The Countdown

Being a teacher has allowed me to relive a time-honored childhood tradition -- the countdown. Yes, even teachers begin the countdown to the last day of school at some point in May. Like the kids, I find myself recounting the days every so often, just to make sure my calculations are right, and squirming in my seat while daydreaming about endless steamy afternoons baking on the beach with a good book.

To me, summer is all about sleeping late, reading and beach time. Now that I think about it, my summer priorities haven't changed since I was in fifth grade. I specifically remember that year because it was the summer we moved. Since I didn't know many kids in the neighborhood, I spent most of my time reading anything I could get my hands on, and meticulously keeping a list of all completed books. While I can't remember the exact number, I think I hit somewhere in the 50's. (Yup, I was a closet nerd.) Any other free time was spent at the beach, since we lived only a few miles away, and belonged to a beach club. I could go on for hours about beach club memories -- the chlorine smell, pretzel sticks at the snack bar, running back and forth between the pool and the ocean, watching the moms sit around and gossip and knit, watching the teenagers make out under blankets on the sand...

I miss those long days of books and beach. Every summer I promise myself that I will read more and go to the beach more often. In reality, I do end up doing some catch-up reading, but it's usually while stretched out on my family room couch rather than in a beach chair with my toes in the sand. So here's my fantasy about how this summer will work: Get up early, stop by the gym for a vigorous workout, and then head straight to the beach, armed with umbrella, chair and fabulous book -- at least twice a week. Only 16 days to go...

WWJD???

So, I was talking to my parents this past weekend. Actually, that is not technically correct. I was venting to my parents about something that was bugging me. As usual, they did their parent thing and went directly into what I like to refer to as "advise mode," -- offering advice on how to remedy this situation. Do all parents automatically do this? I mean, do I do this with my kids? Is it part of the parent job description? While I sometimes appreciate the advice, often I just want to VENT. Anyway, back to the story. I'm whining away, really working myself into a good cathartic bitch session, when my father utters the following question: "What would Joe do?"

It is a well known fact that my parents love Joe. In their minds, the guy walks on water, eats quiche, you name it. (Let's face it -- he married me, which means they don't have to worry...) While I tend to to heat up and cool down quickly when it comes to temper, Joe is quieter and steadier in temperament, a businessman (just bid'nez, he likes to say). I suddently realized that my father was stepping aside in his advice-giving role and handing the baton to my husband. Something felt very old fashioned, very un-women's lib about this, but at the same time, endearing. It's sweet and comforting to know these men are looking out for me.

When I got off the phone with my parents, I hurried to find Joe and inform him of his new role -- and my new slogan for him -- WWJD -- What would Joe do? We had a good laugh over this one.

(Just in case, for those of you who don't get the Oriental Trading catalogue or haven't been into Spencer's in a long time, WWJD in the real world stands for "What would Jesus do?")

What's in a name? That which we call a rose..."

Teaching eighth graders certainly has its moments. These kids can be annoying, frustrating, endearing, or hilarious -- and all within a matter of minutes. Each year I've had one student who enjoys "changing" my name. Last year it was Mike, who instead of calling me Mrs. Fallon, spent the year calling me Mrs. Failin'. Unfortunately for him, he created the name from personal experience. This year it's Connor. It started one morning when he had a question, and instead of calling out my name, out slipped "Mom!" The whole class cracked up while lanky, gangly Connor slid into his seat, turning several shades of crimson. Since then, he's learned to appreciate the humor, not to mention the attention, and continues to call me "Mom." However, this past week a new name slipped out. While trying to get my attention, he yelled out, "Yo!" to which I sarcastically responded, "Excuse me????" to which he responded, "I'm sorry. I meant Mrs. Yo." Ya gotta give credit where it's due. It was a nice save. So, now it seems that until June 21st I'm "Mrs. Yo." I wonder what it will be next year?

I Don't Give a Good God Damn...

I really didn't understand my grandmother's favorite saying, "I don't give a good God damn" until recently. I think it has to do with this milestone 50th birthday staring me in the face.

My grandmother was way ahead of her time. She was French, arrogant as hell, and lived life exactly the way she wanted. She would tell my grandfather that everything cost twice as much as it really did so he would give her more $$, and then when she'd saved enough, she'd head off to Paris, leaving him with a bunch of frozen dinners. Needless to say, he was not pleased. She would purse her mouth the way French people do, arch her eyebrows, and say, "I don't give a good God damn..."

How many of us can say we live that freely? As we women get older, though, we do begin to shed some of those constraints that have kept us grounded. I guess that's the philosophy of those red hat ladies. We just don't seem to care as much anymore what other people think. For example, we start to pay more attention to comfort than style. We're not as obsessed with dieting as we once were. We clean house every so often, dumping energy vampire and high maintenance friends who just aren't worth our limited stores of energy. I guess that's the tradeoff for aging. Our bodies start to succumb to gravity and head south, but damn are we liberated! I think I'm going to like this phase.... Yup, I don't give a good God damn!