Why I’m Keeping My Day Job

I’m a daydreamer.
My mind is my playground.
While others live in reality, dealing with real problems and situations that arise, I stick my head in the sand and daydream. 
At work, I fantasize about home.
At home, I fantasize about vacation.
On vacation, I fantasize about looking great in a bikini.

One of my recurring daydreams involves me being a writer.  You know, someone who actually gets PAID to write.  I envision a leisurely workday of steaming coffee on the desk, sitting at a computer, not interacting with people unless I choose to, while beautiful, moving, riveting stories flow from my fingertips and land right smack dab on the bestseller list.  I usually have this fantasy during the school year when I have a class full of darlings pulling on my skirt tails, tattling because someone cut them in line, while their forefinger is buried in their nose up to its knuckle.

But I must say, this summer alone, I have learned that I do not think I have it in me to be a writer or anything else that doesn’t require punching a clock and a puposeful task to complete.    I am unmotivated.  I cannot make myself do anything.  Shaving my legs is a chore these days.   I realize my blog has been rather quiet and I offer this explanation.  My life is boring and I’m lazy.   There. 

I yearn for interaction.  I haven’t left my house in days.  I doubt my car will start on Sunday when it’s time for church. 

My days oscillates between watching the Casey Anthony trial and working jigsaw puzzles, with lots of lying on the couch and eating in between.

One constructive task I do each day is the evening chores.  But two days in a row, I left the door open to where the alfalfa is stacked and the horses wandered in and were having a hayday (no pun intended).  After running the horses out, and shutting the door, my husband gently reprimanded me.  “Are you firing me?”  I asked hopefully.  “No,”  he replied, “if not for the chores, then you really would do nothing all day.”

Here’s to summer!
But when does school start? 
I need a job.
And a bunch of kids pulling on my skirt tails.

 

 

Friendship

Because I’ve {almost} told you every sordid detail of my life.

 Because I haven’t trained my chicken to beat me in Tic Tac Toe.   Yet.

And because I have no great picture of afterbirth to share, I am relying on dailypost.wordpress.com for a blogging idea tonight. 

Topic #136  How do you decide who to be friends with?

Friends.  Deep sigh. 

I am an earthling with few friends.  I could count on one hand with 2 fingers removed how many true blue, to the core friends I have. 

I would not say I decide to be friends with people, I would have to say friendship happens.  Almost like love.  You fall into friendship.  Usually because of similar interests and/or endearing qualities. 

It would be easier for me to relate who I decide NOT to be friends with, but I will do my best with the topic at hand. 

I can sum it up with one characteristic.  Well, two.

The characteristics I find most endearing in others are genuineness and authenticity—Know who you are and be that person.  To illustrate, here’s a story called the Yay-Yuck Man by Max Lucado.

Bob loved to make people happy. Bob lived to make people happy. If people weren’t happy, Bob wasn’t happy. So every day Bob set out to make people happy. Not an easy task, for what makes some people happy makes other people angry.

Bob lived in a land where everyone wore coats. The people never removed their coats. Bob never asked “Why?”, he only asked “Which?” – “Which coat should I wear?”

Bob’s mother loved blue. So to please her he wore a blue coat. When she would see him wearing blue she would say, “Yay, Bob! I love it when you wear blue.” So he wore the blue coat all the time. And since he never left his house and since he saw no one but his mother, he was happy, for she was happy and she said “Yay, Bob” over and over.

Bob grew up and got a job. The first day of his first job he got up early and put on his best blue coat and walked down the street. The crowds on the street, however, didn’t like blue. They liked green. Everyone on the street wore green. As he walked past, everyone looked at his blue coat and said, “Yuck!”

Yuck! was a hard word for Bob to hear. He felt guilty that he had caused a “yuck” to come out of a person’s mouth. He loved to hear “yay!” He hated to hear “yuck!”

When the people saw his coat and said “yuck,” Bob dashed into a clothing store and bought a green coat. He put it on over his blue coat and walked back out in the street. “Yay!” the people shouted as he walked past. He felt better because he had made them feel better.

When he arrived at his workplace, he walked into his boss’s office wearing a green coat. “Yuck!” said his boss.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Bob, quickly removing the green coat and revealing the blue. “You must be like my mother.”

“Double yuck!” responded the boss. He got up from his chair, walked to the closet, and produced a yellow coat. “We like yellow here,” he instructed.

“Whatever you say, sir,” Bob answered, relived to know he wouldn’t have to hear his boss say “yuck” anymore. He put the yellow coat over the green coat, which was over the blue coat. And so he went to work.

When it was time for him to go home, he replaced the yellow coat with the green and walked through the streets. Just before he got to his house, he put the blue coat over the green and the yellow coats and went inside.

Bob learned that life with three coats was hard. His movements were stiff, and he was always hot. There were also times when the cuff of one coat would peck out and someone would notice, but before the person could say “yuck” Bob would tuck it away.

One day he forgot to change his coat before he went home, and when his mother saw green she turned purple with disgust and started to say, “Yuck.” But before she could, Bob ran and put his hand on her mouth and held the word in while he traded coats and then removed his hand so she said, “Yay!”

It was at this moment that Bob realized he had a special gift. He could change his colors with ease. With a little practice, he was able to shed one coat and replace it with another in a matter of seconds. Even Bob didn’t understand his versatility, but he was pleased with it. For now he could be any color anytime and please every person.

His skill at changing coats quickly elevated him to high positions. Everyone liked him because everyone thought he was just like them. With time he was elected major over the entire city. His acceptance speech was brilliant. Those who loved green thought he was wearing green. Those who loved yellow thought he was wearing yellow, and his mother just knew he was wearing blue. Only he knew that he was constantly changing from one to the other. It wasn’t easy, but it was worth it, because at the end everyone said, “Yay!”

Bob’s multicolored life continued until one day some yellow-coated people stormed into his office. “We have found a criminal who needs to be executed,” they announced, shoving a man towards Bob’s desk. Bob was shocked at what he saw. The man wasn’t wearing a coat at all, just a T-shirt.

“Leave him with me”, Bob instructed, and the yellow coats left.

“Where is your coat?” asked the mayor.

“I don’t wear one.”

“You don’t have one?”

“I don’t want one”

“You don’t want a coat? But everyone wears a coat. It.. it.. it’s the way things are here.”

“I’m not from here.”

“What coat do they wear where you are from?”

“No coat.”

“None?”

“None.”

Bob looked at the man with amazement. “But what if people don’t approve?”

“It’s not their approval I seek.”

Bob had never heard such words. He didn’t know what to say. He’d never met a person without a coat. The man with no coat spoke again.

“I am here to show people they don’t have to please people. I am here to tell the truth.”

If Bob had ever heard of the world truth, he’d long since rejected it. “What is truth?” he asked.

But before the man could answer, people outside the mayor’s office began to scream, “Kill him! Kill him!”

A mob had gathered outside the window. Bob went to it and saw the crowd was wearing green. Putting on his green coat, he said, “There is nothing wrong with this man.”

“Yuck!” they shouted. Bob fell back at the sound. By then the yellow coats were back in his office. Seeing them, Bob changed his colors and pleaded, “The man is innocent.”

“Yuck!” they proclaimed. Bob covered his ears at the word.

He looked at the man and pleaded, “Who are you?”

The man answered simply, “Who are you?”

Bob did not know. But suddenly he wanted to. Just them his mother, who’d heard the crisis, entered the office. Without realizing it, Bob changed to blue. “He is not one of us,” she said.

“But, but,…”

“Kill him!”

A torrent of voices came from all directions. Bob again covered his ears and looked at the man with no coat. The man was silent. Bob was tormented. “I can’t please them and set you free!” he shouted over their screams.

The man with no coat was silent, “I can’t please you and them!”

Still the man was silent. “Speak to me!” Bob demanded. The man with no coat spoke one word. “Choose.” “I can’t!” Bob declared. He threw up his hand and screamed, “Take him, I wash my hand of the choice.”

But even Bob knew in making no choice he had made one. The man was led away, and Bob was left alone. Alone with his coats.

A Gentle Thunder, Max Lucado, 1995,

“A friend is someone who understands your past, believes in your future, and accepts you just the way you are.” —I didn’t say that, someone else did.

Mumbo jumbo

If you could see me as I write this, you would find me sitting in my car in a McDonald’s parking lot (I heard they have free wi-fi), partly killing time before I go to a teachers banquet, and partly trying to blog about nothing.
I missed blogging Sunday, Mother’s day, the easiest day of the world to blog. I mean there isn’t enough paper in the world to contain the words that could be written about dear old Anne. So I didn’t blog Sunday and it bothered me badly.  I don’t want it to happen again. 

Rush, rush, rush.   That’s what I do lately.   And I’m not even a mother.   I don’t know how they squeeze it all in.
Mumbo jumbo.  That’s what is going through my head.
Theres a few things I want to tell you that will not make a hill of beans in anybody’s world but mine. But my head is full of jumbo mumbo or mumbo jumbo.
1.   I just ate a Twix.
2.  There are 4 dirty coffee cups and 2 empty coke cans in my oh so meticulously clean car.
3.  Admitting I have a caffeine addiction is step #1.
4.  I took a huge risk today and let my chickens out of their chicken pen to wander here and yon as they please. They may all be dead when I get home.
5.  I’m about to eat bar-b-cue and then I have to stand up in front of my peers and read a tribute I wrote to my dear friend and co-worker who is retiring.
6. I’m feeling sick to my stomach.
7. I recently, accidentally turned my hair blonde. Its not a good look.
8. Mumbo jumbo.
9. Rush, rush, rush

10.  My toes are wrinkly.
11. There’s only 13 more days of school.  Can I get an Amen?

Glad I got that all off my chest.  I’m feeling much better now.

Angel vs. Life

The Postaday challenge that I unofficially signed up for on January 1st is kicking my butt right now. I’ve managed to post a blog everyday for 109 days.  Some good, some awful.  I fear I’m boring my readers to tears with chicken antics and doggy drivel.

Do I credit writers block?? No, I don’t think that’s what it is at all. I contribute it to a lack of time.  Time to think.  Time to sit and reflect.  Time to be me.

Each day my blogging is becoming harder and harder. 

I recently read an excerpt from a story in the New Yorker about writer’s block.  It was entitled A Cure for Blocked Screenwriters and it told of a writer who had a case of writer’s block.  After a year and a half of producing nothing, he went to visit a therapist named Barry Michels.  The therapist gave him some advice:

Michels also told the writer to get an egg timer. Following Michels’s instructions, every day he set it for one minute, knelt in front of his computer in a posture of prayer, and begged the universe to help him write the worst sentence ever written. When the timer dinged, he would start typing. He told Michels that the exercise was stupid, pointless, and embarrassing, and it didn’t work. Michels told him to keep doing it.

Well of course you probably know how the story ends.  In no time, this writer had a script written and a movie being filmed.

I haven’t ever set an egg timer, but I do pray.  Not to the universe, but to a real, living God who hears me.  I ask him to help me write words that are meaningful, that glorify Him, that will touch other’s lives.  And after I hit publish on each blog, I try to remember to send up a very feeble thank you. 
 
I tell you all this because what I really want to say, without sounding whiney, is that I’m struggling.  Life has me beat right now.  I’m sitting in my corner of the boxing ring gasping for air, blood is running down from the cut above my eye, my opponent named Life is pumped up in his corner opposite me, hopping around.  He can’t even sit still.  The last round was his.  My trainer is squirting water in my mouth, towelling the sweat off my shoulders, and telling me to lead with my left, to keep my hands up.   Except all I desire to do is crawl through the ropes of the ring and leave the fight.  Forfeit.  The only reason I don’t is because of the crowd.  I don’t want to be booed.  
 
I want to quit blogging and I don’t want to quit blogging.   If that makes any sense at all. Writing gives me peace and joy and I really, really love it.  But it is the last thing I do each day.  Which sometimes, in my tired state, can feel like drudgery.  It’s last not because I want it to be, but because so many other responsibilities take precedence.  Except God.  He actually is coming completely last in my day.  I have it all mixed up I know.  And I know how to fix it as well.  But I need some help.  If you pray at all, would you say one for me tonight?  Would you ask for help with my fight? 
 
My time out is over.  The bell is sounding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding.  The next round is beginning.  So I will rise from my seat, jump around a couple of times, walk to the center of the ring, and touch gloves with Life.
 
I may not come out the Champ, but at least I’ll come out.  
 
 
 
You can read more of the New Yorker story mentioned above, below: http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2011/03/21/110321fa_fact_goodyear#ixzz1K1UJLzqj

Winner, winner, chicken dinner

Today was a windy day.  I went to put my hat on and it didn’t fit.  I think my head is swol up over all your compliments on yesterday’s blog.

Good grief!  My intention was not for you to leave me comments about me or my blog, but you’re cool like that.   I thank you all for the sweet words.  Really, I mean that.

You rock.  Plain and simple.

************

I took all the names from yesterday’s comments, put them in a box, turned my head, ran my hand around a couple of times, and drew out a name.  And the lucky winner is:

#6—-Leon!!!

Leon has been my fan probably the longest.  He was one of my first readers way back when I had a different site, and one of my first commenters, and oh yeah, he happens to be my uncle, brother and best friend of my dad. 

 

Congrats Leon!!

********

 I got 3 suggestions in comments yesterday for chicken names:  Bob in memory of my dad, Bookworm, and Sassafras.  I am taking all of them to heart.  I can’t guarantee that I can remember who is who, but I’ll try.  All these chicks look the same.  Except some are black, some are yellow, and some are black and white.  But besides that, they all look the same.

Customer Appreciation Post

Today I just want to give a shout out and let you know how much you mean to me.

Yes, you.

You make me want to do this every single day of my life. 

Even when I’m tired.  Even when I’m hungry.  Even when my brain is a pile of mush and the thoughts I think shouldn’t be shared with others. 

As I write this now, I see you.  Your faces, your comments, your encouraging words are swirling in my mind.

It isn’t always easy.  For instance, I’m in the process of changing addresses.  I was supposed to get internet service last Saturday at my new house.  You know how that goes, “Your technician will be out sometime between the hours of 8:00 a.m.  and next Friday.  Please have someone available during this time.”  As if I don’t have a life.  Okay, okay, I don’t have much of a life, but geez.  Anyway, the technician was supposed to be there on Saturday from 8:00-12:00.  So I woke up early on Saturday, (which should be against the law in the first place), and sat around in the quiet to wait for him.  Around about 8:35, I received a phone call from the company telling me that my technician called in sick.  Really?!?!  I wasn’t buying it, I’m sure he was probably hung over, or fishing.  They said they couldn’t have anyone else come out until Wednesday.  Not wanting to take time off from work, I rescheduled my appointment for tomorrow.  Another Saturday to wake up early.  This inconvenience in internet has meant that each day after work, I have come to my old house to blog.

On Wednesday, WordPress (this blogging site I use) had technical difficulties.  I had written a post about my house I’m moving from and memories from my dad in the house, but when I went to click the publish button, I got this error message stating no changes could be made and how they were working very hard to fix it, but to keep trying.  

Because I committed to doing a “Postaday” challenge, and because I am a little bit obsessive-compulsive when I make commitments (except exercise) this went against my grain and ruffled my feathers.  I had problems.  How was I supposed to publish a blog post with technical difficulties?  How could I try later when I don’t have internet at my new house and I needed wanted to get home?  How could I live with myself if I broke my “postaday” commitment to myself and the handful of readers that I have?

As much as I hated to do it, I waved the white flag and posted a status update on Facebook that read:  to my blog readers: My blogging site is experiencing technical difficulties. I don’t have internet at my new place, and I’ve got chickens to tend to, so there may not be a blog posted today. Please don’t eat rat poison. Or dance a jig.

I didn’t expect to hear much from my Facebook friends, but instead I got this: 

(Suzanne)   WHAT?!?!?! I DON’T THINK YOU SHOULD DO THIS!!!!

(Michelle) Ack…..I knew it was only a matter of time before the chickens took the place of your loyal & faithful fans!! 😉 enjoy your evening Angel!!

(Donna) ahhhh, I so look forward to them.

(Lena) Ok double blog tomorrow

(Lara) What will I read tonight??

(Sheryl) :-/

 (Jennifer)  Aww man, I was looking forward to it. 😦

(My sister Jolea, as if there is any other) What??? Nooooooooo!!! You must blog now…:/

(Linda) aww snap!

(Jay) I don’t think that was the deal!

I wish words could express how wonderful this makes me feel.  To know that my writing matters to someone out there  inspires me, encourages me, and uplifts me.  It makes me trudge ahead. 

Needless to say, I got a post up that day.  Not because I’m awesome, but because you are. 

I want to let you know how much you mean to me.  I want to give you something back in return for  the commitment you’ve made to read my ramblings, which aren’t even half good half the time.  But you stick with me anyway!

I’m going to have a small give-away to one faithful reader.  All you have to do to enter, is click here, print this form, fill it out, make sure and state your mother’s maiden name, and the last 4 digits of your social security number, have it signed in front of a notary, in blood, and witnessed by a celebrity on a deserted island.

That’s all.

No really, just leave me a comment here on my blog (not on Facebook).  Be clever, be cute, be serious, be snide.  I don’t care.  Tell me what you like to read, what you hate to eat, what I should name a chicken.  Anything.  I just want to hear from you.

In exchange, I’ll randomly choose one of you for a $25 Visa or Mastercard or something-like-that-gift card.   Accepted at lots and lots of places in the nearest 3 blocks. 

It’s not much.  I wish it could be more.  But I’m just a poor, broke cowboy’s wife schoolteacher with 14 mouths to feed.  Chicken mouths, but nonetheless mouths to feed.

I’ll announce the winner tomorrow after my internet is installed at noon.  Better make it afternoon, well sometime between noon and midnight. 

Waiting to hear from you and hoping for a sober technician…….

Goulash, Grandparents, and Regret

Last night I attempted cooking, which in and of itself is a feat.  I can honestly say, of the things I have been complimented, cooking is not one of them.  There are people who are renowned simply for being a good cook.  If their name comes up in conversation, people’s eyes roll back in their heads as they utter the words, “oh, she’s a good cook, Have you ever tried her carrot cake, she can make the best homemade rolls I’ve ever tasted.”  Etcetera, etcetera. Blah, blah.

Not me.  Okay.  It’s not something I’ve ever learned to do or really enjoyed doing.

Last night, my little drummer boy husband grabbed his drumsticks and headed out to play a  gig, so it was just me and my niece Ashlynn at home. 

I wanted goulash.  J-Dub doesn’t like goulash, but I love it.  Mind you, I’ve only ever had one person’s goulash in my entire life, and that was my grandmother’s.  If she ever used recipes for cooking, I haven’t the foggiest as to where to locate those.  So when I searched the internet for recipes similar to her goulash, I was met with an assortment of crap.  Crap, I tell you. 

Obviously, goulash is a Hungarian dish, not a southern poor man’s dish as I always thought.  The  recipes called for ingredients that I’m sure my Grannie never had in her pantry at any time, like Rotel for instance.

So I text my sister, and she immediately texts back with a bunch of rigmarole ingredients for so-called “Grannie’s Goulash”. 

I had an idea that she was crazy.  Mustard really?  So I called my Aunt Bert (my Grannie’s daughter).  She thought it was a little this, and a little that, and maybe some of this. 

Well that seemed closer, but it just wasn’t good enough for me.  I need a recipe!!!  I need to know how much of this and that. I operate in teaspoons and tablespoons, people.

I returned to the internet, and googled Southern goulash.  Recipes popped up with okra in them.   Who in the world puts okra in their goulash???? Huh?  Huh?  Just answer me that.   Next I googled Old-fashioned goulash.    Marjoram and tomato soup?  Puh-lease!!! 

Then when my frustrations were at an all time high, and my stomach was growling, I got the crazy notion to google my grandmother’s name and goulash.  Just hoping maybe, just maybe, someone had published a long-lost recipe of her goulash. 

And to my surprise, that brought up absolutely nothing. 

Except it led me to an ancestry site. 

So my search for goulash took an unexpected turn to ancestry on my mother’s side.    And I’m fascinated.  I’ve never given much thought to my ancestors, but now that I’m getting older, my brain is changing, along with my priorities, and I’m understanding  the impact of my lineage. 

Growing up, I didn’t have a lot of “old” family.  There are people my same age, who grew up with a great-grandmother, a great-great grandmother even, but not me.  I’ve only ever had grandmothers.  My great grandparents died before I came into this world, and I never even knew a grandfather.  Sad huh?  I guess my people died young, or procreated old, and too many years are in-between.

I’ve heard my Grannie talk about her parents, but I’d forgotten their names until last night when they started showing up on my computer screen.  Suddenly they became real people, with dreams, and love for one another, and hopes, and journeys, and trials. 

Just like me. 

Now I wish when I sat in the TV room with my Grannie,  while she rattled on with stories I’d heard before, about people who were cold in the ground, with events that were unimportant to my teenage ears, that instead of slumping over in my chair and wishing she’d stop droning on, that I’d had a cell phone with voice recorder, a video recorder,  a tape recorder, shoot even a pencil and pad and would have written down her stories.  But of course, I never thought they’d matter to me. 

How foolish we are in our youth.

Since I’ve begun blogging, I’ve been forced to dip into my memory banks.  Often I find them empty or half erased, and I must fill them in with how I believe it must have been.  Was I wearing tennis shoes in that blizzard, or were they high heeled show girl boots like my dad remembers? 

I have stories to tell, people to remember, events to unfold.  Other people may not care about them, but I do.

“You and your husband might have looked out the same kitchen window for twenty years, your eyes might be as green as  your uncle Harry’s, but twenty bucks says you don’t see the world as they do.  Start writing to save your life.  Stories only happen to those who can tell them.”—-Lou Willett Stanek

 

START WRITING TO SAVE YOUR LIFE.  STORIES ONLY HAPPEN TO THOSE WHO CAN TELL THEM. 

And then others must remember them, and in turn, tell them.

My great -grandfather Eugene “Gene” Ira married my great-grandmother Emma Olive (oh my gosh I love that name) and had 2 daughters, Mary and Imogene, my grandmother. 

I want to talk to those people.  I want to talk to them real bad.  I imagine their black and white faces, their frumpy clothes, their aprons, their weathered hands.  They were tough.  They had to be. I want to hear their stories, and share their stories.  It’s like instantly, I realize I am on this earth, in part because of these people. 

They are MY people.  

My great-grandparents:

Eugene “Gene”  Ira: Aug 22, 1883-Jan 15, 1966  Age. 81

Emma Olive:  Dec 7, 1879- Aug 7, 1911 Age 32

My grandmother Imogene, whose name came from her dad Gene and her mom Emma loved me, cherished me, delighted in me and made the best goulash of which I can not recreate.

And me?

I’ve forgotten her stories.

 Stories only happen to those who can tell them.

My Time Spent on Top of the “Freshly Pressed” Mountain

One of my posts was freshly pressed on Tuesday, and I was happier than a puppy with two tails.   There wasn’t anything that could steal the lollipops and sunshine from my day. I was sliding down rainbows and hugging strangers.  I didn’t really understand what it meant to be freshly pressed, and what I did know was due to my blogging friend Brad over at www.blockader.wordpress.com  who was freshly pressed a couple of weeks ago and got a bazillion hits on his blog. 

For others who may not know, each day wordpress chooses about 11 blogs to feature and puts them on their homepage.  So for about 24 hours, it’s like your blog is on the billboard of the world-wide web.  Which makes for pretty good advertising.

My blog was also the featured post on the postaday challenge page.

The number of page views on my site for the day skyrocketed.  Granted, I didn’t get nearly as many as other freshly pressed bloggers, but I’m not complaining.  I got many subscribers, many wonderful comments, and lots of look-sees, and found lots of great blogs to read for myself.

The whole day I just kept repeating how happy I was.  So very happy.  Happy, happy, happy.

I was obsessed.  I woke up in the night and snuck my phone under the covers to check my blog stats.  I was like the boy who’s supposed to be sleeping, but instead is looking at a dirty magazine with a flash light under the covers.  The whole time the thought of my husband waking up and catching me made it even more riskier.  Yes, I live on the edge.  I’m a wild one.

I relished the entire day, and never thought once about the ‘morrow.

And then the sun rose and a new day dawned.

And WordPress chose 10 different blogs to be freshly pressed.

And just like that, in the blinking of an eye, I was replaced.

Thrown out with yesterday’s slop.

 As exhilirating as it was to watch my little bloggie towers soar, it wasn’t enjoyable to watch them shrink back to their measly beginnings.

I became blue.

My moment of basking was over. 

My fifteen minutes of fame.

My mountain top experience.

It was wonderful while it lasted. 

 But last, it did not.

I’m thankful for the experience.  I don’t know why my post on an antiquated green canister was chosen, or how it was chosen.  But the feeling I experienced for the recognition of a piece of my heart-felt writing  is indescribable. 

And I’m convinced, now even more than ever, that I want to write.

I want to keep going, keep writing, even on hard days, long days, empty days.

I want to write words that touch people, that stir their emotion, that floods their memories.

I want to write for you.

And you,

and you,

and you.

Thanks for reading.

Gangsta’ Cowboy

My husband J-Dub has a side not many people know.

To the outside observer he appears  to be a polite, hardworking, rugged,  no-nonsense cowboy.

But underneath his dirty, black hat lies a light-hearted wit.

I had a good day today and decided to text my darling to share my good news.

Here’s my text to him.

 And I received a prompt reply:

Yo, yo, yo, did Snoop Dogg steal my husband’s flip phone or what? 

I guess he and Snoop Dogg are tight, G.

Snoop D-O-double Gizzle is off the hizzle for shizzle, and anybody that disagrees is a lil’ bizzle.

Or something.

Forgive me, I know not what I speak. 

Fo’ shizzle nizzle.

Snoop Dogg's Black Cowboy Hat 

And yee-haw.

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.

Enjoy.

#1

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

#2

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

#3

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

#4

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!