This is the second installment in my Blogging by a Dummi series wherein I document my quest to become a better blogger. I looked for guidance from the greatest of sources: Ye Olde Internet. The first suggestion I found was that I should blog more. Today, I tackle the second.
Suggestion 2:
Develop a Voice!
What that means for non-writer types is that my writing needs to be recognizable as mine even if my name isn’t attached to it. I think I’ve done that. Right? Granted, my for reals writing sounds much different from my “bloggering.” (Professionally, I only use Pig Latin.) Not sure how I would describe my blog voice except the rambling you might hear from a person at a party who’s holding a red Dixie cup with their name on it, misspelled, and sitting uncomfortably close to you on a leather couch. They just go on and on and you smile thinking, “Bless her heart, she’s so drunk.” Except, I’m not drunk. Never been drunk. Can you imagine? I can’t! I'm absolutely ridiculous in sobriety!
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| A snapshot of the unfortunate incarceration. |
Case in point: I ran from a security guard in college once, making a mad dash for the dorm through the parking lot way past curfew. (Yes, some colleges - especially private Christian ones - have curfews.) It was dark out but I had to run under street lights and knew he would see me. So, I disguised myself by stuffing my shirt so that I might appear buxom. My thinking was that he would describe the girl as busty thereby taking me off the short list of short suspects. This made complete sense to me and I was completely sober.
Here’s something else that made sense to me in college while sober: playing chicken from the university security detail in my car! I drove by the security office door, yelled, “Hey George, ya booger picker!” BTW, the guy’s name wasn’t George. I called all the security guards George.
So, I yelled, George emerged and I tore off Steve McQueen style in my … wait for it… ’85 yellow Cavalier. I wish I could say I was alone in this venture, that I did not drag anyone I loved down the slippery slope of stupidity with me. But, there were three others in the car. We were whooping and hollering like we were fresh off a Dukes of Hazard reunion tour.
George made chase, God bless him. I let him just about catch me in an empty parking lot then spun around and doubled back. (I learned to drive at 10 years old, people. No joke.) Folks heard the racket and walked out of the dorms. From the balconies, students were cheering - not sure for whom. Then they started telling George that we had gone different ways. “No, George, they went that way.”
Finally, security got close enough to get my tag number and I knew I needed to pull over and face the music. I had seen Cops. Once they get your tag, it’s over. So, I stopped the car and we all got out, walked to the front, leaned over and put our hands on the hood. (Told you I had seen Cops.) About that time I heard somebody on the balcony yelling, “peanuts, popcorn…” I’m not kidding you on any of this. This happened. I’m not proud of it and honestly, I wish I hadn’t even started telling you. But since I did…
George got out of his car, flashlight in hand, shaking. He didn’t have a weapon. Again, this was just campus police. He came up and said, “driver, I want your license, I want your student ID…” Then I turned around and he said, “Oh Lord, it’s the Jamboree Hostess.”
Ok, I need to stop here. Once a year our college had a recruitment weekend wherein different clubs put on musical shows. It was pretty fun. Between shows, hosts would come out and sing to give everyone time to change the sets on stage. The faces of the hosts were front and center a lot and after the show, they spoke with a lot of high school recruitment prospects. You had to try out to be a host. I tried out. I made it. I was kinda known for it. So, for me to be pulling a shenanigan like I had was as scandalous as seeing the Wendy’s girl spray paint a gang tag on a Chick-File drive thru. While wearing booty shorts.
After George got over his initial shock of seeing my fall from grace, he took all our student IDs. We then were sent to the dorm parents’ apartment. That was as close as he could get to a late night sequester I guess.
He marched us in, told the “dorm dad” what we had done. Papa Stauch (dorm dad) took it gravely. He assured George he would take care of things and shut the door. Then, he commenced to laugh so hard I thought he might wet his pants. If I’m not mistaken, he was the one who took the “mug shot” I have posted.
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| I'm not one to name names...but left to right that's Clancy, Jenny, Me and Emily. |
I went to the Dean of Students' office early the next morning. I was kind of a regular there and knew I better fess up before the dean read the report. When I came in he smiled at me. When I sat down, he, Herman, knew something was up and gave me a look over the top of his glasses. (If you are trying to imagine him, think Johnny Cochran but shorter hair and less tolerance for "jack-assert". Former Marine Corps. interrogator...I KID YOU NOT!)
The Assistant Dean was called in and the two read the official incident report. The assistant, Carl, looked up and said, "It sounds as if some drinking was involved!" Nope. Not a drop. It was all, 200 proof, me.
As a result of my sober actions, we were all “dormed.” We could leave to go to class, the cafeteria and church. Otherwise, we had to be in our rooms. I believe I set the record for longest “dorming” ever even surpassing a guy who threw poop in somebody’s heater vent. It would have been a shorter sentence but I had a case of wanderlust and just couldn’t stay put. I might have even gone on a date. Or three. Probably four.
So, there’s my writing “voice.” A drunken rant from a gal who can't even use that as an excuse. I apologize.
This is why I probably have no business having a blog.
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