I’ve finally got all my EV archives moved and I’m set up over at GenericGirl.com.  Now I just have to move my archives from everywhere else - I’ve been blogging since ‘01!!  Yikes!

See you there!

Writing in here has been hit and miss, and I can’t blame it on being busy or distracted anymore.  The bottom line is the name of this journal doesn’t fit where I am in my life any longer.  I’m happy damn it, so here - have a mint until I move to a new domain…

Am I here or not?

The weather around here has been absolutely gorgeous.  Of course, this means I am out exercising, training, and working my horses.  Except this morning.  This morning, you could find me out back staining the deck.  Yuck.  I’d rather smell like horse sweat.

Because I really want to know!

Yesterday I found myself standing in line behind a tall white woman in her fifties and I couldn’t help but wonder what her story was.  She seemed sad while I watched her place a cream sweater with orange flecks on the counter as the cashier folded the lacy blouse that had already been emptied from her cart.  The woman unloaded a few more items and put them in front of the cashier, but I don’t remember what they were.

If it is possible for someone’s head to explode, mine will.  I’ve reached critical mass.  The world better be ready for bits of tissue to fly out of my skull and thwack it somewhere between a right elbow and a left eyebrow.  I know there are a certain things that must be accomplished with my life and lucky me - I’m so far behind I’ll never die.

Most people had to grow into their ears.  I, on the other hand, had to grow into my teeth.  I grew up thinking my name was “fpptt fpttt” because everyone who was anyone always tucked their lower lip snugly under their two front teeth while making silly rabbit sounds whenever they addressed me.  Bugs Bunny was my hero, so I didn’t mind that much.  Well, O.K. after about 12 years it started to get a little old, so I learned how to hold my jaw just right so that my teeth didn’t bump into everything in front of me.

I was tagged by this bitch, and damn if I wasn’t avoiding posting in here.  I was procrastobating so well, too.

(Originally written 12/12/04)

Smug with himself, the creature I call my boy emerged from the toxic waste area he considers to be his bedroom. Apparently he felt the urge to gloat about the new calluses he formed on his fingers from practicing the guitar.

My favorite memories of the home where I spent my younger childhood years, are of roasting marshmallows in the fireplace.  My family really didn’t have any traditions to speak of, but marshmallow roasting was a family ritual.

The brick story as told by my father:  (A Guest Entry)

Some entries aren’t meant to be.  Like this one.  I started it three days ago (today is January 21 - not the 19th as it would have you believe).  I don’t know, every time I sat down to write I just stared at a blank text entry box - and it taunted me and called me nasty names until I turned yellow.  Usually, I am not faint of heart, but I will admit that it eventually got to me.

(Yesterday, I was definitely holding on.)

Tonsight Iwaz dtdrinking red winne and extraa cheezy dDroiteoes when all voe suddne my face went nubme.

Sometimes you lose some.  And sometimes you lose some more.  Over the past several weeks, the stock market has officially ripped me a new asshole.

Since the only resolution I’ve ever kept was to never make another resolution, I don’t have any to share.  However, I am curious to hear about yours.

The past two weeks I have been working on the arduous task of organizing all of my grandmother’s photos and putting them into scrapbooks.  Now, I love scrapping, but this woman has lived ninety years.  This means thousands of years of photographs have not only accumulated, but have had hot and torrid affairs with no form of birth control.  There should be laws against photos reproducing like this.  I’m all for population control.

My cowgirl roots grow so deep, somewhere in China a monk is digging up boots in his garden.

I have been working on a very big scrapbooking project the past several days and will not be finished for a couple of weeks.  Part of this project includes reading my Grandmother’s journals.  I am simply amazed at the life she has lived.  She recorded all sorts of fascinating events.

I am so stoked; I found PacMan!

It is my duty as a Christian. Whenever I hear those words, I send up a short prayer.  Lord, save us from your followers. I had to pray this once again the other day while having a conversation with a woman I know.

I blog in the tub.  It’s an art.

Road apples.  Horse poop.  Round droplets of digested grass.  One would think something more desirable than animal feces would bring back a flood of delightful childhood memories for the average person.  But then again, I have never claimed to be average.

Conversation earlier in a Yahoo Canasta lobby:

Conversation earlier this week:

Everyone is doing it. The Christmas Post. You know, the whole mushy “Happy Holidays”, spread the love to the world post? So, since I am a unique snowflake just like everyone else, I figured it is my obligatory duty to follow suit. There is a blogger code you know.

Miser is not a strong enough word to describe Mr. Big as exemplified by the following conversation recorded in The History of the Universe.

Yesterday, I about went out of my mind with the thrasher, crasher, banging, thumping noise coming from The Child’s radio while he dutifully cleaned the kitchen.  However, I have learned to gnaw until my tongue is texture of ground beef rather than have him turn the wretched sounds off, because he works longer, faster, and harder with the music of the dead playing.  I am sure the beauty of my childhood melodies were loved and cherished by those who gave birth to me, because - well, I know what good music is.

Rain does not stop me very often from working my horses and they are all aware of this.

Imagine driving along in your Doge Ram pickup minding your own damn business, when out of the blue...