Let me explain. A terrible accident has happened. I have allowed myself to be swept up in the enthusiasm of writing and pretending to be a grown-up writer, and ended up here: Writing on an assigned prompt with a group of women.
I hate both assignments and being part of a large group of women. In both cases, it's because of the rules that I just can't seem to follow. This post being a good example of that.
Hello, ladies, it is good to meet you. I will introduce myself and my blog today by announcing that I indiscriminately hate both members of my own gender and the activity in which we are all engaged here. I will now show myself to the door...
|Shakespeare speaking at a Writer's Convention|
The guilty pleasure I cannot live without, not even for the length of time it takes to make a good impression? Snark.
I am standing at my locker, first year of middle school, in direct violation of the official stay-the-Hell-away-from-your-locker-between-classes policy, attempting to extract some item which, naturally, I have forgotten. The principal, a twig-like ghost of a man to whom I have never before directly spoken, comes upon me and regrettably asks the following question:
"Are you at your locker between classes?' to which I reply..."No."
Twenty-five years later, I would still 100 times rather serve detention than have answered that question any other way.
I am twenty-five, lying on my own bed, in a country cottage in the primordial redwood forest of Camp Meeker, California, engaged in the act of giving birth to my second son, Devin. I have reached that critical, consuming part of childbirth just past transition labor where I will soon begin to push. My midwife, an officiously capable ex-hippie in her fifties, is urging me to get on my hands and knees, which I do not want to do, in order to ease my labor. In order not to appear rude and to accommodate her obvious concern for my well-being, I assure her,
"I will. I promise. Just as soon as I am done having this baby."
I now work as an instructional assistant and teach reading to kids. One particular lesson component for second graders a few months ago centers around using descriptive words in writing. It includes a minimally passable example of descriptive language titled Student Model, depicting a red bicycle, which I read to my group of three boys and one girl. In order to then solicit a response of some kind from them, I add,
"But this is not what you guys write. You write", I say dully," 'I like my bike...because it is cool.'"
"You want to bring the reader in and make them see what you see! Like this: 'I love my bedroom. It has pink walls and a canopy bed. I have a tiara tattoo on my wall and a bedspread that says Princess. It is my favorite place in the house.' by...MICHAEL."
Michael, and everyone else, erupt in uproarious laughter, having already become long used to Ms. Adams' Reading Class and Comedy Half Hour.
|My dog got into the garbage. And lived. Because I wanted to take a photo and post it on my blog. Otherwise, I'd have just asphyxiated the sucker. There. Another life saved by a sick sense of humor.|
I'm going to have to cheat on this assignment. I cannot actually imagine what would happen to me if I gave up Snark for a whole year. All I can reasonably say is that I would stop being me. Which, I guess, is why I find it so difficult to give up for family reunions, staff meetings and parent-teacher conferences.
If I stopped being snarky, I guess I would just have to rely more on my other defining traits.
And I'd probably end up working in a leper colony. No, a sanctuary for hedgehogs with leprosy. And no one wants that. Least of all the hedgehogs. So, just live with it, people. OK?