What’s My Story?

While at the lake with my daughters a sheriff appeared. He spoke niceties and left, leaving me befuddled. Why was he there? Who was he looking for? The curiosity kills me, so why not write a rhyme?

P.S. I use the pronoun “he” with the understanding that “he” can also be a “she”.

Hey There Mr. Sheriff

Hey there Mr. Sheriff who’re you lookin’ for

With the gun on your hip, a tight upper lip

Did your hopes fall to the floor

 

When you walked up to me did you hope to see

a man on the lam or three

What did he do

before the pursuit

Does he have a big gun

Is he on the run

from you or his family

 

Is he a slayer or a really bad player

Did he deal a crime or two

Does he steal a car and make it real far

Cross a line or few

Steal a few bucks

Shoot a few ducks

Swindle a man like you

 

Tell me Mr. Sheriff I’m an eager sort of lass

Was he a drunkard

A blood-lipped punchard

A crude, a prude, an ass

 

Does he tell a lie

A sneaky smooth guy

Have a face or two

Can he smell a chase

Win the race

Against a guy like you

 

Today’s Photo Challenge: Silhouette

Museum Quarter Vienna, January 2014

 

Hi lovelies!

The beauty of blogging is that I can write whatever my little heart desires. For no uncertain reason I felt inspired to share ten things about myself. Maybe you’ll learn something new that’ll make you laugh, maybe you’ll dislike me even more, in which case I’d question why you are reading this. Perhaps you’re a masochist? Enough about you. Here I am:

1. I was the middle child of three daughters. Actually I still am, but we’re grown up now. The important thing to remember about middle children is we are fighters and mediators which pretty much means we are completely conflicted. Middle children aren’t the ones leading the way and they aren’t the cute ones making everyone laugh, but we have to make ourselves visible somehow. Fighting for what I need and keeping the peace are my unsolicited duties in life; I am essentially the definition of conflict.
2. I eat everything except Ranch dressing. The two three meals I’ve ever disliked: lentil fajitas (made by yours truly, confirmed as disgusting by my husband), liver and onions (made by everyone’s mom), rognons d’agneau (lamb kidneys, made in France). (I see a pattern with the animal organs. Guess I’ll avoid those.)
3. I hate scary movies.
4. I’m a good driver but I caused an accident when I was 17 years young. My car was sandwiched between another car and a logging truck in an effort to pass the “another car”. All three cars driving the same direction down a two-lane highway like a band of brothers. Logging truck:1- My car: 0.  I wasn’t hurt but my car was totalled.
5. I became a college graduate, a wife, and a boss in a one month period of time at the sassy age of 24. (Story coming later. Maybe.)
6. I remember my childhood phone number which was also a party-line with the school bus driver.
7. I hate crafts. God gave me daughters to test my patience or He needed a good laugh. Either way, I hate them (crafts, not my daughters).
8. I’m stronger than I look. I can pick up my dog who weighs 80 lbs.
9. I like people. At the age of 42 I’ve only met three four people I truly dislike. Despite the fact that I dislike these 4 people, I’ve found redeeming characteristics in each of them so I can’t say that I hate them. But I am extremely annoyed and peeved by their unlikable characteristics.
10. I can’t sing well. If I could choose a talent, it would be to sing. I want a voice with soul because soulful voices move me to tears and give me goose bumps. I want the ability to do that.

That’s it for today. I hope you know me a little better. Have a great weekend everyone!

Love, B

Today’s Photo Challenge: Texture

Mom playing on monkey bars: I climbed up and took this shot. Afterwards, I did an obstacle course with my kids. 

Nothing inspires me like music. Pumped through loud speakers and performed live, it charges my affinity for creativity and individuality. Boy bands can have their heyday, but the generic static of similarity leaves them crying for a tattoo and a mohawk and a swift kick in their poopy pants.

Great artists take an enormous risk of ridicule and criticism. Success brings adoration, but countless bad reviews can minimize the soul to roadkill jerky. For all you critics out there, give the people who are trying a break. Exposing their creation deserves encouragement and support, even if it’s uglier than a carny because even a carny has a heart.

Not all musicians are icons and not all heroes are cowboys. Some sing but the big guns, well, they scream. Individuality separates the rind from the fruit, and as a person, especially via writing, I’d like to be the fruitiest, watermelon-iest of all. But do I have the courage to undergo the accompanying criticism? Will you spit out the seeds and still like me for the fruit that I am?

Thanks to music for the inspiration.

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This post is in honor of Sir Paul McCartney who charmed and enchanted our small town last night with an epic experience of iconic adoration.  He is one brave soul and one giant slice of watermelon.