Embrace the Bacongal, and what ever I'm itching to say !

Whistle, yup, can't do it. Tried and tried, I don't know where to put my tongue (no comments here plz) Spit, not a very good spitter. It goes everywhere, I don't have that one blob in the spitoon sort of ability. I realized this when I run or bike and I have that disgusting build up after a long ride/run. TMI I know. Drink Tequila. Oh I can drink it, but I can't keep from barfing after

I am still running, still lovin in, still a short legged slow person. My runs are every other day, at least 3.5 miles and I haven't moved past the 5 mile limit. I average a 10 minute mile. I have done 9 minute averages and wanted to puke, cry and die all in that order when I finished. I love the feeling of salt crystals on my face from the dried perspiration. I know very odd, but I love it.

Riddick and I were cruising through the Sonic drive-thru, during Happy Hour(if you don't know what Sonic happy hour is, you are missing out on pure joy for 99 cents) Riddick ordered two medium "grape squishies" The response after a healthy pause was " ...do you mean slushie?" Riddick.."ah yes" as we drive away Riddick mumbles, "don't tell me you don't know what a squishie is" Really does anybody not know what a squishie is? Even if you aren't a fan of "The Simpsons", have you really never never heard "squishie" Love, Apoo

I used to get black patent leather shoes every Easter. I wanted red ones...so stinking bad. But they were always black. A new Easter dress and shoes. Every Easter we would go to my Uncle Bob's for dinner. But first there would be magnificent Easter baskets courtesy of Mom. I know now, that she spent time putting them together. I looked forward to finding them every year. My cousin Nina and I one year in Uncle Bob's garage.

My niece, Paislie Jean. Sido calls her a labbit, even when it's not Easter. Something to do with the big back feet and the hopping I'm guessing

Criticizing my parents is incredibly painful for me. They aren't here to explain anything, or defend any criticism, and I miss them so very much that any thought that darkens that memory makes me feel dis-loyal. This all stems from a lie. A lie I told. Actually a series of lies. I didn't tell anybody when my first husband hit me. I kept it in. I knew or at least I belived that I was protecting him, myself, and that if I didn't tell anybody that I would be the only one to get hurt. And because I thought I deserved it. You might ask what the hell would give an 18 year old the idea that she deserved to be beat by her 38 year old husband. Well because it had happened before. Not by either of my parents, but by someone else, someone else who had no right to solve an argument with violence. My Mom had died by the time this all happened. But I feel that my Dad did not defend me as he should have. In his defense he probably did more than I know of, but to me, he wan

Blogging has been on the back burner, the way back burner as of late. The past month I have been coping, dealing and trying to help with my step-father's illness. Sadly, Ken died March 25th. Last week was especially stressful. We had Pinky and IronMan for the week. April 5 is also the anniversary of my own Dad's death and Ken's memorial service was set for Saturday the 8th. The kids had doctor appointments and youth group. I had envisioned a very hard week for me. The driving was too much, the phone calls, many comforting my bio-Mom, were painful, but in the end it was all made better by having the kids. Having them here with Riddick and I meant that I could not just lay down in my bed and cry for a day, or hide in my house, like I choose to do quite often. Do you ever like to do that? Plan days where you don't leave your home, puttering around, cooking, plucking your guitar, organizing..or just reading. I love those days. Never used to. I always