Figured You Out......

I'm talking to you. I know you don't know me, but I know you.

I want you to leave her alone, to stop this mess you've lured her into. To stop dangling the carrot in front of her face knowing full well that you aren't enough for this woman, knowing full well that you keeping her at arm's length only draws her in closer. I want you to man up and tell her to move on, tell her you'll never deliver, because you won't. Sunday crosswords and hands held tightly at the market and wine over dinner with friends – it isn't in the cards. She will never meet your parents or be your date for the wedding you've talked about for the year, a picture of celebration and friendship you've painted repeatedly, although never with her in it. She will never see the Paris with you and your favorite couple. You will never agree to hit the favorite haunts in her hometown.

And you know it.

You've known it since the beginning, since well before any synonym for commitment ever entered the conversation. You've known it since you hesitated the first and the tenth time to introduce her to your friends, since you turned down the first of many invitations to meet up with her girls at their bar. The excuses are lazy ones and the truth even lazier.

You've known it since you first saw her face flush when you gave her hope of something more.

Tell her you're back together with an ex, that you never loved her. Tell her the truth: that you're a ridiculous coward who doesn't care enough about her to let her live her own life.

She deserves better than you, and I only wish she knew it. I wish I could fast forward to the day when she'll have him, the one who won't want to make a vacation plan without her in it, who will think to bring her to meet his friends within a matter of days. He'll be without her and wish she was picking up her cell so he could share a silly observation. He'll be in awe of her and on some days stare at her when she isn't looking. He'll know that sex isn't always about the orgasm and he'll check on her when she's sick. Oh yes, they'll fight and there will be weeks when she won't remember what she saw in him to begin with, but he'll love her deeply and treat her with the respect and adoration she deserves. And there will be Sunday crosswords and knowing how she takes her coffee and the occasional envy of her friends.

And you know that part too.

I Want Wednesdays: I Want You To Want Me

I want kissing in the snow, knowing glances, and whispered promises.

I want forvever, the one who gets me, my other half.

I want inside jokes, snuggling, and movies to keep me warm.

I want to hold hands and see penguins at the zoo.

I want a weekend spent in bed. No, not for sleep.

I want hot and sweaty sometimes. And making out in the shower to cool off.

I want to know better how to touch in ways that won't be forgotten.

I want to share funnel cakes, friends, and live music.

I want it to be okay that I ramble relentlessly, that I think too much, and that I'm sassy.

I want a day of walking on the beach, lots of photos, and finishing the ends of sentances.

I want comfortable silence, talks about nothing, and everything.

I want laughter, tickling, wrestling, and spontaneity.

I want dinner making, a roaring fire in the fireplace, and a merlot with a good after taste.

I want long, slow, deep, wet kisses that last for three days for the appetizer, entree, and dessert.

I want lots of tasting, smelling, touching and listening.

I want rodeos, snow cones, and pick up trucks.

I want time to figure out what I want, time to find it, and time to enjoy it.

I want a real man who will spend a lifetime proving he's not like the rest, a cowboy with integrity, and heart that belongs to God.

I want the present. The here and now, where there isn't a past and there isn't yet a future.

I don't want assumptions or titles or expectations or rules.

I don't want to be made to feel like I am committing a felony by the want.

I want too much, not enough, and what I have.

I want there to be room for me....in you, whoever and wherever you are.

I want Tiffany jewelry, a chinchilla jacket, and Tony Lama Caimans.

I want sunsets on horseback, a cowboy of my own, and my punks.

I want honesty, integrity, and trust.

I want love, a gold band, and a lifetime.

It's good to want things........

Wordless Wednesday

Smiley Saturday....Tell Me How You Really Feel!

Thursday Thirteen: Smells like Teen Spirit

13 Things I Love to Smell.

Yeah, I think I have done this before, but who knows; maybe they've changed.

I love the smell of books, and I fervently hope someone comes out with a chemical air freshener that would release that aroma from an electronic reader before all the literature goes paper-free, or I might not be able to be happy on this planet anymore.

I love the smell of freshly cut grass. Ironically, I am somewhat allergic to the clouds of discarded grass that get tossed into the air upon mowing the lawn. But the undeniable smell of cut grass conjures up images of Slip-n-Slides and long tree-climbing sessions as a child. Ain't nostalgia grand?

I am a grown woman, or so that freaking AARP notice I got in the mail tells me, but the smell of crayons still equals the smell of potential pictures of EVERYTHING to me. I actually pity small children who have been given digital cameras.

The aroma of grilling meat, preferably beef, is probably the main reason I could never be a vegetarian. Even if they come out with a soy substitute that has the right flavor and texture, I doubt they're going to be able to duplicate that smell.

I still like the smell of cigarettes, even though I have been quit longer than some of the self-righteous twits who tell smokers they can't stand that smell anymore (and some of those same twits start smoking again, so I guess the smell doesn't bother them all that much after all). I also like the smell of a pipe, and some cigars. Not all cigars. Some cigars, they look like poop sticking out of the smoker's mouth, and we should consider that a warning.

It pisses me off that I can't find a grown-up shampoo that does what I need for my own hair that has that same smell as Johnson's Baby Shampoo. I think back to when the punks were little and had that sweet baby smell and not the puky, nasty, dirty, little boy smell.

I found a huge industrial strength bottle of Pinesol for extremely cheap, and it smells like pine. It is the only incentive I have for mopping, which I hate to do, but it's worth it to walk into the house and inhale that fragrance.

The Red Velvet Bakery smells like cupcakes. I walk in there and the vanilla-y buttercreamosity automatically makes me feel like I'm six and it's my birthday. I also think about a study I read about men loving the smell of baked goods. Do you think if I smeared cake batter all over me, just before a date, I could find a decent man? Scratch that, he'd probably end up looking like jabba the hut.

My Dead Sea moisturizer smells like passion fruit. I know that passion fruit refers to the Passion of the Christ and not sexual passion, but I still giggle when I hear the word "passion fruit," because I'm immature. As if you couldn't tell from the cupcake thing. Anyway, I do like that scent an awful lot, even though it usually gets covered up by whatever perfume I choose that day.

Speaking of perfume, my signature scent, assuming I can afford to have one, is Chanel No. 5. Very Irresistible, which kind of sucks, because a) it's expensive and b) I can't usually justify buying it. But I pretend I'm Trisha Yearwood when I'm wearing it, which is a lot of fun because I don't sing out loud often. Probably more fun than actually being Trisha Yearwood . I know it's crazy but has something to do with that visible spark between her and her husband Garth Brooks.

Coming home from the barn and smelling like horses, hay, and feed is one of my favorites. It is probably in the top 3, if I had to designate a numeral rating to any of them...but I won't do that. We'll just ballpark it here, folks. Anyway. Specifically, I love the smell of horses when they're outside and you lean up against them and love on them, patting them and watching dust fly. There is something about the way a horse smells that makes this world a better place.

I love the smell of my salon. Hair color, perms, nail polish, and shampoo, in no particular order. It reminds me that I have a job that I am good at and that I love. I also think about the fact that what I do makes people feel good about themselves and lets them feel attractive and take pride in their appearance.

Fresh popcorn smells like a movie you haven't seen yet, and the possibilities are endless. Unfortunately, the popcorn scent is fleeting, so the movie better live up to its potential or I'm going to feel so hosed. Rather like life, I'm starting to notice.

I think that's thirteen. I guess, under the circumstances, it's time for me to crack open a Dr. Pepper and drink some elixir of life ( I also love that smell!), get in the shower (my body wash smells delicious!), and cook the punks breakfast (doesn't bacon frying smell great?).

I would love to know what are some of your favorite smells......

Wordless Wednesday

Good Way To Get On My Bad Side

How many of you out there remember SNL's Cheri Oteri's character the pill lady? I used to crack up when those skits would come on! Well, this mornin at 3:57 a.m. (Yes, please note the time and I was actually in bed for once!), my next door neighbor wandered up the driveway and found herself ringin the Redneck Princesses doorbell. The light was off and I couldn't see anyone through the peephole. Then suddenly an eye with some kind of crayola scrawled eyebrow looming over a bloodshot eye peered back at me.

I really did not know what to think. I had heard stories but had never met 'Crackhead Amanda' until tonight. She lives directly north of our place. I say ours because, honestly, somedays I feel lucky that the punks even let me live here. Anyway, it was a memorable meetin to say the least. Amanda introduced herself and asked if I had a box of macaroni and cheese she could "borrow". I told her to hold on and went to look in the pantry (I confess, I didn't want her in my house, so sue me!). As I grabbed a box to take to Amanda, I heard my front storm door open. As I rounded the corner from the living room into the entry hall, in steps, Amanda.

I know it sounds cruel but I laughed. This woman is totally crackish! I don't even know if a blow by blow description could do this lady (and I use that term very loosely!) justice but I'll give it the old college try. Her eyebrow's looked like drawn on caterpillar's in very dark black kohl and they were very uneven and crooked. Amanda's eyes wouldn't have been memorable except they were so bloodshot they looked like a stop light (literally). She no longer had lipstick on her lips. It was smeared across her left cheek, with the back of her hand (the rest of the RED lipstick was all over the back of her left hand). Her hair (trailer trash bleach blonde including 3 inch long black roots) looked as if it hadn't been brushed for days with the exception of her bangs, which were gathered up into one lone Velcro roller at the top of her head. She had on a wife beater that was as filthy as her house shoes and daisy duke shorts with an ankle length fox coat when it was almost sweltering outside. In short, this "Amanda" person was messed up. . . . FUBAR-ed (hence the neighborhood nickname 'Crackhead Amanda')! It was so sad and funny- all at the same time.

Amanda proceeds to tell me, "that Bastard Ron, does something to my car so I can't drive while he's at work." She then goes on a rant about how "she is under appreciated and that one day she will find a man that will love her for her." I didn't have the hear to tell her that Ron was probably that guy, after all any man that can put up with that crap deserves a medal as far as I am concerned. It also brought the question to mind if a woman like Amanda has a decent man (and he's cute, I've seen him). . . .what am I chopped liver? I guess the question is, "What the hell is wrong with people today?" Has the desire to live honest, integrity filled lives just disappeared? Or must one be totally out of their ever loving mind and prefer to live a stoned exsistence?

I, by no means, am perfect. Close but I digress. Are people just so into themselves, their own pursuit of happiness, and their own twisted thought processes that they never take into consideration that they touch and affect another person's life? Are they so zoned out on a multitude of pharmacopia that they simply are unaware that it's four o'clock in the freakin morning?

So Beware. . . . Emotional Vampires, Crackheads, Drama Queens (both female and male....Yes, they do exist!) and Friday Night Whores, sell that warped crap somewhere else, cause the Redneck Princess ain't buyin! We're all out of crazy here. . . .

It's Something That We Do........

Yesterday, I was overcome with a writing attack while driving down the road. For those of you who don't know the mental signs & symptoms of such an attack, let me explain. It starts like a boulder sitting atop the Mountain of the Mind. Something triggers a rolling descent and the next thing a soul knows, that boulder is rolling down my thoughts at a pace that is damn near a critical emotional pace.

It makes the person (or maybe this is just my own little affliction) hold their breath, their eye's go dazed....... panicked. Their hand may wave blindly around seeking a writing utensil and if this person is driving, well, you may notice only one eyeball is actually watching the road, one hand could be on the steering wheel, or knee driving may be employed. If they couldn't find a pen, they could be writing in the dust on the dashboard and they may even sit through a green light oblivious to the world around them. Don't honk, they could be writing a masterpiece, you just don't know.

The only medication for relief, is a pen and paper (laptop if one is lucky enough to have one with them.) Now, since I already have this mental condition, I know the only safe course of action is to pull over at the first cafe, coffee shop or parking lot and write until the urgency has passed.

My attack brought my tires screeching into a little grease cafe yesterday. It was that, or the Pizza Hut across the street, no contest.... This was the sort of cafe that hasn't been updated, nor painted in a zillion years. It had the complimentary orange vinyl seat covers and an overbearing smell of bacon. It was perfect for my moment of need. I read the "seat yourself" sign, glanced around, saw not another soul eating and dived into the nearest booth next to the window in a coordinated gesture that had pen and paper on the table the moment my bottom squeaked across the vinyl.

When my sweet, little, itty, bitty, teenie, tiny white haired waitress came up I admit, I barely gave her a glance when I ordered my pathetic little ticket worth of barely justifiable items to take up vinyl real estate. Dr. Pepper and a muffin. I was writing! I was in a panic! I needed to be left alone!

An hour later, three Dr. Pepper refills and half a muffin nibbled off, I finally felt at ease. That's when I finally paid attention to my sweet teenie little white haired waitress. She came over and asked if I'd like a fourth refill, pausing, looking at my carnage of papers scattered on the table and asked, "Are you writing a novel there sweetie?" I told her I honestly had no idea what the purpose of my writing was for, it's just something I must do. Lord knows, I would love to gift the world a novel of my thoughts but I have always felt that my style is better suited to essays of multiple, random topics.

And we talked, and talked some more. I asked questions and she asked me questions. She reminded me of my Meme Aleta that passed away last year and she told me I reminded her of a granddaughter she hasn't seen in a very long time. She told me that she worked as a waitress because, "It feeds me twice a day and the money helps pay for things a person just needs in life."


That sentence WAS and IS a humanity gut punch. It makes me nauseous that someone so far along in their years has to work at a grease pit to earn money. Life should not be that way. She was too sweet, too old, and too precious for such a station in life.

So, this is what I did. I got my $2.39 cent ticket. I took a hundred dollar bill out of my purse and wrapped it with 3 one dollar bills. I wrote her a note and folded it all together with the ticket wrapped around the outside. I left it on the table and walked out. I got in my truck and watched through the window as she came over and unraveled my surprise. The smile that lit up her face made a tear roll down my cheek.

All I will say was that was the best Dr. Pepper and muffin, I've had my entire life….it was well worth it.!

Please take care of our elderly. Anyone can do what I did, and have done in the past. If not me, and if not you, then who? Even better then money is the gift of Time......Please do something kind for them now, today, tomorrow. Think of it as a "pay it forward" act of kindness. After all, one day that little lady could be someone that is special to you…….

I Ain't No High Class Broad......

Dear Women at the gym,

Hello. I know we haven't properly met, but I wanted to take this opportunity to reach out to you, considerin we've been seein a lot of each other lately (Yes, once a week is 'a lot' to me.). I'm sure you must know who I am, as you have spent plenty a minute observin me. See, I'm the girl on the Elliptical machine next to you only goin for 10 minutes at a speed of 6.7. I know you enjoy how slow I'm going because you keep lookin over to make sure you're going faster than me. I assure you, you are. You're the fastest Elliptical machine rider of all time. You win. (Plus, it's my WARM-UP!!!)

And yes, that was me next to you on the treadmill ranting to my pal that I can't, "FREAKIN believe I have to come to THE GYM and then am forced to stare at some dancer's FREAKIN butt JIGGLE all over the place!!! This isn't a music video! THIS IS SOFTCORE PORN!!!" in between sweaty pants as I power walk because I "don't do runnin." And just because I know you heard it, yes, that was me who farted next to you while you were takin up the whole floor doing your pilates exercises. It slipped. I'm sorry. I can imagine why this was so alarmin for you because clearly, you don't have gas. That would require eatin!

I also just wanted you to know that YES, that's me in the lime green swim suit from Old Navy two years ago that walked past you while you were perched on the jacuzzi wall. And yeah, I could totally see you staring at my butt in horror as I walked by. Our eyes met when I purposely turned around to catch you staring at my butt, and I have to say I thoroughly enjoyed how startled you were that OH MY GOD, THE WOMAN THAT BUTT IS ATTACHED TO HAS EYES. I know it must be quite alarmin, that I dare turn around and catch you in your sneaky past time of staring at other women who dare display the fat on their bodies IN PUBLIC and critiquing them and reassuring yourself that No...My butt is definitely smaller. Thank God. If I ever get that fat, I'll just kill myself. Ugh.

I know I have some nerve obstructin your view of the hallway to the steam room with my stretch marks. And my cellulite. And that ingrown hair on my shin. Dude, I'm totally sorry. I know. I'm, like, tooootally nastified. But here's the thing. I'm going to the gym for a reason. And it's probably not why you're here. I'm here, ladies, for my mental health. I'm here, for my physical health. And yeah, I'm to stay a bit more toned so I can eat my pizza and cupcakes and not have to keep buying a bigger pair of jeans every freakin 3 months.

To the girls in the pink track suits afraid of going any faster than 3.2 on the Elliptical because you're afraid of sweatin, SWEET JESUS ALMIGHTY GO HOME! If you have nothin better to do than stare at other women and their fat in the pool area, why don't you go busy yourself with a session with a personal trainer, or go suck on a popsicle? I may not be as dedicated as you are on the Power Plate, or liftin as much weight on the abduction machine, or be afraid of walkin around in my bathing suit because everyone will see my thighs jiggle but that doesn't give you any more right to be here than me.

So, ladies. I just wanted to cut you a deal. If you happen to be one of those women talkin in the steam room about the 3 million dollar home in Nichols Hills you were just looking at and how crazy you are because you forgot to tell your husband you were going to be at Yoga until 10pm last night, I'm goin to make you as uncomfortable as possible. Yes, that was me who farted in the shower. (Again. It slipped.) That was me standing there naked as long as possible while you and your gal pal Sandy discussed preschool prices and low fat salad dressing. It may not seem like the most clever revenge I can get on your rudeness and irritatin way of breathing, but being all offensive with my size 16 butt, my offensively large boobs, tattoos, and stretch marks, and body piercings is the best I can think of.

I enjoy that when I do this y'all clearly get really freakin uncomfortable with having a naked chic who clearly doesn't do Yoga at 7:30 every Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday night standin 2 feet away from you. I love being the woman you are terribly intimidated by and by the way, don't kid yourself, your husband was looking at me, because I am all woman and not built like some teenage boy.

Ladies, I am comfortable with myself and comfortable with my body and CLEARLY that makes you uncomfortable. Do me a favor and stop starin at my "flaws". If you're starin because you're impressed with my magnificent boobs, then just say so. (I mean, you have every right to be. Let's be real. After all, your husband was.) Otherwise, if you're starin at me with disgust and I catch you, you're going to get The Stare, possibly a nipple in your eye if you happen to have a locker near mine, and knowing myself like I do, probably a few choice words as well.

You have been warned.

Kisses!!!

See you next week....The Redneck Princess!

Wordless Wednesday

Do I Have To Say The Words?

There are times I bite my tongue because I know some people want to hear what they want to hear and truly, not what I think. Last night was one of those times and as bad as I wanted to say something, I really think my ex-husband needed to hear, I remained silent. Unlike me, I know.

Since then, I've been considering the things that I wish I could say to certain people, if I knew I wouldn't have another chance. How cliché. Morbid even. And selfish. But perhaps it's also cathartic. The upside of being down is that, at times, it offers some clarity that otherwise may not have been realized. And if nothing else, that's a place to start. Although by no means an exhaustive list, this is where I would begin:


I know I'm not supposed to have a favorite, but you have always, will always, be mine.


I'm still hurt by what you said to me when I was fifteen. I haven't forgotten it. I never will. It has strained our relationship immensely. But I still love you more than I should.


We have never met, but I imagine that you think of me as often as I think of you.


Call more often. One day we will need each other. Don't forget about me.


I'm not sure that I believe in the idea of a soul mate. But if I did, you would be it.


What you want can't be found where you've been looking. Nonetheless, I hope you find it. And, remember settling isn't the answer.


I know what you said and it hurt me deeply to hear about it. But I'm trying to understand.


I want you to stop treating me like I'm your sister, and start treating me like a friend.


I wish I could be a better version of myself around you. I fight with you (and get mad at myself) because I love you. In my own way. I just don't know how to tell you that.


I stopped talking to you because I thought you were selfish. I'm sorry. I hope we can still be friends.


You are my biggest what if and I hope I get the chance to see you again one day.


I don't know how you live with yourself. You are delusional and self-absorbed. The reason your relationships never work is because you have the personality of a wet rag and once men find out that you use sex as a weapon, they're just not that into you.


I wish my heart was as big as yours. You have taught me more about kindness than anyone else I know.


I miss you. I still remember the way that you smell – like Halston and shaving cream. How cold your hands always were. I wish we could have had more time together as I grew up. I will miss you.

I suppose these examples are proof, that somethings ae just better left unsaid......

Waitin on a woman.....

I wasn't planning to post today but I had sometime before the anti-christ(see below) gets here to get her nail fixed (read: one nail which she had done yesterday mornin and broke about noon!). This is one woman, I hate waitin on......

I have a mornin routine that I like to follow religiously. I get up, I yawn, I get a shower and enhance what the good Lord gave me, I get a can of personality (some people refer to this as Dr.Pepper, I like to think of it as a life-saving elixir) and I sit outside on my deck to breathe in the fresh air and center myself for the chaos that will inevitably follow with a teenager and a six year old (trying to peacefully coexsist, which since they are 8 years apart isn't easy) in the house.

There are mornin's I can't do this. Two mornin's a week. Two whole mornin's my routine is shattered because I let my ambition overload my butt....just leave it, as it is not worth analyzing. I have been indulging the whim of a client I have nicknamed the Anti-Christ for short. Marge (my ex-business partner) thinks this is hysterical! Honestly, I have nicknames for everyone who is a permanent fixture in my life......

This anti-christ insists on scheduling mornin appointments at 6 freakin a.m. Which means I have to drag my butt out of my bed at an ungodly hour, before even the sun rises to squire my punks off to the shop as they bounce around in the back seat and chatter as only a fresh faced youngsters can and bite my tongue until it bleeds to ensure I don't rip their faces off from my crankiness. All before I can have the first sips of my morning elixir. It shames me to admit this! I would give my life for those 2 little punks but I am nothing if not honest, especially where my faults are concerned. And I need Dr. Pepper......

To say I dread these mornin's would be a wee understatement. I'd rather have my private parts chewed off by a rabid wild animal than get behind the wheel of my truck before I'm fully awake and centered. Damn. Today was definately one of those days. I was tired, cranky and not fully awake. How safe is that? A grouchy, sleepy redneck princess(who is totally a typical woman driver....I admit it!) behind the wheel of a speeding vehicle. Good times.

This mornin the cappuccino/expresso machine broke, spewing all kinds of nasty crap all over my freshly mopped shop floor. And of course, my youngest punk got to hear his redneck princess of a mother use words that burnt his ears! I take pains to not cuss around the punks as my mouth is a virtual filth pit when I am mad.....It has made grown men blush on occasion!

As for the stupid cappuccino/expresso machine, it's last stop was the dumpster. Marge and I had decided to buy this for our early mornin clients. A little secret, I've never had even a sip of anything in the Starbucks world, except regular coffee and I only drink that in the fall/winter. I know to most folks that is crazy but I can't justify having a $5 cup of gussied up coffee. I have other addictions that I succumb to on a daily basis.....Dr. Pepper and peppermint gum! Needless to say, there will not be another cappuccino/expresso machine bought by me after the mess I cleaned up at 5:45 this mornin.

Back to my 6 a.m. anti-christ, there are two reasons I have to schedule her that early: (1) On Tuesdays, the only appointment time that I don't have booked by a regular client is 2:00 which interferes with her weekly lunch at the club (read Oak Tree). Who eats lunch at 2:00? and (2) On Saturdays, she insists on coming in that early because her husband seems to think her nails are real and so she gets up early to get her hair and nails did. I don't work every Saturday and the ones I don't almost cause her to have a nervous breakdown and we won't even talk about when I take a vacation! The anti-christ honestly thinks I should be on standby, in case she breaks a nail!! Talk about a women who has more time and money on her hands (which are fabulous! Thanks, to yours truly) than anyone person should have! I don't have the heart to tell her I charge her double because she is such a freakin pain in my backside!

I can't imagine havin that much time on my hands. I stay busy from the moment my feet hit the floor til I finally give out at night. I am surviving on about 3-4 hours of sleep a night (because I need a little princess time to unwind and do my thing) and I need about 10 hours! When my clients ask about why I smile so much I tell them its because I am delirious from lack of sleep and am truly blessed!

And I am, blessed that is! I have two wonderful punks that keep my life busy (being mom-mom is the most important thing I do all day!); I am my own boss which beats the hell out of workin for the man; I love what I do and I rock at it!!!!(this is work?????); and thankfully, I only have one client that I think is the anti-christ!

Wordless Wednesday

She's more......

Male and female represent the two sides of the great radical dualism. But in fact they are perpetually passing into one another. Fluid hardens to solid, solid rushes to fluid. There is no wholly masculine man, no purely feminine woman. - Margaret Fuller

Pedicures. And O.P.I's Affair In Red Square and the perfect coral. Diamonds in Platinum. All accessories really. Including my vintage Chanel sunglasses, my pressed silver ring made from an 1820's luggage tag, and my grandmother's black pearls. New crushes. Riding on Monday mornings. Real Cowboys. Making out in the rain. Real Men. Listenin to my punks laugh. Wrangler butts. Passion. Being Fearless. Being Mom-mom. Honesty. Intuition. Not settling. Eye contact. Passion. Chick flicks. Paying it forward. Being delicate. Strong too. Crisp white button downs and a cocked hat. Push up bras and cleavage. Pretty panties. Lace and yes, even a little pink. Turquoise full quill ostrich boots. Porn Star hair. Girls night out and hysterical pick up lines or not. Nights when we just wanna have fun. Feeling sexy. Branding cattle. A terrific read. A stolen glance. Men in chinks. An intelligent opinion. Peterbilts. Confidence. A wink. Flirting. Wanting what you have. A kiss on the neck. Holding hands. Perfume. Bijan to Pleasures to Giorgio Red to Victoria's Secret Pink. Smelling good is an art.

Kissing my father good night. Being his daughter. Roping as well as a man. My punks and being the not so perfect mother. Having no regrets. Reading too much into things. Crying. Really, it's a pressure valve. Sometimes it just needs to open up. Getting to know me. Soft skin. Smooth legs after shaving. Straight leg blue jeans. Dr. Pepper. My bible and its worn pages. Sleeping in boxers. Wispy tendrils of hair that fly up to the sunroof while I'm driving. Cranking up Cross Canadian Ragweed's Alabama, just cause I can. Letting men be gentlemen. Blue eyes. Door opening and such. New mascara. God's country. Good conversation for hours. Giving good "Mind." Politics. Hips. My bra size. The curve of me. Throw pillows and tickling in bed. Forgiveness. Intimate Moments. Window shopping. Shopping once a year, the day after Thanksgiving. Caring about thread counts and napkin rings and hand towels and picture frames. Pillow talk. The sex that comes before. The fitting together of it all. Baking. Tan lines. Or not. Sun dresses. Strapless anything. Skiing in waist deep powder. Aveda soy wax candles. Someone who gets me. Or just loving me as I am. Sweet Nothings. Little dogs that fit into handbags with names like Macy and Cody. I'm almost ashamed to admit I own two. A cowdog named Hank. Baths with bubbles. Long rides in a new place. Hot showers with another. Knowing that wanting more doesn't make you less of anything. Being "LOST". Being called "Baby Girl" and liking it. Watching mustangs run and understanding the word majestic. A kiss seared into your memory.

Fresh wild flowers on my bedside table. Monogrammed stationary with silver E's swirled on the front. Self confidence. Loving what I do. Great hands. New Lipsticks. Being sassy. Ponytails. Strong, fast horses. A great smile. A knowing glance. A caress. Being the smartest person in a room. Laying in a hay field under the stars. Knowing you are needed. Having a handful of friends I'd give my life for. Wrap around porches. Desire. A slow dance in the kitchen. Fitting perfectly in the nook. Feeling beautiful naked, without artificial supplement, in front of the mirror, after my morning shower. Simply, that my body is mine even if it is not perfect. A glass of sweet tea brought out to the fields. Being the girl next door. It's good being a girl. And not minding it one bit! Sarcasm. A gold band. Being on the back of a BSA with my hair in the wind. Not living for another's opinion. Not minding being different. Unconditional love. Pursuing what I want. Belief in myself. Belief in God and his plan for me. Knowing the end is near. Watchin my punks become men I am proud of, as they are the best part of me. Hearing God speak.

…did I mention sexy heels, handmade cowboy boots, and expensive purses? Handmade gifts from the punks. The sun on my face. Not minding my hair turning gray. Wit. Playin in the dirt. The perfect little black dress, that's ten years old. The smell of home. Taking a million picture. Skinny dippin. Being God's child. Cooking with love. Memories that are priceless. Being outspoken. Chivalry. Life in Oklahoma. Saying goodbye and meaning it. Laundry dried on the line. Trust. Integrity. A handshake that means something. Quilting like my granny taught me. Comfort foods. Starting over. Having a crush. Watchin a man work. Crown Royale. The NFR. Fishin at dusk. A clean house. Making mistakes and learning from them. Bonfires. Being thrilled at the thought of someone else finding what makes them happy. Foghorn Leghorn. Thunderstorms. Liking myself. Tree stands. A clean pick-up. Writing. A random act of kindness. My oldest punks first date. My youngest punk explaining God's perfect love to me. Ballard's milkshakes and banana snow cones. Being able to truly take care of myself. Happy Bunny. Lonesome Dove. Understanding Ayn Rand. Being open minded. Knowing that loving someone means putting their happiness above your own. Ridin fences. Having realistic expectations. Fried pickles. County Fairs. Fireworks.

Second Chances. Christ's Blood. Newborn colts. Bottle calves. Taking a risk. Being alone but not lonely. Apologizing sincerely. Feeling Blessed. Having my hair washed. Breakin ice. Observing people. Truly listening when someone talks. Tie dyes. My maternal grandparents leading by example. Laughing at myself, out loud. Concerts. Someone complimenting the punks on their manners. Writing letters. Having a secret admirer. Mucking stalls. Worshiping God the way HE deserves. Pride in my accomplishments. Being at peace. Occasionally being naive. Fireflies. Knowing what it's like to have it all and to lose it all. And rambling, because it is who I am and what I do!

speak truth. speak no lies. speak of you and me. speak of nothing and everything in between. speak life so you know you're alive. speak well and speak loud. speak laughter and love. speak often. speak easy.

Talk Hard….

TMI TUESDAY: Songs About Rain.........

It’s raining here as I type. As in, monumental rain. Serious flooding. End-of-the-world, better-get-your-ark-built-NOW flooding.

And it’s now raining in our kitchen as well. There’s a lovely leak in the ceiling. The punks and I joked about sticking some piece of furniture under the leak that we really didn’t like – hey, gotta make lemonade outta lemons somehow, right? :)

Right. I’m trying not to feel a wee bit discouraged after this ridiculous month of hail, tornados, and now water damage. We have apparently had 13.4 inches of rain according to my three rain gauges and I spent the whole day cooped up in the house. Thinking enough to drive a sane person bat-shit crazy! And my brain is apparently short circuiting due to flooding.........




For those of you who don't know me well, here are some more little known facts that feel the need to fly out at this exact moment:

I am an old soul in porno pumps although my boots, of which I have many, are more comfortable for wading through the crap I have to deal with on a daily basis, literally. I am a recovering shopping junkie, small town girl, a single mom, and right now, I'm just happy to be here.

In what could only have been a drunken, impulsive, clear sighted moment, I decided to chuck my previous husband for all the right reasons and not to stay in a marriage where it was all about how things "appeared". I just wasn't that into him. Cheating, physical abuse and not trusting someone just aren't my cup of tea. I digress, though, I'm not really a woman who was meant to be single, I just play one on TV -- and I now I am trapped in dating hell. More to come on that later. I am clearly a moron.

A moron with great jewelry and accessories.

I am all about information, facts, trivia, education and being well read. That means that I have obtained knowledge on much, but am qualified for nothing, except for maybe as a Jeopardy or Cash Cab contestant, knowing just enough to get me into much trouble and costing me much money.

I have pulled off things in my life that people just marvel at and I am happy to admit that if someone told me I could quit my job tomorrow due to the amazement factor, I'd walk out grinning like the Cheshire cat. Although, I have to admit, I would miss the smell of nail polish and hair color.

I love Dr. Pepper, peppermint gum, pickup trucks and Peterbilt's, cheesecake, beef jerky, branding calves, chinks, magazines, raunchy novels, horses, random cable series, cowboys and comedy (in no particular order) and my insanely powered blow drier because I have the most difficult hair in the world.

My family includes my two punks (ages 14 and 6...don't ask), my crazy, cradle robbing mother, hard to tolerate redneck terminal father, an incarcerated drug addicted brother and two of the sweetest, ankle biting pooches to ever to walk the earth, as well as a menagerie of livestock and other things that demand to be fed.

My blog talks about my dysfunctional family and nicknamed other folks, strange stuff that irritates me, life on the farm and in a small town, crazy thoughts that occupy my brain, things I obsess about and other random facts about me and the world we live in.

And in case you haven't noticed, I have a sarcastic potty mouth (I know, I know, I'm workin on it!), tend to yammer endlessly, am sassy and far too opinionated about simply everything, love the run-on sentence and the ever descriptive adjective, and that I recognized the beginning of the end times for they are and continue to be!

Right now, I just wish the rain would stop. See I told you I yammered. You had to go through all the other garbage for that single thought.

Pour Some Sugar On Me.......

There's a container of brownies in the kitchen and they're calling my name. It's not the normal kind of call that red wine makes, which is more of a low, slow Barry White type of call, with some really lovely and unexpected boyish undertones. It's certainly not the same as the Milk Duds in the entryway. They are almost fratty; more than anything else, those guys catcall when I walk to the restroom. And it's that kind of behavior that keeps me from eating any of them. That and the fact that you can always feel your pudge a little bit more when you're walking. No, the brownies have the voice of the guy I once dated who I'd smartly toss and let back in only weeks later, in one of those truly healthy cycles of the singleton. The brownie's call is one of sweet perfection, one of comfort, one that promises me a perfect match of goo and crumble. Unfortunately, they are just no good for me. So I wish they'd stop calling. Notice that the yogurt in the fridge is mute. As are the celery and the apples. I hear absolutely nothing out of them.

All this temptation…..and I don't even like chocolate!