My So-Called Teen Life with Vintage Photos and Bad Poetry
I am not good at directions. I turn the kids' Christmas presents over to my husband for assembly. I think Chutes & Ladders has too many rules. I get lost driving home from the grocery store.
My inability to follow directions carries over into my blogger life as well. There are these chain-awards out there that instruct recipients to link things, answer questions, nominate people, and provide urine samples. While it's always nice to be nominated, I'm just way too lazy and unfocused to follow through.
The same applies to blog hops, blog challenges, and weekly prompts. Yet when one of my very favorite people in the whole world, Andrea from Maybe It's Just Me, personally asked that I participate in the My So-Called Teenage Life Blog Hop, I couldn't say no.
The premise was pretty easy, but the humiliation potential was limitless. I needed to locate some of my high school poetry and share it with the world. I was also encouraged to include a photo from those wonderfully big-haired high school years:
|Me and my date, "George Glass."|
Next up was the poetry. This was even more painful than my 12" hair. I would like to preface the following work with a request that readers still visit the blog even after enduring quite possibly the worst iambic pentameter EVER.
At the time, I thought I was a genius. It was for a sophomore year homework assignment. It might have even been for extra-credit because I was just that big of a nerd.
The Life of Riley
-Marianne aged 15
Every day I eat my Cherry Pop Tarts
and race outside before the bus departs.
Heading to first hour geometry -
I botched my proofs, please do not call on me!
At gym I've lost my uniform again,
I'm no mental threat to those three wise men.
I am so sick of reading "The Jungle."
And yet there's still my paper to bungle.
Every day, it is exactly the same:
I've got ugly braces, my clothes are lame.
My friends all seem to walk a path of clear,
while I'd rather skip this entire year.
The kids I babysit for are so gross.
No babies for me! I've had my full dose.
Finally, I find some solace at night,
here in my Raggedy Ann room, I write.
I take careful note of all good and bad,
figuring my English teacher quite mad.
Iambic pentameter grade's unknown.
My GPA? Most definitely BLOWN.
Why I did not receive more college scholarships for such obvious poetry talent is beyond me. My thoughts now? I still like Pop Tarts, I was a whiny teenager, and I hope all my early English teachers know what a wonderful impact they made on my life.
So there you go, Andrea. And remember: Bloggy pay-back is a bitch. Stay tuned.
|The sole vestiges of my high school room are now proudly on display in my sons' bedroom. The boys, for whatever reason, don't seem to like them.|
For more of Marianne, visit We Band of Mothers or check out her new book, Epic Mom: Failing Every Day a Little Bit More Than You on Amazon.