorrow is Veggie Day. Since JC is out of town, I emailed the male roommate -- *not* through OkCupid -- to ask if he wanted me to bring by veggies. He wrote back: "Sure, and we could cook some of them, too!"

I'm not one to decline a dinner invitation, so I accepted. This afternoon, I got a text from my sister, who is on vacation in Vermont with Li'l JC and a few other friends: "Vermont is all abuzz with news of your date with JC's roommate!"

I'm sure his ears are burning.

Breakup recovery strategies

This breakup is small potatoes, so it's been a fast recovery. I'm well into the acceptance phase at this point. It's been interesting to notice how it progresses and think about what makes me feel better. Here are a few suggestions:

1) Make fun plans. I am going to be in a canoe race!! I will probably bring shame to my team, but who cares as long as it makes me feel better? Also coming up soon: trapeze lessons! Thank you, Groupon.

2) Let yourself perseverate on it for a few days. Not for too long, but perseveration is part of the process. Alternate perseverating with distraction.

3) Find friends who will meet you where you are. If you are perseverating, they will listen to you. If you are in the cocoon of denial, they don't try to force you out of it. Everyone (including me) forgets sometimes that the cocoon of denial is normal and healthy, but it is. Just don't forget to emerge from the cocoon when you're ready.

4) Write a goodbye card, then wait a week to send it. Some say it's giving him power by making him think you're still thinking about him; I say framing it in a positive way gives YOU power by not allowing him to feel you are the victim. E.g., "I think it's lame to act so excited about someone and then change your mind out of the blue. However, I enjoyed the time we spent together and am choosing to remember it fondly and think of you as a decent, if confused, guy." [Read: You suck, but it doesn't bother me and I'm not going to hold any grudges.]

5) Do yoga in the park with your neighbor, and embrace the fact that you're being stereotypically white and the black kids playing ball probably think you're ridiculous.

6) Defriend him on Facebook, erase all his texts and his phone number, and trash his Valentine's gifts. Well, maybe not the monkey, cause that was really cute.

(Damn him for getting me a gift subscription to a magazine! Did he plan it so I would be FORCED to think of him every month for an entire year??)

7) Read a good book. Detective novels are awesome at times like these. Fred Vargas is the best, and the fact that it's written in French puts me to sleep really quickly even when I'm feeling kinda tortured.

8) Let's not forget alcohol. Bless my friend R for reminding me that now would be a good time to break open that bottle of grappa. Thank you, grappa, for all your love and support this week.

9) And then move on. As a friend in my dating support groups says, NEXT!

Breakup gifts

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.

A Lover is a Star!

I read "Oliver Button is a Sissy" by Tomie DePaola to my 1st and 2nd grade tutees last week. It's the story of a little boy who loves to dance and play with paper dolls, which leads to a lot of chagrin on the part of his parents and belittling from his classmates, who label him a sissy. Afterward, my little rapscallions and I had a very rich discussion about gender stereotypes and accepting people as they are, and I felt so proud of how wise these kids are! They were saying things like, "It's not only girls who like the color pink. I love pink!" and "It's okay to be a tomboy or a sissy. People can be anything they want to be." This is one child's response to the book:

Left side: "A lover (Oliver) is a star! I like when a lover was a star and he was got so so Happy and I like when he got so so so so so so so so Happy!"

Right side: "I like when he was Tap Danceing and he got a complent and he was so so so Happy at himself!"

I think she liked it!

On the radio

I heard an interview with Ayelet Waldman on the radio today that filled my head almost to bursting with things I wanted to blog about. I started listening mid-broadcast, and before I even knew who I was listening to, I was thinking, "I hope I have a relationship someday with the same level of emotional intimacy that she has with her husband." Also, "It's possible that none of the men I've dated in my whole history of dating have been capable of having that kind of relationship." Then I realized that I was listening to Ayelet Waldman and that not only is she wonderful and talented, but she is married to the amazing Michael Chabon, possibly my favorite author ever. (There are probably a few other people I'd say that about too, but it doesn't make it any less true.) No wonder they have a great marriage.

Waldman got in trouble a few years back by writing in the New York Times that she loves her husband more than she loves her children, which led to quite a hue and cry. She also mentioned the hot sex she has with her husband in the article, and I have to say that it kind of pissed me off back in the fall when I was recently heartbroken. Now I'm less bitter, and while I agree with her criticism of herself that she was probably oversharing when she wrote that, I find it kind of endearing. I love the fact that Chabon and Waldman are so open about their imperfections.

Other thoughts that I had during the interview:

• Am I manic depressive? Apparently Waldman is, and she says that manic depressives are oversharers and are responsible for many of the oversharing-but-fascinating blogs and memoirs out there. I can't necessarily claim to be fascinating, but I am definitely an oversharer, or as my friend Miami Nice puts it, I'm afflicted with diarrhea of the mouth. Is it possible to be manic depressive minus the depressive part of it?
• Am I Jewish? She mentioned spending hours worrying about things she had no control over, like which of her parents could handle being left alone if the other one died, and chalked her worrying up to being Jewish. Well, Ayelet, call me a shiksa, but I worry about things like that, too.
  
• Am I going to have to have a horrible, traumatic abortion because I'm getting old and my fetus will be faulty? This happened to Ayelet when she had just turned 35, and she chalked it up to her age. It wasn't clear if the fetus would have problems, but it had a genetic defect and there was a good chance; she wanted to abort, her husband didn't. She won, and described the awful details of having an abortion at 16 weeks and then plunging into a deep depression that lasted for months. It was especially disheartening because I am turning 31 soon and will be lucky to be pregnant by 35, given the lack of a baby daddy in my life at the moment. The good news is that she went on to have two more babies, for a total of four.
• Are there any other men out there who are as great as Michael Chabon?
  

She has a new book out entitled "Bad Mother: A Chronicle of Maternal Crimes, Minor Calamities, and Occasional Moments of Grace." Check it out.

Rain, Concrete and Standardized Tests

I spent my rainy Saturday morning today in “The Bowdoin Room,” a windowless room where I tutored a delightful 13-year-old girl for two long hours. I was there as a spy, checking out what seems to be a very successful, very organized tutoring program at a 7-year-old charter school that has had more improvement on MCAS (state test) scores than any other school in the entire state; quite a feat. I was spying because I run my own tutoring program during the week at a new Boston Public School, and am trying to get ideas for how to improve the program for next year, as well as attempting to impress my bosses so they'll hire me to be a teacher at the school.

I was impressed by several aspects of the program, particularly how organized it is and the turnout of both tutors and tutees. Tutors congregated in the Harvard Room, which is a 6^th grade room during the week, and in total there must have been at least 30 people there. The kid count must have been closer to 50, and despite the rain and a school overnight two nights ago at a museum, only three were absent. Free donuts and coffee were provided for the grownups, as well as a “30 minute training session,” which turned out to be five minutes of useful pointers for how to talk to the kids.

Still, I found the whole experience to be incredibly depressing. When I drove up to the school, I was shocked to discover that it shares a building with a CVS. It used to be a bank, and windows are so limited that only 8^th graders get them, as a “special privilege.” The kids spend their recess in an area immediately outside the back door of the school, which once upon a time was used as a loading dock. Even the lucky kids who aren't required to attend Saturday school start school during the week at 7:30 and end at 4:30 or 5:15, making their day at least 3 hours longer than my Cambridge kids' days. One of the most horrifying aspects, to me, was that all of the teachers were required to be there every Saturday morning at 9 a.m. I imagine their retention rate is quite low; if I were in their shoes, I would probably quit mid-year for lack of Vitamin D. When I asked the girl I was working with how she felt about school she scrunched up her face and said, “No comment,” then leaned in and whispered, “It's really boring and they're too strict.” After two hours of mind-numbing test prep, I was at the end of my rope, and I have a pretty long attention span (and I didn't have to spend an hour doing homework ahead of time like the kids did).

She was astonishingly well-equipped with knowledge about how to take a test, and seemed to have memorized an endless supply of formulas and definitions. She didn't hesitate a single second when answering questions about means, medians and modes, which I continually confuse to the point where I have taught entire lessons using the wrong word, which in turn will probably lead to a lifelong confusion for my students. Still, she struggled to understand what many questions were asking, even when the question was relatively simple: “Tim gets $0.05 per can he returns at the redemption center: money earned = $0.05(number of cans). Mary gets $0.05 more per can than Tim does. Write an equation for how much money Mary earns.”

Last year, 100% of students at the school received a passing score on both the ELA and math components of the test. No doubt this is very good news for the school. But, how much significance does it actually have for the futures of these kids? I'm not sure. Personally, I've been able to get by just fine without knowing the definitions of mean, median, and mode, and I don't think any of the skills these kids learn to take tests really helps them out in life. However, our society does place a high value on testing. It's possible that these test scores will help them get into good high schools, which will lead to good colleges, which will lead to good jobs, which theoretically should lead to productive and fulfilling lives. They may have to suffer through a few years of misery, but perhaps in the long run it will pay off for them. Or, the message that learning is not fun will be ingrained into their minds, and they'll take the first opportunity they can to escape school and get a job at the nearest 7-eleven.

I'm sure I can glean some helpful lessons from the charter school's program, and I'd love to become as successful at recruiting volunteers as they are. Still, despite its disorganization and occasional haphazardness, I love my tutoring program best, and not just because it's my baby. It's a happy place with beanbag chairs, lots of Patricia Polacco books that are in high demand, and frequent hugs from kids; everyone is happy to be there, even me at my most stressed out. And my tutoring program is not ending next week like the charter school's, just before the state tests, because we hope to do more than just get the kids to pass the test.

"The Classic Dip'n Run"

I was introduced to a new term by my friend Slinky last week: “the classic dip'n run.” This is apparently what has happened to me with the Brazilian.

The first thing that comes to mind when I hear the term is a similar expression from Michael Chabon's amazing book, The Yiddish Policemen's Union. The expression is “dip his beak into him/her,” and it refers to sex (yes, it's totally gross and I love it because it aptly conveys the sleaziness of many of the male characters in the book). Dip'n run could be interpreted as a reference to a man who disappears after sex. However, I choose to interpret it in a nonsexual way: my personal definition is that it refers to a situation in which a member of the male species tries out a relationship with a female for a short time, dipping into relationship territory, then flees out of fear of commitment, weird personal issues, or other mysterious reasons. (Who knows what they're thinking; when I asked my friend Li'l JC this question, she responded, "They're not.")

Presumably, the Brazilian made it back to the U.S. after his extended, volcano-induced stay in Europe. However, he has neglected to contact me, and I have not received a response since sending him a questionnaire several days ago inquiring if he a) is too busy to have a social life, b) doesn't want to see me again, or c) eloped in Europe and is no longer single. This is frustrating for a number of reasons, number one being that I left a pair of cherished earrings at his house, and number two being that I haven't seen him in a month but have spent much of that time thinking that he was excited to see me again. I didn't just think that because he offered to bring me back a gift from Italy or talked about going to the Cape together this summer, I also thought it because when I told him to let me know if he didn't feel excited about going out with me again he replied, “Still very excited!! [Please note the two exclamation points] I just haven't slept very well lately and spent way too much time in a windowless shop. Sorry about that!”

Another reason that I feel frustrated is that, in my humble opinion, he is significantly less attractive than me. This is a first for me; usually I have boyfriends who I consider to be my equals in attractiveness, but I liked the idea of being the more good-looking person in the couple, and plus I did feel attracted to him. If I were the Brazilian, I would be very excited to date me, and I would certainly not play with my emotions in this inconsiderate way.

I do feel a bit disappointed that I won't get to see the Brazilian's futuristic machines or taste the allegedly delicious chocolate that they emit, but in the end, I got few fun days with him and a whole lot of anxiety and annoyance. Not worth it. And if anyone thinks I'm going to mope around about this minor setback, think again! After my ordeal with La Moustache, this is child's play. As my friend Li'l JC put it, “You are more seasoned than a good wok.”

Kissing Frogs

In her infinite maternal wisdom, my mom has counseled me and my sister that “In order to find a prince, you have to kiss a lot of frogs.” Even though this is contradicted by my mom's own experience – she got married at the ripe old age of 22-going-on-23, and I seriously doubt that she had the time to kiss many frogs before then – I am beginning to see her point. I met and began dating La Moustache six months (to the day, weirdly) after my breakup with l'Artista. When we met, I had been dating a man named Mr. White Pants for four months. Even though I knew that there were plenty of other men out there besides Mr. White Pants and La Moustache, it was hard not to feel like I had two choices before me, and one was very clearly superior to the other.

Mr. White Pants was a Southern gentleman, hailing from a tobacco city in North Carolina, the youngest of six or seven siblings. He was twelve years my senior, and I met him through his college roommate, who had been trying fruitlessly for some time to court me. In retrospect, it wasn't very nice of him to flirt with his friend's crush, but at the time I can't say I minded.

Mr. Pants worked for a bank and made a lot of money. He had gone to graduate school at Columbia, spoke fluent Russian, and lived for several years in Uzbekistan. He was on the board of a small theater company and invited me to the opera. Sometimes I thought that if he were a character on Sex and the City the ladies would think he was a really good catch. In the end, though, I'm not one of the Sex and the City ladies, and after a while I started to realize that despite his intelligence he was lacking in one very important area -- personality. Every time he talked to me about his work I was either bored stiff or horrified, like when he told me about financing open-top mines. He enjoyed tango dancing, but it seemed more like a hobby he had picked up to make himself seem interesting than a genuine passion.

And then there was the matter of the pants. He always dressed up for our dates, and frequently wore his favorite white pants. When I got to know him better, I found out that every time he wore the white pants he had to wear tighty whities to match them, because otherwise people could see his undergarments through the pants. I'm not saying I don't sometimes have to think about wearing underwear that you can't see through my clothes, but a man who matches his underpants and trousers was a turnoff, to say the least. In addition, one day my Wise Woman mentioned to me that when she was walking down the streets of Manhattan one day she passed a man who she wondered might be Mr. White Pants. When she described him to me, he sounded utterly ridiculous.

Just as I was starting to feel ready to move on, along came La Moustache. He was handsome, had an interesting job, he told me great stories about his recent trip to the West Bank to cover the war between Israel and Lebanon, he was funny, we were reading the same book when we met (Heat by Bill Buford, a great book), he loved the New Yorker like me, and I instantly felt more comfortable with him than I ever had with Mr. White Pants. But I wonder if, had I been dating other men, I would have thought more critically about him and kept my options open longer, rather than allowing myself to be convinced to jump headlong into a relationship as I did. Perhaps through the veneer of charm I would have discovered his underlying froggy qualities; or perhaps not, since (to give myself some credit) he was very good at hiding them.

In the interest of learning from my past mistakes, I have been working on meeting frogs. Here are some of my stats so far:

Frogs I've gone on dates with: 4
Frogs I've gone on second dates with: 2
Frogs kissed: 2 ½ (one was an awkward edge-of-the-mouth kiss that I was attempting to dodge)
Frogs kissed because my sister forced me to: 1
Second dates I've gone on because I had a bit too much to drink on the first date and got beer goggles: 1 (mental note: one drink maximum per date)
Very nice frogs I've gone out with: 3
Frogs who really liked me: 2
Frogs I found attractive: 0

Another piece of advice I received recently from my mother after I complained about the lack of attractiveness of my dates: “In the end, it's not really that important.” Again, this is contradicted by her own experience – my dad is very handsome, and even after nearly forty years of marriage Mom will occasionally pause when she sees him across the room and say, “He's really quite good-looking, don't you think?” This is one piece of advice I am ignoring: I want a hot boyfriend, and I think I deserve one.

Clearly, I have a ways to go. My sister went on dates with 26 men before she met her prince, the Sensitive Bostonian. And this time, I am determined not to be tricked by any frogs disguised as princes.

On Menstruation

A momentous event occurred yesterday in my classroom: one of my students became a woman. That's right, she got her first period!! (Those aren't sarcastic exclamation points, by the way – I was almost as excited as she was. Of course, she pretended she didn't care, but I saw right through her act.)

As soon as she disclosed this information, my students made one of the thousands of lightning-quick changes they undergo each day, and began treating me kindly and with respect rather than the utter contempt they bestow on me at other times, like for instance when I baked them chocolate chip cookies yesterday. Then they told me they'd like to ask me a few questions.

I accepted, but with the stipulation that we needed to check with Max, the lone boy, and make sure that it was a conversation that wouldn't make him uncomfortable. He said he was fine with it, but when the questions about tampons and PMS started pouring out, I realized that the co-ed talk was just not going to work out. We postponed the discussion and arranged for Max to spend some time with the fifth-grade class later in the day.

When it was just us girls, and after I was done going over the basics of the ovaries and the egg and all that, I opened the conversation up to questions and was immediately barraged: “What does a penis look like?” “Have you ever seen one?” “Are you a lesbian?” “What does it feel like to have sex?” "Does it always feel good to have sex?" "Why do girls bleed the first time they have sex?" This from girls who have spent entire days ignoring me! All of a sudden they couldn't tear their eyes away from me. I tried to answer honestly -- for instance, I told them that no, sex does not always feel good -- and get rid of some of the confusion that is so inherent to being a young adolescent, but also told them that discussing my own sexuality is absolutely not an option.

All of this brought back a lot of memories. When I look back on my school years from age 10 to 15, it seems like it was one sex ed class after another. (I just met up with a childhood friend who told me that she managed to get through public school in my town without EVER getting a sex ed class, so I'm not sure how I hit the sex ed jackpot.) I got it every year in school beginning in fifth grade; in high school, my biology teacher dressed up as a giant condom and organized races in which we practiced putting prophylactics on wooden penises (which in retrospect seems very weird – is this really a good activity to perform hurriedly?). My parents signed me up for an extracurricular sex ed class at the Unitarian Universalist church that a few of my friends were taking, called “About Your Sexuality.” Apparently, the Unitarians believe that there is no such thing as too much information, so they showed us films of everything you could imagine – lesbian sex, gay male sex, heterosexual sex, as well as both men and women masturbating. My two teachers were a couple, and the woman brought in her diaphragm to hand around. Of course, it got ripped up. Can you imagine letting pimply 12-year-old boys handle your diaphragm?!?

If nothing else, one strong message I got from this course is that sex ed should be taught in a gender segregated setting. And also there IS such a thing as TMI.

Despite the extremely comprehensive sex ed classes, I was plagued with confusion about my body and sexuality during those years. My mom bought a book for my older sister when she was going through this, called “The 'What's Happening to My Body?' Book for Girls,” and it was subsequently passed on to me. This book saved my life. I must have read it at least one hundred times. My friend Ms. B and I spent hours poring over it, comparing our (miniscule) breasts to charts that explained the phases breasts go through as they grow and arguing about which phase we were in (I think I'm still in phase 2, unfortunately). I'll never forget the first time we flipped to the boy section in the back and saw a drawing of an erect penis: “Is this a JOKE?” we shrieked. “There is NO WAY this really happens.” The book included a description of how, in 1950s gym classes, girls were instructed to do exercises to encourage breast growth, while chanting “We must! We must! We must increase our bust!” This was supposed to shock us, but instead my reaction was to begin practicing these same exercises daily, minus the chant. (Didn't work.)

My plan is to get my hands on a new edition of this book to bring in for the girls to look over. I think it will answer a lot of their questions better than I can, and I'm sure they will be as fascinated as I was by the drawings. In the meantime, they have had an interesting reaction to this news in addition to their sudden interest in sex education: they've begun bringing dolls in to school and pretending they are mothers, changing diapers, feeding the dolls, and putting them down for naps. My take on it is that it is a bit of a regression to their childhood, which is now nearly behind them, as well as an acknowledgment that they are now able to bear children, even if it will be years before this actually comes to pass. Knock on wood.

Smooth(er) Sailing

Early last week I thought it would never happen, but a miracle has in fact occurred: things are going MUCH better in the 6th grade. It's been two days now, so it's not just a fluke. Every instruction is no longer a battle, and the constant disrespectful comments have given way to occasional disrespectful comments. It's hardly perfect – the lone boy is still being tortured on a regular basis, and today on the playground the kids accused me of “watching them like a hawk” (this because I wouldn't let them out of my sight so they could pretend to kiss each other). Still, it is different enough that it feels like another classroom, and one that is much more pleasant to be in.

Which is nice, because it means I can let up on the whup ass and actually enjoy the positive aspects of 6th grade. And there are many, even apart from the appreciative feeling I get every day that I am not eleven years old. This morning during morning meeting, a spontaneous conversation arose about race, skin color and ancestry. The kids talked very eloquently about why they look the way they do. Example: Caitlin said, “I'm really dark-skinned because I'm from Haiti. Haiti was the first place to have a slave rebellion, so there weren't a lot of Europeans there after that.” Other kids talked about how black people can have all different kinds of ancestry, like Indian, European and Native American. 6th graders are also (slightly) less self-centered than younger kids, and toward the end of the discussion they said, “How about you, Heathen? Where is your family from?” Such politesse!

Monday is the teacher's day to be the DJ, and so with great trepidation I hooked up my ipod during snack. Last week, I played some MC Solaar (you can't go wrong with French rap, right?), to no comment. Later, I put on the White Stripes. “Is this, like, rock music or something?” asked Caitlin. “It's a band called the White Stripes,” I replied, feeling hopelessly old. “I'm going to PRETEND like I know what the hell you're talking about,” she answered.

Today the kids groaned when I reminded them that it was my day, and begged me not to play the same music as last week. So I ran a few ideas by them, and hit the jackpot with Justin Timberlake. Yes, they got tired of it quickly and made me turn it off, but still, I had at least one album out of the 6,000 songs on my ipod that they didn't hate. Score!

On Friday, I gave them a choice of four of my favorite young adult chapter books to read: The Wolves of Willoughby Chase, Bridge to Terabithia, Julie of the Wolves, and Tuck Everlasting. I have found that voting works well with 6th graders – it gives them some of the independence they're so desperate for – so I asked them to vote. The unanimous response: “I don't have a preference because I don't want to read any of them.” So I picked Bridge to Terabithia, and finished my pre-reading today during lunch with tears streaming down my face. Luckily none of them noticed. I'll be amazed if they manage to get through this book without getting hooked.

Two other victories occurred in the past couple of days. The class is riveted by a read-aloud I chose about the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire, despite their refusal to learn about their assigned 6th grade social studies theme of labor (this has been a huge source of tension, since Mr. Burnout promised they didn't have to study it anymore and I reversed this decision; we eventually reached a compromise that involved doing a few labor-related activities, including the read-aloud). Frankly, I'm riveted too, and I highly recommend it: Uprising by Margaret Peterson Haddix.

Second, I brought in some supplemental math materials because I was bored to tears by the math packet Mr. Burnout left, and they liked it so much that – get ready – two kids chose to work on it during recess. One of the two is a child who particularly struggles with math, and has the reputation of being the root of the problems in this dysfunctional group (I'm still trying to decide for myself if that is the case). I was so impressed that I wanted to tell their parents how proud I was of them, but I wasn't sure if that works for 6th graders like it does for the wee ones, so I asked. “Sure, that would be okay,” they replied nonchalantly.

Awww. They pretend otherwise, but they're really still babies at heart.

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.

Post-breakup reading material

A few weeks ago, I surprised myself by picking up “Eat, Pray, Love” from my bookshelf where it had been gathering dust for several years, and beginning to read it. It's one of those books that I was always sure I would hate just because it is so popular, along with “The DaVinci Code” and “The Kite Runner.” If I actually read them, I would probably love them just as much as everyone else does, but I prefer to maintain my self-image as someone who does not have mainstream tastes. If I can spot more than five people reading it on the subway, it's off my reading list.

Nonetheless, I picked up Elizabeth Gilbert's book because it is about a subject I relish these days: a painful divorce. And I loved many of the details in the beginning: her disastrous rebound relationship, the depression she suffered from for years after the breakup, her guilt, how she found herself penniless and homeless in her mid-thirties.... Bizarrely, I found myself getting angry at her as I read, since in her breakup she played the role of La Moustache. She was the one pretending to be committed to a relationship that she wasn't actually committed to at all, and even went so far as to try to get pregnant, praying each month that it wouldn't take. And guess what she did to try to get over the whole breakup experience? She went and traveled the world for a year. How cliché.

Midway through the book, while she's meditating in India, Gilbert forgives herself for what she did to her ex-husband and comes to terms with the divorce. (Really, Elizabeth? Already? Don't you think you deserve to feel guilty and miserable for at least another year or two?) I could see the writing on the wall: we were getting to the third, “Love” section of the book, and she was going to go to Indonesia and meet an amazing boyfriend and have lots of sex with him. I lost interest and put down “EPL,” vowing never to pick it up again. (I'll consider seeing the movie though.)

After that, I turned to the Millennium trilogy by Stieg Larsson. The first book in this series is called “The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo” in English, but its original Swedish title is “Men Who Hate Women.” As far as I'm concerned, the latter title is much more appropriate, and could even be the title for all three books: “Men Who Hate Women, Parts I, II, and III.” The books are filled with one misogynist after another, and these are not David Letterman-style misogynists. These are the kind of misogynists who rape, kill and torture women, regardless of whether their victims are their own daughters, wives or sisters. In the third book, there's even a scene in which a character tries to recall whether he killed a woman or not, and is unable to; that's how casual it is. One victim's father and brother conspire to shoot her and bury her alive. A sadistic lawyer who is assigned to be guardian to a ward of the state rapes her. Policemen regularly refer to women as “bitches” and “whores” and other, worse words that I prefer not to repeat. I could go on; the three books are each well over 500 pages, and they are chock full of these details. It's enough to make one become a misandrist (and vow never to go to Sweden).

But the satisfying part is how all these men get their comeuppance. This skinny, 90-pound, tattooed girl goes around and, with a little help from some other good guys, makes these jerks suffer. She kicks the asses of armed thugs who are three times her size. She nails her brother's feet to the floor. She uses her intelligence and amazing computer skills to outwit high-powered, corrupt politicians and businessmen. And, just for fun, she gets a boob job. She's like a bizarre Swedish superhero with really bad social skills. They're not great literature, but they're an awful lot of fun to read.

Any suggestions for what I should read now that I'm done with the trilogy?