I made it home too late last night to post. The evening was enjoyable as it always is when I spend it with other writers. We feed off each other. Last night, the panel was about writing strong girl characters. You know, like Hermione Granger in Harry Potter. Sometimes you forget what it was like to be a twelve year old, until someone else writes a story or a poem about an experience, and then it all comes back. I distinctly remember the gym suits we were required to wear. Short sleeved, short legs and they snapped up the front. They were maroon, not a particularly flattering color on a pale white girl. We were forced to jump over horses, and if you were short and couldn’t get your butt in the air to clear it, you were written up. I remembered everyone being embarrassed to take a shower in front of other girls in that crowded locker room where everyone was trying to avoid infringing on someone else’s privacy. Most of us were budding at the same time. One of last night’s poems was about just that. I remember my seventh grade teacher, we called her the wicked witch, because her hooked nose made her look just like the actress who played that part in the Wizard of Oz. This was the same teacher who when President Kennedy was shot, commented, “I never liked the man.” I went home and told my mother, and she wanted to punch my teacher in the face. Sometimes, I wish I were that twelve year old girl again. When boys were even weirder than we were, and you had your whole life ahead of you. Maybe I’m just feeling nostalgic because I have a birthday coming up soon and a high school reunion this fall. And, yet I wouldn’t change my life if I was asked to relive it. I may have taken the road less traveled, but I always arrived exactly where I was supposed to be. I’m grateful too, that I was one of those strong girl characters who turned into an even stronger woman.
I can’t believe it. After spending four hours at the car dealership last week to have the emissions tested with the smoke machine for a leak, and damn if the light didn’t come back on yesterday. It’s mocking me, is what it’s doing. It’s like the little red plastic tongue on the treadmill machine that sticks itself out at me every time I climb on. I give up. At $3.55 a gallon for gas, you’d think my car could show a little more respect, wouldn’t you?
My friend’s boyfriend says he’s going to Vegas by himself for some rest and to take a break from work. Yeh, I bet. Hmmm. Tell me why he needs to go alone. You know what they say, “What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.” I’d break his friggin head, ask him what happened, and then tell him to stay in Vegas. I’m just sayin'.
I can’t believe it. After spending four hours at the car dealership last week to have the emissions tested with the smoke machine for a leak, and damn if the light didn’t come back on yesterday. It’s mocking me, is what it’s doing. It’s like the little red plastic tongue on the treadmill machine that sticks itself out at me every time I climb on. I give up. At $3.55 a gallon for gas, you’d think my car could show a little more respect, wouldn’t you?
My friend’s boyfriend says he’s going to Vegas by himself for some rest and to take a break from work. Yeh, I bet. Hmmm. Tell me why he needs to go alone. You know what they say, “What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.” I’d break his friggin head, ask him what happened, and then tell him to stay in Vegas. I’m just sayin'.