The Wonder of Youth

I woke up before my two young children and slowly sat up in bed.  I glanced out the bedroom window to witness a thin layer of snow covering the ground.  My initial thought went straight to Damn.  I took absolutely no joy in nature’s beauty.  I have witnessed over thirty snowfalls, and the first few flakes have long ago ceased to excite me.  These days, my thoughts go to colder weather, more cautious driving, and the threat of Seasonal Affective Depressive Disorder.  

Then my daughter, not quite two years old, arose.  As she too gazed out the glass window pane upon waking, an expression of pure awe and wonderment spread over her entire precious face.  She looked back at me and smiled, then pointing out the window and tilting her head in a toddler’s inquisitive fashion.

“It’s snow, Emily,” I said. “Snow.”

“Snow. Snow. Snow,” she repeated with unreserved glee.  She began to bounce up and down in the bed as she grinned from ear to ear repeating this one word that had inspired cursing in my adult mind. “Snow! Snow! Snow!”

I bundled both children up, and took them to daycare.  When she got out of the car and when her feet first landed in the snow, her wonder began completely anew – as though she had forgotten what she observed and learned this morning.  She pointed down at the ground and beamed at me once more. 

“Yes. Snow, Emily,” I told her, “Do you remember?”

“Snow! Snow! Snow!” she excitedly shouted once again and stomped her tiny little feet up and down in the wet, white substance.

I had to scoop her up into my arms to bring her into the building as she appeared content to remain standing in the cold forever, stomping up and down and smiling in the snow.

When did I turn bitter? When did I stop appreciating beauty?  When did it happen to you?

Sometimes I wish we could all see the world as young children see it.  We would be more appreciative, and more grateful.  We would have more moments filled with awe and wonder, and absolute, unmitigated joy – pure joy. 

We could forget the evils we know and the worries that consume our minds and be content to stay in one place smiling and relishing the moment.  We need to allow ourselves to see the world through the eyes of children so that we can know more of love.  

But America, the Other Guy was "More Awesomer"

I generally try to avoid any posts about politics on here, which has most certainly been a challenge this particular election season.  The amount of hate and vitriol existent this election cycle is truly disgusting, and I don’t foresee this problem decreasing in four more years.  I was pleasantly pleased, however, when I arrived at work yesterday and realized the high school was hosting a well-organized mock election.  I began my work day excited due to this, and that excitement grew as many of the students in study hall were eagerly discussing who they had voted for.   But, then I started to pay a bit more attention and engage in the discussion with them, urging the students to justify their votes and think critically.  This is when my excitement became frustration and fear. 

One particular student very proudly boasted to me that his vote was a write-in for Peter Griffin, an asinine cartoon character on Seth McFarlane’s Family Guy.  When I questioned his vote, he shared, “Peter Griffin would be an awesome president.  He’s frickin’ hilarious.  Can you just see him getting all drunk and crashing Air Force One? That would be so cool.”

Oh indeed, I thought to myself, how very, very cool that would be.  And then I high-fived that kid for being a fucking hysterical genius. 

[Alright: I’m making this shit official.  The universal sarcasm font is now Microsoft PhagsPa. Remember that and spread the word.]

So, what would happen if teenagers truly did have a voice and a vote in this election?  I can tell you that most of them would remain mute and inactive.  Apathy is the most prevalent disease in today’s high schools (it’s not the clap like I had assumed at age sixteen – damn, our school had a lot of Chlamydia cases, or maybe just a really bad rumor mill … either way).  The most terrifying element of apathy is how highly contagious it is (way worse than the clap).

The overwhelming majority of students could not even be moved to vote in a mock election.  They had many excuses for not voting, ranging from “the line was too long” to “politics are a waste of life.”

In between these two responses, I also heard the following:

“Voting is a waste of time.  Either way, I hate our current system of government.”

“I didn’t want to get up. All my friends know I’m lazy.”

“Why vote? I might as well have voted for the Easter Bunny for all the difference my one voice makes.”

“It’s just plain stupid.  All politicians are on crack anyway.”

“I could care less because both potential presidents plan to screw us over anyway.”

“I don’t give a crap.  Alls I know is I don’t want nobody taking my guns away.”

There were a few students who, although they did not participate in the mock election, still had passionate and intelligent thoughts regarding this election.  One student explained that he chose not to participate because our country is being run like a company rather than a united nation.  He pronounced that we must return to shared values of democracy and end the divisiveness.  He further feared Romney would not be prepared to lead a nation simply because he ran a business and our future president must not be a man with a “personal lust for fame and money.”

One young female student very passionately expressed her frustration with the high frequency of students who fail to form their own opinions and simply “spew out whatever rhetoric their parents have been feeding them.” She impressed me more than any other student who shared their opinion today.  However, she then confessed she would not have voted even if she were eighteen due to the Electoral College.

Of those students I spoke with, Romney emerged the victor.  I cannot offer you a clear explanation of this decision, as the students largely could not explain the beliefs behind their ballots.  When I inquired about their selection, many students replied to “Why did you vote Romney?” with either “I don’t know” or “because … just because.”  One sophomore female even told me it was because Romney “has a better name.”  Another sophomore male adamantly attempted to assure me that a Romney/Ryan vote meant lower gas prices.  Many students repeated the prevalent phrase, a cliché of campaign commercials, “Obama was given four years, and he failed to bring real change.  We can’t afford four more years.”

Some of the students had stances they strongly supported, such as one fervent pro-life proponent.  Another student was concerned about the impact that Obama’s environmental regulations might have upon her father’s profession in drilling.  Here’s the thought that went into most of the other decisions:

“My parents are voting for Mitt Romney.”

“Mitt Romney has a five point plan that will create jobs for everyone.  Obama only wants to create teaching jobs.”

“Romney will be better for the economy because that’s what the television said.”

“Obama doesn’t understand the principles of job creation and economics.  We need rich people to make the rest of us rich.”

 “I didn’t have a reason, so I picked randomly.”

“He’s more awesomer.”

The worst of this is not yet over.  I also discovered that some students were intentionally writing the name of their least favorite teacher in, hoping he would win and it would be a great, grand joke.  I was informed of this after I saw a few “Vote for Mr. -----“ signs hanging up around the cafeteria.  Most of the students found this funny, but one junior female was very angry.  She expounded, “The kids just made it a big joke.  It shouldn’t be funny. Politics aren’t funny.  The future of our nation is not funny.”  I fully agreed with her.

While the bulk of the students I spoke with favored Romney, Obama did end up winning our school’s total popular vote.  Not every student who voted for Obama was well-informed either though.  When I asked one student why she chose Obama, her face became flushed, and she stuttered out, “uhm … uhm … I don’t know.  Can you get back to me on that one?”  Another added, “Well, I do have some reasons.  I just can’t remember what they are right now.”

However, more Obama supporters could defend their selection.  This is a reality, and not just spin given my own political preference.  Although his vocabulary lacked a certain level of academia, one student so strongly supported Obama that he began pounding on his table and I needed to tell him to lower his voice as he defended our president.  “Obama’s the shit.  (If you don’t regularly talk to teens, know this is a good thing … kind of like being ‘a boss.’) He’s actually making a difference, and has a genuine concern for our future.  Further, he’s concerned about everyone, not just his buddies.  He cares about the lower and middle classes too.  He even cares about other nations and human rights.  That’s why, for the first time, other countries are doing as well as us because he gave them a chance.  I don’t want to elect a douche-bag (Romney) that lies all the time.”

Many of the Obama supporting students spoke to the value of education.  One junior female shared, “He is the president that will support our education.  Mitt Romney doesn’t.  Mitt Romney even said class size doesn’t matter and it’s about greedy teacher unions.  He won’t offer support or aid for college tuitions.  Some people don’t have a chance without education and aid.”

Another junior female added, “I like that he supports gay marriage.”  To this, the boy seated near her made a disgusted face and asked, “Dude, who do you know that’s gay? Who cares?”  I explained that they surely all know someone who is homosexual, but may not be aware of such as most high school students remain closeted.  “Well, I know I ain’t gay,” he declared.

Yet one more female student, this one a senior of age eighteen, shared that she voted for Obama in the real election because she supports universal health care and education, and feels threatened by the policies of Romney and Ryan that attack women’s rights through such policies as the elimination of support for family planning agencies.

The last comment I heard yesterday regarding the mock elections was, “It’s stupid. It’s pointless.  People were voting for themselves, or bad teachers, or characters on TV like SpongeBob Squarepants.  We don’t take these kinds of things seriously.”

I take these kinds of things seriously, though.  It is comments as the above that are a large factor in my decision to support Barack Obama, because to do so is to support education.  As I interacted with the students yesterday, it became immensely evident how much we must invest in education and strengthen public education.  I vote for intelligence, critical thinking, passion, and articulation.  Many of these attributes cannot be bred without good teachers, strong curriculums, and proper school funding.  I vote for a brighter future, and I vote for those students – even those who could not be moved to vote for themselves.

 

 

Author’s Note: At no point in my conversations with students did I ever indicate my own political preference, disagree with a student’s view point, or state who I was voting for (even when repeatedly asked).  I do not believe in swaying students to my particular political views. I do, however, believe, in encouraging students to be critical thinkers and become more articulate and well-versed when expressing their own views.

I Thought I Lost You

Author's Precaution: This post discusses sensitive material, and may contain triggers. The author respects your choice to avoid this post, but would encourage you to read as a means of honoring the unfulfilled lifes of unborn children, and recognizing the incredible strength of the many women who have suffered such loss.  Thanks!

I was in my seventh month of pregnancy. I exited the shower and felt liquid seeping down my legs.  I looked down to see a pool of blood on the cold tile floor beneath me.  I looked at my inner thighs, stained with blood that left a trail down my shins and curled around my bare toes.  I froze in fear.  I could not move an inch, but my body trembled and I began sobbing uncontrollably.  And then the sobbing became screaming.  I screamed and screamed at the top of my lungs, and didn’t know what to say or what to do.  I couldn’t even call to my husband for help.  I just cried and screamed until he heard me and came running into the master bathroom.

He looked at me frozen in my white towel, saw the tears rolling forcefully down my face, and then saw the blood that lined my legs and covered the tiles.  He looked back at me, and I saw the same fear on his face that I felt in my heart.  “Sam,” I barely managed to mumble out between muffled sobs, “Sam …” reaching out to hold his hand with shaking fingers. 

“Uhm … uhm …” he looked to calm me, “Sit down. Here. Sit on the toilet.  If you bleed anymore, it will end up in the toilet.”  Though he meant only blood, a horrifying image of my unborn infant’s twisted, lifeless body splashing down into the ceramic toilet flashed before my eyes, and my screaming became even louder.  This alarmed my daughter, who was playing with her tea party toys in the living room.  As Sam managed to seat me down upon the toilet, my beautiful tiny toddler daughter came running into the room, practically tripping upon herself because she ran with such determination.  Although she likely did not understand what the blood could have meant, fear was evident all over her face too – fear and confusion.  She fell to the floor by my bare legs, wrapped her tiny arms around me, and began to sob and scream just as I did.

“My baby! My baby! My baby! No! No! No!” was all I could repeat over and over and over, rocking back and forth on the toilet like a madwoman.  “My baby! My baby! My baby! No! No! No!”  with my born child watching me with worry and screaming in unity.

Sam just watched me for a while, himself frozen in fear, and then he spoke some inaudible words that I couldn’t fully understand, both because they sounded jumbled and foreign due to his stress, and much of what he spoke was muted out by the sounds of my blubbering and blaring shrieking.  He left the bathroom and returned with a phone in his hands, already discussing the situation with an emergency responder. 

I didn’t hear the sirens when the ambulance and nearest first responder crew arrived in our driveway.  I was still repeating those three words over and over. “My baby! My baby! No! No! No!”  My whole body trembled in fear.  I felt dizzy and panicked and couldn’t comprehend the situation I found myself in.  

The first responders introduced themselves, although I could not tell you a single name now because I had far bigger concerns than minding my manners and extending a warm greeting.  They moved me from the toilet to the bed, stating that it was safer to lie down – lie down and clench my legs together as tightly as possible, as though this would somehow keep my precious, unborn child in my belly where he belonged for eight more weeks until he could be delivered safe and sound.

Because I am bipolar and avoided my mood stabilizing medication due to the potential risk of birth defects, this pregnancy was already immensely difficult.  During the past seven months, I had suffered from the worst episode of depression I had experienced since eight years prior – when I was in an abusive marriage.  This couldn’t be happening.  Not me. Not my baby.  Not my beloved baby boy that I had prayed for so many nights.

They placed an oxygen mask over my tear-soaked face in an attempt to steady my breathing and calm my body.  As I also suffered from gestational diabetes, they checked my blood sugars and my rapid pulse.  They placed a towel between my legs to absorb any further blood loss, but I didn’t care if I might have stained the bed sheets.  I just cared that the life inside of me still existed and could live and thrive on the outside. 

They finally found a heartbeat.  Thank God they found a heartbeat.  I released a giant sigh of relief, but the fear wasn’t completely eliminated.  It was still weeks before his time.  I was taken to the nearest town with a proper pre-natal unit.  This was over two hours away.  I was contracting every three to five minutes.  I was given medication to ease the contractions and to strengthen baby’s lungs.  I was on complete bed rest, restricted to using a bed pan for my frequent urination. 

I will never, ever forget the fear I felt that day, but now my handsome, wonderful, treasured child is here.  Placed on bed rest for the remainder of the pregnancy, my child gave me one hell of a scare that day, but then he stayed in place until week 37 when he was delivered via C-section at a very healthy 8 pounds and 13 oz.  As I snuggled him this afternoon, I thanked the Lord for giving me such a precious life. 

My full empathy goes out to all those women who have suffered miscarriages or still-born births.  God does not love you any less because you can’t hold that child in your arms.  God still embraces you and that child, and he gave all of us beautiful little angel babies to light the way through our darkest moments.  Bless you for sharing your gift with the world.

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When Life Gives You the Shaft

“Mrs. Ryan! Mrs. Ryan!” the boy in the back of the cafeteria space bellowed during sixth period study hall.  I walked to where he was seated with little enthusiasm.  These are high school students, so why were they beckoning for me like brown-nosing tattle tale first graders? 

“What’s the problem Evan?” I asked, with my hands firmly planted on my hips and an expression that revealed I really didn’t give a shit.  I know how it sounds to say I didn’t care what the problem was.  However, once you’ve been in secondary education for some time, you can tell when there’s a real issue and when students are just being immature and irritating.  This was definitely a case of the latter.

The boy in the nearly thread bare black Hane’s tee shirt looked up at me with a strange little smirk on his face.  Clearly, he was more amused by the expectant reply than I was likely to be.  “Mrs. Ryan, Jake touched my nipple.”

 

Really? Really? Are you fucking kidding me?  This is the issue I was called over here for?  Did they think this would amuse me?  Did he consider it a serious violation of his body?  No, he did not, as both boys chuckled at this comment, but then looked quickly ashamed when they read the expression on my face.  I just stood there giving them a snarky look that spoke, without any oral expression necessary, “Why are you acting like fucking morons? Knock this shit off.” 

“Sorry, sorry,” both boys spoke in unison.  I walked away and continued to generate about the study hall space, ensuring students were on task and checking in with others to see if they needed any help.  Every student seemed to be relatively on task.  Yes, some of them were just doodling or checking their texts in between solving Algebra equations.  But, everyone was in their correct seats, no one was cursing, and everyone was awake.  Therefore, I went behind the desk to quickly check my e-mail as all was under control.

Then Evan was out of his seat, back on his feet, laughing hysterically, and kicking some object that I could not identify from my distance. I returned to his seat, but with a bit more rapidity this time.

“Evan.  What are you doing now?  You need to stay on task.   Study Hall is here so you can complete your homework.  Not jump and kick stuff around.  What was that?”

“It was just a pen,” he replied.  He then continued at an attempt to justify his jumping and kicking during a time when the students are expected to be studious, quiet, and on task.  “Well, Mark stole my pen Mrs. Ryan.  And then he hid it under his butt.  It was under his butt, so I was trying to pick it up with my feet instead of my hands because that’s gross.”

Again, I gave him a look that made any actual words unnecessary.  This look shut him up immediately, but the other boy seated at the table must not have read my face.  This is when Nick inserted, “Yeah, he used the pen like a dildo.”

I was silent again.  This time, however, it was not because my facial expressions spoke for me.  I was quiet because I didn’t know how to respond to this.  Me – the woman who has shit to say in almost every situation.  There was a few seconds of awkward silence.  I finally spoke to question, “Why in the world would you say such a thing?  And, to me?  I’m your teacher.  I’m an adult. What’s wrong with you?”

I didn’t wait for a response.  I don’t believe I was about to receive one either as the student who called a pen a dildo just sat creepily chuckling, his heavy shoulders bobbing up and down.  He continued to snicker as I walked slowly away.  The situation didn’t call for a detention or office referral.  It wasn’t one of those “teaching moments” that emerges and we must embrace.  It was just some dumb-ass shit to say because that is the way the mind of a teenage boy often works. 

When the sixth period bell rang a few minutes later, I was relieved to have a group of students that I genuinely hoped and believed would behave better as I have more upper classmen in my seventh period. 

I thought I was right.  Everything was going so much better.  The students were on task; they didn’t disturb me with ridiculous situations.  As I milled about the room, I saw students studying Economics, World Literature, and Calculus.  Calculators were out and pencils were busily inscribing notes and short answer responses to assigned texts. 

And then, with less than ten minutes left in the period, I heard “Hey!” and went to the table where one young teenage male was yelling at another and pulling his textbook swiftly out of the hands of the same student he addressed.  The textbook was properly covered in a grocery store bag and had “US History” written neatly in black Sharpie upon this paper covering.  The course identification had been the only writing on that book cover, until the moment that led to the yelling.  When I arrived at the scene of this incident, I was informed, “Mrs. Ryan, he just drew balls on my book cover.”

Indeed, there they were: a long cylindered shaft with two round circles above it.  I didn’t overreact and respond with anger.  Instead, I said nothing at first.  I simply picked up a pen, added two circles inside the “balls,” filling them in completely with ink, and then added an upturned smile below the sketch of a shaft.  “There,” I said. 

“Oh, now it’s just a guy with a really long nose smiling at me,” said the student whose textbook had been crudely victimized. “Okay, thanks.  It kind of looks like a cartoon.  I’m going to draw some hair on him.”

Good. You do that, now, you go ahead and do that.  The lesson here: When life gives you the shaft, turn it into a smiling face. Also, teenagers are just fucking weird sometimes, and you have to listen to McCartney and Lennon and just “let it be.”


Author's Note: All student names have been changed to protect individual rights.

I ate ALL the Candy

I LOVE Halloween.  I love it; it is easily my favorite holiday.  My Halloween decorations went up on September 16^th, although this year quite a few of them had to go back into their Rubbermaid storage containers as my nearly two year old daughter cried and ran away when she saw some of the skulls and other ghouls.  I think it’s the mystical energy that this holiday generates which makes it so appealing to me.  There’s also that element of fantasy that is incredibly fun, and which I totally embrace. 

I further revel in seeing all the adorable little children dressed up in their costumes – little girls as beautiful butterflies, unicorns, and princesses.  Little boys dressed up as their favorite super heroes – The Incredible Hulk, Captain America, and Thor (clearly the movie The Avengers had an impact on costume choices this year). My daughter was Little Bo Peep, and her three month old brother went as her little lost lamb.  They were melt-your-heart adorable.

She was a silly Bo Peep, and he was a shy Little Sheep

Living in the middle of nowhere, no trick-or-treaters come to our home.  So, I was completely, totally, enthusiastically thrilled when I learned that the kindergartners in my new district have a Halloween parade through the entire school – the elementary, middle level, and senior high schools.  I was ready for them with bags and bags of candy.  I sent a message to the kindergarten staff to ensure they stopped by my study hall space to collect their treats.

This was so much fun for me.  The kids warmed my heart.  But, there was still a problem.  I bought loads and loads of candy – loads and loads.  Therefore, I had loads and loads of extra candy.  And … I ate ALL the candy.  All of it.  There was an unopened bag of Three Musketeers bars that I had set next to the laptop while I type, and it was gone after two days of posts.  ALL of it.

I know many people that are concerned about gaining holiday weight over Thanksgiving and Christmas.  This is a common phenomenon.  I guess I just got a jump start because I have gained three pounds from Halloween to this date.  Friends and followers, I seem to have lost my will power.  If you encounter it, please send it back to me in a brightly wrapped package.  It will be much appreciated.  I don’t want to be writing a similar post after Thanksgiving called “I ate ALL the pie.” 

Quit Staring at me, Tortoise!

Recently, a teacher in our district abruptly resigned her position.  Somehow, her resignation led to my current possession of a tortoise named Big Al.  Yeah, Big Al, this one is for you.  Since you won’t stop fucking staring at me right now … I am dedicating a post to you.  Please stop creeping on me after I publish this post, you scaly little bastard.  If you like me on facebook over at Not Appropriate Angela, you know that this tortoise has been the bane of my existence since yesterday afternoon.

Big Al was housed in the classroom of the recently resigned educator.  As her employment ended rather hastily, there were piles of ungraded papers left behind … and a tortoise that had been given to her via some educator grant or similar donor.  After she left, our entire staff received a mass e-mail stating that Big Al needed to find a new home, and it needed to be somewhere NOT in the current building.  The district wasn’t playing; he had about a week to find a different residence.

 

Well, you know I’m a sucker for misfits of all sorts – but I also am totally creeped out by most reptiles. I am terrified of snakes, lizards, and those big dinosaur looking snapping turtle mother fuckers.  One time I encountered a snapping turtle on the road and it had all sorts of crazy scary spikes on his shell – like Bowser from Super Mario.  I ran like the wind away from that bastard.  Don’t judge; turtles are much faster than one would imagine.  I might have also screamed like a banshee, but I don’t remember because my mind blocked out most of this horrifying encounter.

I was torn.  I wanted to rescue the tortoise, but also dreaded him.  Therefore, I got my husband involved, and he agreed to house Big Al in his classroom.  However, my husband does not work in a traditional school.  He teaches at a juvenile correctional facility – that’s a fancy way of saying “kid prison.” His students are all criminals – and not “I stole a Gameboy and my mom is trying to straighten me out” criminals; there’s some “I stabbed my pregnant girlfriend to death” criminals there – really.  It’s a rough environment, but my husband has the perfect temperament for dealing with such students.

As they are locked up when not in class or counseling, the students aren’t witness to much wildlife. One time they found a frog while being escorted between their quarters and the school, and they were thrilled to have it in the classroom – until it died three days later.  I should add that it died of its own accord; no one shanked the frog or stabbed it with a pencil (although one of these same students had earlier stabbed a staff member in the throat with a pencil). 

I thought the tortoise would be beneficial for this particular group of students, and both my husband and his boss agreed.  The tortoise and those students share much in common – both have hard shells, and most were born into this rough exterior.  My husband picked up Big Al yesterday, ready to transport him to his building.  Then, he realized that Big Al’s home was a very large glass terrarium, and this is a problem.  This is a problem because glass is not allowed at this school due to its potential to be shattered and used as a weapon. 

Sam called his boss, and she told him to take the tortoise home for the weekend until she talked to the head of building security.  He was told he should be able to bring him in Monday, and I sure to shit hope that is true because this fucking tortoise keeps on staring at me while I write.  Furthermore, while I usually wish for the weekends to last forever, I’m actually looking forward to the week just to get this damn tortoise off my kitchen counter.

Last night, while I was attempting to write, he repeatedly banged his head into one tiny area of the cage.  He may have issues.  This is just one more commonality he would have with those students.  He would genuinely be wholly advantageous for these youth – who generally committed crimes because they never really had a chance.  But, he is NOT good for me – tortoise is creeping me the fuck out. 

Okay, Big Al, are you happy now?  I wrote a whole page for you! I even praised you.  I’m sure you’re actually quite a respectable reptile, but you do not belong on my kitchen counter.  You need to go because it’s never a good thing when I need to take an extra clonazepam (anxiety medication) because I got a tortoise creeping on me in my own home.  I know, I know, Big Al, it’s my own propensity for saving others that led to you looking at me right now.  But I saved you, so show some damn gratitude and quit staring at me tortoise. 

Blogging's Most Bad-Ass Bitches

Yesterday, Blogger decided it would be a good day to fuck me, and so it failed to function properly.  Therefore, I was unable to begin National Blog Post Month.  Despite Blogger being a bastard, I am trudging on.  I will not accept defeat even though Day One could be classified as an “epic fail.”  My resilience leads me to share one of my favorite quotes from Mary Pickford: “This thing we call failure is not in the falling down, but the staying down.”  If you are a friend or follower, you know that this girl always, always, gets back up  -- even when others would like to see me stay on the ground. 

There are a few folks that are always happy to see me rise again – and many of them exist within the blogging community.  When I first began blogging, I had no idea what a supportive group of individuals existed out there in the blogosphere. It’s been about three months since I started this journey, and nearly every day I’m discovering some great new voice or being discovered by a blogger who is already far more established than I.  There’s two fantastic communities that I owe much of this wonderful ride to – yeah write and Blogger Idol.  I had hoped to have my play at home link up yesterday, but you know … Blogger was being a bitch.  Blogger was not being a fun bitch like me either; it was a nasty bitch.  Yes, there is absolutely a difference. 

 

 

This week’s Blogger Idol play at home link is truly a tribute to the beautiful blogging community.  It began from the concept “Good Bloggers Pay it Forward,” and thus the assignment was to discuss and promote at least four of your favorite blogs – with one of those blogs belonging to an individual associated with Blogger Idol.  Because I always need to bend the rules at least a little bit, I’m focusing on five amazing blogs this week.  Furthermore, all these blogs are from intelligent, witty women that could totally kick your ass if it came to that.  I want these bad ass bitches on my side, so let’s begin:

#1.  I met Susannah Brown through yeah write, and I am absolutely certain that we would be besties in real life.  We already discussed buying those necklaces we all had in about sixth grade – you know the ones that are split in the middle and when placed together read “Best Friends,” and make everyone else feel excluded.  Susannah writes over at Whoa Susannah! (formerly Write, Rinse, Repeat) and she is one hell of a witty wordsmith with a colorful upbringing that left her with many unique characters.  Susannah also coined the brilliant term “Douche Zeppelin” for when that stoner ex-boyfriend was such a massive pile of shit that douche-bag doesn’t properly describe the full force of his asinine existence.  I love her for this! You would love her too, so be sure to check her out because her “self-worth is based on page views.”  

 

#2.  Elizabeth Jayne Liu is the most adorable thug you will ever meet in your life.  I feel fairly certain she hates me right now for calling her adorable, but I just want to squeeze her cuteness … and then we can go cut a bitch together.  Like me, Elizabeth doesn’t feel the need to filter herself.  She admits that she tried to stop swearing once, but this led to drugs.  Elizabeth is leaps and bounds and other big jumping kinds of words more popular than me, but I still want to plug her awesomeness.  She is totally hilarious, and also offers excellent advice.  Such advice is evident in her checklist to determine if you’re dating a mother fucker.  Liu poses such questions as “Do all of his ex-girlfriends hate the shit out of him?” Answer yes to any of the questions involved in this asshole assessment and Liu offers: “Run like the wind, bitch, run like the wind.”  If you aren’t already following her blog, run like the wind to Flourish in Progress and embrace (t)hug life with Liu.

 

#3.  This one is my required Blogger Idol candidate.  However, I would have recommended her regardless.  It’s the CheekyDiva – deep thoughts from a shallow mind.  You will know why I’m loving on this lady if you head over to her blog right now and read the current post heading: “Hey Dumbass – yeah you, listen up!”  I want to get shit-faced with this woman and shout insults at random strangers.  I think we had the same idea going into blogging.  She recalls her start-up like this: “ Me: I’ll start a blog. It will be the most bestest creation ever. All will read and bow down to me and I will have a book deal by the end of the first week.”  If you’re a friend or follower, this sounds far too much like me.  Does everyone remember when I sent a letter to Jenny Lawson (aka The Bloggess) at week six, whining: “I’ve been at this shit for like six weeks.  Why am I not wildly popular by now? What the fuck?”  The Cheeky Diva shares plenty of her WTF moments too, and they are all laugh out loud (really) hysterical. 

 

#4.  Mayor Gia is another blogger I discovered through the wonderful world of yeah write.  But, Mayor Gia doesn’t just write like the rest of us boring, tiresome fucks.  She is an amazing animator, and is guaranteed to have you laughing (yes, out loud).  Truth be told, my own spouse reads more posts from Mayor Gia than he does from me.  Expect to read my post about getting a divorce in the coming weeks (yeah, not really – I fucking love him, and who else would put up with my crazy ass?).  Anyway, let’s get back to Mayor Gia, who had the brilliant idea of adult trick-or-treating for alcohol.  This is another woman I want to drink with – but no wine coolers.  In the world of Adult Trick or Treat, Bartles and Jaymes is equivalent to pennies or rotten bananas.  She’s the mayor of her own crazy town, and sheriff too.  I wouldn’t mind getting in trouble with the law if it meant spending time with this bad ass babe.

#5.  Yeah … you guessed it.  I need not spread the love for her; it’s already out there – lots and lots of love.  Nonetheless, Jenny Lawson is truly an inspiration to me, and many others.  Lawson is an inspiration not for her blog alone, but for sharing her life with us – no holds barred.  I love that she addresses her anxiety and depression, letting us know we are not alone.  Such sharing and motivating is a personal goal of mine as well, through my writing and my every word and action in life outside the blogging community.  Lawson also allowed me to trust myself and be genuine.  Yeah, I said “fuck.”  So what?  I love Lawson’s phrase: “It’s only offensive to assholes.”  I embraced that shit like nobody’s business!  Like Mother Teresa, but better, if you’re not already all over that, you need to check out TheBloggess right this fucking instant!

 

And I also have to give a shout out here to my best friend, Angie.  Angie doesn’t blog, but she reads mine faithfully and encourages me constantly.  Angie read Lawson’s blog after Beyoncé (not Knowles – the giant metal rooster … you really oughtta know) blew up and went crazy viral.  She heard my voice in Lawson’s and recognized our similar personalities and struggles.  Thus, Angie felt I could write a popular blog too, and I never, ever would have embarked upon this journey without her.  So, thank you so much Angie! I love you to the moon and back! Thank you for believing in me.  You have helped me back up time and time again, and I am so blessed with your friendship! Heart icon. Smiley face.

#payitforward

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And, Blogger is still being naughty, but the links should work even if they are not properly highlighting.  I linked up the first mention of the blog title, not the individual author's name.  Do check them out -- for reals! These women are wonderful!!! (3 Exclamation Marks = You better believe that shit)