It's Not My Fault

When I was in high school I was told I needed to do 2 things. One was work for Hallmark Greeting Cards. The other was become an English teacher. I was also voted most likely to have a top 40 hit somewhere in the future. Let's tackle that one right off the bat. I do love to sing and I was brought up doing it. And in my small Arizona town consisting of a McDonald's and one movie theater, the collective idea that I could be famous someday based on my rendition of 'Open Arms' seemed completely reasonable. After all, my only competition on 1985-ish radio were Cyndi Lauper, George Michael and that lead singer for the Bangles. Of course there was Whitney, but since she has no equal you can't really factor her in. Thus I figured I could handle George and the nasal girls. But then in the early 90's I moved back to my Texas roots, and what they say is true. Everything here is bigger, and the talent is no exception.

That brings us to option one above, teacher. While I am known as the Grammar Queen amongst my family, (and it's a title I wear proudly) and I do pay entirely too much attention to how people misuse their apostrophes, I can think of plenty of other things I'd rather do besides diagram a sentence, and the fact that this sentence hasn't ended yet tells you that I'll employ poetic license over that run-on rule every time.

Onward to the greeting cards. This was suggested by all my BFF's because I wrote poems every time there was a life-altering event in any of our lives.  In high school, that usually meant 2 poems every day. Before lunch.

So while you'll probably never hear Ryan Seacrest say my name, and you won't see my cheesy poems on any cards, and the only people to whom I'll be teaching English will be my children (and my husband who has a language all his own), you will, should you choose to glance at it, see this blog. My blog. My outlet for all those pent up feelings I've apparently felt the need to write about for most of my life. Before the Internet, my sister told me I needed to write a newspaper column. Well, they never called either, so here we are. My column. I titled this first one in honor of said sister, who grew up hearing me say those words probably as often as I wrote poems. "It's not my fault." You see, she and all those BFFs and teachers in high school made me think I was some kind of writer. It only took me a couple of decades to think they might be on to something, and now that I do, we can all blame them.

I all ready have the title for my next entry. I won't give it all away, but I will tell you it involves duct tape. And not in a good way.