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Every morning my obnoxious alarm goes off. Blinded by daylight, I slap it a couple of times and stumble to the kitchen. I stand in front of the open refrigerator door, drink milk straight from the carton, and grab a hard boiled egg. 

I love cold hard boiled eggs so I make them on Sunday afternoon and put them in a container ready for the week. It adds to my mindless routine. I love mindless in the morning. 

But one day it was different. Saturday morning, my siblings decided to get together. Early. Really early. They know I don’t do early, especially not on Saturday. Early Saturday in Deidra time means I’ll be 2 hours late. Whatever time you set.

To help me with this, they decided to meet at my house and for my convenience, they let themselves in. They’re really thoughtful that way.

An issue arose during the early morning gathering which has forced me to issue the following warning.

To the person who replaced my boiled egg with a frozen egg,

I’m narrowing the suspect pool. The noose is tightening. Feel my breath on the back of your neck as I close in. In the words of the immortal wicked witch of Oz.

“I will get you and your little dog too.”


But, I don’t see it.


- (6)

I was in an accident yesterday and hurt my side. If I turn the wrong way, I feel like I can’t breath. When asked, the doctor suggested that I not wear a bra for a while, YEAH BABY!

How to sum up the first day post accident?

The codeine’s …   …   …   …   …   …

That pretty much says it.


In fifth grade English, Mrs. Barnett use to give us a picture from a magazine and had us write a story about it. To this day, I still find this fun. Person, place or thing, what’s the rest of the story?

Is she good or is she bad? Was she jilted on her wedding day? There are no rules, whatever you think is the right answer.

Shall we play?

I was told I’m evil, a child of the dark. The light say I may be innocent now, but eventually I will kill and destroy just as my ancestors have done.

Until a few months ago, I thought there were only humans and I was one of them. I didn’t even know fae existed, light or dark. Now I’m hunted, already judged and sentenced because of what, not who I am.

I’m one of the last dark fae. I can’t let them execute me. But if I fight the light, will I fulfill my dark destiny?

What’s her story? Tell us your version.

 


After hours of shopping, I was trying on slacks in a brightly lit dressing room. Finally, I found a pair that fit perfectly.  Tight enough in the right places and not too loose in others.

When I stepped out of the dressing room to show my friend, she said, “You have the ass that could rule the world.”

I’ve been considering what she said. Maybe I could rule the world.

Then I realized there’s already enough asses ruling out there.

P.S. I have a break in my contract, so I’m planning on writing for the next 4 to 6 weeks or whenever we get called back.


I’ve been playing around with the length of my blog posts. I usually write short posts. I tried creating longer posts. 

My last post was about fake cowboys. It was the long version. Here is the shorter version.

You Call Yourself A Cowboy?

Here’s my message to a couple of guys on my flight back to Texas.

If you paint your boots with puffy paint, you are not a cowboy. If you bedazzle your belt to match your puffy painted boots, maybe you best stay home.

If you have bling on your jeans, skip the rodeo. If you need to tie your hat on, don’t wear it. 

A real cowboy fills his jeans with an air of freedom and a bit of wilderness. He strides confidently in worn boots. More often then not, there’s a little stubble on his chin. 

He doesn’t bedazzle or puffy paint anything. He tips his hat to the passing ladies, no strings necessary. 

I loves me a cowboy. All pretenders need not apply.

So which do you prefer, this post or the next?

 

 


The airplane was so tiny, it could be called a sardine can. my fourteen inch wide carry-on was banging against the seats as I dragged it behind me. I had become intimate with the two seat on the left, one on the right commuter plane. Even at my diminutive height of five foot two, I managed to smack my head on an over head bin. Up until now, all super small planes I’d flown on were short and wide, not super narrow.

This must be how sailor a submarine feel. I do loves me a man in a sailor uniform. But that’s another story.

As I was fighting with my recalcitrant case, banging along after me.  A ray of hope entered the darkness. A cowboy booted foot protruding out in the isle. A cowboy, too tall for his seat. Cowboys always offer help to a woman in distress.

As I slugged closer to immediate help, I notice a harlequin pattern painted on the boot. My stomach began to sink. When I got close enough to realize it was puffy paint, my stomach hit bottom. And not just puffy paint, he had bedazzled his belt to match his boots. This was no cowboy, it was a fauwboy (a faux cowboy).

He didn’t offer to help me with my case. He didn’t even look me in the eye.

Hot and sweaty, struggling down the isle I continued. Then I saw another ray of hope, a cowboy hat way in the back, near my seat. In the row so far back, if they’d have to strap me in the toilet to get me any closer to the rear of the plane.

My seat was finally in reach. Someone would help me heft my case into the overhead bin. I turned with  a forlorn look of desperation. His hat was tied to his head with strings. STRINGS TYING ON HIS HAT. This was no cowboy.

Cowboys do not paint their boots, bedazzle their belts, or need to tie their hats on. Cowboys wear worn boots, real leather, silver belt buckles, jeans without bling and finally, cowboys know how to treat women like ladies.

This is why I loves me a cowboy.

And a sailor

Any man in military uniform.

Firemen.

Texas Ranger, which goes without saying.

And …

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