bloom where you're planted
I did that little diddy up in counted crossstich back when I could see well enough to find the holes in #18 aida wielding a sharp instrument. My mama still has it displayed proudly at home in the red log cabin. She is responsible for my artistic side, always nurturing my spirit with regular doses of Mary Engelbreit crack for the weary smartass country gal soul. If I ever have to buy my own calendar I'll pitch a fit like ya'll ain't EVER seen outside of a NASCAR track. I'm low maintenance to a point, but gah.
BG has a week off from real life to hang out here at the house and bond. This? Is a very good thing, my friends. Enough said.
I've come to the gradual realization that I do have some talents and that I should focus more on them than the mundane money making things that keep the lights burning and buy cat food. And dog food. And people food! That is why you will find me off and on in the basement straightening up
I was in a total funk all day after 72 hours of lounging and having to get up off of my fat ass to run the circles on that concrete floor at the sawmill. The most annoying thing is that tube system that delivers specimens from the ER to
I'm seriously considering turning on the AC because it's sort of warm and humid up in here at the moment. Not good for January in Tennessee. That's where tornadoes come from.
Please ignore the cobwebs in the pics and pretend that I've already hauled the Rainbo downstairs to suck all the dust up. I know it's a stretch, but humor me, okay?
Peace out kids.
flushed by poopie on Saturday, January 03, 2009
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