The Crappy Poet

I'm a twenty-something edging past newlywed and new dog owner. I run, write, I work. What else is there besides the struggle to overcome all of that and make something of myself...


Hello, My Name is 32B

There was a time when I considered introducing myself that way. Not in business settings, or to professors or anything, just at parties. I was in college, and it seemed suddenly my very common name was very hard to remember. Especially when those around me had giant memory-zapping bags in prime memory-erasing position; inside their tops.

I started off with much promise: once, at a slumber party in 5th grade we all compared budding cleavage and I was the biggest. I was a b-cup. I was out there, baby! But they stayed that way. At some point, b's just don't cut it anymore. Maybe for the big-busted girls it was completely different. But to me it seemed like it was the cup size that made the world go round.

Later I learned that my demure girls were actually protecting me from gropings, misplaced intentions, and my knack for taking people at their word. I was no match for the dating world, and my mammaries knew it. So I ditched the underwire in favor lighter, more comfortable support. I am much happier now. I don't know if it is age and wisdom, or simply a realization that hits you one day and makes you realize that you don't need big boobs. Nor would I even want them, as I discovered after finding the perfect push-up water-bra that does make me look bustier but also fatter. I think every D-cup on the planet would lust for the pleasure I get from coming home and getting to take those suckers off and leave them in the floor until the next time I need them to prop up a plunging neckline. It's priceless.

So with age comes confidence, I suppose, and the lack of a boyish desire for a big rack. To all the skinny pre-teens out there that sit at home wishing they looked more like a woman instead of their younger brother, relax. One day you will learn to love what you've got, and someone else will love them, too.

A View of the World from Five Feet Up

Here is a chronicling of all the life changing events in my world from Day One:

1979: Born

1985: Begin Kindergarden, swallow marble, live to tell.

1988: Begin writing poetry, write my first play.

1990: Edit first poetry collection for fifth grade class. Begin writing novel.

1992: Finish first novel, Chickens from the Mafia - A Muppets-meet-John Grisham-love-story-law-thriller.

1994: Begin running

1995: First boyfriend

1997: Sucked into first poetry contest scam

1998: Graduate high school, begin at Univeristy of Oklahoma, start novel

2001: Graduate college, no job, Sept 11th, start novel, begin first TV job

2003: Meet husband, who is intern at TV job, run first half-marathon, marry, move to Arizona to start better paying job, get first poem published

2004: Leave better paying job for job that keeps me from wanting to shoot myself, start novel, begin writing running club column

2006: How did I get here again?


What's in a name?

So, the all important question: Why am I the crappy poet? In my experience, both in college and out, I have never met a poet, in person, whom I thought was good. I have read a lot of poets I thought were crap. And although I have read not as many books that were crap, I know there are a lot out there. But it seems like crappy poetry is in proliferation. If someone writes a crap book, at least they can still say they wrote a book. A book is an accomplishment, no doubt. But it seems a lot of people feel like they can sit down and pump out poetry and it's pure gold. Well, sure, if you poop golden turds. Because good poetry is about as rare. Just because you write about something common in short phrases with adjectives that have nothing to do with your subject, and pause awkwardly in random spots doesn't mean you are a good poet. I know people who think that as long as it doesn't make sense it's great poetry. I had a friend once that thought she was a great poet, and I never understood any of her stuff until I found out she was cheating on her husband. Then it all became really clear: she wasn't as good (or ambiguous) of a poet as she thought. Her poetry really did make sense and it was all very clear. And very bad. I am very tired of poetry being reserved for either the very pretentious, or the very emotional. You don't have to wear black or speak Russian to enjoy it. You just need to not have quite enough time for a short story, and more time than for the back of a shampoo bottle.

Read my crappy poetry here. I have been published in some local journals, but none so fancy as to have items online.

Wedding Blahs

As we gear up for this year's wedding season, I am already officially done. Already. Every year I go through this. I am a totally bitter bride, and I don't know when I will get over it. This is because my mother ruined my wedding. And by ruined, I don't mean she ordered the wrong napkins, or was totally bitchy to my mother in law, or that she booked my second favorite band instead of my first favorite. I mean she hit her head on a table, knocked herself unconscious, and that was the best part. Maybe I will tell the story one day, although I have tried many times to set it down on paper and it never gets the same reaction as when I tell it. The most important thing is that my mother doesn't know I have a blog, so she couldn't read it. Because she thinks we have gotten to the point where we can all laugh about it now, and I'm still not laughing. I don't like weddings, I HATE those planning them, mainly because they have to work it into EVERY conversation.

Me: So what are you doing this weekend?

Bride-to-be: Oh my gosh! Me and my Fiancee are addressing "Save the date" cards! I wept when I got them in the mail. I mean, they have our NAMES on them.

Me: Cool. Uh, do you have a pen? This one just ran out.

Bride-to-be: Oh my gosh! I have to pick out a pen for the guest book!

Me: Wow. Lots of planning. Is the copier dead again?

Bride-to-be: Our babies are going to be exact copies of us!

Me: I think I am just going to go drop this off in person instead of mailing it.

Bride-to-be: I was thinking it would be so cool to have all the invitations had delivered, too!

I don't know if it's my experience that makes me hate these people, if single people hate them equally (I never noticed it when I was single) or if everyone finds them as obnoxious as I do. But wedding season is going to kill me. I am going on three years now, and I still can't take it!


Lessons Learned

I find myself really wanting to talk about work sometimes, even though by the fate of many a publicized ( read: fired) blogger, I know I can't. I wish you could crawl onto the internet and read all sorts of juicy things about the ugly underbellies of random companies, but that sort of thing is frowned upon for some reason. So instead, I will exploit my marriage. Here are some things I have learned in the first two years of marriage:

1. Certain behavior may be considered good if you are a girlfriend, but shitty if you are a wife.

2. No matter how hard you try to break the mold, you will do what your mom did, and he will expect you to do what his mom did.

3. Everybody Loves Raymond is funny.

4. You cannot avoid nagging. Even if you try to parody it, it is still nagging.

5. If he comes home late, you start dinner. If you come home late, you start dinner.

6. You will not go out anymore, because you no longer have to spend money under the guise of looking for Mr. Right. You will be boring. How you fall off the cliff of boringness AGAIN when you have kids, is beyond me.

7. You suddenly won't be able to sleep until he comes to bed.

8. Look before you pee.

9. You can't pretend like you sleep in sexy nighties forever.

10. Marriage is no excuse to look like shit on the weekends. (Thanks, Mom!)


Personal Space

This weekend, my husband and I were sitting at a table outside of the sanctuary at church, in between service and bible study when a lady came up to us and began talking to us. "not hungry this morning, huh?" She said. Most people sitting outside (it is January, but this is Tucson) were enjoying breakfast of some sort. I told here we had each had a cookie. She began talking about how long she had been coming here, and how she and her husband met, and I didn't even know her name. Then the thought crossed my mind that maybe she was "a little off" or "not all there" or one of the other hundred euphemisms we have for mentally unstable people. And why did I think this? Because she just came up and started talking to us. And we didn't know her. At church, of all places, and I immediately assume that she is retarded or something. We finished the conversation, gathered our stuff and headed over to bible study. We both thought the entire incident was weird, but we had no reason why. She was obviously a normal, but friendly person who had killed some time making conversation with strangers. Is that all it takes these days?


Two Roads Diverged in a Yellow Wood

I am trying to figure out what is going to be my main thread of conversation here. From the blogs I have read, the most successful tend to pick a topic or aspect of their life and really stick with it. It makes sense. I am in media, and when you write for a show or advertise in one, there is always one big question: Who is your audience? Once you get one, you have to target them or you lose them. So I have to pick something. I already feel somewhat boxed in by the title, because I hate when I go to a blog and it's nothing like the title indicates. But I think it's cliche to write about being a writer. Obviously I am, or I would have no interest in a blog. I already write about running in our club newsletter. I'm no yoga expert, and that is kind of a boring topic anyway. What about the puppy? That's new...but is it sad that the puppy is the most exciting development in my life right now? I mean there are a million mommy blogs, but having a kid is a big deal. They actually grow up and go wild or go to college or jail and do stuff. No dog can match that. I'll think about it though, if only because it gives the opportunity for sucker pictures like this one:



I feel a little late to the party...I mean, I vaguely remember a professor talking about blogs my last year of college. But I ignored her. Then it sounded like some whiny, dear diary piece that egomaniacs put on the web because in all of their delusions, they think their life is more interesting and readable than anyone else's. And then, one day, I stumbled across while searching for something celeb-related. After getting hooked on their hilarious rips of irritating Hollywood stars and reading all the archives, and hungry for more witty writing in-between posts, I stumbled on And the Random Muse. And Jensylvania. Here were 3 distinct, funny, intelligent BLOGS. Some of them even had book deals, spawned in some cases, merely by someone running across their blog and discovering
that-GASP!-an ordinary, non-famous-or-relative-of-famous person can write--well! And be funny! I was inspired.

So although I am not hopelessly hip and my archives (I don't even HAVE archives!) don't go back to the early '00's, here I am. Trying to write every day. Trying to chronicle those moments in my life that might be mildly funny to someone trying to escape the tedium of their day. Trying to work through my own issues. Trying to keep anyone in my family from reading this. Trying to make sense of my life as a post-newlywed, new dog owner, runner, writer, daughter and sister, and figuring out just where that puts me in the grand scheme of things. And maybe one day someone (besides me) will see that I have some talent for just that.