My cousin and I look almost exactly alike. Whenever people see us together, they think we are twins. As kids, we didn’t think much about it. Now that we are grown up and have seen what the marriages of our respective parents have gone through, we discuss the option that we are actually half-sisters. One of these days, we’ll confront our parents with this question.
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Thinking back to the old days, I remembered honey. Those ancient times when you got a big glob of honeycomb from a bee keeper. You sloshed it into a quart Mason jar and dug out honeycomb, wax, and honey with a knife to spread on your toast. Once you’d eaten the toast, you could continue to chew on the beeswax like a piece of gum.
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Cottonwood leaves flash bright yellow in the fall. The colors are stunning and beautiful. But have you ever taken a close look at those yellowing leaves? While they are their brightest, the leaves are soft and velvety. Sensuous to the touch as a kitten or a newborn’s head. As they continue to turn, the yellow fades, the softness fades. A brittle brown leaf ready to nourish the earth below it is released to do its work.
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The last time I dreamed about sex it was like one of those dreams you have when you need to pee. You know, you run around looking for a bathroom but never find one. Well, in this dream it was like that. We we in a room with windows on all sides, or people kept coming in, there was one interruption after another. No joy in dreamland that night.
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I’m a blogger. I guess you knew that. Are you a blogger, too? Do you ever use the prompts from this blog to get writing ideas for your own blog? That would thrill me if you do. But maybe you blog about something completely different from writing. Tell us about it. Generally one link in a comment will get through the spam filter, so go ahead and add a link to your blog.
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The floor tile guy arrived at my door with his helper beside him. The helper was a woman in her 20s. She was tank-topped and tattooed with a do rag on her head and ripped jeans on her skinny bottom. Bits of metal protruded from her face. My spidey senses shouted, “Gay” at me. Later when we talked, she told me about her boyfriend and her My Little Pony kitchen decor.
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Back in the 80s, I drove a Toyota van. I think it was an ’81. It was the style of van where you were sitting knees to the very front – inches from the car in front of you. There were a lot of similar VW vans around then, too. Funny how you still see the VW vans on the road, but you never see an old Toyota van.
Let me give you my theory on why it’s that way. . . .
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I proudly pasted the little “I voted” sticker on my shirt and left the polling place. I wanted to wear it to meet my friend for coffee. She took pride in never voting. She said she was finished with the system. Every time I moved, the little sticker came loose. I stuck it back on my shirt several times. Finally I gave up and tossed it in my car’s trash can. I found rock star parking right in front of the coffee shop and . . .
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Lots of bird pass this way on migratory routes between somewhere up north and their destination down south. The most spectacular are the sandhill cranes. It’s a favorite pastime in the fall to head out to the wetlands, the corn fields, and the rivers in search of these delightful birds. Their honking, their awkward unfurling as they land, their multitudes circling down at dusk are a treat to watch.
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She was a fabulous storyteller. Vivid language, great engagement with her listeners, a dab of acting the part thrown in. She could enthrall. But she didn’t know when to stop. She’d reach a climax, her audience would clap and voice their approval. Then she’d ruin it by going on longer. The listeners knew when the story was over, but she didn’t.
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