Posts Tagged ‘food’

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What would you write.

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But, I don’t see it.

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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.


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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.


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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?



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What did I last post? Have you ever had that thought? You couldn’t quite remember the last entry on your blog.

I thought, Maybe I haven’t been posting as often as I should.

I mulled this over for a while and started to feel little queasy. No, surely not, That was preposterous.

There must be some other reason  for my memory lapse.

Perhaps I was ill. Yes, of course that must be it.

I toddled to the bathroom cabinet and took my temperature. No no fever. I rubbed my hands against the sides of my neck. No, no swollen glands, no sore throat, stuffiness, or aches and pains. Nothing to indicate illness.

But if not illness, then what?

It must be those airport scanners. I fly twice a week. The scanners probably wiped my memory.

What did I have for dinner last night? Trick question, I didn’t have dinner I had a giant peanut butter chocolate Easter egg. 

I remember my Mother’s maiden name, the French I learned in 5th grade, and the color of my first tricycle. Damn it. Memory intact.

What else could it be? Was I neglectful? No. Was I lazy? We’ll come back to that one. Did I loose my snappy repartee? No, it couldn’t be. I dismissed them all.

By now you might be thinking – “Why doesn’t she just look at the date stamp on the post?”

No, I won’t. I refuse. It’s like time traveling and seeing yourself. It might rip the space-time continuum apart. No I must figure this out for myself. 

Then it hit me. My new best friend, Bernie, she works in the bar at the hotel where I stay. She was shocked that I can drink whiskey straight up. I start every evening with a complimentary whiskey. That’s it. It doesn’t have anything to do with time. Of course I posted often enough. Of course I’m responsible. Of course I honor my commitments.

I must have been drunk when I last posted. That’s why I can’t remember what it was about.

P. S. I’m still refusing to look at the time stamp.


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If you remember from my last post, one of my colleagues keeps talking about a stalker who is  always cruising the airport when she arrives in Sioux Falls. We both get here late in the evening. She arrives on Sunday night and me on Monday. The flights are always late so she can arrive any time between 10:30 and 2:30. So how does this guy know when she’s arriving?
To recap, when she gets to the parking lot, a guy in a white and green van is waiting. He pulls up and asks if she wants a ride.  I decided to take care of the situation, so we arranged to arrive together on Monday night.
We arrived at 11:00 pm. We went outside. The wind was blowing a million miles an hour and it was freezing. But what should I expect it is South Dakota. I was trying to stop the wind from working its way down my coat collar when my colleague, Cutie said, “Here he comes.”
I turned, she was right a van was slowing beside us. It was indeed white and green. The guy inside lowered the passenger side window. “You want a ride?” He asked.
“Are you talking about this van?” I asked, Cutie.
“The one that says Holiday Inn? The one the hotel sends to pick us up?”

Mystery solved. Though cutie is still convinced the driver has a thing for her.

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My lifeline to the internet broke. So I’ve been off the rails for a bit until I could get a replacement.
So I’ll be catching you up on the latest in traveling news.

See you  Tuesday.

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I’m sure you will be pleased to know Miss Dairy Princess was crowned last night. The stress has been lifted and the country gives a collective sigh of relief, we can now start thinking about world peace.
I can’t report anything more specific since the tickets cost twenty bucks and there wasn’t an open bar. I checked.
Tonight, the mood has shifted as there’s a military banquet. Think men in uniforms roaming the halls. I loves me a man in uniform. Okay, okay, I loves me a man. Tomorrow night I’ll be back home.
Tata till then.
P.S. Panty report. They’re chafing.

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