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Today’s Facebook “Add a Friend” Suggestion really rattled me.

It was HER.

THAT GIRL.

THE ONE WHO RUINED SECOND GRADE.

Here’s how it went down. It was a sunny day in Mr. Martin’s class. We were quietly working at our desks after recess. Everything seemed to be going along fine. He was a cool teacher, one of the best.

Then Mr. Martin asked for our attention. “I see that someone has thrown the classroom scissors in the toilet.” He frowned and scanned the room, surveying our little faces. “Who was it?”

We all sat there silently. Meanwhile, I was thinking to myself, What kind of person would put our scissors in the toilet? I couldn’t imagine. That was so WRONG! It must not have been intentional. Did they fall out of a pocket? Was the individual experiencing difficulty separating a piece of toilet paper from the roll? Perhaps the student had realized they’d forgotten to cut the McCurdy’s tag off their romper, and the scissors slipped out of their little hands.

Mr. Martin glared and said sternly, “I will ask you One. Last. Time. Who put the scissors in the toilet?”

It was a tense situation. At first, my classmates and I looked at each other with that innocent “It wasn’t me. Was it you?” look on our faces. That was immediately followed by scowling at each other with the look “It wasn’t me, and you had better tell him it was you.” But nothing.

Mr. Martin: “Everyone’s heads down on their desks until I get a confession.”

All us seven-year-olds had our heads on our desks FOR HOURS that day. HOURS. Today, can you picture a seven-year-old keeping his head on his desk for more than five minutes? Or a teacher being allowed to force it in the first place? Listen, in 1975 you kept your head on your desk, no questions asked.

You’d think after a little bit, the person would feel bad for their fellow students, and confess. Nope. I considered submitting a false confession to get it over with, but I was a Good Girl (back then) and no one would have bought the story.

To his credit, Mr. Martin did not give in. When the end-of-school bell rang, we gleefully grabbed our bookbags and got out of there.

Once outside, I found out who the perpetrator was—and that she had done it on purpose. But no one was a tattletale back in those days, and Mr. Martin never did find out who it was.

You know, upon reflection, I think that Scissors day made me a stronger person. It was when I first learned to endure extended suffering, an invaluable skill. OK, sure, I’ll Friend her!

Once she confesses to Mr. Martin, that is.

Don’t get too excited. This post is not about the CLASSIC 1981 movie Happy Birthday to Me starring Little House on the Prairie’s Melissa Sue Anderson. No, this is about how today is my actual birthday. 51.

My favorite present so far is a Snoop Dogg sweatshirt from Zumiez that I had been begging for. It was out of stock and my son Kyle hunted it down for me. I shall wear it every day. Around the house, not to work, although I am certain that they would love it at work ‘cause it’s too cool.

So about birthdays. Some of you may relate to this.

I walk around thinking, and acting, like I am 22. I guess that’s why I wanted that Snoop sweatshirt so bad.

However, it has become more and more apparent that others look at me like I am, well, definitely over 40. Maybe 45 on a good day.

Here’s some observations on being a woman of a certain age:

Keeping my hair long and blonde may trick people about my age, but only when they can’t see my face. I had the brilliant idea to grow it all one length like Cousin It to cover up my entire face, but was told that is not acceptable in the workplace.

When I wear my college alma mater sweatshirt (SUNY Oswego), people now ask, “Oh, does your kid go to Oswego?” Or sometimes, “Do you teach there?” I don’t know which is worse. [A bit of trivia: Happy Birthday To Me drawbridge scene was filmed in Mexico, NY]

When I go into Zumiez (LIKE TO GET A SNOOP DOGG SWEATSHIRT), the clerk asks, “Are you shopping for your kid?” (Kyle, 20: “MOM! YOUR GOING TO ZUMIEZ IS LIKE ME GOING TO TALBOTS!”)

When I go to the hair salon, my optimistic stylist cheerily says, “On the bright side, now that you are completely gray, you can go longer in between root touchups because gray sort of looks blonde.”

That all said. This is so trite, but am compelled to say it because it finally, finally hit home for me recently…

How many people even get to live to age 51?

How many of our friends have we lost already?

I can honestly say, and this has taken me a long time to make peace with – I do not care what I look like. There are only so many ways to try to fix 51. I can probably fix it down to about 48. That’s not a statistically significant difference.

I just want to live! I have been through a lot, as many of us have, and sometimes, I just didn’t think I could take One. More. Day.

But I am here to tell you that everything passes, and 51 rocks, actually, and there is always going to be some g*d-damn sh*t – so just put one foot in front of the other, as my mom used to say (Mom was always right).

And guess what, sorry, but I just took the last Snoop Dogg sweatshirt from Zumiez, so you’re just going to have to steal one from your kid.

Today would have been my mom’s 88^th birthday. She passed away almost 20 years ago now. It’s hard to believe. Not to be trite, but it’s true that not a day goes by where I don’t think of her.

So today is a good day to tell you about how I’ll be in the 2019 Listen To Your Mother Rochester show that was recently announced. Somehow, I’ve been selected to be featured in it, along with a dozen other people who will be reading their touching, funny, crazy or all-of-the-above 5-minute stories on the topic of motherhood. It’s a nationwide show, with more than 50 cities participating and the Rochester show in its 5th year. I’m honored to be in the cast. Saturday May 11 at the Hochstein. Tickets are available at ROC The Mic. Proceeds benefit the Society for the Protection and Care of Children.

The essay I’ll be reading happens to be about my mother: “Bad Mom.” What’s cool about being selected for the show isn’t so much that I passed the audition, but that I had the courage to audition at all.

A Facebook Memory came up today from back when my son Evan was 10, and I thought it particularly appropriate for today:

Today I visited Mom’s grave on her birthday. I kneeled at the stone for several minutes while the boys sat in the car. When we got home and I put the key in the door, Evan suddenly whispered, “I bet she’s proud of you.” I replied, “Who?” Evan put his hand on my shoulder, looked deep into my eyes and said, “Your Mom. I bet she’s proud of you.”

Happy Birthday, Mom.

One afternoon when I was in high school, I got off the bus only to find that my Mom wasn’t there to pick me up. Every day, she would kindly wait at the end of our long farm road to save me the twenty-minute uphill walk. Where was she? Boy, was I upset. It was raining so bad out.

I couldn’t believe she forgot!

I trudged up to the old farmhouse, muttering the whole way. She always picked me up, every single day.

I couldn’t believe she forgot!

I finally reached the house, a drenched rat. Mom met me at the door with a strange look on her face. She looked out at the driveway, then back to me.

“Jane, where’s the car?”

And that’s when it all came back to me. That morning, Mom had reluctantly let me drive her car to school for the first time. But by the end of the day, on autopilot, I had taken the bus home.

I couldn’t believe I forgot!

The other day, I caught myself procrastinating—again.

So, of course, I found a way to further procrastinate. I Googled “How Not To Procrastinate.”

As I started typing “How Not To…” in the Search box, Google suggested a common “How Not To” search.

“How Not to Be Boring.”

That stopped me in my tracks. And prompted more procrastination.

First, I thought to myself:
“How sad is it that there are so many boring people in the world, it caused ‘How Not To Be Boring’ to be one of the top most-searched phrases?”

Then:
“And how sad is it that all those boring people have to literally search for ideas on ‘How Not To Be Boring’?”

Then:
“Well, at least we can be grateful that many boring people are self-aware. There’s nothing worse than a boring person who thinks they’re interesting.”

Wait—I don’t mean me!

I have a Stanford University sticker on my Subaru. They gave it to me as part of the $500,000 bribe we worked out for my son. Do you remember me from Full House? Kimmy. I’m a little better looking now.

I was offered the “Stanford Mom” sticker version, but I like to pretend that I can be mistaken for a college student, so I chose the straight up version.

However, I suspect this sticker may be backfiring on me. My intent was to promote the school with pride, only to have it result in my becoming hyperaware of my less than stellar driving skills. I used to think I was a good driver, but the sticker feels like a neon sign: “Perfect Person on Board.” It’s a lot of pressure.

For instance, if I have to wait too long to turn at an intersection, I do tend to pull out in front of people. As soon as I do I imagine them grumbling, “Hey, smooth move, ‘Stanford!'”

The pressure has gotten to be so much, that I considered removing the sticker. But then decided to look on the bright side. What if the sticker is convincing those around me that my questionable driving methods are actually to be modeled?

As I swerve from lane to lane, the other drivers could very well be thinking to themselves, “Hey, maybe this lady knows something about driving strategy that I don’t. I can tell by that sticker that she must be a genius or related to some sort of genius. I was going to honk, but I’ve decided against it. Smooth Move, Stanford!”

Yeah, I think that bribe was well worth it, just for that sticker.

Sorting through my purse this morning, I found a card that I vaguely remember buying a couple days ago: “Thinking of You.”

I do not know why I bought it.

At the time I bought it, I surely was thinking of you and how the card would brighten your day.

But I don’t remember why I was thinking of you.

Or who “you” are, for that matter.

Now I am concerned that you are out there waiting for me to send you a card letting you know I am thinking of you.

What if you get mad and never talk to me again, because of my obvious lack of thinking of you?

I guess that’s how I’ll know the card was for you!