Facebook Stalker

So, I have a little confession to make and I'm afraid you'll think less of me after I confess it.

I could just not confess it, but I feel that I need to share because then maybe I'll feel a little less dirty. That and maybe I can help someone else feel better about themselves.

I'm a Facebook Stalker.

Yes, you read that right. Honestly, I can scarcely believe it myself.

You see, I lack the skills required to meet a new person and remember their name. I'm not talking about not being able to remember their name a week later, but immediately.

Like their name goes in one ear and out the other like greased lightning. It's embarrassing.

I blame my mother for this because I can. I remember my short-term memory being a problem for me as far back as first grade. I now refer to my brain as "Dory Brain" because I'm just like the fish, Dory, in "Finding Nemo."

Names are a problem for me until I get to know a little bit about a person and their personality. When I don't remember people's names it looks like I don't care about them and that's far from the truth. 

As a teacher I relied heavily on my Smart Seat app to learn my students' names. On the first day of school I would take pictures of the kids in the seating chart app, and then go home and quiz myself until I learned their names.

Now my problem is mostly remembering adults'  names and it has become even more glaringly obvious in my job because my professional counterpart, the Elementary Math Specialist, is a rock star. You think I'm kidding, I know, because I kid a lot, but I'm not lying here when I say that he knows everyone in this town and they know him. Walking anywhere with him is tedious because of his rock star status. Rodd the Rock Star.

Now I just refer to him as Rodd Star. I'm sure he loves it. Why wouldn't he?

So I've decided that I need to make learning people's names a priority, and since "There's an app for that!" is sort of my mantra, you know I went and looked for an app for that.

Here it is. It's called Name Shark, and I love it.

However, imagine if you can, how awkward it is to meet a new person and immediately ask if you can take their picture.

"Do you mind if I just snap a quick picture of you for my Creepy Stalker Wall?"

It's not cool.

It's awkward and there's just not an easy way to sneak a picture without giving the appearance of being a stalker.

Enter Facebook.

Where you can stalk people anonymously. Now, not everyone is on Facebook, but most people are. I've found that even though I'm not Facebook friends with everyone, like Rodd Star, most of the time I can at least view their profile picture and take a screen shot of it for my trusty little app.

Yes, it does feel creepy. It feels really creepy, but that's because it is. It's super creepy and it's not supposed to feel right.

There's no way around it though. I've found that the creepy feeling mostly goes away when I delete their pictures out of my Photo Album and just have them in the app itself.

So I've been creepily adding names and faces to my app and I quiz myself with the built in quizzes in the app.

It's my new favorite app.

And yes, I feel dirty, but I am learning the names.

And someday soon, maybe I will be a rock star too.

Crazy Town

Would you look at those crazy, crazy colors? I just finished a project with these colors that took me a month to complete from start to finish.

Do you remember this kitchen table that I refinished over the summer? Well, I cutified the chairs that go with it. No way was I going to strip, sand, and refinish six chairs, so I opted to prime, paint, and seal instead. 

Each chair took a rough sanding, then two coats of primer, two coats of paint, a coat of crackle glaze, another coat of paint, and two coats of clear gloss. That's a lot of drying time, my friends.

Hence a month to cutify six chairs.

And it was worth every day.

I'll give you a minute to process what you're seeing.

Are you ready now?

Are you ready now?

How about now?

Peanut Head had a similar reaction. When I started on this adventure, I had just finished covering the first chair in pumpkin when he opened the door to the garage.

He stood there with his mouth agape and he had no words.

"You're stunned. I can see that," was my response. I don't generally give Peanut Head a heads up when I'm about to embark on decorating adventures like this, because I don't want to give him the opportunity to try to talk me out of it.

Hence the startled silence.

He then gave me his blinky eyed looked, not unlike the beginnings of a seizure, and replied "That's exactly the word I was looking for," and turned around and quietly closed the door.

I think he needed some time to process what he saw.

Zoe was a little more vocal with her opinion.

"Mom! What are you trying to do to us?! Nobody is ever going to want to buy our house when you keep doing all this crazy stuff to it!"

All that and still she wasn't done.

"I could maybe see it if we were a Mexican restaurant, but our house is not a Mexican restaurant!"

Then after that she just kept talking and I don't know what all she said because I had to just tune her out. Her negativity was harshing my mellow.

The yellow chair in particular is her least favorite. It looks like puke she said.

It's all good though because Stinkerbell is on my side. "It doesn't matter what they think," she said, "because neither one of them is very artistic, so their opinion doesn't matter."

Yeah. What she said.

Zoe is not allowed to sit in my pukey chairs. I sit in all the chairs because I love them all so much. Sometimes I sit in two chairs because I can't decide which one I love the most.

Changing the subject, a lot has happened since I last visited with you.

My babies started another school year.

Zoe Bug started high school.

She still has no horse.

Stinkerbell started middle school.

And Cross Country.

She's very, very tired.

Glitter Man and I succeeded in our attempt to bring the Renaissance Woman into the twenty first century by holding her hand while she bought her first computer. #shepaidwithacheck

We have crazy amounts of cherry tomatoes in our garden.

So I've been making a lot of this salad. I can't get enough of it. The recipe calls for cilantro and olive oil as well, but it really doesn't need either one. It's perfection in a bowl, I'm not kidding.

I've also made a couple batches of this Fresh Roasted Summer Garden Pasta Sauce for the freezer.

So you can see I've been happily busy doing my thing, so I think it's time to update you on my job situation. I did mention that I accepted a position as a Math Specialist in our district, but I haven't really been talking about it because a) it's a new position and I wasn't crystal clear on what all my new position involved, and b) I was still feeling a little icky about the whole "I'm leaving education/just kidding, I'm back" flakiness that it appears I'm exhibiting with this announcement.

In my mind I was finished with education. I wasn't kidding and I was serious. It happens sometimes.

About a week and a half into my summer vacation I started panicking and thinking "What have I done?! I'm a teacher. It defines me. Who am I?" Blah, blah, blah. I was practically having a midlife crisis, except I was happy and well rested. And I was still driving a minivan so there's my reality check right there.

No corvette = no midlife crisis.

Anyway, all the while I was still applying for jobs. And applying for jobs. Lots of jobs. And had two interviews. Two.

And, because that wasn't enough to freak me out, nothing I was applying for paid more than $15 an hour.

And that's not enough.

So late one night when I couldn't sleep in my unemployed loserness, I visited our school district's website.

And there was My Job. Math Specialist. Teacher Schedule. Teacher Pay. No Teacher Stress. No Yelling Parents. Nerd Out on Math and Data While You Sit in Your Chair Not Sweating.

Sorry about all the title case, but Math Teacher. I don't have to follow those other rules.

Anyway, Dream Job. It's a pretty sweet gig. I have been learning so, so much. I've been able to help teachers. I love teachers. And do you want to know what the biggest perk is? I get to go to the bathroom whenever I want. 

Let me say that again.

I get to go to the bathroom. Whenever I want.

Maybe only teachers, nurses, and truck drivers get this, but it is a pretty big deal in my world.

So I've been dressing up a little more since I have to act more mature than I'm naturally inclined to do. And I'm looking a little more conservative than usual.

As evidenced by my manicure.

Okay, maybe not my nails, but I can just shove my hands in my pockets when I'm meeting with serious types, right?

I've got to hang on to some of what makes me Me, right?

I can't wait for Halloween nails. This weekend it's happening.

Anyway, back on topic. My job is going well. I'm loving what I'm doing, I get to see all my favorite people every day, I'm meeting new people, I'm learning tons, I'm not bringing work home with me, my weekends are mine, and I have free time. Life is good.

I'm not going to lie though, I feel a little guilty. Like I've left all my teacher friends on the battlefield. 

On the other hand, from this new perspective I'm able to focus on the good in teaching and there are parts I really miss. I knew I would. I listen to my friends tell stories at lunch and I laugh. Kids and their funny personalities have a way of brightening every day.

I don't know what the future holds for me, but today I know that I am where I need to be right now.

Throwing in the Towel

It was with a very heavy heart today that I stepped into my Principal's office and submitted my letter of resignation for the 2015-2016 school year. Many of you have left comments and encouraging words, on this blog and on Facebook.  I can't tell you how much those comments have meant to me. I read each and every one multiple times, and I took every comment to heart. So many of you poured out your hearts and shared your own frustrations with your teaching jobs. Many of you have left for the same reasons I have given.

Several of you have asked how I've been managing, and I really wish I could be a good example of a teacher sticking it out. I tried. I really did. I gave this job everything I had and then a little bit more.

I was doing okay for at least six weeks, leaving by 5:30 and not bringing work home. The only exception is Sundays. Sundays are still filled with planning for the week ahead, and often it's done at school, away from my family. I find myself feeling more and more resentment towards the time I spend on the weekends preparing for the week ahead. The time I spend away from or disconnected from my family.

I suppose I could just not do it, sure. Except, I know myself, and I'm not the type of person that flies by the seat of her pants. I'm a control freak. I need to feel prepared before I stand in front of a classroom of students on Monday morning. I'm not comfortable with not having my ducks in a row.

So as much as I tried to turn it around and make a positive change, I've decided to let go. I'm going to finish out this year and enjoy everything I love about my job for the next ten weeks. I'm going to savor every moment I have left with my students.

That might creep them out, but hey, what fun, right?

I want to focus on the good. I don't want to leave my profession with bitterness, although I'm not going to lie, I have felt bitter at times.

I will miss the kids. This awkward age group especially. They are caught between childhood and adulthood, awkwardly navigating friendships and crushes. Their personalities are so varied and amazing. I marvel at the things they do and say every day. For those of you that are parents, you should know that teachers really do appreciate and love their students very much like you do. We notice them. We appreciate their uniqueness. And yes, we are proud of them. When the year is over and they move on, we miss them.

I will miss my teacher friends and everyone else I work with. As adults in a middle school, so many of us are immature ourselves, and I love that. We joke around every day. We laugh until we wet ourselves and make snorty noises. We scare our students when we behave strangely and that makes it even funnier.

I will miss the school supplies. I have always had a special place in my heart for brand new school supplies.

I will miss hearing students say "Oh, I get it now!" Even if sometimes it is closely followed by "Nope. Gone now."

I will miss bossing people around who are taller than me. I'm not gonna lie. Some days it makes me feel powerful to give a six foot tall basketball player a tongue lashing and then have him give me a sincere apology. I know it's wrong, but it does feel good. Even though these kids are at a very self-centered age, most of them really do not want to disappoint us.

I will miss writing on my beautiful, gleaming white, whiteboards with chisel tip dry erase markers.

I will miss watching my students grow from the first day I see them in September to the last day I see them in June. Academically, socially, and vertically. It's very rewarding.

I will miss trolling for new foldables, curriculum, lessons, and classroom decorations.

I will miss setting up my classroom every year.

I will miss reading teacher blogs and getting ideas and inspiration from them. I don't think I will be able to continue reading teacher blogs because I'm afraid it will hurt too much.

I will miss meeting my students' parents and seeing their features and mannerisms mirrored in adult-sized, responsible citizens.

I know there is so much more I will miss, and I'm going to be looking for the things I will miss over these last ten weeks. I thought about making a list of the things I will not miss, but that just sounds like such a gigantic buzz kill, so I'll decline.

There are still a lot of teacher related things I have wanted to share, so I'll try and get those posted before the end of the school year. A "What Has Worked for Me" post of sorts.

For those of you sticking it out and hanging in there, my thoughts are with you. I love, appreciate, and admire all of you. I hope you will be able to hold the frustration and discouragement at bay, like I have not been able to do.

Thank you all for your comments and good wishes. I appreciate them more than words can express. As we drag our gnarly carcasses through these last weeks of school, May the Force be With You.

One More Thing

It seems that at the beginning of every year I return to school after my winter break in a slump. Not just a slump, I'm talking about a gigantic bad attitude.

 I work so hard up to the break, that when the break comes, I crash.

And when I say crash I'm talking about sitting on the couch in a puddle of my own drool and liking it.

This year wasn't any different except that this time I decided over the break, that without a doubt, I was done. This was going to be my last year teaching. In fact, I was so sure that I told anyone that would listen, that I couldn't take it anymore.

Forgive me, but now that Twisted Sister song "We're Not Gonna Take It" is stuck in my head

So what was different about this year that I decided I'd had enough?

Well, this year I started keeping track of all the hours I spend at my job. I always knew that it was a ridiculous number, but I never actually did the math.

Sort of ironic, isn't it? The math teacher that doesn't do the math.

I didn't keep track of any of my summer hours because a lot of that is just my own disease, working in my classroom before I had to be back. I wanted to be fair and reasonable because I knew that this data was going to help me make the decision of whether to stay or go. Just like that Clash song from the 80's.

I started with my hours on my first contract day and I included all the time I've spent planning, preparing, grading, teaching, everything.

And do you know what I found? I was averaging 58.6 hours per week doing my job. The job that the average citizen nauseatingly likes to remind me, although very much in error, allows me to have my summers off and leave everyday at 2:30. Never mind that I'm teaching until 3:34, my contract time doesn't end until 4:00, and I never have the luxury of walking away at 4:00. Pesky details.

Do I sound bitter? I won't deny it, I'll just smile and fake it until I make it.

Back to the actual hours, I figured out that if I continued at this pace I would have put in 2,168 hours in 37 weeks.

I compared this to a 40-hour/week job working 50 weeks a year with 2 weeks of vacation, working 2,000 hours per year.

That's right, I'm working 168 more hours in a year, but in less time.

Somehow having summers off isn't as attractive as it once was.

What I'm talking about here is balance.

I have zero balance in my life. I don't do fun things during the week. I don't exercise. I rarely cook for my family. I fall into bed exhausted at the end of the day and I'm killing myself.

Since I'm full on into my Pity Party, I also calculated my hourly rate. As a teacher in my ninth year of experience teaching in Idaho I make $36,096 a year (which I might add is less than I made when I taught in California 15 years ago with less experience). If I divide that by my 2,168 hours I'm making $16.65 an hour.

Granted, these hours aren't true for all teachers, but I can guarantee you that it's an alarming number.

And to be fair, my crazy hours are partially my fault. If I were to work just my contract hours I would be making $24.39 an hour for my 37 weeks of contract time.

That's not horrible I guess, but remember, I'm working all that overtime and I don't get paid time and a half.

Do I think it's going to change and teachers will be paid more? Not for a minute. That's not really the problem I have with my job anyway. It's the sheer number of hours I put in that I can't deal with.

Honestly, there are so many things that I love about my job. Every single day is an organizational challenge and a juggling act. I dig that because I never get bored.

And the kids? They crack. me. up. Every single day. I can't imagine not being around them.

And the math! Can I just tell you how much I love doing homework which I then assign to my students? They complain about the homework and I tell them I assign it because I care. "It hurts me more than it hurts you because I have to grade it," I tell them. It does not make them feel better.

My dilemma is that I love my job, but my job is killing me. Or maybe I am killing me because I can't do my job in a reasonable number of hours?

I've had to take a step back and really look at what I'm choosing to spend my time on. I had my evaluation meeting with my principal about a week after returning from break, and he confronted me right off the bat about hearing that I was telling everyone I was leaving.

The thing is that he didn't ask me about it in an accusatory way. He was truly concerned and wanted to help. He sat and talked with me for at least 45 minutes, trying to help me figure out what I could do to work less and play more. He shared his experiences with me and he talked about the frustrations he feels about the job and the demands that are placed on us.

Every meeting we go to, teachers leave saying "One more thing I have to do now." It's awful. Expectations are constantly changing and this new idea is replaced with that new idea, and we are just supposed to embrace it, invest a gajillion hours to implement it, and then change it again at the next meeting.

Teachers know what I'm talking about.

I came away from the meeting with my principal waffling on my position. He really made me think about how I spend my time.  The bottom line is that I just have to hold firm and walk away at 5:00. Whatever it is, it can wait until tomorrow.

And do you know what? It works. And okay, I can't do 5:00, but I totally walk away at 5:30 and I don't bring it home. I do still have to plan on the weekends, and I hate that, but I'm managing the day-to-day and I don't feel overwhelmed. Before this new mindset, I felt overwhelmed every single day.

I've been to the gym a few times--not enough but it's something. I've been cooking a few nights a week and I often have leftovers to take in my lunch instead of prepackaged frozen meals. Some nights I come home and just sit on the couch and read. I waste time.

So maybe I'm not leaving. I'm not making any decisions right now, but I am going to give my job another chance. I'm going to take it one year at a time. That's all I can promise right now.

Inspired to Teach

This is Skippyjon Jones, my hero.

He's a Siamese cat that thinks he's a Spanish-speaking Chihuahua. I love him because he has an imagination much larger than his gigantic head.

That and he's super naughty like Dennis the Menace. I like that.

Skippyjon Jones reminds me, on those days I need to be reminded, why I love being a teacher. Skippy JJ is full of curiosity, fun, and adventure. Just like kids.

When I was a kid I wanted to become a teacher so I could boss people around and make them listen to me. As I grew up and started making that dream a reality, my motives changed and became more about wanting to inspire kids to learn, and more importantly, to never stop learning.

I think I got that inspiration from my own teachers growing up. Thinking back, I'm pretty sure it started in junior high where I was exposed to many different teachers and their respective teaching styles. I had teachers who were passionate about their subjects and teachers who made me laugh.

Among the teachers I loved, I remember Mr. St. Onge most vividly. He was a nerdy hippy, if you can imagine that, and he taught eighth grade history. Sadly, I don't remember much about what I learned in that class, but I do remember watching Mr. St. Onge act out history before my eyes. He was so passionate about his subject he made history come alive.

He also had some pretty imaginative classroom management strategies. For example, when kids would dare fall asleep in his class, he woke them up with smelling salts under their noses. It was extremely entertaining to watch a sleeping student wake up and be immediately alert.

Mr. St. Onge maximized the entertainment value inherent in his subjects as well as his subject. He also hated gum in his class, so when a student was caught chewing gum, he would make them spit it out into an old cigar box. At the end of the year he would present the disgusting gum and germ filled cigar box to the student who had contributed the most gum to the blob in the box. It was nauseatingly disgusting, but very, very memorable.

I appreciated Mr. St. Onge's personality and I wanted to be him. Except without the nerdy hippy thing going on. I wanted to teach and laugh with my students--and have a personality.

Oh how I wanted a personality. So. Badly.

I think that's part of what I enjoyed most as I started taking college classes. Not only was I exposed to a whole world of information I never even knew existed, but there were all these amazing, inspiring people, people with varied personalities, imparting that knowledge. It was an educational playground, and I didn't want to get off the merry-go-round.

From the first day I started teaching, I have strived to be myself around my students. I want my students to see the humor in everyday things and to learn to appreciate the unique personalities of all the people around them. I want to laugh every day.

I want to make them wear sarcastic signs when they have to go potty.

Actually, this was my attempt at curbing some of the frequent trips to the restroom. It's much less cumbersome than the clown shoes I used to make my students wear to the restroom. Initially the sign backfired on me because everyone wanted to wear it. Thankfully the novelty has worn off.

I am very comfortable teaching with laughter and sarcasm because that is who I am, but the reason I teach is to inspire my students to learn and to want to learn more. I want them to know there is a whole big world out there just waiting for them to explore, there are so many things they don't even know they don't know, and they can have so much fun learning about those things.

My teachers did it for me, and I am inspired to pay it forward. I'm in such an important position to be able to inspire my students to really Be All That They Can Be. Not to steal the ARMY's most excellent retired slogan, but it really sums it up nicely.

I want my students to really feel how much I believe in them and how amazing I think they are. Even though I tell them all the time, I don't think they really get it, so I have this quote up in my classroom, in hopes that it will be etched into their memories forever. It's my favorite quote because it expresses what I want my students to know and remember for the rest of their lives.

My passion for teaching and learning is shared by Capella University, a rigorous and supportive learning community that transforms education into work that makes a difference in the lives of others. Check out their graduates' stories to see what some of these amazing students are doing with their lives and how they're making a difference. At Capella, students develop the knowledge to help others reach their potential. Your degree can change more lives than just your own!

Go forth young Jedi. Be AMAZING.

Who was your favorite teacher in school and how did they influence you?

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Modge Podge Scandal

I introduced my students to Modge Podge last week, and I was careful to tell them that it is a Magic Substance and it enables people to create A-MAZING things with its magical essence. As I talked, they looked on with wonder as I explained what we were going to do with this miraculous element. I also made a point of telling them how expensive it was and that it shouldn't be wasted. And if they ever wanted to get me a gift . . . hint, hint . . . blah, blah.

It is at this point that I shall stop and tell you that I, as a teacher, always tell my students at the beginning of the year that I don't know everything and I will make mistakes. Mistakes that they will catch and pointedly point out to me, puffing up as they exclaim it to all the world, thereby making me feel like a complete bonehead. And I'm happy to do it, because as their teacher I'm prepared to "take one for the team" in order to increase their self-esteem, further their learning, etc.

And this was one of those times. One of my sweet, little, cherub-faced charges raised his hand and said "Um. Mrs. Scott, you do know that that says MOD Podge and not Modge Podge, right?"

Ah-hem. WHAT?!!!!!!

I looked at the container, then back at him, then back at the container then back at him. And I felt like a bonehead. And I'm slightly embarrassed to say that I did say to myself, and possibly out loud, "When did they change the name?" It was embarrassing. And funny. And embarrassing. Time stopped for a few minutes as I gathered my wits about me and reconciled this new little tidbit in my world of all things crafty.

I'm happy to say that I did recover.

I shared my little story with Janae, Girl Genius, because she is the Queen of All Things Crafty and Cute, and guess what? All this time, she knew that it was called MOD Podge and she continued to let me bumble on, advertising my ignorance to the world. The world!

And did not say a thing. She must have really enjoyed herself.

Anyway, Queen-Crafty-Girl-Genius-Janae works at Michael's and she says everybody calls it Modge Podge and she never says anything. So I feel a little better now.

But I'm still a little skeptical, because that's my nature. So now I have something personal to ask you. Have you been secretly laughing at me every ding dang time I've written the word Modge Podge? Go ahead. Confess. I won't hold it against you.

Potty Prancers

I've been a little nostalgic lately, and I keep thinking about these crazy clown shoes. I don't think I've talked about it much on my blog, but before I had my girls I was a teacher.

I know. It's crazy, huh? When I was in the teaching credential program, we were warned that it wasn't a good idea to use sarcasm with your students.

Um . . . what? I don't know if I can do that, I thought. Turns out, I couldn't. Sheesh. Big surprise. But seriously, it worked for me. I taught sixth grade and some of the kids got it, and some of them didn't. There were never any problems as a result. We had a lot of fun together and we even got some learnin' done. I was the Multiplication Nazi, let me tell you.

So the reason I've been nostalgic, is that I'm getting my ducks in a row to go back to the classroom. Annika will be in first grade next year, so the time is right for me. The thing is, I want to teach in the elementary school for awhile, while my girls are young. I love the younger kids, but honestly, all age groups have their own endearing qualities. 

In the meantime, I'm reliving the good old days of the Potty Prancers. In my classroom, the Potty Prancers were big, plastic clown shoes, with POTTY PRANCERS written on the sides in thick, black Magic Marker. The deal was, if one of my sixth graders came to class and wanted to use the restroom, they had to wear the Potty Prancers in place of a hall pass. Since I taught in California, the hallways were outdoors, so any kid wearing the Potty Prancers would make a loud, echoing shuffle noise as they walked down the hall. Inevitably, this would cause students in other classes to turn their heads away from their teacher in order to watch my bladder challenged student making his way to the restroom. I say "his" because it was always the boys who were willing to wear the P.P. shoes. The girls would only wear them if it was a real emergency. This is on account of girls have more class and decorum. Well, at least in sixth grade. I'm almost positive that this holds true most of the time.

We had other teachers in our school that would make kids carry a toilet seat for their hall pass, and that was equally enjoyable to watch. Everyone was all "You're going to take a dump. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha." As if middle school wasn't bad enough. Seriously, it has to be the single most awkward, gawky and embarrassing time in every kid's life. Don't you think?

Personally, I'm embarrassed still for my middle school self. I have stories, but let's save some of them for another day, shall we?

The Potty Prancers were retired on my last day of teaching sixth grade. I threw them in the trash, and shortly after that I found three students fighting over them. Yes, they were all boys. I got a little tear in my eye though, because it was then that I realized that they enjoyed the entertainment provided by the P.P. shoes just as much as I did. Teaching is so rewarding.

I thoroughly enjoyed myself teaching sixth grade. The kids I taught are all adults now. Every now and then, one of them will find me on Facebook and it makes me feel so old. Then I get to feel proud when I see all the good things they're doing. But then, in a way, it's also kind of creepy to think of them doing adult things, when I think of them as kids still.

It's kind of like my own kids, I guess. They are under the impression that they are not allowed to get married until they're 25, they have a college degree, and they've started their careers. We've also negotiated living arrangements. They will live at home and we'll keep their husbands in the basement. And I get to keep their babies too. Sounds pretty sweet, doesn't it? Well, I guess that depends on who they marry.

I Am Not That Jill Scott

That's right. Whoever you think I am, I'm probably not. Let me explain. There are a lot of Jill Scotts out there, at least three that I know of in my town.

I'm the middle-aged frumpy one.

Back in 1991 when Peanut Head and I were first married, when we were 12, I got a strange phone call from the Maury Povich show. They wanted me to be on their show and they were ready to book me right there on the spot. I was a star. For about ten seconds.  Apparently they were looking for the Mrs. America Jill Scott. This one.

I know. I'm waaaaay cuter, but still, they wanted her. She was being sued by the pageant for failing to reveal that she and her husband were separated. Dang it all. I wanted to throw some chairs on national television. Why can't I get some drama in my life?

You want to know the not so funny part about it? When I got off the phone and told Peanut Head that the Maury Povich show thought I was Mrs. America, he started laughing hysterically. Rolling on the floor, peeing his pants laughing. I gave him my You-Might-Want-To-Rethink-That Look, and shortly after we entered into marriage counseling.

Fast forward another decade or so, and this Jill Scott is famous. 

Now this girl can sing. If Peanut Head started laughing hysterically because someone thought I was her, I would understand it. I can't carry a tune in a bucket, so he would at least have a leg to stand on.

You know, someone did think I was her a couple days ago. I think most of you know that I'm a Creative Memories consultant, right? Well, apparently one of the singer Jill Scott's stalkers found my Creative Memories website and contacted me through it. First it started with an e-mail inquiry that I'll share with you shortly. I don't want to share this person's name with you out of respect for his privacy, but I feel I should tell you that the inquiry was from a man. Now I don't like to make sweeping generalizations, but I can say that I don't get a lot of business from men. I get some, but it's proportionally much smaller than the business that I get from women.

Here was the standard e-mail questionnaire which he filled out, minus his personal information:

Interested in booking a show? TRUE

How did you find out about Creative Memories? I LIKE TO DRA AND STUFF

Now there was a little more information than that, but I'm just sharing the relevant parts. The answer that he likes to "dra and stuff" was a bit of a red flag because it told me that he probably didn't know what type of business Creative Memories is. 

I wasn't sure how to respond, so I just sat on it for a little bit. It didn't take long before he decided to take matters into his own hands and call me. Now I have Caller ID, so I knew it was him when he called. I thought about not answering, but then I decided I needed to be professional and get to the bottom of what was probably a misunderstanding.

CALLER: Is this Jill Scott?

ME: Yes, it is.

CALLER: My name is Blah-de-blah, and I'm calling about booking you for some Hollywood type stuff.

ME: I'm sorry, but I'm pretty sure you have the wrong Jill Scott. I'm not the singer.

CALLER: Oh, you not? Well, can I have that numba please?

Okay, sorry, but this guy is funny. And kind of cute. And incredibly polite. But I don't want any stalkers in my life, so let's keep it professional and send him off to stalk someone else.

ME: I'm sorry, I don't have any idea what her number is.

CALLER: Well, okay then. Thank you.

We hang up and he calls back 20 minutes later. 

CALLER: I know you not the sanger, but you don't have a numba for her?

ME: No, I'm sorry, I don't, and I think it's going to be very difficult for you to find her because there are thousands of Jill Scotts out there. I'm one of at least three I know of in my small town.

CALLER: Uh huh.

Long pause. Long, uncomfortable pause. I think he was in shock. Deflated, depressed, exhausted . . .

CALLER: Uh huh.

Oh Geez, this is painful.

ME: Well, what can I help you with, Sir?

CALLER: You know, I like art and stuff, and I like to write. 

Oh stab me in the heart and twist the knife for crying out loud! He's lonely and he just wants someone to listen, and here I am, dying to get him off the phone. I'm such a creep.

ME: I don't know if you know about Creative Memories, but I sell scrapbooking supplies and products to help people get their pictures organized.

CALLER: Uh huh.

Long uncomfortable pause. Pause which I use to writhe on the floor in agony.

CALLER: Okay, thank you. 

Click.

Whew!

Being famous is not all it's cracked up to be.

The Most Important Cake of My Life

This is the most important cake of my life. And yes, well, I suppose it was also eaten on the most important day of my life, but I'm all about the cake, so let's talk about the cake first, shall we?

Life is short, eat dessert first and all that.

This is our wedding cake. It was a masterpiece. A beautiful, decadent, chocolate cake, with chocolate mousse filling and chocolate buttercream frosting. No vanilla. Perfection.

There wasn't any cake left over at our wedding. Thankfully we still had the top to take home and put in our freezer to save for our first anniversary.

Yeah, whatever. Who does that? What a complete waste of perfectly good cake. We ate ours right away, by ourselves. And then nothing happened on our wedding night because we made such pigs of ourselves, we couldn't move.

And just for sentimentality's sake, we ordered a scaled down version of the same cake, from the same bakery, to enjoy on our first anniversary. And every anniversary after that until it was no longer geographically possible to do so.

I'm telling you, that cake was dang good.

And here's the rest of the story. To celebrate dang good cake, Peanut Head and I got married on the day we ate that cake.

We were 12.

Before the wedding I was nervous and I desperately needed a drink. I've always gone for the hard stuff.

I may have told you this before, but I was never one of those girls that starved herself. Like I need to tell you that. Just take a look at my right sidebar for proof. Well okay, and my ginormous butt too.

My wedding day was no exception. I had a full three square meals on that day. Plus the top of the cake after the wedding.

[Burp]

Here we are sealing the deal. I have a confession to make about this kiss. Something I've never told anyone else.

This was the worst kiss of my life. Of my life. There was no tongue and it was a short, quick, swoop in and swoop out bird peck of a kiss. I don't know if Peanut Head was just nervous, or what, but I was not happy with him.

See, look at my face. Here we are, now Mr. and Mrs. Scott, on the happiest day of Peanut Head's life, and I'm all "What the HECK was that? And I married this guy? Oh, this is not a good sign. We are going to have WORDS." 

And look at his face. He doesn't have a clue.

Yeah, I know. Nothing's changed.

He's kind of like Odie sometimes.

Isn't that romantic? I know.

If you want to see more wedding drama, go on over to Three Boys One Mommy and she'll hook you up.

Crazy Giveaway

I got this little idea from Janiel at Building Our Lives Together.  Here's how it works:

The first FIVE people to comment on this post will get something made by me! 

Wait. You know what, actually I'm going to change this part. Because I'm a cheater. I feel bad for all the people who are at work and won't be seeing this post until tonight. I know y'all never surf the internet at work, because that would be a waste of your employer's productivity and all,  so I'm going to be fair here. I'm going to choose, randomly, five people who respond to this post by Noon Pacific Time, on Tuesday February 24th.

Continuing on, here is my disclaimer:

1) I make no guarantees that you will like what I make. For that matter, you might not even know what the heck it is.

2) What I create will be just for you. If you are a freak, like me of course, you will get something freaky.

3) It'll be done this year (since I'm a procrastinator, I'll probably be sending all of them out on December 31st).

4) You will have no clue what it is going to be until I post it and ask you to contact me with your mailing address.

5) I reserve the right to do something extremely strange. Not that I'm capable of that or anything.

The catch? Oh, the catch is that you must repost this on your blog and offer the same to the first five people who comment on your blog. Or, you can cheat like I'm doing. Plus, if you don't have a blog, you just have to do random acts of kindness for five people. That way, everyone can play. :) Oh, and if you do have a blog, I would love it if you would post your gift when you get it. Or if you don't have a blog, e-mail a picture to your Aunt Edna and tell her how fabulous I am. Yeah, whatever.

 It sounds like fun, doesn't it?

Okay then, Game On!

Youth is Wasted on the Unaware

Here's a picture of Zoe and I from last night. I hate to have my picture taken because of my rotundity. And to make matters worse, I'm wearing my No Make-Up Face. In other words, my Every Day Face.

I'm sharing this rare picture with you because yesterday was my birthday. My 43rd birthday. Yes, I'm getting on in years. Please, don't anybody send me another Sympathy card. I get it. Yep, I got it and I burned it.

To celebrate, and to be fair, I'm posting this picture so I can rip it apart. Hey, it's only fair that I do it to myself as well as the ones I love, and what better time than around my birthday, right?

For the past ten years or so, I've been noticing, usually several years after the fact, the subtle and not so subtle signs of my own aging. Since hindsight is 20/20, looking back I laugh at my naivete. That's because the aging process begins so slowly that you don't notice it from one day to the next.

For me, it's usually when I see a picture of myself that it hits me like a freight train on fire.

The first thing I discovered amiss was my chin, or rather, my jaw line. When I was 32ish, I was sitting in bumper-to-bumper Bay Area traffic in California, when I flipped down my vanity mirror and noticed that my jaw line at the chin was lumpy. What the Heckito?! I moved my face around for closer inspection, but it could only be detected from the one angle with my chin on my chest and looking up at the mirror. I dare you to try it the next time you're in your car.

I'll tell you this, I was not amused.

Looking back, I know it was the beginning effects of gravity on my face.

Then we moved to Idaho and I forgot all about my lumpy chin. Five blissful years later, when I was 37 and after getting our family pictures back from the studio, I looked at myself in the picture and I said "What's wrong with my eyes? I think my eyes are fat?!! Yes, they're all puffy and there's extra area above my lids. Dang, there's acreage. Well that's it, I have got to lose weight once and for all. For crying out loud, if my eyes are fat, then it's high time to do something about it."

Yeah, whatever. You can see I heeded that wake-up call.

Okay, I'm 37 and I've got a lumpy chin and fat eyes. What's next? Well, I'll tell you what's next.

Crow's feet. Don't even bother zooming in on my picture to check it out. I already erased them in PhotoShop. If I knew how to thin out my face without it looking like part of it had been amputated, then I would have done that too, believe me. But my skills as of yet are limited and clumsy, so I do what I can.

I also have parentheses surrounding my mouth, but they don't bug me like the fat eyes and the asymmetrical chin. The thing I'm really dreading is the whole turkey wattle neck that I know is just around the corner. When that happens, Peanut Head is going to have to just remove the poultry scissors from the house. It will be the last straw.

Yes, yes, I know this is all so superficial. I get that. I get it, but it doesn't change the way I feel. The saying that youth is wasted on the young really resonates with me at this point in my life. Really, if we could age backwards, we would appreciate youth so much more. Of course that's not the way it is, which I guess is one of those little ironies of life.

Throughout our lives, I think we have this image of our best self in our minds, and when we start aging, it forces us to realize that "Hey, you're never gonna be cuter than you are today, so get on with it."

For the most part, I still feel young, so I'm sometimes surprised when I look at myself in the mirror. Since I know it's out of my hands, I'm just going to try to not worry about it and see if I can age gracefully.

Oh please, that is such an oxymoron because everyone knows I'm a clutz. I think I'll just leave you with that little ironic tidbit.

SPECIAL NOTE: While I was composing this post, Zoe accidentally hit my mouse and published it before I was finished. I was left screaming "No, no, no! I wasn't ready for that! I have to get it back! I have to get it back!" It didn't work. When you hit the PUBLISH key, it's gone baby.