Just Do It

I loved April Fools’ Day when I was a teacher. Every year I would choose one class. One very special class. My choice may have appeared arbitrary and capricious, seemingly based on nothing, but it wasn’t. I always knew which class to choose. The logistics sometimes changed from year to year, and some years 4/1 fell on a weekend. But on the years it didn’t, I managed to pull this off.

I would begin laying the groundwork a few days early. I would act sternly, stressing the importance of a lecture series or a writing assignment or a canon of literature. I would express mild (non-hurtful) disappointment in their academic performance, urging them to work harder, do better. I built up the prank slowly and steadily, never going overboard. By April 1st, the students would be off-balance and confused, muttering epithets under their breath.

What the hell does she want from us?

Is she ever happy?

You can’t please her, no matter what you do.

She’s insane. She should be committed.

Can we send Oves back to hell where she belongs?

I miss my students so much.

On April Fools’ Day I would be exceptionally “cranky” in class, and with fifteen minutes left in the class period, would abruptly instruct them to put their books away and take out a pen and notebook. I would turn out the lights, turn on the whiteboard and walk slowly around the room. Here was my speech:

It has become painfully obvious to me that nothing I have been saying to you guys in the past few days has made any difference. You seem to be content in making the least possible effort rather than stretching your intellectual horizons. I tried emailing parents (no, I didn’t, but you should have seen the heads whip around, as they wondered whose parents got contacted) and offering you time to come in after school, but no one took advantage. I give up. Maybe a 750-word annotated essay will do the trick. This is due at the end of the week. Get ready to take notes.

(No teacher in her right mind would assign an essay due the next day. Besides the fact that these kids have other lives and other classes, it’s just a douche-move. Anyway, they would have been on to me in five seconds. If April 1st fell on a Thursday or Friday, I would make it due Monday, thus “ruining” their weekend plans).

The outbursts began immediately.

This is BS!

I’m going on college visitations!

It’s my birthday weekend, are you serious?

What? I have play practice!

Why do those of us who actually work have to be punished because of the ones who don’t?

Mrs. Oves, wrestling (swimming, field hockey, baseball) districts are this weekend!

My WIFI is out, how do you suggest I do the research?

Ad nauseum.

I brushed aside all protestations with this:

You’re right. I’m sorry. It’s not fair. Not everything in life is fair. But you have curriculum standards to meet, and if this class does not catch up to the other classes, you’ll be behind next year. I can’t live with that. Enough, now, I’m done listening to it. Let’s go through the slides.

The air was always thick with resentment, some students outrightly refusing to take notes.

I’m not doing it, I’ll just take the zero.

That’s fine, I would answer. Everything in life is a choice. I respect your decision, as long as you respect the consequences of what it will do to your grade, since the essay will count as a test.

Within five minutes everyone had given in to the inevitability of the assignment, and began disgruntledly taking notes. The Powerpoint was always impressive. I made sure to include ancillary resources and links to videos, and I would distribute a hefty handout to go with the presentation. I even made academic concessions, like letting them use a fun font, or not having to include headers and footers. That kept them off-balance, and off the scent.

Before the big reveal of the last slide, I would stop and congratulate them.

Thank you for your maturity. I know getting a last-minute assignment like this can have the tendency to throw a wrench in your plans, but the earlier you understand that life throws curve balls and doesn’t care one whit about your plans, you’re that much closer to adulthood. I only have one last slide for you today, and then you can get ready for dismissal:

APRIL FOOLS!

The celebration was always wonderful. I loved the comments.

I was gonna say…!

I think I would have taken the zero.

Are you trying to give us heart attacks?

Oh my God, I was going to hate you.

That almost ruined my life.

Ah, teenage drama.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed my story yesterday. It was my brief dalliance into the romance genre- you think I could make it as a romance novelist? And it wasn’t all fiction. I did go into the store. I did a huge crush on James Gandolfini before he died. And I love Kevin James. The rest was made-up.

Enjoy this video of Anabel Sweeney singing the Celtic version of “Fields of Gold.” This is just my favorite video to watch for no reason, and my favorite cover of this song ever. Sorry, Sting. I can crush this song pretty effectively myself, but Anabel sets the bar high. Enjoy my contribution to your Easter celebration.

Perfection.

Mr. Right There

So I was out in the Cherry Hill area yesterday, and I decided to make a stop at my favorite specialty food market. Even though I knew that most of the stuff I usually buy (homemade quiches, fresh pasta, artisanal cheeses, freshly baked brie, warm crusty bread, gourmet pasta sauces, homemade pastry, oh my) was off-limits due to my current diet plan, I wanted to browse the beautiful fresh fruit and vegetable aisle. I thought perhaps I would treat myself to some dried pineapple rings.

As soon as I walked in the door of the market, I was handed a flyer by a perky gingham-aproned girl. The flyer said, “Free Organic Produce Demonstration- Today 2:30!” I looked at my watch. I could just make it. I figured why the hell not? Maybe I would learn something. And it was free.

I made my way to the produce section, and when I sat in my folding chair in the seating area, I saw it was only me, a mother with a squirmy toddler, and two senior citizens. Trying not to roll my eyes, I settled in and breathed in the heavenly pungent aroma from the nearby coffee bean grinding station, the smell reminding me that I needed a pound of French roast. I took a glance down at my phone as a text came through, and from the corner of my eye, I sensed someone, a rather large someone, plop down at the end of my row, two seats down.

I did not look up. Not at first.

I do not use my phone in public unless I’m at the gym studying workout videos or responding to an emergency. I think it is the absolute height of rudeness. But at this moment a group text came through from my sons as they tried to decide who would pick up my youngest from college for the long holiday weekend. I knew I looked like a stupid asshole punching away on my phone, but the situation needed to be resolved.

Suddenly I heard “Welcome, everyone, thanks for joining my demonstration today. If we could pass these information packets around…” I texted the boys, “I’m being rude on my phone in public, talk to you guys later, let me know what you decide,” and I put my phone away. Reflexively, I took the packet that was being extended to me, and turned to smile my thanks, only to fall into the bottomless abyss of a pair of brown eyes.

Whoop. There it is.

It’s been called different things. Instant attraction. Kizmit. Karma. Connection. Whatever it is, there is not a man or woman alive who doesn’t know how that feels. When you look in someone’s eyes, and just know. You’re pretty sure you’d go to bed with him. You are very sure that you would date him. And you’re positive that if he asked you, you’d marry him. Immediately. Right in front of the Hass avocado display.

He was a big kind of guy, with a combination James Gandolfini/Kevin James thing going on. You know, that steely-eyed masculine gaze combined with that sweet unsophisticated humorous twinkle. He already looked amused with a half-smile on his face, like he had known I would be here punching on my phone and looking like a big jerk.

After the initial plunge into his brown eyes, I quickly looked down at the packet, trying to compose myself. “Get a fucking grip, Mary,” I thought, and then I took a quick furtive glance at his hands. When you are a single woman my age, you notice men’s hands. A lot. Like, all the time. It’s the second thing I look at when I see an attractive man (eyes are always first). You’re always looking for the ring, and it’s usually there. Weird, how so many people are married. You don’t realize this until you are single. How many people are actually married.

But he wasn’t wearing a ring. And he had these gorgeous hands. Strong masculine hands, with thick wrists and calloused knuckles. I love hands. I have fallen in love with hands. Men ask for bikini shots or nudes, I ask for hand pics. I get mesmerized watching men’s hands. It’s a problem.

But I digress.

So here’s this big gorgeous bear of a man with nice hands, no ring, twinkly eyes and a lopsided smile, sitting two seats down from me, and I’m trying to concentrate on a lecture about ripe avocados. And of course the possibility occurred to me that he just didn’t happen to be wearing his wedding ring that day. Whattya think? Sheesh. I always consider that as a possibility. But I can dream, can’t I?

Wait for it.

The presenter asked us to pick a partner to generate a healthy grocery list, and with one glance and a nod, we were partners. After he wrote his section, he passed the grocery list to me silently, and I read what he wrote.

No ring? R u married?

My breath caught in my throat, and I wrote back.

Widow. You?

I handed it to him and watched him smile. A slow smile.

Widower.

He handed it back to me.

I read it and thought, No way. There is no way this is happening to me. A widower with gorgeous hands and a beautiful smile, sitting two seats away from me and smiling into my eyes.

I’m sorry, I wrote.

Sorry for you, too, he replied.

How are you handling it? I wrote.

Easier every day. Lonely though.

Me too, I replied.

He read it, looked up at me, and wrote. Handed it back. I read it.

So marry me.

I burst out laughing, but he wasn’t laughing. He was staring at me, dead-serious. He took the paper back, wrote and handed it back again.

Marry me, I read.

This is crazy, I wrote. This doesn’t happen in real life. Only in dreams.

Or on April Fool’s Day. Thanks for celebrating with me! BTB tomorrow.