Letting go sucks so it must be love


Giving up on ideas is as easy as saying Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious
“Hold on loosely, but don’t let go.”

I think most everybody born before the year 2000 knows of the song by 38 Special. Call me a rock traitor if you will, but I hate that song. Just not for why you might think. My hate stems from my inability to let go.

Successful application of the concept, my letting go, is as easy for me, as it would be for you to say…



Looks and letting go can be deceptive
Yeah, sure. Doesn’t look too scary…


In its complete entirety with your mouth stuffed full of Saltine crackers, while your body is rocketing down the Schlitterbahn water slide at speeds alternating between the mild, ‘Non-surgical face-lift’ and the more exhilerating, ‘high colonic via bathing suit’.

The odds of your being successful in verbalizing anything other than AAHH!!, much less all those troublesome syllables during your date with terror and gforces in a clearly vain attempt to recapture your youthful glory and and that of my letting go with any modicum of grace and dignity are…

I’m thinking are roughly about the same.

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Hell’s Home: Better run like hell


2 blogs, 1 story

Lightning pierced the sky. The air was becoming heavier and the filtered sunlight that shone down through the tree canopy within the woods was almost gone.

A storm was coming. A big one from the looks of it and Roger wanted gone. Despite these things, Roger’s truck keys remained undaunted-and hidden from view.

He had no idea how long the woman had been standing in front of him before she tapped him on the shoulder, causing him to jump and let out a very unmanly squeal.

Just a little one, she probably didn’t even hear it, but still.

Getting startled and jumping made for a bad impression when the paranormal was supposed to be your thing.

“Hey! Pay attention when you’re being spoken to. I know who and what you are,” the woman snarled up at him without preamble, her features twisting into a mask of contempt, her hands on her hips.

“And you aren’t welcome here.”

Oh now everything was perfect. Because dealing with a harpy, a storm at night in the woods, and looking for his keys was exactly what he needed this very moment.

“Yeah? You’re at the advantage then. Who are you?” Roger asked, resigned.

The woman peered at Roger in exasperated annoyance. “Why don’t you ask Addie?”

She nodded at his surprise.

“Mmhhmm, I thought you’d run into to her. Look, what you think you know? You don’t. Go home, we don’t need you getting in the way.”

She jangled Roger’s errant keys in his face for emphasis and he jumped. Again. What was wrong with him?

He had to clear his throat before he could speak. “Why are you so angry? I’ve done nothing wrong.”

The woman rolled her eyes, plunked the keys in the palm of his hand and turned away from him, letting the wind carry back her answer.

“We don’t want you here. None of us do. Keep your nose out of what doesn’t concern you. You’ll be much safer.”

Rog wondered uneasily if she weren’t right, as he (ran) made his way back to towards the house and the truck.

He managed to kick off his muddy boots before he hit the bed and slept soundly, only to awaken with the feeling of someone standing next to his bed. No one was.

Glancing at the clock, he saw it was only 5:15am but he felt like he was already hours behind schedule.

Hell’s Home was the holder of secrets and full to the brim with the angry, the restless and agitated, and the lost.

He had the strangest feeling that time was running out. For himself and for Addie and Aaron. Trick was, figuring it out before time was up.


I would’ve blogged but…

I would’ve blogged sooner, I really would have, but a plastic grocery bag monster tried to eat me.

candid can shots of plastic bags
It’s just a plastic grocery bag…(yeah but it’s got big teef!)

Then a camera eating snake tried to snatch my cell from my hand, but just before it could…
Getting the one snake in a bucket pranked. With a real snake.
Wait, what?! This is a LIVE snake?

I was saved by a dirty Redneck who only rode to my rescue in the first place (and with much laughter at my expense) because he wanted free labor, go figure.
Not as easy to choose over blogging but necessary. If I want a ceiling anytime soon
Talking dirty with Rednecks. “Dammit, I said HOLD THIS!”

So I decided to call it a day and sack out next to a possum-playing Duck.
Fun with Duck over blogging
Having fun with Duck

Only to be awakened by my flowers banging on the window. Seems they were miffed over my mistreatment of them and of their photogenic beauty so I needed to take pics of them.
I chose my flowers instead of my blog
My flowers needed photographing

So I did.
Then the green beans demanded I pick then and…
Fresh green beans over blogging
Pick me! No, pick ME! Pick me!…

I did as they commanded, lest they loose the horde of steroidal stink bugs on us.
But mostly?
I think I’ve been procrastinating.

Early wardrobe mishaps gave me precocious humor


My creativity started early in retaliation for bad dressing
Mom dressed me like this.

I went looking through the family album the other day, which is never a good thing. But I think I finally know why my humor is so twisty and warped.

Despite what the picture above might suggest, I had a happy if spectacularly poorly dressed, childhood. I blame my mother for my wardrobe malfunctions. She blames the 70’s.

Probably a little bit of both.

As far as I can recall, there was no need for me to kick-start early production on my Humor Development line.

Certainly there had been no childhood traumas bad enough to act as an evolutionary trigger.


Maybe I de-dressed myself, to show my dis-taste for my summer attire
This can’t be a wardrobe improvement

Unless it was a by-product from my choosing to go topless rather than be made to wear anything else that made me a Chi-Chi’s restaurant poster child or a runaway picnic table-cloth thief. Not exactly some of my best moments.

Now I suffer from Precocious Humor (NOT an official medical term), no doubt brought on by a mother who had way too much time, her own sense of humor, and a camera.

It all makes so much more sense to me now. And the reason I’m ever so slightly concerned. Look at Duck’s hat and at mine. Yeah….

Like Mother, Like Son
Maybe he just has the same taste in hats…



Finding humor in an ADHD life without water wings


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