My son’s Kindergarten teacher was celebrating a birthday (remember, we’re going back to January here so pay attention). The class had collectively and generously purchased a gift certificate for a groovy restaurant in The City but I couldn’t bear witness to just handing it over in a tacky, white envelope. It won’t surprise you then that I stayed up late one night to dig through a few vintage books. I happened upon one in my stash called “Mrs. Appleyard’s Year”, apparently about a teacher and equally ironic, divided into chapters entitled for each of the 12 months. The first chapter was, you guessed it, “January”.
My husband sauntered off to bed at 10:30 p.m. with the sound of a sewing machine jamming against his eardrums. “What are you starting now?” he asked. “I’m sewing paper,” I responded. He looked at me quizzically and was so dumbfounded that he didn’t even have any further questions. “Good night,” I sang after him.
