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Posts Tagged ‘writer’


I have recipes from my great aunts, grandmothers and even great grandmothers. Many are really good. I don’t use those. Just as may are a bit weird if not down right crazy. 

For all of you foodies, I would like to introduce a recipe from my great aunt who was quite the entertainer.

WARNING: Do not try this at home. But if you do, let me know how it turns out.

She called this little ditty the Backwoods Sandwich Loaf. I found it in her What to Serve Men section.

It starts with a loaf of unsliced bread. Cut lengthwise into 7 layers.

On the bottom layer, spread mayonnaise and cheese spread. Place bread layer on top.

On this layer spread tuna salad. Place bread layer on top.

On the next layer spread mayonnaise, tomato slices, salt, pepper and, you got it, next bread layer on top.

Next layer, egg salad. I think you’ve got the hang of the next bread layer …

Add mayonnaise and deviled ham.

Up until now you’re thinking – What up with you, Dee? It’s a little weird but still edible. 

But wait, there’s more.

On the last later, add mayonnaise and peanut butter. Yikes.

Though I’ve laid eyes on this wonder, I’ve never tasted it. You wouldn’t catch me eating a cheese spread, tuna, egg, tomato, deviled ham, peanut butter sandwich. 

 

Besides, it was served to the men in the wood paneled den.

And as a young female, I was served in the pale blue formal livingroom. We dined on Melon Americans or Frosted Sandwiches. 

I don’t know where she came up with the names.

 

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What would you write.

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But, I don’t see it.

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- (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.

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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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I’ve managed to break another tablet. I mention this since it has been a while since I’ve posted. I travel during the week and use my tablet to stay connected. I managed to break this tablet, by plugging my cell phone charger into my tablet.  Not that this had any thing to do with drinking whiskey straight. It happened during the airport apocalypse. I can assure you there was no whiskey involved in that incident though I think it couldn’t have hurt.

I stay at a hotel in Sioux Falls with a secret club on the ninth floor. You have to know about it and then beg and whine to get access. Since I’m a superb whiner, I was granted access the second night. Persistence, squeaky wheel, you know the drill…

I was given a key card to swipe on the reader in the elevator.  This allows you to reach the hitherto inaccessible ninth floor run by Charlie, a lovely older lady. Charlie’s an interesting character. She use to be a manager with the hotel before she had a brain aneurysm. She has some memory related issues but other than that, she’s in tiptop shape.

At this point, you’re thinking where does the whiskey come in. The attraction of the secret club is an open bar and free food. They serve an entree and what I call bits and pieces, cheese, nuts, shrimp and the like. And did I mention the open bar is free. The Ninth Floor began to remind me of gangster movie, which led to drinking liquor straight.

I would step up to Charlie’s bar and say, “Whiskey, straight.”

Her brows would wrinkle and she would say, “Really?”

I replied, “Yeah.” Like a gansta says yeah.

She would shake her head like we hadn’t been through this the night before and pour the cocktail. I grabbed it, downed it and slammed the glass back down. The mostly male audience was impressed. And I would go about my evening.

Recently I went in for a checkup. My doctor is a tiny thing, even shorter than my five foot two self. This doctor makes grown men quake, even other doctors.

I have a policy “Be bad, but don’t lie about it.” So when she asked, You’re a moderate drinker, right?

I replied, “Yeah, mostly. Except for the whiskey, straight, only one, a night.”

She stopped and turned. I’m sure she assumed I would have a different answer.

“What you mean?” she asked, looking at me over her glasses.

“I found this club. The drinks are free. One thing leads to another. You know.”

The diminutive doctor comes over. Patting my arm she said, “Just because it’s free, doesn’t mean we want it.”

Now when a bartender asks me, “Want something to drink?”

I replied, “Nah, my doctor told me to stop drinking whiskey straight.”

Which gets about the same reaction as drinking whiskey straight.

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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.
“Yes.”
“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.
Dee

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