Four Little Children

Tom my new friend and taxi driver, dropped me off this morning at Domino’s Farms for my Pre-Op appointment. Once there, I checked in, completed forms. Next, I was poked and prodded. I sat in the lobby and waited for the physician’s assistant to explain the surgical process to me. In two weeks, hardware that held my ravaged then rebuilt ankle will be removed. Tendons will be unwrapped from freshly healed bone in hopes that it will alleviate some of my chronic pain. I am tough, but I am scared. I am scared, but I am strong. I pick up my phone and the heat from my fingertips bring it to life. As I begin to play a game I mutter in frustration, “I’m so fucking tired of this injury sucking the marrow out of my very existence.”  

I’m an observational writer. Two and a half years ago I would have laughed if you’d said such a thing. Most of my young and adult life, with the help of ADHD, OCD, married life, parenting, and plain old rushing around, I couldn’t observe more than five things at once. Once I realized that my dream was to observe and write about it, I couldn’t stop. Life was a rush. I was constantly stimulated, and inspired. I say passionate, everyone else in my life said I was obsessed.

This morning, as the lives diminished in my game, I remembered who and what I was.  Placing my phone in my purse, I began watching four little children. One boy and three girls ran wild up and down the hill outside in front of Lobby C. The girls, ranged in age from 8-11, and wore short skirts with little shirts. Their feet were clad in sandals and their long blonde hair whipped around their faces as they ran. The little boy, about 7 was clad in shorts, t-shirt and black flip flops. He ran up and down that hill, faster than his sisters did. He didn’t seem to care that  he lost his shoes in the process.

The oldest girl walked away from her siblings to stand in the stone and ivy garden. The foliage and ceramic toadstools made her look a bit like Alice when she spoke to a hookah smoking caterpillar in Wonderland. Her young charges continued to run up that hill, around the tree at the top and back down.  I’m sure if there wasn’t concrete at the bottom of that hill, they would have rolled down it. Staining their knees and elbows green, as their little brother lost his shoes again.

I sat in a comfy armchair inside, but I wanted to run with them. I wanted to walk on stick thin legs made tan by the summer sun. I wanted to be the young girl standing in the ivy garden that looked like Alice. I wouldn’t have even minded being the little boy that lost his shoes as I jumped to touch the arbor at the entrance of Lobby C.

I don’t wish to go back to that age, but I do wish I could let the wind whip my hair as I run. And to feel confident that when I run, there wouldn’t be pain. I want to suck the marrow out of life again. Maybe after this next surgery, I will.

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Bloggers for Movember – My Homey G Chowderhead

My Homey G Chowderhead asked me to contribute my lovely photo with a proper douche stache to show my support for Movember (aka No Shave November, aka Prostate Cancer Awareness). Hey men over 40, get your ass to the doctor, and get a digital violation. It’s once a year and can save your damn life. We women go to the damn gyno once a year and birth children. One finger up the ass once a year isn’t going to make you less manly. Hey, you might find you like it. Hahahahahahahahahha!

While I’m not a participating blogger, I decided to show my support by donning some Fuck Me Red lipstick, Pinup style eyeliner and a stache.

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Even Cinders my devil cat decided to show her support. Obviously, she was fucking pissed about it. You should have heard her growling at me. I thought for sure she was going to scratch my eyeballs out when I set her back down on the floor. It was for a worthy cause, so she endured. Kitty bitch didn’t scratch me, but I’m sure I’ll find a puddle of piss on the bathroom floor soon. That’s how she retaliates. With piss. GREAT!

Cinders the Devil Cat

Many of my blogger friends are having Movember contests. Visit them to find out more.

25toFly

Sips of Jen and Tonic

Brother Jon

The Life of JWO

Chowderhead

I’ve removed my mustache and my FMR lipstick. Still got my Pinup style eyeliner on. This old girl has to look pretty when she goes grocery and business suit shopping. Yes, the single life I live is so damn exciting I could pee!

Have a great Sunday my loves. Remember, every day we wake up above ground is a day to be treasured. MWAH!!!!!!!

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Maybe I’ll write some smut later. Hmmmmmmm, we’ll see.

Tunesday-Summertime Sadness

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My brother Troy P.  at As Long as I’m Singing, told me that my blog lacks direction. Doesn’t he know by now that I like to fly by the seat of my pants? I like to write whatever the fuck falls out of my blonde head. In this case, I’ve relented and decided to take his advice.

I will do my level best to follow the format outlined below. I’m sure I’ll throw in some other stories and poems from time to time. As you know, I like to shake things up a bit.

Please follow Troy. I love his stories, and I know you will too.

Journal Entry Mondays

Tunesdays

Romantic Wednesdays

Famous Quote Thursdays

Friday Fictioneers

(now to figure out how the hell to make my menus appear across the top of my page. I swear I’m getting too old for this shit!)

Today I’m featuring the song, Summertime Sadness by Lana Del Rey. Though I’d like to elaborate on the song meaning, I can’t. I’m pressed for time as this is a short work week.

Don’t forget I still love it when followers send me pictures. It’s fun to write stories to photo prompts and see how close I get to the real story.

Love you all so very much!!!

I GOT PUBLISHED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

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“I believe that everything happens for a reason. People change so that you can learn to let go, things go wrong so that you appreciate them when they’re right, you believe lies so you eventually learn to trust no one but yourself, and sometimes good things fall apart so better things can fall together.” ― Marilyn Monroe

My short story, On a Hot Summer Night has been published on Ether Books. It will be available for download in approximately 2 weeks. I will give you more information as it becomes available. Ether Books is downloadable on your iPhone or Android phone. Holy shit, I’m so damn excited I could pee!!!!!! Here’s the app information. PLEASE TELL EVERYONE YOU KNOW.

https://itunes.apple.com/app/id362070951?mt=8

Ajay recently posted this gorgeous photo of a farmhouse. I told him that I could see an entire story unfold in it. I wrote of a young married couple named Tyler and Anna. It was sort of erotic, but mostly sensual. It took me three days to write and revise the story. When I finally posted it, I received great feedback. I read and reread it. I was proud of it, but not overly so.

I spoke with my friend Duncan about some of his short stories that he had published on Ether Books. I asked for details on how to do it and he gladly helped this novice writer find her way. In the meantime, more of his stories were being picked up. I kept downloading and reading them. He’s so damn good, I figured there was no way in hell I would ever get published. Me, a silly woman that has only been writing a little over a year.

I gave in and said what the fuck, it couldn’t hurt to try. After creating an Ether Books account, I submitted my story. Mind you that was a little over a week ago. I checked my Yahoo email account every day expecting the worst. Rejection. Who would have thought that I would receive an acceptance email? My first submission. My first acceptance. Not only will it be available for download on Ether Books in two weeks, but it’s a PAID download.

The first person I told was Duncan. The second was Roger Darling. Then the kids. Then my personal and author page on Facebook. Can’t forget my Twitter account. Last but not least was Rory, my editor. I told him that this was only the beginning. I have stories that I’ve already written that he needs to edit. It’s time for this crazy woman to move forward and submit more.

I promise to let you know when the story is available for purchase. Renee Heath, published author. Who’d a thunk it????

My Brother Rory

I sought my soul, but my soul I could not see. I sought my God, but my God eluded me. I sought my brother and I found all three.-author unknown

I ended my night by corresponding with my soul brother, Rory. I love that man more than words can convey. When I started writing just over a year ago, this wonderful writer started following me. Why he’s not published is beyond me.

I don’t have too much more to say about him, except that I’m happy he’s in my life. He doesn’t judge me. I don’t judge him. He’s the best brother a silly woman like me can have. Wish I could tell you all who he is. I promised I’d protect his identity.

I love you my dear, sweet brother. I breathe easier knowing that you’re out there rooting for me. And loving me.

Love, Nee

Do I Want to Give This Blog Up?

“Wanting to be someone else is a waste of the person you are.” ― Marilyn Monroe

(I do believe I’m a lot like Marilyn. I’m not sure why I feel a kinship with her. I guess because all I want is to be loved and understood.-Sparkly Girl)

There are times in my day when I think about writing and it overwhelms me to the point that I don’t know if I can write another word. I I have met people while doing this writing thing that have changed my life. In good ways and bad. I’ve been on an emotional roller coaster and I think I may want to get off the ride now. I’ve found this passion and I’m feeding it. But at what cost? To become emotionally connected with people I don’t know? And then lose that connection and be devastated? Where is my happy medium? Why can’t I find it anymore?

Maybe I never had one. Maybe this is how I’ve always been. Mixed up, confused, discombobulated, crazy and too clingy. I’m forever changed by the words I’ve written on these pages. I’m changed by all of those that I have “met” while doing this. I’m having a hard time prioritizing my life. I want to write a book. I’ve written the ending. I’ve written the first two chapters, but now I need to continue it. To put the meat in the sandwich, I guess. It’s a love story of course. It’s what I do well for the most part. How I ever started writing about love, I have no idea. This was supposed to be a journal about weight loss and change. It turned into so much more than that.

Will I continue to write this blog? I don’t know. For me it’s difficult because I’ve become very close to some of you. It’s how I communicate. But when I see some blogs come up on my reader, my heart beat freezes and a chill spreads throughout my body. That anticipatory anxiety is what gets to me the worst. It makes me irrational and feel out of control. If you’ve read me for very long, you know I like to be in control. Those of us with Anxiety and Panic Disorder and ADHD need to be in control. It’s a built in defense mechanism.

I hate that part of myself. The angry, crazy and jealous person I can be. I’ll step back for awhile. Type up my couple of chapters and the ending of my book. Then start filling in the rest of the story. The love story. A word of warning to you all. It won’t be pretty. But then some good love stories aren’t. Most aren’t. There’s anger, pain, jealousy, loss and a lot of hurt. My main character does not win the love of her life. But she does change his life for the better.

I don’t know where I’m going just yet. But I’ll let you know when I get there. Thanks so much for reading me.

Publicity Anyone?

Show me the money!!!!!-Jerry MaGuire

I would really like to publicize my bloggie, but I have no idea where to start. My followers and friends please give me your thoughts on how I should go about it. I don’t have much of a budget, but I can spend some money. I’ve also created a QR code to place on some 4×6 inch cards that I’ll be distributing. The code is really groovy. You use your smart phone to scan it and it takes the user right to my latest post.

So help a poor, blonde ditsy, sparkly girl out. Giggle, snort.

Here’s a kick ass Joss Whedon quote to get you motivated:

“Passion, it lies in all of us, sleeping… waiting… and though unwanted… unbidden… it will stir… open its jaws and howl. It speaks to us… guides us… passion rules us all, and we obey. What other choice do we have? Passion is the source of our finest moments. The joy of love… the clarity of hatred… and the ecstasy of grief. It hurts sometimes more than we can bear. If we could live without passion maybe we’d know some kind of peace… but we would be hollow… Empty rooms shuttered and dank. Without passion we’d be truly dead.”

St. Cecilia and the Sparkly Girl

St. Cecelia, Patroness of Music

As you all know I have a lovely friend named Harry. He is my best friend and was the first person in my life to give me the gift of words. He also gave me the gift of music. He is a man but I tell you he has the gentlest heart and a song lyric can bring a tear to his eye and a catch in his voice. I love that about him.

He was the one that told me to send my entry I’ve Become the Lionhearted Girl to Florence + the Machine’s peeps. Little did he and I realize, they were having a contest, so of course I entered it. The winner is to be selected in the middle of September (now!!!!!).

I emailed him last week, freaking out because I hadn’t heard any word from them yet. He set my mind at ease and told me to hang in and wait. To know that the winner had not been selected yet and they were probably trying to select the proper limousine to bring me the news of my win. I tell you the man always know how to make me laugh and not take things too seriously. He told me to just relax. For some reason when Harry tells me that, he calms me. Not many men have that effect on me.

When I arrived at work the next day, I found this wonderful story in my email inbox. Like I’ve said before, Harry can always set my mind at ease. I love him and I love his words. He told me I could share his story. It is below. Please check it out. I know you’ll like it. I sure did.

St. Cecilia and the Sparkly Girl

St. Cecilia knew of your eventual success as a blogger.  She told Emperor Marcus Aurelius of a majestic goddess of blogs, Renee of Michigan.  She said your words would be read by people the world over. At that time, the preferred method of quickly spreading knowledge was to send a runner with a message, as far as he could run, until he died.  The Emperor thought, that’s not scalable.  How will Renee of Michigan’s words reach so many people?  The runners we’d need to send to their deaths just to distribute these writings will deplete the population quickly.  So the Emperor declared her insane for babbling about blogs, whatever they were, and calling for the mass deaths of these marathon runners, so he had her beheaded.

After she was canonized, St. Cecilia felt this burning desire to tell the world of this eventual woman of worldy words.  So she spent a millennium preparing for the perfect time to unveil her prophecy. After toiling for over 1000 years in a desperate attempt to do you justice, she knew it was time.   In 1310, there was a Maori tribesman from what is now New Zealand. Bone Bekke was visited in a dream by St. Cecilia. She foretold of your impending arrival to the tribesman in great detail. In the dream, she used scrolls to explain your writings traveling the ether and reaching the four corners of the world.  She created vivid imagery, invoking a color palette never before or since equaled in it’s vibrancy, in an effort to evoke to powerful emotions yet to be exposed to civilization.  And she sang him songs she composed herself to make the world aware of the day when your blog would be.  
Being an artist, she was a little flighty, and hadn’t considered that an isolated Maori tribesman in the Southern Hemisphere wouldn’t understand Latin. She was to be greatly disappointed to learn that he had no idea what she told him.  All he got from the saint was some yellow haired woman with a mouth to match the size of her boobs visited him in a dream, and she was coming.  He thought to himself, she’s not the only one!  Whoa, baby!  I’ll never be able to look at a grass skirt in the same way again!  So St. Cecilia said screw it, I’ll just work on inspiring musicians to write songs.  Hopefully that’ll eventually lead to Renee of Michigan to discover blogging.  She decided giving presentations wasn’t one of her strengths anyway, and wondered what she had been thinking.  Luckily though, St. Cecilia, patroness of musicians, was successful, and Renee of Michigan found blogging, and the world found a new voice.  🙂

You Run As Fast As You Can

I know a girl, got a long snake moan
Got the voodoo in her hips and a god-shaped hole
I got a feeling that the kids don’t know
What the kids don’t know, the kids don’t mind
We all work on borrowed time

Rory never asked anything of me except to be his friend and listen to him. Share a story or two. Talk about our spouses and our children. Our love of the written word. We’ve found out that we’re so much alike. I call him my brother. He calls me sister. I think he’s even blonde like me. Blue eyed. He’s a music whore. Word whore. Like me. Loves to write. Like me. He hides his identity, unlike me. I lay it all out there. He doesn’t. That’s okay though. He wouldn’t feel comfortable writing what he writes if he didn’t hide. I understand. I should have hidden part of me away. Protected myself, but I didn’t know what I was doing when I started this journey.

He asked me to write for him and I did. It was exciting to stare at a picture, and see the words form. Feel the emotion of the story before I even put pen to paper. When I was done I asked him if he wanted to read it before I posted. He said no. I was taken aback. It could have been shit. Rory could have hated it. There I went with my self-deprecation. He told me to post it. Said he knew it was came from my heart and mind, so it had to be good. He said he felt like a kid at Christmas, waiting to open the largest present under the tree. After I posted it, he sent me a message thanking me. Said it was beautiful, like me. His comment made me cry. I wasn’t used to being told my writing was good, or being called beautiful for that matter.

We are content in our discontent, he and I. We are not discontent with our lives, our spouses or our children. But with ourselves. We have feelings of inadequacy that we can not shake. We feel like we are never good enough. No matter what we do to make the lives of those around us better. We often don’t feel worthy of the blessings that have been bestowed upon us. We wonder how we got so lucky to have such good lives. We weren’t good in our pasts . At least I wasn’t. I think he always was though. From what I’ve gathered from our conversations, he was never told he was good enough. And I, well, I was quite the wild child in my youth. For some reason the feelings and actions from 20-25 years ago come back to haunt us. Why, when we don’t live there anymore?

I’m so very thankful for Rory. For his brilliance. He doesn’t even realize what a good man he is. I tell him often enough. He tells me that I’m a good woman. We “get” each other. I hope someday we will meet. Get our families together and have a great time. I think we’d all click immediately. I hope I get the chance to write with him. That he wants me to. I hope, I hope, I hope, I hope…

*The song that I included with this post is by Our Lady Peace. The first time I heard it, I thought of Rory. Of our camaraderie. He’s like Roger Darling in that he let’s me run, rant, yell, scream and vent til I’m spent. Then he dispenses his wisdom. I’m fortunate that I have people in my life that get that about me. I’m so incredibly thankful.*