My kingdom for a compromising photograph!

OK, so I’ve been giving this whole July/Tool concert thing (Do I want to deal with trying to find tickets? What body parts am I willing to hock so I to buy said tickets? Etc, etc, etc...) a little more thought and what I’ve decided is this: I’m going straight to the source. No beating around the bush. No sleeping on the sidewalk or blowing some guy named Joey who swears to God he has backstage passes to meet Def Leppard (What can I say? I was 14. I had just gotten over the whole “No Santa Claus” fiasco.). No, nothing like that this time.

Instead, I’m going to plead my case for a couple of nifty, well-positioned seats to none other than “The Man” himself. Yes, I’m talking about Maynard Keenan. As for exactly how I’m going to convince the mighty pretentious one that he will never forgive himself if he doesn’t hook the Blaynester up, well, that’s what we still have to determine.

Here are my plans of attack so far. First, I’ll try a letter:
*cue heart wrenching violin music*


Dear Maynard Keenan,

I am a small, orphaned child from a tiny, poverty ridden town that sits on the outskirts of Mongoliard. Don’t bother looking it up on a map. My people are too poor to have their own dot. My parents both died when I was very small – um, I mean even smaller than I am now since I’m still an itty bitty small, pitiful child – in the Artichoke raids that destroyed our village and forced my sister and I into macramé slavery.

For fifteen hours a day my even smaller, even more pitiful sister and I weave eighties style pocketbooks, wall hangings and potholders for a thriving upscale retro store in Bangkok. We are paid very little and often get no more than a HotPocket and a handful of Gummy Bears to eat each day.

The only thing that bolsters our spirits and keeps us from making a mad dash out of the factory and into the Neganese River (A really nasty, also unmapped river which I’m sure would give both of our sweet little innocent, untouched hoo-haa’s yeast infections within seconds of diving in) is that we are allowed to listen to Tool while we work.

We would love to come and see you perform live in Atlanta, Georgia in July of this year, Mr. Keenan *can’t believe she just wrote that * as the life expectancy of a macramé weaver child is very short and the time betwixt Tool albums is so very long.

Sincerely,
Meetrablaynie Edwardinia


If that doesn’t work, I’m going to Arizona, buying a bullhorn, and firing away with this:

Maynard Keenan! This is the Department of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms! We have you surrounded and we know what you’re putting in the wine! Come out with your hands up and your pants down!

Then, as soon as he comes out *snicker* I sneak in and barricade myself in his house until he agrees to give me the tickets.

If he still won’t part with a couple of freebies, I’m gonna have to get nasty.

Dear James Keenan,

Your student loans are seriously past due. Please send two tickets for the Atlanta Tool show in July, 2009 to Blayne Edwards to remedy this situation.

Sincerely,
Windbag Non-professionals

Or perhaps this would work:

Dear Maynard,

Danny said to send me tickets and since he’s a foot taller than you and beats the hell out of things for a living you should probably listen to him.

Love ya!
Blaynie

Lastly, if the man just won’t listen to reason, I’ll pull out the big guns.


Dear Mr, Capote,

I have your ego. *stroke, stroke, purr * If you ever want to see it alive again send two tickets for the Atlanta Tool show to Blayne Edwards. If you fail to comply with my wishes, you will be sorry.

As a side note, your ego has a purdy little mouth.

Mmmmmm……such a purdy, purdy mouth.

Sincerely,
Andy Warhol

So there you go. This is my arsenal. Wish me luck and I’ll keep you posted.

Skeletons, Inc

I have a confession to make. Are you ready?

*deep breath*

I have, on occasion, played role-playing games.

*waits for the gasps to die down*

Don’t say it. I know what you’re thinking.
She wasn’t one of those greasy-haired kids who played Dungeons and Dragons in high school! She’s never even seen Star Wars! She played softball! She had premarital sex and didn’t have to pay for it!

How the hell did this happen?

To be perfectly honest, I don’t know how it happened. I know I was online one day and some guy came in peddling some story about a badger and a basement and a man who was chained up down there (and he was gonna die if we didn’t figure out how to get him out!) but the rest is just a blur.

It was a joke at first. Just a bunch of full-grown adults playing make-believe. We were revisiting childhood. Having fun the way we used to have fun. But we weren’t serious or anything.

It was a game.

I was reading the Ellora’s Cave blog yesterday and I came across a post about how nothing that’s posted on the net ever goes away and how that’s important because publishers often Google writers to find out what they can about them. The point of the post was that it looks very unprofessional to get into flame wars with other bloggers and that a publisher who might be interested in publishing your work could take an argument online as a sign that you’re difficult and decide not to work with you based simply on that.

I understand completely the importance of being professional when dealing with publishers. I understand that writing for publication is a business and that when dealing with the people who produce books one has to wear the straight, starched hat of a businessperson instead of the slightly off-centered, sometimes wrinkled cap of creativity.

I do get that. But..

I also understand that the internet is a free-for-all. There are no police here. No editors or hall monitors. There isn’t anyone checking facts and no quality control to make sure what gets posted is true or accurate.

And so I guess what concerns me is that publishers – or any potential employers – are willing to believe and make decisions based on the so-called “information” they find online.

Say I worked with Joe Hamburger a while back. And say I asked him out one night when it was just him and me and some chick at the drive-thru who’d just ordered a Number 2, hold the mayo. And say Joe told me, “No.” Or say he not only told me no, but then he also proceeded to tell me exactly why he wouldn’t go out with me even if my pussy was lined with gold and I handed him a miner’s hat.

Do you know how easy it would be for me to create the screen name, “Joe Hamburger,” log onto a few gay porn and scat fetish sites and seriously screw up his life?

For a publisher, for any employer, for anyone to believe what they read online about a person is not only irresponsible, but downright stupid. You don’t know if that flame war or post or entire blog was actually written by the person whose name is in the bottom corner or if someone else - someone from the past with an ax to grind, some fan who felt rejected when you wouldn’t send him your panties, or simply someone with too much time on their hands and nothing better to do than see how much chaos they can cause (yes, there are people who waste their lives doing this) – thought they’d get even by playing the part of the person they were mad at.

Look, the net is great. I’m not saying it’s not. It’s a fast way to communicate figures and confirm times and dates and keep in touch with people who live far away. It can even be a lot of fun.

But you have to limit how much influence you allow its “data base” to have because it’s hard to know if what you’re reading is true or not.

Want me to prove that? Fine.

If you dig deep enough you’ll find information about me you simply won’t believe. Like, did you know I used to date Trent Reznor? Seriously. I am his ex-girlfriend. Actually I think I may have graduated to ex-wife somewhere along the line despite the fact that I’ve never met or even spoken to the guy. But it’s true. I’m his ex if you’re an employer or publisher who believes everything they read online.

Or how about this? Did you know that I am a direct descendant of Jesus Christ? I think the official ruling was that I am the second coming of Christ. No shit. According to the internet, I am the new Messiah.

Am I making my point here?

Making a decision about someone based what you read online is like deciding to hire an actor to perform your child’s kidney transplant. But of course, if he played the role of a doctor in his last movie, that’s ok. Right?

You don’t KNOW this person. All you have are words – lines – to help you decide if this person is qualified to do whatever it is you need them to do. Even worse than the Doogie Houser situation, you can’t even be sure the words or lines you’re reading really came from the person you may or may not hire.

To complicate matters even more, a simple techno search for someone without any follow up in real life is only going to give you part of the story. Want another example?

There may or may not be posts in various places online where I don’t sound like the most balanced or rational human being out there. Some of them actually came from me. Some of them say they are me, but really aren't. Regardless, there was a time when I needed some help, and I’m not ashamed to admit that. I even have one story published under my name that for a long time I wished would simply go away because it was written during a time when I wasn’t making the best decisions for myself as a person or as a writer. I was angry, I was scared, and I expressed a lot of ugliness I don’t usually feel.

But what you don’t see online, and what makes the “truth” a little less inflammatory, is that during the time when I seemed unbalanced I had a fan who was determined – through posting and real life harassment - to make me look as unbalanced as possible. He was threatening to either set me on fire or come to my house and throw acid in my face or sodomize me with a baseball bat until he ripped my fucking guts out. (These are his actual words.) He threatened to cut my husband’s brake lines and he said he was going to cut my dog’s head off and send it to me. Just lots of nice little messages and warm and fuzzy wishes from that one.

I had just sold my first book. I was new to this whole “out there” thing. I didn’t know how to deal with people like that. I didn’t know how to deal with people who were so hate filled and unhappy and who felt so powerless that they would resort to such means as a way to feel more powerful and better about themselves.

Some people take the net way too seriously. Some take role-playing games too seriously, even to the point that they erase that line between what is real and what isn’t. You have to remember that. You have to remember you may not be dealing with the most upstanding or sane or goodhearted person in the world whenever you’re letting what you read on the net influence any decisions you make because that not so upstanding person may not even be the person you think you’re reading about.

I’ve read several articles and heard lots of people give the advice that you should keep your online persona clean and professional. I agree completely with that. But I also believe there is a certain amount of responsibility on the part of every other person out there when it comes to what they read and believe online.

As for what we should do to make sure such confusion doesn’t mar our names or rob us of opportunities we could have had, I think the best approach is this.

Just be honest. Have a place where you can tell your side and then tell it. If you had a rough time in life and you seemed a brick or two shy of a load for a while, be honest about it. Explain the situation. Explain why things may not be exactly what they seem. Explain why you were indeed on the butterfly wagon for a while, but then let everyone know you’re back. You're human. It happens. Also, let anyone who might search for you know that they might find some rather unbecoming information about you, but that that information may not be accurate.

Communicate. Don’t try to hide everything that’s out there because that is impossible. You can’t clean up the net. You have to just make sure your side is out there in a clear, no bullshit forum where the people who are smart enough and who want the truth can find it.

OK. So, what if communicating the truth and exposing the real reasons behind what may seem like a stain on your past isn’t good enough for the person researching you?

I say, “Screw ‘em.” You don’t want to work with anyone that perfect and judgmental anyway.

Do you?

Dammit!

I want to go see Tool next month but apparently you have to sleep on the sidewalk to get tickets (because they sell out in like, 4.6 seconds) and I'm too old (read: smart) to do that.

Yes, I admit it.
I'm a fan.
*sighs*

Fiddle Me That

So this past weekend my intuition and I had our first big fight. Oh, don’t worry. We’re fine now. We got everything worked out. But you know how it is. You don’t see eye to eye about something and unfortunately the honeymoon phase is over so you’re just not as eager to please as you were in the beginning. Your intuition has its opinion, you have yours. Harsh words are exchanged. Your intuition reminds you of how smart it is and how you need it if you really want to be happy. You remind your intuition that you can get all the advice you need from your Facebook posse and that literally billions of people go their entire lives without once letting their own internal dialogue boss them around. Trust me, it can get heated and ugly real fast.

Butting heads with your intuition isn’t smart. It’s just not something one should do if at all possible. Your intuition is your buddy. Its your friend. Say it with me, boys and girls. “Intuition is yo’ daddy.” Very good, especially you way back there in the back. I can see someone’s been practicing.

Still, the occasional spat with the ole internal wisdom happens. And as this was our first big fight, I think it marks somewhat of a transition period for us. My intuition and I are finally getting comfortable enough with one another that we can fight. I’m no longer worried that my intuition might cause me to do something stupid (possibly because I can finally tell the difference between the little voice inside my head that has my best interest at heart and that less well-meaning voice that’s constantly trying to convince me my third eye can’t see unless my panties are off), and my intuition knows I’m never again gonna let anyone else’s words or wisdom bear more weight on my decisions than my intuition does.

The way the fight went down was like this. A little over a month ago I made plans to go to a music benefit being held for Full Moon Farms. Now, I had every intention of going to this benefit. Didn’t really see a problem with it. I’d met some of the people who volunteer for FMF and really hit it off with a few of them so I was looking forward to spending some quality time with some fellow wolfdog lovers.

My intuition wasn’t having it. From day one it pitched a fit. It did not want me to go but it couldn’t really give me a reason why. It was just….a feeling. No logic. No words. Not even the embryo of a real thought.

So what did I do? I ignored it. I’d already made the four-hour drive from my house to FMF three times, I knew where I was going, knew this place wasn’t situated around any meth dens or anything, I’d met Nancy Brown and decided I liked the woman (She’s blunt and passionate. I like that in a person.) plus, I wanted to somehow help these wolfdogs.

I loves me some Banjo, ya know? He’s the man, what with the long air and biting and all.

So for about a month my intuition and I weren’t on speaking terms. I was going and it was just going to have to sit down and be quiet. No argument about it.

And yet, about a week before the benefit, my intuition did something it has never done before.

It started to play dirty.

”I don’t want you to go to North Carolina.”

I stood there and looked at my husband like he had a maxi-pad stapled to his forehead. My husband. The secure, trusting man who would throw his hand up to wave and say, “Be careful and have fun!” if I told him I was going on the road with Pearl Jam and that my official job title was going to be “Oral Relaxation Hostess” all of a sudden didn’t want me to go to a dog farm.

“Why not?”

He just shrugged. “I don’t know why.” Right about here is where my smartass intuition pulled a real fast one on me. It actually grinned back at me from my husband’s eyes while he added, “It’s just a bad feeling I have.”

Son. Of. A. Bitch. Every woman alive knows where this situation leaves us. Here we are, all ready to stand up and announce that nobody, and I mean no damned body! is going to tell us where to go or what to do and I am just as smart and capable and, and, and as smart as you and..and..

And yet in the back of our minds we know that he’s worried about us. If you’re married to a good man you know that when he says something like this he’s not afraid of anything you might do. He’s afraid of what someone might do to you or he’s afraid that something bad might happen and that he won’t be there to protect you. And now that he’s told you he has a bad feeling about you going, if you go anyway and something bad really does happen, if the car breaks down somewhere on I-40 and he has to come out in the middle of the night to get you, or if you’re kidnapped by rogue tobacco pirates who took a wrong turn somewhere in South Carolina one thing is sure.

You will never, ever live it down.

So here I am, just a day or so before the benefit, with Saturday, June 20 quickly approaching and nothing to do but mow the yard and clean the bathroom.

Oh, joy.

It’s kinda funny how I ended up at Blythe’s Ferry last Saturday afternoon. I don’t read the newspaper and yet for some reason, on Friday, I picked one up off the end of the bar and scanned it. Bad news, bad news, more bad news. This is why I don’t bother.

But then something else caught my eye.

A fiddler was coming to town. A Cherokee fiddler, in fact. A Cherokee fiddler who was apparently quite good - quite damned good, in fact - at fiddling. He was coming to play – of all things – a benefit for the Cherokee Removal Memorial Park in Birchwood, Tennessee. Imagine the luck. Fiddling and Cherokees – two of my very favorite things - right here in my backyard.

Seriously, how damned cool was that?

I’d love to say that this is where the bickering between my intuition and me ended, but such was not the case. I went to the benefit, just like my intuition told me to. And I saw how inspirational this unfinished memorial already was. I quickly came to understand how important it is that the people behind this project find another source of funding to finish it. (They lost their grant and don’t have the finances to complete what they’ve started.) And as anything to do with the Appalachians or the Cherokee people or the Tennessee River all seems to spark my creativity, I suspected my intuition had led me to this spot to try and lure me back into writing mode again.

My intuition does that quite often. It leads me to people and places and situations that could easily spark my passion and creativity and make me feel the way I used to feel about writing. You know? Back before all “the stuff” happened? My intuition has repeatedly told me where to go to finally put the past where it belongs. It’s told me who to meet and whether or not to get involved in certain situations if I want to feel the way I used to feel. It’s even told me there is absolutely no doubt that the future can be just as good as the past was bad if I will simply listen. And yet shamefully, even though I know all of this and even though I do listen to my intuition, I still don’t act.

I waste my intuition’s time.

But see, in this case, I had a “reason” to only skim the surface and get by. I had a “good” “reason.” I had a very valid and understandable excuse to stay long enough to be inspired by the opportunity, but not long enough that I would want to act.

It’s the end of June in southeast Tennessee. It is the END of JUNE in southeast Tennessee. Do you know what that means?

It is HOT.

At one point around four-thirty or so, I was sitting on the end of the porch/stage waiting for whatever the hell it was my intuition wanted me to see, and I thought to myself, “This had better be good because it is four hundred degrees IN THE SHADE and there is sweat running down the crack of my ass.”

My intuition just smiled.

If you had to pick up and move your entire life, what would you take with you? If you knew you’d be traveling by foot for months on end, with no modern accommodations or restaurants along the way, what would you pack? How would you decide what to carry that far, and what to leave behind?

I’d venture to say that the difference between the Cherokee people who made it to the end of the Trail Of Tears and those who didn’t was this.

The ones who made it knew what mattered.

Regrettably, I admit that had I been one of the people who walked The Trail, I might not have made it. It is entirely possible that had I been a Native American in the life and death situation they faced every day on that walk that I would have carried my anger with me and not much else. In the beginning I would have turned down water because it came from a white man’s well. I would have turned down food because a white woman prepared it. And before I wised up and started taking my intuition’s advice, I probably would have been so angry and stubborn that I would have refused shelter and refuge and comfort from anyone who tried to be kind.

I’m not proud of the anger that has run my life for so long. It’s not something I’m glad I picked up along the way. But anger serves its purpose. It has its time and place and the anger I felt for a while was completely justified.

For a while.

Saturday, that anger and my long-standing refusal to accept kindness for the sake of keeping that anger alive could have cost me something I’m glad I didn’t miss. I’m glad I listened to my intuition. Glad I acted this time and kept my sweating ass planted on the end of that porch. I’m glad I sat there and waited in that heat for what was to come. Most of all, I’m now glad there are people in the world who listened to their intuition when it told them, “Force her to eat. Force her to drink. Just keep her alive until she snaps out of it and starts walking on her own again.”

We inspire ourselves when we figure out what we would and wouldn’t take with us if we had to walk that trail. But inspiration is nothing without action. I can sit here and be inspired all day long but that won’t help me and it won’t make the world a better place.

I can’t change a damned thing if I don’t get up and do it.

So what pushes us to act? What is it finally going to take to make me start writing again? It’s probably different things for different people. For me, I’m pretty sure it’s realizing how far along that trail I am. Realizing how much ground is behind me and how much progress I’ve made as a person and as a writer. What’s urging me along the fastest right now is knowing that I would never have made it this far, would never have survived this long if it hadn’t been for the other members of my tribe.

Thank you for dragging me – most of the time kicking and screaming - this far. You have no idea how much it means to finally know what matters.

After the show I told the fiddler that I wasn’t supposed to be there. I told him I was supposed to be four hours away at another benefit in North Carolina.

“Humph,” he said. Crossed his arms and smiled. “Guess my angels have been talking to yours, huh?”

Angels. Inspiration. Cherokee or White. Whatever.
Different people, different languages.

Same Voice.

Stalkers On The Half Shell?

Let’s face it, we’re all insane. Creative people, I mean. Writers, musicians, sculptors, painters and the like, we’re all batshit crazy.* But that’s ok. It’s an occupational hazard. We’re supposed to be crazy. People expect us to be “out there.” Not to mention, insanity is part of our charm.

It’s probably why you like us.

That said, and that being very true, my crazy ass was wandering through the garden yesterday when I came upon my pond. No, I don’t live on an estate and it’s not a fifteen-acre trout pond or some bikini waxed, plastic ornamental mishap you’d see on the cover of Southern Living. I live in an itty-bitty house and the pond is a medium sized hole I dug several years ago that I filled with water, irises and cattails (Can you say, “pussywillows,” boys and girls?) I pulled up at the lake and that have become something out of control and gorgeous. Probably because I leave them alone.

Anyhoo, I came upon the pond and as I was standing there watching frogs dive for cover and keeping an eye out for Mr. No Shoulders** it occurred to me that something was out of balance. That happens sometimes in life, doesn’t it? You end up with too much of one thing and not enough of another and everything gets all out of whack? Well, in the past few years of my life there has been a definite imbalance, something most definitely out of whack, and I think I’ve figured out exactly what to do about it.

I have plenty of stalkers. And by stalkers I mean downright rabid fans. I don’t know what it is about me but I don’t seem to have any normal “romance writer” fans. I get the weirdos. The freaks. (And I mean this affectionately, dears.) I’ve had people hack me and call me at all hours of the night and sneak into my yard and take things out of my car. I expected my life would be inconvenienced a tad when I started writing. Jade Black herself tried to tell me I was gonna get prison mail. Still, I never expected the kind of obsessive behavior some people have displayed.

Trust me, the first five years of my writing career have been interesting to say the least.

So, in my life, “enthusiastic” fans abound. And yet, there is an imbalance because I am without something I have only just realized is essential to every water gardener’s life.

I have no turtles in my pond. Not one. Here I am living just a stone’s throw from the Tennessee River with a pond in my yard and apparently plenty of people who are just itching for a reason to trespass, and yet not a shelled critter one lives on my property. How does this happen? How does one’s existence get so misaligned? All stalkers and no turtles! I need a turtle! Everyone with a pond needs a turtle!

How did I let this happen to my life?!

I have to fix this, I have to restore the balance in my life, so here’s the deal. I am inviting you to my house. Yes, you and you and even you my little sticky-fingered, You Porn addicted friend. You’re all invited.
But here’s the catch.

You have to bring a gift. That’s the trade off. You wanna come into my yard? You wanna stalk me? Fine. But you gotta get up, you gotta go outside, and you gotta leave something good in your wake.

We’re playing a new game and this is the first rule.

No stalking without a turtle.

Find me. Put that previously pointless ability to find anyone anywhere with the help of Google and a few equally socially maladjusted internet friends to work and find exactly where I live. (Because the weather in Georgia is indeed different from the weather in Kentucky.) Find my house, locate a turtle and then – and here’s the really important part - do some research. Make sure the little guy you’re toting can survive outside (don’t bring me any aquarium dwellers as I am sans aquarium at the moment) and don’t bring me anybody who can’t live in my area. No special needs turtles, no mentally challenged/sexually traumatized turtles, (that’s just creepy, innit?) and no high maintenance critters. (I already have The Bitch and a man.)

Also, don’t bring me any of those big ass endangered turtles. I mean, it would be cool and all but I have neither the acreage nor the ocean to support one, nor do I have the money to get my ass out of that kind of legal trouble if I got caught.

Turtles with natural defects – extra limbs, discoloration of the shell, strong propensities to crossdress, elongated tails or other grossly enlarged appendages *snicker*, etc - are fine so long as they can make it on their own in the wild.

The next step is this. Paint your first name and a three-digit number*** on the turtle’s shell. Once again, this requires some research as there may be certain inks you cannot use on turtles. Please note, I ain’t going to jail for encouraging wildlife cruelty so FIND THIS OUT before you tag him!

Now, gather up your turtle, get in the car, drive to my house, sneak stealthily**** into my yard - careful to avoid the Chow, the Bitch and my newly acquired 87 pound Labrador/Mutt (he was going to be put down for biting) - and deposit said turtle at aforementioned pond. Also, be sure and smile because you’re on camera and you have NO IDEA how protective/territorial my “big brothers” are.

Is that done? Ok, now do this. Sneak back out of my yard (don’t touch my car, don’t pee on my flowers and if my husband comes out with a gun the safety word is “bananas”) and then wait.

I will post the name painted on the first turtle I find.***** The numbers are to identify you in case there are two Williford’s or two Marcella’s or two Maynard Keenan’s. *slaps knee and snorts* Can you imagine?

The winner is the first person whose turtle is discovered happy, healthy and thriving in my pond. If I find him and he’s not happy, healthy and thriving in my pond we’ll take him to the vet/reptilian psychologist to cure what ails him and put him in some Floaties until he adapts to his new aquatic life. You still win. What if he’s dead? Well, if he’s dead we’ll bury him, dumbass.

What else you gonna do with a dead turtle? *rolls eyes*

So, what do you win if I find your turtle first? I’m not sure yet. To be honest, I don’t really expect anyone to actually do this so I haven’t thought that far ahead. I guess if you are crazy enough to do this you might be fun to have around. So maybe that’s the prize right there.

Yes. It’s official.

First prize in the 2009 Blayne Edwards Turtle Classic: You get to be Paris Hilton’s new BFF.******

Fair ‘nuff?


FOOTNOTES:

* So sayeth Nickelback.

** Six-foot snake. No idea what kind. He’s black with yellow stripes. He looks like one of those good, thick garden hoses. Anybody? Anyway, he moved into the garden last spring and I just haven’t had the heart (read: “balls”) to hunt him down and move him out.

*** If you use 666 you will be disqualified and your turtle will be slaughtered* and used for soup.

**** This means be quiet.

***** Honorable mention to any turtle discovered after a winner is declared so long as he’s** wearing assless leather chaps.

****** Don’t know her. Don’t want to know her. Don’t give a shit if my using her name pisses her off.

* Not really. But don’t use 666. Really
** The turtle. Not the fan.*

* Unless you’re a fan with a really great ass.

Blowing 'em out

In celebration of my recent 40th birthday I’d like to share a few tidbits of wisdom I’ve acquired over the years. These are in no particular order of importance.

1. A mustard stain doesn’t make a favorite shirt any less comfy.

2. Nice girls rarely make history but never need Valtrex.

3. God’s a hard one to find but worth it in the end.

4. Life is like a great big dick and you really only have two choices of how to handle it.

You can stand there and be scared, or climb on and ride.

I. Am. In. Love.

But of course I am. What else but love could possibly break an eleven month silence?

My new crush's name is Banjo and he lives at Full Moon Farm. He's big, he's gorgeous and on our second date he gave me a hickey.

You know me. I like 'em ruff!