10 Things I Like About Him

He is much smarter than he pretends to be

He has nice hands

He appreciates clever alliteration

He casually drops dead-pan puns

He drinks scotch (yes, I noticed)

He’s tall

He’s a gentleman

He asked before he kissed me

He looks great in a hat

He appreciates “Happy Pants”

Soooooooooo, I could probably make time in my schedule to see him again; reschedule this meeting, cancel that appointment, etc, etc, etc

And the technology thing is ok…. my girlfriend broke out in a rash when her husband hooked up cable, developed hives when he installed DSL – she HATES technology!! LOL

I’m going to stop talking now and hit the “send” button

March 2004

Comments

All You Need is Therapy, she said

Rattlesnakes Two years in therapy. I structured it so that I could sell the asset when I needed to or was "done". I tried to run it as a business, and that is very hard to do. The end result is that I am better now, 11 years after the last surgery, even with the utterly demoralizing false alarm. We all know where that came from. The Manuscript is ready. By ready I mean it is as close to finished as I can get it without Legal Advice. I have let one person have the book so far, and he hasn't looked at it yet. In any case.... The purpose of this post, the first in 2016 is to set the base line. 97,000 words. ok 97,353. I just worry about putting it out there and losing control of it. I really am trying to keep it under 100k, just like the New York Publishers have splashed all over their blogs. (Thank you by the way, really appreciate the effort and instruction) http://www.zshliterary.com/nan-thornton.html http://behlerblog.com/ The Goddess Media shall receive

Get Away Car

Don't pretend it's such a mystery Think about the place where you first met me We're ridin' in a getaway car Of Men & Maladies Free with Kindle Subscription https://www.amazon.com/Men-Maladies-Lifetime-Endometriosis-ebook/dp/B06ZZHGY92

Love Letter to a Poet

The Guardian, Centurion, the Gestapo of my heart. She inspects all, she watches all, and rarely allows anyone to tread across the front lawn of my Heart’s Home. Her ego is slightly bruised because you snuck in when she was digging thru her purse for that ever elusive cigarette lighter. My Heart sits in her lovely home waiting, knowing there is someone out there capable of touching her soul. Someone not afraid to dive into her world head first, undeterred, un-intimidated. She hides scars, defects, the ugly parts, in a closet at the back of the laundry room. That dark cold room where you usually keep ancient linens and last year’s Christmas napkins. The people who come in and out of this home are sorely disappointed when they find this room, as though it were placed there conspiratorially and deceptively by The Gestapo of My Heart. It is always there, you pass it every time you go into the Laundry Room, which is often in a home like this one. Why would it be necessary to point out t

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