Being Recruited

Guess what.  It’s Recruit day.

Guess what else.  It’s my 999th post.

And I’m giving it to Erin.

I have absolutely no idea how mine and Erin’s paths crossed.

I am pretty sure it had to do with The Red Dress Club since she was a fantastic participant around the time that I was over there. She wrote my absolute favorite fiction piece ever Pink Doughnut Perfection…it is heart breaking and just wonderful writing.

She is awesome.

She is the beautiful Jewish mom to three (twins plus one) and is working on writing a book.

I feel pretty confident that she is the perfect person to give my 999th blog post to.

Read on…


re-cruit [ri-kroot]
1. a new member of a group, organization, or the like.
2. a fresh supply of something.
3. a newly enlisted or drafted member of the armed forces.

When Katie asked me to be a Sluiter Nation Recruit, I was elated and surprised. I checked my calendar twice to make sure it wasn’t April Fool’s Day. It wasn’t. So then I moved on to the next phase, FEAR.

Because when I think of being recruited for something, I remember the trauma of junior high and high school, when my lack of athletic ability reared its ugly head. Just like the giant zit that took up permanent residence on my chin. Every day was scary.

I self-consciously changed into my PE uniform, surrounded by girls who already had real bras with real breasts to go in them. The locker room was always stuffy from sweaty bodies, and the spray deodorant made it humid and hazy to boot. I choked on the fumes and took comfort crouching in the same small corner. I turned my back, avoiding everyone, hiding my concave chest and trying to squash the dread about the impending “draft.”

A gaggle of girls standing on the football field looking at the team captains. Said captains oozing confidence, ability and superiority. Name after name was shouted out, followed by shrieks and squeals and long legs running to join one of the teams. Someone tossing a softball around. The clatter of bats as they hit the ground. The PE coach dropping the rubber bases at their worn out spots in the grass. And me, digging the toe of one of my Keds into the dirt, begging to disappear. Me. Always, ALWAYS one of the last two or three to be reluctantly recruited. These types of memories are typical when I think back to high school. Shame on those teachers and coaches. They should’ve just counted us off to form teams so that we could’ve maintained some dignity.

Thank goodness this isn’t 1994 anymore.

And fortunately in BlogLand, no one is ever last or alone. There are so many of us, an infinite number of blogs and writers; it’s not just Dooce anymore. It’s an honor and a privilege to be a Sluiter Nation Recruit today, and guess what? Katie is going to be posting at MY place this Friday! But if you feel lost/last in BlogLand, remember these things:

Put yourself out there. Facebook, Twitter, Google+, etc.

Reciprocate when possible.

Reach out to someone in some way.

Spread the (bloggy) love.

Pay it forward.

Write a guest post. Be a guest poster. Offer yourself up. Beg. Bribe. Be funny.

But most of all?

Be you. Be authentic. Tell your story.

Don’t strive to be someone you’re not just to be recruited. It’s okay to admire other bloggers and aspire to be like them in some ways; but it’s not okay to lose yourself, pretend or put on a false facade.

After all this, I’ve realized I’m not last anymore. I’m not standing there all alone feeling like crap.

I’ve been “recruited.” I’m surrounded by all of you lovely bloggers, writers, and people I’ve come to call my friends–even if we haven’t met in person yet.

Thanks to you, I’m getting a second chance. I’m making more memories. Better memories. For the first time, I’m a part of something big. Something real and true and fun. And I love it.

Thank you, Katie, for letting me share my heart here today. And for “recruiting” me.


Aw, Erin.  I love having you here.

And YOU should go find more of Erin!

Read her blog (especially on Friday…ahem): The Road to My Writer Roots

Follow her on Twitter.

Like her on Facebook.