Friday, August 31, 2012

Here Comes the End of Civilization

I was sorely disappointed when I only got one “like” for the following facebook status: “I’m adding Sugar Bear to my short list.”  I can only assume that most of my facebook friends aren’t watching Here Comes Honey Boo Boo.  If you are reading this now and you’re not watching this show yet either, you need to be watching that shit.  It’s so wonderful that one television critic even referred to it as “the end of civilization.”  With a claim like that, viewers are bound to be at least a little bit curious.
Whether your curiosity has been peeked or not, I’ll give you a brief breakdown on Honey Boo Boo.  This intellectually stimulating program is a spin-off of Toddlers and Tiaras, where viewers first met the oddly adorable six-year-old Alana, an overweight glitz beauty pageant contestant fully loaded with spunk and sass. The show gained its title when this six-year-old declared, with full head tilt and finger snap, “a dolla make me hollah honey boo boo child.” 
Alana also makes reference to her go-go juice, a cocktail of Mountain Dew and Red Bull, hopefully enabling her to win the ultimate grand supreme.  Don’t blame Mama too quickly though.  Despite the distribution of this beauty queen blend, Alana’s mother June is shockingly calm in comparison to most pageant mothers. Have you seen these women?  Bitches be crazy.  One mother was pumping her daughter full of sugar cubes like they were crack cocaine.
I realize that at this point, you may still be wondering, “But who the hell is Sugar Bear?” Sugar Bear is Alana’s father, a soft-spoken, poorly groomed, self-proclaimed redneck of seemingly low intelligence, but who also possesses incredible patience.  Unfortunately, I’m probably not Sugar Bear’s type because I don’t have “forklift foot.”  Again, you need to be watching this shit.
Truth be told, Sugar Bear is not on my list.  I said that because I’m a bitch … and for the likes of course.  My tendency to be a bitch is the same reason I enjoy watching this show; my husband says I suffer from “Bitch Tourette's” (very PC, I know).  So, for some awful, elitist reason, laughing at these people that seemingly have a less fortunate life than mine entertains me.  At least I can admit to that.  If these were my actual neighbors, I might feel worse for judging them for participating in an activity called “The Redneck Games,” which involves such activities as bobbing for pig’s feet.  Might. But the fact that I don’t really know these folks, and they’ve put their simultaneously hilarious and disastrous lives on television, allows me to fictionalize them so I don’t feel as bad when I find it funny that going to the Old Country Buffet is considered a romantic evening.
So, Sugar Bear is not on my short list because I would at least expect to be taken to the Olive Garden.  I excuse you if you didn’t initially know who Sugar Bear was, but if you’re still wondering what a short list is, I’m wondering how you grew up. Were you not exposed to the world? Did your parents keep you held up in their basement? Did you grow up on a diet of pancakes and pizza, as those were the only food items they could slide under the locked door? 
If you’re not yet doing so, you also need to be following me as you can expect to soon be enlightened regarding the short list … with more than you want to know.  Stay tuned.

And check out the show here:

Thursday, August 30, 2012

You Will Like Every Photo I Post

I’ve been on Facebook way too damn much.  And I know I brag about my babies a lot.  It almost seems like every new outfit change warrants a posting.  I’m afraid that soon I’ll start charting their bowel movements online because I’m just so damn proud of everything they do. 

Beyond bragging about my children, I’ve been on Facebook so frequently because I feel like that’s the social adult aspect of my life right now.  One doesn’t get out of the house much with a twenty month old and six week old.  I’m not complaining about this; I just need to find other outlets than social media.  I try to avoid throwing dirty laundry up on my status line for all to see, but it’s definitely happened on more than one occasion.  It’s akin to drunk dialing.  And now I’ve started this blog, so imagine the damage I could do. 

My brother was recently home from Minneapolis, and I asked him if he knew I began a blog. He replied in the negative.  I told him he needs to check it out because he owes me after I read his former blog “Atari Summer,” a blog dedicated to him playing old Atari games and evaluating them.  Yeah, really. He asked what my blog was all about, and I didn’t exactly know how to reply.  This is not good, and surely is a total violation of all that advice I initially read and wrote about.  My response was, “Just my stories, I guess, and a lot of bitching.”  He then replied, “Yeah … not interested.” 

So, I have two mantras I’ve been repeating to myself.  The first is “I will not bitch about politics on my blog,” and the second is “I will not bitch about my former employer on my blog.” Both are quite difficult right now, with it being election season and the start of a new school year.

Given that I have deemed the above topics are off limits, I need to consume time that might be dedicated to writing with other activities.  When I sit down to type, my head keeps loading itself up with thoughts of the new school year, and the knowledge that I won’t be in a classroom next week. Right now, I shed a tear almost every time one of those damn Target back-to-school commercials comes on with one of those phony hipster teachers singing about “pencils, jeans, and notebooks.”

So, rather than attempt to write or watch television for distraction, I have turned to Facebook.  And I’m going to keep posting photos of my babies, and if you are my Facebook friend, you are expected to “like” every damn photo I post because my kids are fucking adorable.   

Sunday, August 26, 2012

Thanks for the Weird Present

One of my dearest friends in the entire world is a pastor at a Lutheran church in Minneapolis.  Once, after meeting her at a barbeque at our home, another friend stated, “Oh shit! You’re a pastor! Why did no one tell me this sooner?  I’ve been swearing all afternoon!”  We probably should have told him sooner, too, as I noticed earlier that she had taken out the small note pad she carries with her at all times and recorded his name in the “SINNER” column; it’s kind of like Santa’s naughty list and all pastors and priests have one (universal sarcasm font needed).   

At some ordinations, pastors are given a set of keys to symbolize that they may grant access to heaven.  They can forgive their parishioners of their sins, thus granting vacancy at the pearly gates.  At any rate, that’s my explanation of a pastor’s powers – although theology probably explains things better.  After she was presented the “keys” to heaven, I figured she also had the right to lock the door on the baddies, so I requested that my ex-husband please be barred.  I’ve learned forgiveness since then, and she denied my request to damn him anyhow (damn her goodness). 

When it comes to religious occasions, I expect her to give the best gifts.  My daughter received a really wonderful book published by the Augsburg press.  My son was just baptized, and he also received a book from Augsburg.  I eagerly opened it up to read to my daughter, as my son is yet too young to understand any text.  As I started reading, I was a bit confused, so I turned back to the front of the book and the introduction. The introduction was basically a set of instructions for reading the text, using the small stories as prompts for greater discussion and paired bible study.  You must locate the scriptures to be studied in the illustrations; it’s biblical Where’s Waldo.  So, okay, I read the introduction, and the book made more sense to me, although I’m not entirely sure any children’s book should need an instruction page. 

Having believed I had now made some sense of this book, I continued to read on and came upon the following sentence:  “One of the differences between people and squirrels is that people say thanks when they receive something.”  Good to know … and I had just been internally pondering – what makes people and squirrels different?  It’s a deep and thought provoking question that has often kept me sleepless at night.  Now I have one answer, but am in desperate need of more; please leave your comments below providing another difference between people and squirrels. 

I laughed out loud when I read this line, and then announced to my husband, “This book is really bizarre.  Listen to this …” After enlightening him about the unique differences between humans and squirrels, I returned to reading the book, which seemed to acknowledge its own bizarre nature.  It continued, “We say thanks for candy, thanks for letting me play in your yard, thanks for the homework help, thanks for the weird present!”  So, my dear friend, this post is to say “thanks for the weird present!”  Thanks, thanks, thanks.

Friday, August 17, 2012

Honey, why is there a hot dog in the shower?

Children change everything.  I know we hear this all of the time, especially from advertisers looking to sell newer, safer vehicles and softer, gentler laundry detergents.  The sentiment is captured in all sorts of Hallmark moments too.  It’s said and heard time and time again because it is so damn true: children change everything. 

If you’re having a shitty day, so what? Suck it up because there are shitty diapers to be changed and that is so much more important – and oddly wonderful.  My children are hands down the greatest gifts in my life, but there’s also some realities that new mothers must accept.  To begin, the dishes will not always get done when you want, and the laundry might be backed up.  Housework basically becomes an exercise in futility.  Earlier this week, I managed to scrub, mop, dust, vacuum, and even clean the sliding screen doors.  While my daughter napped, I had an immaculate home.  Now, I have handprints on the glass and Lego Duplos scattered all over the living room floor; however, I also have a very happy little child. 

With young children, one must also accept that sleep and sex are going to become infrequent activities.  Oh, the joy of being moments away from orgasm to hear the wailing of a child coming loud and clear across the baby monitor.  It’s over; accept it. (Baby Mommas – I know you know what I’m talking about.)  Sleep is also often interrupted and time to accomplish your own tasks is quite rare.  Yesterday, however, I did find some time to work on my son’s baby memory book.  At the back of the book is a page for both the mother and father to write a note to their child.  I’m not going to lie; I was a bit tempted to record the following message: “Dear Son, I would really like a nap. Love, your mother.” 

Your friends and family are no longer interested in you; they just want to see the babies.  They will ignore your new hair cut or recent weight loss, but will notice things like, “Oh, did you just trim his fingernails?” If you have a difficult time dealing with this and view this particular problem as the most serious concern of raising children, then you really need to get over yourself bitch.  Why did you have babies? 

Here are a few other facts: If you leave the dog food where your daughter can reach it, she will participate in a Purina taste test.  Sometimes your children will be so proud of their poop that they will remove a piece from their diapers and try passing it to you.  Little boys will most definitely pee on you during diaper changes.

You might also have to accept the fact that some mornings you will find a hot dog in your shower.  This morning, upon entering the shower (a luxury you can also no longer expect every day), I stepped upon something small.  I looked down to find that my daughter had thrown some of her plastic food into the shower stall, and there lay a hot dog and a red pepper. “Honey, why is there a hot dog in the shower?” is a phrase I have never before uttered in my life.  Children absolutely change everything, and I so absolutely love those children.   

Tuesday, August 14, 2012

No Sex, No City

“So what? You think you’re like Carrie Bradshaw now?”

Okay. This isn’t actually what my brother asked me yesterday when discussing my blog; he didn’t know the character’s name and I say kudos for him.  So, he really said, “You think you’re like that chick from Sex and the City now?”  C’mon, she was a writer, yes;  beyond that, our characters share very little in common.  When Bradshaw was obsessing over Manolo Blahniks (I absolutely had to Google that spelling), I was still holding onto my Converse one stars from 1998. 

Bradshaw also wrote about sex.  I have two children under the age of two.  My daughter doesn’t fall asleep well unless she is able to snuggle her dad, and my son is less than six weeks old, sleeping in the bassinet next to the bed and waking us up every two hours.  There is no sex happening in my home.  Right now, having to sleep in the wet spot means you’re stuck where my daughter spilled her milk.

Bradshaw lived in the city; I live in Northern Wisconsin.  While she was hoping for a proposal from Mr. Big, I was just seeking a man who did have all of his own teeth and who did not have a serious alcohol problem. 

I live in a township where apparently people purchase property just to house an abundance of cats.  I also live next to a home that none of the owners can afford to actually maintain.  In the three years we have lived at our current residence, we have had five different direct neighbors just in one house.  I swear to God that they’re not moving all the time either because of me! 

The house has always been sold on land contract.  Part of me believes the man who actually owns it wants to find people that can’t really afford the property, so they pay the mortgage for a couple of months before leaving and he still gets to keep a down payment.  It’s quite the racket, and it’s led to an interesting assortment of characters.  So, on that “send me money bitches” request, fences are damn expensive – and I could really use a fence.

The first neighbor was on disability after a series of strokes and other serious health problems, so he spent a lot of time in his garage wrenching on things.  He tried to sell us several old lawnmowers he had worked on.  His son –in-law was only eighteen, and lived with them after knocking up the daughter, forcing a shot-gun wedding.  He didn’t have a job as no one wanted to employ him while he was on probation for drug related and other criminal charges.  So, the son-in-law’s hobby was fireworks.  He sat on the porch on a regular basis and shot off bottle rockets.  This was usually around one to three in the afternoon.  Lots and lots of bottle rockets all afternoon every day.

When they couldn’t afford a new roof, they just walked away from the property.  Then came the hoarders.  Seriously, like they could have been on an episode on TLC. By the way, doesn’t TLC stand for The Learning Channel?  Can anyone tell me what educational value there is in “Toddlers and Tiaras,” and its even greater spin-off “Here Comes Honey Boo Boo”?  Anyway, their shit was everywhere.  Dressers, tables, chairs, and doors lined the back yard.  After an unsuccessful auction attempting to sell some of these treasures and make a little money, they could no longer afford the property either.

Then came a single mother and her son.  There was nothing unusual that appeared to be happening.  They were pretty quiet, so we were happy.  Then the actual property owner knocked on our door one afternoon.  He gave us his phone number and asked us to call if there was any odd activity next door.  He said the police had tried serving his newest leaser an eviction notice for failing to ever make a payment, although she was there less than four months.  The police had been there for several hours and were yet unsuccessful in their attempt.  He hoped we would see a U-HAUL before seeing the officers over there again, but also thought that was an unlikelihood.  He then warned us, “Don't go over there.  She keeps an automatic rifle right by the door.  I just thought you should know.” 

I’ll refrain from making any comments on the new residents just in case I should decide to be friendly someday.  If you really know me, however, that’s highly unlikely to happen.  So, while Bradshaw lives her fabulous fictional life, I will stay holed up at home because the neighbors usually scare the shit out of me, but I will never be moving to the city either as I like trees more than I like most people.  I just thought you should know.

Monday, August 13, 2012

Mother May Not Approve

In his youth, my grandfather looked just like Paul Newman; he was incredibly handsome.  Had anyone seen the couple together, they definitely would have said my grandmother was the lucky one based on appearances.  Having been married now for nearly sixty years, they are both lucky – or cursed (this one is all about perspective).  For their fiftieth wedding anniversary, they had a large party.  Here, my grandfather stood up to give a toast.  He talked about wanting to find himself an honest, hard-working woman and how he was really impressed when he first encountered my grandma because “she could pick more rocks than any of the other girls in the field.”  He continued on with his speech talking about the wonderful moments they had shared together, and the children they had brought into the world.  As my grandfather was delivering this speech, I happened to be standing next to my grandmother, who turned to me and said, “I wish he would shut the hell up already.  I can’t hear a damn word he’s saying anyway. Oh blah.”

So, I come from a long line of bitches.  I can’t help this shit; it’s just genetics.  My mother, although I honestly with my whole heart believe she is one of the most beautiful and brave women I have ever encountered in my entire life, is also a total bitch.  Sometimes, her bitchy moments can break my heart.  For example, when I shared the news that my current husband and I were engaged, her first reply was, “I’m not going to help you pay for anything, you know.  I only help pay for divorces, not weddings.”  On other occasions, these moments are welcomed and almost necessary.  Once she ran into an old boyfriend of mine in the bar.  She walked up to him and said in the most serious and frightening tone, “Hi Jason.  I’m going to kill you.”  Another time when we were out together, a married man had been relentlessly approaching me with highly sexual comments.  She informed him, “Dave, if you don’t shut the fuck up, I’m seriously going to knock your block off.  You have until the count of ten.”  She started counting …

When I first started writing this blog, one of my first considerations was whether or not my mother would approve.  She’s likely not going to approve, but I’m writing anyway.  My mother doesn’t like to use the computer, so it will be my father who informs her that I have been writing and posting publically. He will say to her, “Angela must be having another one of her nut attacks,” as this is how he so kindly and correctly refers to my mental illness. He will invite her to view one of my posts on the computer screen, she will read it while shaking her head in disapproval, neither will say anything further, and then he will return to searching Craigslist. 

I used to share some of these stories with the friends I had newly made in college.  My friend Carrie told me she just thought I was making shit up until she actually met my mother.  The first time they met was when I had brought her and two other friends home for the weekend. I walked up to my mother, with my friends following closely behind, and asked, “Hey mom, do you want to meet my friends?” She replied, “Not really,” and walked away.  I should probably just approach my mom now with, “Hey mom, do you want to read my blog?”  If the answer is “not really,” I have nothing to worry about.

Sunday, August 12, 2012

Cat Custody

When my first husband and I were going through a divorce, there were two things that he was adamant about keeping: the cat and the crock pot. I left one day while he was at work. I packed what I could in my car and left, knowing that I would never be returning to the marriage. I did, however, need to return to his home in order to obtain the rest of my belongings. We had arranged a date and time for me to do so when he ensured he would not be present. The other title I considered for this post was, "Dude! I already said you could keep the fucking crock pot!" He had called continuously in the time between my initial departure and my planned return for my possessions to request that I leave him the crock pot, don't take the crock pot, he needed the crock pot, even explaining why because it matched the dishes he was keeping too. I never said he couldn't keep the crock pot; I bought a new one later for only $14.99 at Fleet Farm.

Because they didn't sell cats at Fleet Farm,  I was unable to replace the pet. I took no issue with him retaining the cat, though. I will admit that she was an incredibly loving and attractive cat, but it was never my desire to bring a cat into our home in the first place, as I have severe allergies. The cat, which my former husband named Tommy after the Who's classic rock opera (despite her being female), had come to us while he was living in a group home due to a recent and severe suicide attempt. Based upon the severity of each resident's illness and current concerns over his or her safety, some of them were allowed to occasionally leave the location unaccompanied. One of the residents who was allowed to leave had made friends with a group of young males who lived in a nearby apartment. These weren't the most upstanding citizens for anyone in need of group home living to be associating himself with. After one particular visit with these young men, this resident returned to the group home with an adorable little kitten whose poor body had been covered in cigarette burns. Those employed at the group home determined the kitten could not stay there, but they certainly didn't desire to return the kitten to whence it came either. So, my husband asked if I we could take the cat. After seeing the poor kitten in such a condition, my pathos had been appealed to and I brought the kitten back to our duplex, where I lived with two dogs that my husband had also requested we bring home in an effort to save them. For all the saving he wanted to do of cats and dogs, he never made any genuine attempt to save our marriage. (This is a good thing, though, because divorcing him was the best decision I ever made regarding that man.)  

The last time a cat came into my life, it was me who determined I must save it. I was remarried five years ago. My current (and absolutely wonderful) husband and I purchased a home together three years ago. Shortly thereafter, a cat appeared in our backyard, and it stayed around for a couple of days. This cat was not nearly as cute as Tommy had been; he was pretty skanky looking, extremely thin, and had filthy gray hair that had matted together so badly in many areas that it could not be untangled, and later needed to be trimmed off. We determined we weren't going to feed the cat right away because we had no intentions of keeping it. Our initial goal was simply to find the rightful owner of this wandering creature. My husband went over to talk to the neighbors. When he asked if their cat had run away, the neighbor replied, "No; that's not our cat. Come with me, though, because you're not going to believe this shit." My husband then followed our neighbor to a nearby property. On this property there had been erected a small plywood shack; the entire neighborhood later came to recognize this building as "the cat shack." During this visit to the cat shack, my husband observed approximately thirty cats living on the property.  He also learned that the property had been purchased by an out of state man who was going to be evicted from his residence if he didn’t get rid of his overabundance of animals.  Therefore, he bought land local to us on which to house said animals.  He still lived in another state, and traveled to his shack about once a week to care for the animals.  When my husband later relayed this information to me, he added, “I had heard a generator running on that property while walking pass it before, but I just thought there was something normal going on back there … like a meth lab.  I never imagined there was a damn cat shack. That’s crazy, Angela.” 

Once I learned where the runaway on our back porch had come from, I determined it must be saved.  I started feeding the cat, cleaned him up, and made my husband take him to the veterinarian.  To this day, my husband will still occasionally mumble, “One hundred and forty dollars. One hundred and forty dollars that you made me spend on that fucking cat.”  The cat was clearly happy, though.  He started to gain weight and enjoyed playing in the yard with our miniature daschund.  We named the cat “RC,” which was short for “random cat.”  Often, you could hear RC fighting with other cats in the middle of the night.  If one were to interpret his screeching and howling, I imagine he was saying, “Bitch, get out of my yard.  This is my gig now.  I found these good people first.  You get your ass back to the shack, and don’t you come around anymore.” 

On one of his visits to care for the cats, “crazy cat man” (the name also used by the whole of the neighborhood) was seen wandering up and down the road, crouching down in his Carharrt overalls (no shirt), and calling out for his cats – “Here kitty, kitty, kitty.”  My husband took a photo of him so that he could show others what a mountain man appearance crazy cat man possessed.  When someone once asked how my spouse was able to take this image without cat man’s knowledge, he explained how he covered the flash with his finger and hid behind our hibiscus.

My brother once said to me, “Why didn’t you show me that picture first? I wouldn’t have gone back there if I had known that man looked that fucking crazy.”  This comment came following my brother’s own and only visit to the cat shack.  He was over at the house one night, and said he kind of wanted to check the property out after all he heard about it.  It was a popular topic where we lived as the number of cats on the property began to grow, and thus the stench also grew, and more feral cats were to be found appearing in all of our backyards.  The most recent agenda for our township include the following item: “#4. Cat Shack Situation.”  Due to his growing curiosity, my brother decided to see things for himself.  Before he left, I warned him, “Please don’t go back there if you hear the generator running.  That means he’s on the property right now, and I think he’s dangerous.” 

Not long after he left, the sliding door flew open and my brother came abruptly runnning in, failing to close the door behind him.  With his hands resting upon his knees, crouching down and gasping for breath after dashing promptly home, my brother declared, “Oh shit. Oh shit, Angela. I’m never fucking going back there. It’s fucking horrifying.  Holy shit.” After fully gaining his breath, my brother provided me with some details, and showed me the images he had captured on his cell phone.  To begin, there was now a sign located on the property that read, “If you have a problem with me – call #$% - *&%! – NOT THE SHERIFF!!!!”  The shack was also now larger, with tunnels running out of it. The words “COWARD,” “PUNK,” and “FUCK” were now spray-painted on the side of the shack.  My brother showed me the picture of this that he had captured right before falling into a tiger trap.  He was taking these images when he fell into the ground, barely managing to catch himself by his elbows and prop himself to avoid falling all the way to the bottom of a seven foot hole that had been covered with a thin piece of Styrofoam and camouflaged over with dirt and leaves.   

We went out of town the following weekend to visit with some friends. Upon our return home, RC could not be located.  My mother said, “Oh, that cat probably just ran away. They get real horny this time of year."  There is no doubt in my mind, however, that crazy cat man had been on our property to reclaim the cat that had abandoned him and chosen us.  

RC hasn’t been back since, nor have any other random cats desiring a different living situation.  Crazy cat man isn’t around either as he has now been institutionalized following a court case.  He believed the other neighbors were killing his cats, so he decided to fire shots after calling one neighbor a “fucking pervert,” among other verbal attacks.  He was arrested for felon in possession of a firearm. When this story ran in the local paper, it reported that he denied having more than four cats on his property.  The media also reported that crazy cat man would be representing himself in court, as he had “dealt with lawyers before and they usually called me names.”  Eventually, over one hundred cats were removed from the property.  For a while, there was a “buy one cat, get one free” sale at the local humane society.  I didn’t save any cats that time, and you can’t make this shit up.

Friday, August 10, 2012

Diving in Deep

Whatever you do in this life, you should do it well.To fully realize such a rule, this often requires the acquisition of some new skill or knowledge.For example, when I was bartender, I wished to do my job well and therefore sought to familiarize myself with many new drink recipes. Even though I tended bar in Northern Wisconsin and therefore primarily served brandy and cola, and had to open a lot of bottles of beer, I still had committed quite the library of martini recipes to my memory.I should probably admit I liked vodka, so said recipes were used for personal more than professional use.Regardless, I committed myself fully and gained new knowledge and skills.I would also like to boast that I received recognition as “Bartender of the Year” for 2006 in our local newspaper.Okay, I did vote for myself more than once.

In my life, I have also committed myself to education.When I completed a university course entitled “Major Authors: Jane Austen,” I immersed myself in her literature.I read not only the required texts, but all of her novels. Of course I aced the class and was thoroughly praised by my professor. I also fell so ardently in love with her writing then that I later named my dog Darcy and gave my first child the middle name Jane.You will be happy to know that my first child was a daughter.
I’ve become a student of almost every position I’ve held in my life, hobby I started, or any pastime I participated in.To demonstrate this to its fullest extent, I even bought a few books on better sex after I first became active.I never received any “of the year” award or grade for this activity, but I’m pretty damn sure I absolutely excelled at this too, with or without the literature I had purchased.In fact, I don’t think those books helped one bit – and I never even fully read the book I bought about tantric sex. I don’t know why I bought that; I think Sting must have still been quite popular at the time.In my thirties now, I think tantric sex just seems like a chore. That requires a lot of clearing up of your schedule.At any rate, the point is that I have a personality that generally dives very deeply into all that I do, so why would this project be an exception?
For this blog, then, I had to begin by acquiring the proper knowledge for success.I conducted some research online, and discovered (to promptly ignore most of) the following advice from an article titled “Starting a Blog in 2012? Avoid these Seven New Blogger Blunders”:
1.  Making Your Blog All About You
The article suggests that the majority of your content be about a subject other than one’s self.I was about to end my research right here because I thought (actually I may have verbally vocalized this aloud to the computer screen), “Fuck you. I’m fascinating.” The author offers such advice so that the blogger might expand his or her audience base as ultimately “You might be the author, but the blog exists because of your readers.”This does appear to be wise advice, but I can be selfish. I feel like Adam Sandler’s character in The Wedding Singer: “I have the microphone, so you will listen to every damn word I say” (something very similar was said to friends and family when I gave a toast at my sister’s wedding).
2.  Writing About Every Topic Under The Sun
Here, the author suggests that you pick a subject and stick to it.Find something that you love and write about it. Well, I think I’m awesome, but I was just told to not write about myself.So, what else do I love? Bacon.Look forward to lots of posts about bacon.
3.  Confusing Your First Time Visitors
This is actually really good advice here, and a universal truth.It only takes a few seconds for others to form an impression of you, and you want to make it a favorable one.To ensure that you make a good impression, I here add my own advice on a few other things to avoid: Don’t begin your blog at 3:30 am during a bout of insomnia brought about by withdrawal from your anti-depressant medication.Don’t ask your readers to send you money.Don’t call them bitches immediately following said request for money.
4.  Not Paying Due Attention to your “About Me”page
Let’s be honest: my primary audience here currently exists of only my friend Jess –and she already “gets me.”I have not yet added any details to my profile for this page, either, so I imagine I should include some information about myself now. Let me begin with my youth …
When I was age twelve, a lot of my friends began dating.I didn’t have a boyfriend, and this made me feel like a loser.So, what did I do to remedy the situation?I made up an imaginary boyfriend, of course.He lived out of town, and his name was “Andy.”Once my mother bought me a necklace with a heart pendant on it, and I told everyone Andy had bought it for me.Having a fake boyfriend made me pretty cool.
When I was age fifteen, a lot of my friends started doing drugs.I just said no, but peer pressure once again made me feel like a loser.So, I filled a piece of notebook paper with some lawn weeds, rolled it up to look like a joint, and burnt it at the edge with a lighter I found in the kitchen junk drawer.Later, I brought this item to school and told my friends I had a “doobie” in my backpack. I was a total bad ass … and a complete idiot.
When I was age seventeen, I had my first real kiss. Surprisingly, I didn’t feel like a loser about the lateness of this event. What most novels had led me to believe would be a magical moment was rather disappointing; it was just wet and messy.I told my boyfriend, “Hmmm …that was really slobbery.”He replied, “That’s the way it’s supposed to be.You just don’t know because you’ve never kissed anyone before.”By the way, he was wrong about the way kissing was meant to be.
5.  Writing Like Your High School English Teacher
So, if I didn’t stop reading after this author’s first bit of advice, I really should end it all right here when she says not to write like your high school English teacher.Given that I am a high school English teacher, I’m totally fucked in this blog business. Wait.I would never write“totally fucked” in anything distributed in the classroom, so I might still be okay according to this web advice.And, you know what else … screw you, lady, for making the assumption that all teachers are rigid, dry, and dull. That’s stereotyping, and that is so not cool.
6.  Not Embracing Social Media
I have been on Facebook since its inception, when it was basically created just to check out chicks on campus.I was a non-trad at this time when it was initially available only to university students.I didn’t have a lot of facebook “friends”then, as I was older and no longer as attractive as I was at age twenty.Also, I was not a whore.I refuse to twitter because I think it’s a vapid site created for individuals who believe they’re far more important than they actually are.Yes, I acknowledge I’m a hypocrite because I’m writing a blog about myself where I publically declare that I am both “fascinating” and “awesome.”I did, however, add the pinterest app yesterday, and in fact used it to pin this article when I began my blog around 3 a.m. So, am I good with this piece of advice?
And finally ….
7.  Ignoring Other Bloggers
I read about BeyoncĂ© –the giant metal rooster. Yes, I know that technically BeyoncĂ© is a rooster, not a chicken. I’m all set.

Author's Warning

"Not Appropriate for All Audiences": I titled my blog as such not only because I love alliteration, but because it’s quite an apt title. This blog is not going to be all about sunshine and rainbows.  This blog is not always going to be appropriate.  It might need to come with a rating system like television shows:  MA only for language, sexuality, and some drug use.  Underneath the occasional curse word, or mention of sex, however, I hope there’s humor and I know that there are universal truths and lessons to be discovered.  So, try to think of these entries as unfiltered, informal fables.  There truly is something wonderful if you allow yourself to see it.  Really, would you be unable to discover the lesson that “slow and steady wins the race” had the hare once been a binge drinker?  Would you be so distracted by King Midas’ juvenile humor and potty mouth that you were completely incapable of recognizing that true riches do not come from financial wealth?  No one is going to force you to read this, but I hope you do because I write for the same reason that we read, according to the great C.S. Lewis: “We read to know we are not alone.”  I’m not perfect, and you’ll know it if you read this blog.  I have had to pick up the pieces time and time again.  I’m willing to expose myself where many others aren’t (metaphorically speaking here -- not all those drunken nights in college.) So, in reading this, you might not only discover some deeply embedded moral; more importantly, I hope you discover yourself.

The Beginning of the Blog ...

Like many Americans, I currently find myself unemployed.  So, what does one do in the event of unemployment?  There are many responses; the wisest among them would be to actively seek immediate gainful employment.  A second option is to allow your friends to fill you with overinflated ideas about your brilliance and importance, convincing you that you are funny and talented and should thus start a blog.  I have opted to respond in this fashion; you can feel free to curse my friends now.  I did always want to be an author as I was growing up, and thanks to technology anyone can achieve such a status.  While I would prefer to become an accomplished and published author, that would require both more time and talent.  This will be a test run to see if there’s a wide enough audience for a voice such as mine to ever appear on the bookshelves at Barnes and Noble.  Until I close a book deal with Random House, my work will appear online for free.  Since there’s no publishing payroll or any other payroll of any sort for me right now, I would kindly request that if you enjoy this blog, then you just send me some money bitches.  And so it begins …