I’ve been blogging for a long time. Feels like an eternity.
As we all know 3. 5 years = 3,500 in bloggy years.
Hopefully by now you’ve noticed I like to write. I love words. Back in high school I used to look them up in my old dog-eared dictionary for fun on a Saturday night. (I still do, don’t judge) I enjoy the thrill of stringing them together in perfect order then going back to erase, erase, erase because I will never get it just right. Good times.
My love for writing goes way back to my early childhood when I tried to impress my kindergarten teacher with my dazzling wit.
Here’s my very first piece published in the prestigious Morse Elementary School Newsletter, right below a recipe for brownies and above the poem “My Dog Likes to Eat Poop” by Brian, age 6.
I AM THE SUN
by Darla, age 5
Did you get chills? Yeah, good stuff.
I mention eating breakfast a lot. I’m thinking my brothers stole my strawberry flavored Pop-Tart again that morning.
Also, I think you’d have to agree I was a crafty storyteller in 1976. Notice how I lull the reader into a false sense of security until the very last sentence when Bam! I punch them straight in the gut. “If I didn’t shine people could use flashlights”? Why would the sun not shine? Was this a foreshadowing? A child’s bleak vision of an apocalyptic future looming on the horizon? (If this Ice Age we’re currently suffering through is any indication, I think I was spot on.)
But like any good writer, I left the reader with a final message of hope. A sliver of light in the darkness. If I didn’t shine people could use flashlights. Maybe my stories weren’t riveting but at least they were practical.
I also wrote lots of poetry as a kid and into my college years. And as we all know the mark of a good poet is the ability to rhyme.
Check out this nugget I wrote when I was about 8 years old.
A couple things I’d like to point out. First, the drawing — where in the hell are my hands? Or my feet? Is this why I’m so fixated on my nose?
I think we should all just take a moment to realize never before has a poem titled “Smelling” had the ability to move a reader to tears. “It never, ever gets in the way.” So true! The insight I had as a child is astounding. Even the way I spelled “bouquet” was inspiring. Who needs that jerky silent T anyway?
Finally, I’ll leave you with a cartoon panel, my earliest attempt at (intentionally) writing humor. I have no clue how old I was when I drew it but I’m guessing it wasn’t when I was attending college (although, it might be, as I liked to smoke the ganja)
“You got celery in my peanut butter.”
“Well, you got peanut butter in my celery.”
“Well, let’s try it!”
“You better not say that again about trying it!”
oh!!! Bwah ha ha haaa!!! I kill me! [wiping away tears]
So? You think it’s good? Brilliant? Perhaps you’d even consider it….Super? Celery and peanut butter? I mean, C’MON! Comedy gold.
And you’re right. My writing hasn’t changed much since then. Sigh.
Bloggers/writers: How long have you been writing? Do you have any childhood poems or stories you’d like to send me so I can get a good laugh at your expense? Or old screenplays I can pass off as my own?
Wait — don’t go, come back! Poetry is cool! I swear this will be fun! And mostly painless!
Here’s a short collection of some of my best poetry fails. See, I made sure this was short. So you can enjoy them. Or not. My guess is you won’t unless you’re drunk.
Do Iguanas Smoke Marijuana in the Sauna?
There once was a girl from Maine
Who’s musical taste was urbane.
She jammed to Nirvana
On the streets of Botswana
Hold up — that makes no sense…
but what else rhymes with Nirvana?
OK, sure sauna…maybe iguana…
But I’m not entirely convinced
I can make a connection there.
And urbane doesn’t describe Nirvana,
hmm…maybe I should look up
the definition again
just to be sure…
Annnnd now my rhythm is off,
(Writing poetry is like, super-duper hard.)
Highway to Hell
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-
I took the one everyone else did,
And now I’m stuck in traffic behind an 18 Wheeler
filled with three farms worth of cow manure,
diesel seeping into my pulmonary veins,
my bladder bursting with jumbo-sized Mocha Lattes,
while my kids play “Stinky Feet” and “Who Can Fart the Loudest?”
and the deejay announces they’re kicking off a three hour block
of Justin Bieber.
Please, Be It Far From Me to Tell You How to Sleep. Or Die.
Do not go gentle into that good night,
God forbid that were to ever happen,
because then I’d get some f***ing rest.
So please! By all means, rage, rage against the dying of the TV’s light!
and blissfully snore like a wild boar that’s being slowly castrated while trapped inside a cavernous abyss of hell where every snort vibrates with the power of a million jackhammers and I think the wall is going to cave in and crush us both to death, I pray.
Rage, rage….that’s it. That’s all I got. Just rage.
You came to me much like a dream,
bold yet sweet, you reigned supreme.
One tiny taste and I was sunk,
this crazy lust, I willingly drunk.
With promises of sugar and spice,
I gobbled you up, my wicked vice.
Thoughts of you would enter my day,
I had to be with you, there was no other way.
My lips–they’d tremble, my heart would swoon, Quick! Off to the kitchen to grab a spoon!
I’d rip you open and plunge so deep,
your velvet cream, it made me weep.
Guilt be damned! Your love was mine!
We melted together–it was divine.
My life was over; this burden I’d carry
for I was in love with Ben and Jerry.
About 14 years ago, before we were married and had kids, my husband and I traveled as much as possible. Did we go see the Grand Canyon? Mount Rushmore? Niagara Falls? The World’s Largest Ball of Twine?
We took the factory tour and I think I might have asked the question, “Soooo annnyway… do we get free samples or what?” about a thousand times. Maybe I managed to tick off the tour guide a little. Especially when I kept interrupting her, insisting she interview me on the spot for the full time Taste Tester position. And asking if the salary was paid in giant vats of Chubby Hubby. Or if the employee gym featured showers that spouted nothing but caramel and chocolate syrup.
We did get our free samples at the end–after she escorted me outside–and we had a chance to taste a brand new flavor they were in the process of developing back in 1998:
Peanut Butter and Jelly!
And it was disgusting.
Sorry, but major flavor fail on your part, Ben and Jerry. (I forgive you.) Certain combinations probably should never be mixed with ice cream. Say, cottage cheese and pimentos. Or asparagus and Tabasco sauce. I would have rather tested those flavors. Wisely, the good people at Ben and Jerry’s retired the PB&J flavor after limited release and buried it where it belonged, six feet under in their ‘Where Bad Flavors Go to Die’ cemetery.
So tell me…what flavors would you crawl over hot coals for?
Mine are Phish Food and Coffee Heath Bar Crunch. I think I ate an entire pint of Coffee Heath Bar Crunch every single day back in college. (…and they say the ‘Freshman 15’ is a myth.)
I have been blogging almost 2 years. So I’ve achieved this milestone with the same speed as molasses running uphill in the dead of winter (or as myself running uphill in the dead of winter). I guess I should try writing more? Or running? Eh.
Why am I celebrating 99? Why the hell not? It’s a great number, has a solid history of being cool. Like:
The song from that freaky early 80s German band, 99 Luft Balloons
The song from that freaky little purple-clad dude, (can’t remember his name), 1999 The song 99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall
Agent 99 on Get Smart
Ok, that’s all I’ve got.
This Big 99th Blog Post celebration was the icing on the cake of my very exciting weekend.
Saturday was my luckiest day. I woke up and was in disbelief that I did not win the mega-huge-gigantic jackpot of 500 million bucks. If no one else won it either, I plan on actually buying a ticket next week.
But all was not lost, we took the kids bowling. I got three strikes. Granted, the bumpers were up. And I used both of my hands to bowl. And I put the ball on the floor first, then rolled it. Then I stepped over the line and the freaky imaginary sensor thingy was activated and the buzzer went off so my points were worthless. But I pushed that ball with every ounce of strength I could muster and knocked all the pins down after it slowly zigzagged from side to side and narrowly missed going into the gutter. It was my finest hour. There was lots of cheering (only from me) air high fives (only I participated) and at one point, I even moonwalked across three lanes in my clown-sized bowling shoes.
After riding that high all morning (all by myself–my kids and husband weren’t that impressed), I returned home after lunch and discovered I had won Peg-o-leg’s The Jacket writing contest. I was about as shocked as when the guy at the bowling alley walked over and told me to “please stop moonwalking, people are trying to bowl and there are young children present.” (My own son had filed the complaint with management.)
Thank you, readers, for any vote(s) you threw my way. Last I knew I was in third place in a very tight race, so I’m thinking Angie somehow figured out how to vote 50 times in one hour. In honor of winning the prized green plaid jacket, I will videotape myself in it twirling a baton because I am just stupid enough or just don’t give a crap what anyone thinks of me anymore to do it.
Which reminds me. I am quitting blogging. Yeah, that’s right. It’s over. I am done. Finito. No more posts from this chick. I can’t keep up with all this writing and reading and then with all the constant commenting and the replying and replying to replies, blah blah blah, it just never ends. I am going to start doing wild-n-crazy things like being with my family. Talking to other people. Going outside. Letting the thoughts in my head stay in my head. Wish me luck.
So I want to thank you all, loyal readers and commenters and people who ‘liked’ my posts here and there. It’s been a great ride while it lasted.
I’ll leave you with a very short-n-sweet poem (inspired by k8edid, the Queen of Poetry, who is infinitely better at this than I am. Well, better at writing good poems, not better at writing bad poems…)
(oh, and Happy April Fools’ Day, if you thought I was being serious about quitting, damn, you are so gullible! If you knew I was just kidding from the get-go, then sheesh, you see right through me)
___________________________________________________________________________ image: deviantARTS