Pioneer Woman and my Uncle Leon-syllable counting sonsaguns

As part of my daily blog reading, I hopped over and read the Pioneer Woman’s website.   A couple of days back, she wrote a few haikus about the man who makes her hiney tingle.  Immediately, she reminded me of my Uncle Leon.  Not because they both live in Oklahoma, or not because they’re both old hippies, but they are both haiku writers.  I figured if PW can write haikus, then I can too.  Except I can’t really write haikus. So I took the liberty, (hope you don’t mind uncle), to pop over to my Uncle Leon’s Facebook page and click older posts, older posts, older posts a bajillion times until I compiled a sampling of his genius.



The sound of metal
The neighbor’s old weathervane
Makes pointing circles


What was snow covered
That left me sneeze-free for days
Now its’ not again


Snoozing on my couch
Under the ceiling fan drone
Chakra chimes jingle


the little old man
wonders of his existence
counting syllables

It’s like he has a Haiku-0-rama on his page.  People wish him happy birthday in haiku.  Friends respond to his posts in haiku.  Then the other day, he posted this……

For the truly insane. Write a Haiku poem, where the first letter of each line makes a three-letter word.

Why should we do this?
He doesn’t know the answer
You must help him now.

And boy did the haikus flow in.


Haikus aren’t terribly hard to write, unless you’re me.  Simply put, they are  3 line poems following a 5-7-5 syllable rule.

Here is my best effort:

Write me a haiku

In the comments underneath

You might win a prize!

This below is not a haiku, but just something I love and a bit of inspiration for all you poets out there!

You’re a poet and don’t know it,  but your feet show it.

They’re Longfellows.

Have fun, and remember 5-7-5!


My 47 Things

Do you ever feel like you’re surrounded by junk, and clutter, and crap?   Have you ever considered cutting back on the “things” that fill your home and your life? Recently I visited a blog link that my cousin sent me called, where this guy lives with very little and travels around the world making money from his blog.  When he started he owned 57 things, but now claims he does not count his things anymore, but continues to live out of a bag.   This idea may have been born from the 100 thing challenge that you can read about on, he actually has a family so does not count shared items on his list.    Anyway, the idea is to live with very little. 

I began to wonder if I could live with 50 items.  So before I read the posts on what the 50 or 100 things were, I took a piece of paper and began writing down what I needed.  I began this project kind of with a “stranded on a deserted island” mentality, or “if I was living on the streets” mentality, but hopefully I never am.

I thought about what “things” are important to me, what is a necessity to me, and what makes me life easier.  If they fit the categories, then I added them to the list.

Really, I wish you would try this.  I had interesting findings.  Just get a piece of paper and start listing 50 thingsyou need in your life.  Or 100.  Truthfully, by the time I got to number 47, I was walking around the house looking for something to write down.

Here’s my list below, but before you read it, try it for yourself first.  It only takes about 3-5 minutes. 

Come back when you’re done.

But before you go…..let me give you a couple of rules that I didn’t know when I made my list.

Evidently minamilists get to count things like socks and panties in one group and don’t have to count them as each individual item.  I listed each panty separately when I first created my list, so I actually did some adjusting and ended up with less than 50.  

Oh, I must preface this with a disclaimer or three.  This list would only work if I did not have a job, or have to be in the public at all.  Because of course, I didn’t list make-up, dress clothes or stilettos, which I wear on a regular basis {joke, insert laughter here}.  Disclaimer #2—I’d be doing laundry every 3 days.  Disclaimer #3—I’d practically be like a homeless person living out of a bag, Disclaimer #4—I’m not doing this, just thought I would see what I would need if I tried.  One “radical” commitment I have made however, is to buy NO new clothes for the entire year.  The. Entire. Year. Yikes.


1.  Bible

2.  toothbrush

3.  toothpaste

4.  hairbrush

5.  Medication/Vitamins

6.  Jeans

7.  Jeans

8.  Jeans

9.  undies

10.  bra (but if I’m not working or going in public much, this is negotiable)

11.  t-shirt

12. t-shirt

13.  long sleeved shirt

14.  sweatshirt

15.  sweatshirt

16.  jacket

17.  socks

18.  tennis shoes

19.  coat

20.  boots

21.  pencil

22.  notepad

23.  shampoo

24.  deodorant

25.  soap

26.  towel

27.  washrag

28.  bed

29.  sheets

30.  pillow

31.  spoon

32.  fork

33.  knife

34.  bowl

35.  plate

36.  cup

37.  pot

38.  skillet

39.  camera

40.  blanket

41.  gloves

42.  lantern

43.  ponytail holder

44.  first aid kit

  45.  And just because I have room on my list, I’m going to say laptop

46.  and cell phone

47.  Pajamas

And I still have some wiggle room, especially if I was going for 100 things. 

This isn’t a lot, but I think it’s enough.  If you have a family, it’s going to be harder, but you could even consider going for 100 things per person.  The hardest part of this for me would be getting rid of my memorabilia or sentimental possessions. 

Okay, so tell me now, what does your list look like?

Cattle Prattle

My  husband thinks after 6 years of marriage, I should know all things cow related.  Here’s our conversation today (in a nutshell). 

Me:  I think I’ll get a mule.

Him:  Why?

Me:  Why not?


Him:  I rode a mule once, it was a good sonab****

Me:  Isn’t a mule a cross between a horse and a donkey?

Him:  Yes

Me:  What are boy and girl mules called?

Him:  I think they’re called  Johns and Mollies. 

Me:  I thought they were jacks and jennys.   

Him:  Those are donkeys.  There are chickens and  roosters and hens.

Me:  (greatly confusticated, which is just my made up word, so don’t try to look for it in the dictionary.  You won’t find it.)  What’s the difference between a chicken and a hen?

chicken and hen----no difference

Him:  Nothing.  That’s what I’m trying to say.  (He begins to use his hands, as I’m a visual learner.  He puts his hands together in a group)  There’s chickens.  (He checks in to make sure I’m following him) And then there are roosters (hands to the left) and hens (hands to the right).  Like there are people. (hands in a group) And there are men (hands to the left) and women (hands to the right).  

I’m catching on ever so slowly.  My glazed-over look is beginning to diminish with just a glimmer of spark returning to my eyes.  Then he continues:

cattle and cow----no difference

Him:  There’s cattle. And then there are bulls and cows.

Me:  Don’t forget heifers and steers!

Him:  (closing his eyes and shaking his head)  That’s different. 

Me:  I’m confused.

Him:  I don’t understand why you don’t get this.

Two hours later and I’m  still scratching my head.

Never doubt there are awfully important conversations occurring in this household. 

World-changing conversations.

Just a few minutes he called to irately inform me that he cannot buy a 12 ounce aluminum can of Dr. Pepper at the Allsup’s convenience store.  They sell bottles in all sizes, and a six-pack of cans with a sign that reads “Do not break the 6=pack”,  but not a single serving can of Dr. Pepper is to be purchased.  So he went to a Taylor Mart convenience store and the same situation presented itself.  What is this world coming to? 

I think we’re heading to Washington to protest on the White House steps or march on the Pentagon.

Prosperity and pee-pee

Have you seen the new movie Lottery Ticket?

I haven’t.  And don’t laugh, but I want to.  I’m sure it will be dumb, dumb, dumb, and I will be filled with movie remorse like I always am when I pick out bad movies, which I always do.   It’s a gift of mine.

In case you haven’t heard of the movie, here’s the trailer for it.

 I’d like to think that if I won the lottery I would have a tad bit of self-restraint and not go spending my money like a wild boar hog. 

A few days back,  it was flying around the rumor mill here in my little town that someone won a million dollar scratch-off from the gas station at the Walmarts.  Then lo and behold, it was confirmed on the news.  The fellow chose not to have his name released.  Which makes him a pretty fart smeller. 

I remember watching a documentary of lotto winners and what happened to them after the madness of the moment.  The ones on this documentary are all dirt broke today.  Poor people just don’t know what to do when handed a wind-fall like a lottery win.  They start  buying boats, houses, cars, jets, taking trips, drinking fancy wines.  And then they must deal with all the people who come out of the woodwork with their hands out.  Before they know it, they’re back to being broke and often times in more debt than before they won. 

Which reminds me of my dogs. 

This is Drew Miller on the left, named by my niece after one of her pre-school friends.

The one on the right  is Grace.

I like this picture because it just shows the guilt on their faces.  They’re always guilty of something.

They are probably the two stupidest animals on the planet.  They are “outside” dogs, and for good reason.  They’re  hairy and hyper.  I would like to think they’re house-broke, but last night they proved me wrong.  When the weather gets downright brutal, we let them come in.  Drew cannot really be trusted, (he’s a chewer) so we shut him up in the bathroom.  Grace is more trustworthy and obedient, so she sleeps in the closet, by choice.  The last time they came in, my husband, J-Dub found dog dookey in the living room the next morning.  It belonged to Grace we know, since Drew was locked up in the bathroom.

Last night, we let them in again, and Grace went and peed right behind Jason’s chair where she had laid claim as her potty spot from the last cold snap.  As soon as Drew got a whiff of that, he hiked his leg and peed right on my husband’s recliner.  He didn’t even try to sneak.  He just out and out peed on the chair.  Right before his eyes.

Needless to say, I figure they got pretty chilly last night.

My husband’s famous words, “They can’t handle prosperity.”

Just like a poor boy with a winning lotto ticket.

Making Your own Baby Food

A recent motto I’m attempting to sink into my soul is “use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without!”

Today I want to tell you about my  frugalicious friend and neighbor Revelle. 

She is doing something that makes me happier than a coondog on a bare leg.

Let me tell you about it.

But first, you must meet her precious 5 month old, Jaxon. 

He was smiling at me right before this, I promise. 

I think he likes me, don’t you?

For all the moms out there who are wanting to say no to consumerism and save some bucks, with 30 minutes and a food processer, Revelle will show you how.

She is making her own baby food for this little solid-food eater.

A jar of sweet potatoes in the grocery store runs about one dollar per jar. 

Instead, she bought 3 sweet potatoes for $2.36.  She baked them, peeled them, and cut them up.  Then put them in a food processor and pureed them.

She then poured them into these little ice trays with lids and froze them.

She was able to make 40 one ounce servings for $2.36.

Math has never been my best subject, but I know that figures out to saving some serious moolah.

Plus it’s fresh and made in your own kitchen with your own germs.

And that’s as good as it gets. 

Unless you add butter.

And marshmallows.

Journey to the Land of Less is More Mile 3: Just Say NO!

 About seven years ago I lived in a small 2 bedroom house on a busy street named Somerville.  It was a little tan house with dark brown trim.  There was nothing fancy about the place.  It didn’t have a garage, or a second bathroom, or a fireplace, but it had a quaint porch.  It was an extension of my living room.  My dad bought me a wooden rocking chair from the Cracker Barrel.  One morning I went out to sit in my chair, and nearly busted my tailbone.  It had been thieved in the night.  Some low-life had crept upon my porch in the dark and stolen my rocker.  I felt violated.  And my dad bought me another second one.  He said he hopes whoever stole it gets a splinter in their butt when they rock in it. 

I had my sister’s porch swing hanging from the edge with a garland of sunflowers twisted around the chains.  I had a few plants, a decorative flag that hung from a pillar, it was an inviting place.  I sat on that porch every evening, every Saturday, every Sunday, watched the cars drive past, and waved at people I knew.  And some I didn’t.  Friends and family would come and sit with me.  We’d swing or rock and visit.  It holds good memories, even if I did get my rocker stolen.

Also in that house there was a small pantry. Just two doors that opened up with narrow little shelves.  Inside those doors I hung my “pantry emails”.  The emails that touched me.  The ones that really made an impact. The ones I wanted to read.  And read again. 

I began blogging in November of 2008.  I really do not remember why I started blogging, except for needing a place to write my thoughts and stories down.   My very first blog post was a copy of a “pantry email” entitled Great Advice.  I reread it today, and decided to camp awhile on advice number four.

 Say No to projects that won’t fit into your time schedule, or that will compromise your mental health.

In my journey to the Land of Less is More,  I want to unclutter not only my surroundings, but also my time.  After reflecting on how I am spending my time,  I found some places to say No.

To my house I say No!  No to the pointless cleaning that only dirties itself up again. 

To the book I am reading, I say No!  You are mediocre, and not worth my time.  I hope you turn out well.

To the barking dog next door I say No!  Although you are not a project, my mental health is on the line here.  You. Will. Stop. Barking.  Although I cannot state how as it may be used against me in a court of law.

And  to my sister Jolea, my exercise partner, my FIRM buddy, I must say No.  No to the workouts.  No to the jumps and the squats.   I am 2 workouts behind schedule.  I don’t want to do it.  And it is making me fatter.

By this I mean the exercise, not the box of 24 packages of Rolos I’ve eaten since Christmas.