Where I’m From - my version

Have you ever read the poem, “Where I’m From” by George Ella Lyon? You should.

And then you should write you own version of that poem. Thousands of people have sifted through their memories, and delivered beautiful works of poetry by following the “guideline” to writing their own “Where I’m From” poem. I did it several years back, and I’m reposting it now because I had recently found some wonderful pieces by folks on the Internet. You can search for ‘em, there are tons floating around.

It’s a thought-provoking “assignment” and I just know that some of y’all could do wonders with it. You ought to give it a try, see what you come up with.

The guideline, for if you decide to participate:

1. I am from _______ (specific ordinary item), from _______ (product name) and _______.

2. I am from the _______ (home description… adjective, adjective, sensory detail).

3. I am from the _______ (plant, flower, natural item), the _______ (plant, flower, natural detail).

4.  I am from _______ (family tradition) and _______ (family trait), from _______ (name of family member) and _______ (another family name) and _______ (family name).

5. I am from the _______ (description of family tendency) and _______ (another one).

6. From _______ (something you were told as a child) and _______ (another).

7. I am from _______ (representation of religion, or lack of it).

Further description

8. I am from _______ (place of birth and family ancestry), _______ (two food items representing your family).

9. From the _______ (specific family story about a specific person and detail), the _______ (another detail, and the _______ (another detail about another family member).

10. I am from _______ (location of family pictures, mementos, archives and several more lines indicating their worth).

:: :: ::

And, of course, my version of “Where I’m From”.

I am from record players, art supplies and tire swings. I am from GI Joes, classic Care Bears and flannel sheets.

I am from the Sunshine State, from sugar cane and pineapple fields. I am from the beaches on the Pacific Ocean and a dysfunctional military home with high expectations and alcoholism.

I am from the bird of paradise, hibiscus plants, sweet-smelling gardenia bushes and budding dogwoods.

I am from an Irish temper, German beer and English bulldogs. I am from redneck country with green, rolling hills and pigeon speaking haolis.

I am from air craft carriers, helicopters and F-14s. I am from lonely afternoons after school and tear-filled good-byes.

I am from Julia, Joyce and Johnny. I am from amazing people whom I never got the chance to meet, though the stories of them intrigue me greatly. I am from homemade fudge that was always made without a recipe and measuring supplies, quilt racks and White Lightning.

I am from fish fries, camping along Kentucky Lake and fun-filled road trips.

I am from the Methodist church, and though I don’t represent like I should, I still have my own relationship with God.

I am from tales of life on the sea, fresh vegetables every night and cooking my first Thanksgiving at the age of 12. I am from Christmas phone calls to Kentucky while wearing shorts on the North Shore.

I am from Florida and the west coast, where a good bye to friends was always around the corner. I am from hurricanes, earthquakes, mud slides and tornadoes.

I am from teri beef and sticky rice.

I am from Air Force drop outs who met by chance signing up for the Navy. I am from people that broke their backs for pennies just to feed their youngins.

I am from a man who smiled with his eyes, laughed from his gut and loved from within. I am from a man who I wish I could have met but was called to God too soon.

I am from a cedar chest that reminds me of hard work well spent, a closet full of shot guns and a shiny revolver, a 58 Chevy, and a room full of framed Rockwells and paintings by Salvador Dali.

I am from love, laughter and living like there is no tomorrow . . .

:: :: ::

Good luck!

Clean toys are a must!

One of the most popular searches that find their way here is:

• How to clean a dildo/vibrator.

I have elected to write a post concerning this matter since quite a few folks are wondering, and plugging it into Google, thus finding me. It is my duty - a have-to, dear readers. I must inform the public the proper technique to keeping their sex toys squeeky clean, cuz you don’t want that shit going into your shit when it’s crusty, now do ya? I think not.

First off, common sense should tell you not to submerge any battery-packing toys, in its entirety, into water. Just run hot, soapy water over the vibes that contain batteries. Easy, yes?

It’s as simple as that, folks. Hot water. Antibacterial soap. Rinse. Air dry. Fuck. Repeat.

Your toys will be clean and ready to go if you do these few simple steps after each fuck session.

You know, some folks even swear they use the dishwasher or rubbing alcohol or baking grease or whatever to clean their goodies. But, me? I like soap and water, and my cunt has yet to fall off due to some nasty vibrator disease.

But, if you should so choose to throw one in the dishwasher, I would at least recommend top-rack only, and don’t put it close to Granny’s antique China.

3WW - 12

human death abound
i am cautious where i step
maybe it’s just rot.

 

Pick versus blow

                             

So we had a pretty heated debate over dinner last night . . . concerning the nose.

BabyDoll states that it is best to pick the nose, because that is “the fun way to clear away the boogies.”

Mister claims that blowing the nose is best because “it’s more effective.”

I’m torn. I see both sides and they both had valid points that supported their decision. And after contimplating both equally-stimulating arguments, I still find myself torn in the matter of pick versus blow.

 

It’s only hair

When it comes to my hair, I’m fairly low maintenance.

I cut it.

I wash it.

I dye it.

The end.

Occasionally, it gets a few curls or flat-ironed, but for the most part . . it’s up and outta my face behind a bandana or in a bun. I make no fuss over my hair, but I’ve been trying to grow it out for the past few years now, and it’s a super slooooow process because my hair is just retarded like that.

So the other day, Mister and I were in a conversation about my hair, and he was commenting on how he enjoys redheads and somethin’ or another .. I don’t know, I forget, but what I doooo remember is him saying that he wouldn’t want me to cut it short. “A boy ‘do”. He doesn’t want me sporting one. “It’s too boyish. You’d look like a boy with big tits.”

I wasn’t aware that I had boyish features, and that my hair was the only thing keeping me from looking like a dick-packer.

So of course, I tell ‘im that I’ll cut it if I want to because it’s my head and I’ll do as I please. And then he countered that with a, “Uhh, no. You won’t. You won’t cut it. Uhh, no.”

And y’all know that shit ain’t happenin’ this time around . . I don’t get told what to do by anyone.

So I disappeared for about seven minutes, and this is the result. If you saw the back and/or the other side, it’s like an inch long - it’s called being asymmetrical .. *beams* That’ll teach him to tell me what to do.

It’s hair. It’s only hair. It grows back. Maybe mine will . . maybe it won’t. But he sure as fuck ain’t telling me when it will grow back.

Askin’ the crew

I threw out my back the other day, while moving something at someone’s house. They had asked me to do it since they weren’t in town and it was in dire need to be moved as soon as possible. I gladly did it, but I’ve been feeling it ever since.

You know you’re in pain when you sit at the table and cry into your dinner because the pain is so intense, but yet, you can’t sit anywhere else because it’s much more painful elsewhere.

I still can’t get around too well, and I’m running low on Loritabs. I would looove to see a doc about it and get another round of pills, but I don’t have insurance and just seeing the doc would put me back close to a hundred bones. And that’s not even counting the drugs.

Is it wrong to ask the folks to cough up some moolah since I was doing something for them? They sure as hell haven’t offered, but I sure as hell wouldn’t be hurting if I had stayed home that day.

Thoughts?

Being submissive

If you’re in any way familiar with BDSM then you’ll probably know about submissiveness. I have self-proclaimed myself as a submissive wench, and some have questioned that. Some even think that it’s a Southe’n type thang, which I’ll be honest . . a lot of women do for their men down here (and No, I didn’t say ALL women). It’s not a rarity. It’s all about respect and appreciation and setting limits. If I get the respect I deserve then I’m happy. If I’m happy, then everyone else will be happy, too.

• “How can you be submissive to a . . a man?!!”

I get that question quite often, and it’s because of ignorance. Having submissive tendencies does not put me back into the 1950s, and it doesn’t have me under control by a man. Quite the oppositve, rather. Subs tend to make the rules. They generally rule the roost. They say how and when and with whom. A sub has limits, and those limits aren’t to be crossed.

I have my limits.

If you were to ask the husband who ruled this place, he’d say that I did. Not just because he’s smart and that’s the right answer, but because I do. No, I’m not the sole decision maker, bread winner, dick sucker, whathaveyou . . but I do have possession of the remote control, and that speaks volumes does it not?

And because I run this place, I take care of it completely. I make sure that it’s in tip-top shape, with no snags and that’s the way I prefer it.  And I take care of the persons inside it competely. I do damn near everything inside this house, and I don’t ask for help or participation. I even run a tractor (more on that in another post), I change my own oil in the car, I do the “manly” things throughout the homestead. . . and I enjoy it. The only thing I ask him to do is take out the trash. That’s it.

I enjoy taking care of the family, and their needs. I do it and, it’s appreciated. Full bellies and clean drawers go a long way. Their smiling faces give me the warm fuzzies, and sure, it’d be a hell of a different story if they took me for granted. But they don’t. They’re smart.

They know that they do not tell me to do anything. Telling me to do something will only get you loss of privileges and a divorce. (The first husband learned that the hard way). They say “please” and “thank you” - and most of the time, I don’t have to say “You’re welcome” first.

Now, I know a lot of folks will disagree with me on this. They’ll say that I shouldn’t be doing everything, and that the kid could do for herself . . and so could the husband. But, I don’t mind it. If I did, I sure as fuck wouldn’t be doing it, and someone else would be making the coffee first thing while I took my morning dump.

:: :: ::

Thank you, Mike, for the post idea

What’s in a name

I’ve had many pets throughout my life, varying from dogs to cats to frogs and turtles, pigs and horses, mice and rats and a few fishes here and there. My favorites are, of course, dogs and pigs - currently there are five dogs that reside here and a cat with … I’d say 4 or 5 kittens in ‘er belly as I type this. She’s such a slut.

To some, picking a name for a pet is a difficult duty. It has to be carefully thought out, with much consideration that said name won’t haunt the poor animal later in life. Sometimes, a person wants to name their pet according to their personality or a spot on it’s butt or because it has no teeth. Who knows.

Me? I go the opposite route of Capt’n Obvious. I don’t name a black dog “Blackie”. No, I’d name it “Crackah Ass.”

• I’ve had a turtle named “Fluffy”.
• I’ve had a dog named “Pig” because I was wanting a pig but settled for a damn mutt.
• I’ve had several fish named “Fluffy”.
• I’ve had a cat named “Goat”.
• I’ve had a pig named “Turd”.
• And a spotted mare was naturally named “Stripes”.

And then you have the registered names. Oh don’t even get me started on those.

• Duke’s Solid Gold Mistake
• Der Hagen’s Gimme Money Honey
• Raphael Anglique Arwen
• Ms Contessa Independence

just to name a few. Odd.

And .. and then you have the folks who pick out a name before even seeing the animal. They majically pull a name out of the air, with hopes that it’ll “match” the animal and sometimes it does, other times .. well, it doesn’t.

Let’s take my mom, for example. She was in search of a cat. I tried telling the woman that you don’t buy cats. You find them for free in the Penny Pincher, because cats are sluts. You don’t buy cats. And anyhow, she had a name already picked out, before we even got to the feedstore (where they, in fact, sell cats for five bucks a piece).

Her: I’m gonna name it Frank.

Me: I’ll call it Frankie. I don’t like Frank.

Her: Tough shit - it’s name’ll be Frank.

Me: Okay, so I’ll just call it Frankie then.

And that white-haired fucker sooo does not look like a “Frank”. It looks more like a “Shit Bomb”, so naturally I call it as such.

3WW - 11

watching highway lights
solitude won’t be ignored
eyes are left empty.

 

Honest to blog

Movies generally don’t make me teary-eyed. I didn’t cry at the end of Old Yeller or Titanic or even American Graffiti when the ‘55 Chevy! wrecked. No, I’m a hard-ass when it comes to watching flicks and keeping the water works under control. The Notebook made me laugh, even. God, the husband is such a puss when it comes to that movie. Anyhow!

The only movie that I can recall to make me a bit misty-eyed is ConAir. Yeah, at the end when Nicolas Cage meets up with the wifey and kid *sniff* Heartbreaker.

But then I saw Juno over the weekend, and the boohoo-to-a-movie list is now up to two. It was just an incredibly sweet movie. Yeah, a 16-year-old pregnancy flick made me tear. So I’m not so much a hard-ass as some would think. I’m not. But this movie fucking rocked.

Twenty minutes into it, and I was wanting the soundtrack. I don’t feel that way toward too many shows, as a lot of them just suck. But this! this was a great score, and it was generally singer/songwriter-y types and it was most excellent. Also, I have to give some major props to Sonic Youth’s cover of “Superstar” by the Carpenters *swoon* Fan-fucking-tastic.