Elvis is following me!

Okay--some of you may remember the "Elvis Phenomenon" at school last year, when the entire 6th grade became completely and unswervingly convinced that Elvis is my father.

If you'd like details, let me know. I'll just say that they found mine and Kate's blog of yore, saw a picture of a man they thought looked like Elvis (he was a redhead for crying out loud, and it was pretty much a CARTOON) and came to the natural and logical conclusion that A) I was famous because my picture was on a Web site and B) that since "Elvis's" picture was on it also, he must be my father. Naturally. Nevermind the math of the hypothesis given his death date and my birthdate.

Anyway, to the point. At school today--A DIFFERENT SCHOOL than the one I taught in last year--a kid yelled out in the middle of class and asked me if I have my own Web site and if Elvis is my daddy. I ignored it and kept on teaching, but on the inside, I was in hysterics. How rediculously bogus and hilarious is that?? Not only do 8TH GRADERS now believe that Elvis is my father, but we're ON THE OTHER SIDE OF BIRMINGHAM and somehow they've heard this. What the? Maybe he really is my father? Mom?

Isn't that INSANE?? Also, one of my students asked me today if I ever pass gass. Never, in a million years, would I have EVER asked a teacher that question. Now I hesitate to even share that with my readership because of the comments I'm SURE to get from MSKS and yaya, but whatev. Being asked that by an 8th grader with the biggest fro you've ever seen is funny enough to make it worth spilling.

On that note, at the suggestion of one Murry Horn, I'm thinking of writing a memoir. In addition to the one we'll write together, of course. Severed Wasps in Flight: How We Beat the Odds is the title of that one. But I need your help in thinking of a title for this one. Mer's writing one on waitressing called At Your Service: Memoirs of a Waitress, and I think it is SO cute and clever, and she's inspired me to write about my experiences.

Think about it. The material is plenteous. Within a time span of 12 hours in a day, I go from immersion in one extreme end of a disjoined American society to the complete other extreme (Anthro) and from being called "Mi Ha" or "Winterfresh" and being asked if I pass gass to being asked for advice on interior design ideas for a Cottage Living photo shoot or on what to wear to Mountain Brook homecoming.

Now, clearly I belong to neither extreme, which makes this an interesting documentary. Potentially. Really. Think about it--for only about 3 hours (max) of everyday do I ever actually fit into my surroundings, and that is when I am in the basement of my house with the camel crickets. Where do I belong? I'm a constant misfit everywhere I go.

And so I beg the question: What title can I give these collected memoirs? Msk(s), I need your literary flair. Mer, I need your metaphorical genius. This is a call to arms. There are stories to be told.