EPIC RANT || Christmas F*ing Carols

Posted on by

1

rheath40:

Yeah what he said!

Originally posted on ASpoonfulofSuga:

(Warning: I am not a bitter person. These rants are just that: rants. I appreciate the emails asking me why I am so mad, but I am not mad. I am actually enjoying the holidays as they should be enjoyed: surrounded by the people I love and loads of alcohol to make them more lovable. This rant is dedicated to my home-girl Renee)

_____

The_Shining_2345798bOne of the pleasures of having a day or two off is that I get to watch movies. This time around I got to watch the Shining. I particularly liked the fact that Jack Nicholson‘s decent into homicidal madness was correlated with his typing the same phrase over and over again ad nausea.

Now I don’t mean to get off on a rant here, but if I hear one more fucking Christmas Carol , one more thing about Rudolph and his red fucking nose, I just may have to bash someone’s brains in… Gonna bash ‘em right the f*ck in!

View original

About these ads

The Tattoo Artist, Friendship Soup and Conversation

Posted on by

7

vintage-tattoo-couple“Tattoos made my skin more ‘me.’ -Melissa Maxwell”

Larry Smith, It All Changed in an Instant: More Six-Word Memoirs by Writers Famous & Obscure

I spoke to him on Thursday night, after handing him a jar of handcrafted soup. The note attached articulated that I hoped it nourished he and his son’s bodies as well as their souls.

His eyes clouded with tears, and he began to speak to me. To catch me up on his life. The words came out in torrents. I just listened. It usually is so difficult for me to keep my mouth shut. I always want to inject words of advice into conversations with friends. To ease the pain in some way.

He told me of recent happenings. The sadness. The grief. The loss of a good friend to suicide. And coming to the realization that he was a good man. I kept listening. And smiling. I wanted to hold him close to me, but I didn’t think he’d welcome the contact.

For some reason, he went back to the beginning of his life and shared everything. This man that has pierced me with his needle made sure to  pierce my heart too.

We spoke of his art. The drawing, painting, and tattooing. We spoke of writing. He said I was good. I told him he was better. I announced that he was a reincarnation of Jack Kerouac. He chuckled and grinned like a little kid and announced that his grammar was awful. I assured him that a writer is only as good as their editor. He snickered again.

I inquired about Christmas Day. He told me he’d be spending it alone. The nurturer in me wanted to invite him to dinner on the 25th. Wouldn’t that be something, my friend, covered with tats, ears gauged, sitting at the dinner table with my family? But I didn’t ask. I should have.

Our words began to lessen and it was time for me to take my leave. He came around the counter and hugged me tightly to him. I took in his scent, divine and manly. I whispered in his ear, ‘Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.” He smiled boyishly and I departed from his shop.

His smile stayed on my mind while I drove to my little apartment, just 10 minutes away. The fact that he would be alone on Christmas Day did also. When I got home, I extended an invitation for Christmas dinner. His reply was noncommittal but thankful all the same.

He let me into his life on Thursday night, and I didn’t worry about what time it was. Or the other things I had to do, I just listened.

And I learned.

**Writer’s Note:**
This was the Facebook status that I was tagged in after we talked on Thursday evening. I guess my words stayed with the artist. It is quite an honor to be a part of his life. No matter how small that part may be.
I woke up as the sun was reddening; and that was the one distinct time in my life, the strangest moment of all, when I didn’t know who I was – I was far away from home, haunted and tired with travel, in a cheap hotel room I’d never seen, hearing the hiss of steam outside, and the creak of the old wood of the hotel, and footsteps upstairs, and all the sad sounds, and I looked at the cracked high ceiling and really didn’t know who I was for about fifteen strange seconds. I wasn’t scared; I was just somebody else, some stranger, and my whole life was a haunted life, the life of a ghost.-jack kerouac — with Renee Heath.

The Mermaid

Posted on by

12

mermaid

Inspired by Kelli Rose Fugate

Someday, I’ll write like Tori Amos.
Or me.
Or Bukowski.
Or Rumi.
Or not.
Maybe I’ll learn to shut up.
But probably not.
Love the poet in me.
The girl I wish I was.
The woman I am.
The nurturer.
The one that wants to please.
Love and understand me completely.
Or don’t.
My free spirit will always wander.
Explore.
Connect.
Maybe I am a mermaid.
Longing to swim with dolphins.
But maybe, just maybe I want to be held and loved.
Maybe, loving me is that simple.

But what if I’m a mermaid?

In these jeans of yours with her name still on it
Hey, but I don’t care
‘Cause sometimes
I said sometimes I hear my voice
I hear my voice
I hear my voice
And it’s been here
Silent all these years

I’ve been here
Silent all these years
Silent all these
Silent all these years…

A Year of New Traditions by Renee

Posted on by

5

rheath40:

Thank you ASpoonfulofSuga for the opportunity to write for your page. I’m honored.
Thank you, thank you, thank you.
MWAH!!!!

Originally posted on ASpoonfulofSuga:

I knew this year the holidays would be different. I’d be creating my own traditions. You see, I recently separated from my husband after 24 years. At the age of 45, I was going to learn to live on my own for the first time. My daughter now 23, is married to a wonderful young man, and has a life of her own. My son is 22, and determined to be a lawyer. He and his girlfriend have a place and lives of their own also. My ex-husband and I have raised them well, but we didn’t prepare them for the possible loss of our family unit. That familiar sense of home that they’ve been used to all of their lives is now gone. I didn’t realize that leaving would change all of us so damn much.

I ventured out on my own September 26, 2013. Just me and a UHaul full of what used to belong to Roger Darling and me. Friends helped me unload the packed truck, because no one in my family was willing to help. I do understand why though, as I didn’t ask any of them for their assistance. I was bound and damned determined to do all of it on my own. I unpacked every single box by myself. I set up my home like I wanted. I hung curtains, painted, decorated and took care of turning on the utilities myself. Days became a week. The weeks turned into months. I became settled, comfortable and dare I say, satisfied.

Then came November and the thought of Thanksgiving without Roger and the kids. How strange it would be sitting at my sister and brother-in-law’s dining room table without them. I was prepared for it. Or so I thought.
Thanksgiving morning, I prepared butternut squash, and took care to scoop it out of the skin into a Pyrex dish. I cut salted butter into it and mashed it well. After salting and peppering it, I covered the dish with aluminum foil and placed it back in the oven. Next, I baked the sweet potatoes. I don’t sweeten them. I just bake them with the skins on. The heat of the oven brings out their natural sugariness. My little apartment smelled of the holiday, but I was the only one there to enjoy it.

View original

Friday Fictioneers-Spirited Child

Posted on by

38

adamickes-childsboots

“Love your spirited child for who she is. Because she is more, she will make you more.”-Mary Sheedy Kurcinka

Spirited child that couldn’t be tamed.

At the age of four danced naked in front of the mirror. Her only adornment French braids.

Dressed in pink suede boots, she stomped in mud puddles.

Girl that I birthed,  cried out in the night till she was 15 months old. In the darkness, I often long to hear her wailing for me.

Spirited child I birthed is now a woman. More like me than not.

No more pink boots, yet she still stomps to the beat of her own drummer.

Her dad says she gets her obstinance from me.

Perhaps, she does indeed.

100 words/Genre: memoir

Thank you Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting Friday Fictioneers. It tickles me to death to write with such a great group of writers. Please be sure to go to her page and read their stories too. We are a rather eclectic group and the genres run the gamut.

I welcome kudos and criticism. Happy reading!

It Happens When You Least Expect It

Posted on by

41

Loneliness happens when you least expect it. While shopping for groceries on a weeknight. You see them, the couples, deciding what to make for dinner. The fathers, shopping with their young children. Giving the stay-at-home mom a break. Dad’s put in a full day, but he knows that his wife’s work is never done.

You peruse the produce section and grab a couple of naval oranges from California. And a fresh bouquet of flowers to display in your one bedroom apartment. It reminds you of the verse about buying your own flowers; decorating your own heart. Or something like that….

After grabbing a fresh bag of salad, you look for a good steak. You can buy what you want, because you live on your own. You’ve instantly lost your appetite though. Throwing the prepackaged meat back on the shelf, you take to wandering aimlessly up and down each aisle.

You get the rest of your items and walk down the liquor aisle. The variety is overwhelming and you pray for strength. It’s been 150 days without a drop of alcohol, but this night your will is weak. Screwing up every ounce of courage, you leave the booze behind. You don’t need it. The tears will come whether you drink or not.

You see a young mother chasing down her child and you smile. You remember being that woman, a lifetime ago. You wish you could tell her to enjoy every minute of it. But your reverie is broken by the child running into an Indian man that has his arms full of food items. He and the young mother laugh and the little one squeals with delight.

Once home, the tears trail down your cheeks. The pain of loneliness is so intense, you sob until your throat is raw. The whole time you bawl, you’re throwing groceries into your fridge and cupboards. The cat is freaked out by the noises you emit and runs away. Then you throw a tantrum about the cat not even giving a fuck about you.

You kneel beside your bed and you pray one simple word, ‘please’.

As the tears and sobbing subside, you fall into a troubled sleep. Hoping that tomorrow will be a better day.

Made for TV Porn by Chowderhead

Posted on by

52

Man kissing tummy

Made for TV Porn

Hey there, sex maniacs!  I’d ask what’s up, but I already know the answer to that question: your boners!  I can’t blame you though; a quick skim through Renee’s playground here, and I’m feeling a bit naughty myself – like I just watched my neighbors do the bumpity bump out in the middle of the parking lot…

I spoke with my pal Renee here awhile back, about having her write a guest submission for Chowderhead.  However, I forgot to mention that I’m not a sex blogger, and although I don’t mind dropping a few fuck’s, shit’s, and bastard’s, I try to refrain from topics like bukkake, bondage, and butt sex.

So, after I received Renee’s submission, I read through it quickly and decided that it might be a little too risqué for my standard audience.  My editor (me) agreed, so I decided to trim the raunchy edges a bit, and turn it into more of an ABC Family piece – you know, something a bit more wholesome.

It turned out to be quite a challenge…

We were Enraptured…While we ate Ice Cream Together

He bound me to our bed and began to devour my [ham sandwich that I made for him]. Little nibbles around the lips gave way to him ravaging my swollen [thumb that I slammed in the car door today]. The tongue lashing left me mewling like a kitten. I thrashed my legs about his [lazy boy sofa] and [ottoman] begging him to [make some popcorn for] me. To let me [eat snacks]. He would not honor my fierce cries. As I continued to battle him with my legs, he put [salt on my popcorn] with his [salt shaker]. I embraced the onslaught, without embracing him.

Feeling my [Aqua Net] spray his mouth and chin, it drizzled onto our cotton sheets made warm by the blood coursing through our veins. Without opening my eyes to look at him I knew, he was basking in the taste of my [hairspray].

‘My Love, fill me with your [happiness, not your hairspray], I breathed, my eyes now open, shined only for him.

He looked up at me, and responded, ‘All in due time, my Darling.’

My body responded to the constant barrage of his [funny jokes] and [movie one-liners]. Finally, he allowed me to lose myself in the most exquisite apex. The churning began in my [irritable bowel suddenly] and emanated through my entire being. It seemed that it would last forever. My body continued to quake. His arms wrapped around my legs to hold his [ice cream cone] to me while the storm continued to brew. As it subsided, my legs quivered and I was covered in a sheen of sweat.

I felt him shift his weight and move above me. He lowered his body onto [my sofa again, geez], I felt the head of his [Labrador retriever] brush the length of my [leg]. The sound that emerged from my lips could only be heard by heaven. And him. With a flourish he [thanked] me completely and began to entice me with [square dance] movements I never knew existed.

‘Release my hands so I can embrace you’, I begged.

Continuing to move his [doe see doe] inside of [the gymnasium], he repeated, ‘All in due time, my Darling.’

I moved with him, not against. We were fluid motion and love. His [awesome dance moves] became more intense and my body stalled. Another [irritable bowel movement] erupted within my center and I disappeared into him, only my soul was exposed. So close to death, yet immortal, I trembled with every nuance of my [very unfortunate bowel movement].

I glimpsed into his eyes, and discerned he was close to the end. Reaching behind my head, he released me from my bonds. With a final [clench of my butt cheeks], he poured his [medication] into me. My legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, to draw him as close to me as I could. My hands found solace in the thickness of his hair. Resting his head on my chest, he lazily bit my [finger]. A lone bead of sweat trickled from his forehead onto my body.

His [ice cream] softened and fell from my [cone]. [ice cream] flowed from my [cone]. We laid together, with nothing between us but the memory of our [lazy stroll in the park]. And we were enraptured.

*****

This is the equivalent now of two fully clothed consenting teenagers petting each other in a booth at Denny’s after Sunday mass.  I guess some things are better left uncensored…

Pull up your pants, Chowderheads \m/

**Thank you Chowderhead for that, ahem interesting take on my sexy story. I’m honored, I think. Tongue kisses, gropes, and lots of love from your favorite Rendezvous Girl.**

It Started With a Jar of Pickles

Posted on by

23

depression-13057Two weeks ago on a Monday morning, depression crept in. The trigger? A jar of pickles I’d bought had expired. There I stood, with the fridge door open and the jar in my hand. The glass cooled my fingers, while hot tears streamed down my face. I placed them in the door and slammed it closed. With my tears wiped, I reapplied my makeup and headed to my office.

Work went fine and I was dealing well with the news that my job had been eliminated. Luckily, I’m guaranteed placement in the new Shared Services Center. I’m not thrilled about it, but it beats not having a job. For some strange reason, I kept thinking about those damn pickles. I continued to lose control of my emotions.

Meggie texted me and asked if we could meet for dinner. We made our plans to go to Benihana. That’s what I needed, food prepared by a silly man flinging extremely sharp knives.  Even my son in law Chris would be joining us.

I planned to go visit Adam Boy first to see his new place. He and Claire moved out of Roger Darling’s into a cozy little apartment. Along with their two kitties and Baxter, the wonder Lab. I’d stay and we’d chat. Maybe we’d even recite some lines from Anchorman and laugh. Then I’d take off to see my other kids.

During the first blinding snow storm of the season, I made my way to see Adam Boy. I walked in and was greeted by an overly excited Baxter. I hugged and kissed him. Let him lick my face off. My boy showed me around his place. It was nicer than my little apartment. A tad bigger, and the walls were painted an earthy green.

10 minutes after I got there, my son told me to leave. He shattered my heart. I hadn’t even taken off my coat and barely sat down. I picked myself up, pet the dog and walked out. I cried the entire time it took me to get to my daughter and son in law’s place.

During dinner, Meggie told me I looked like someone had run over my dog. I told her I was fine and we enjoyed dinner. Chris farted the entire time we drove back to their house. I had to roll the windows down so I wouldn’t vomit. He’s hysterically funny, but extremely gassy. I’d venture to say it was because he’d eaten a pound of garlic butter on his food. Egad it was so gross!

In bed that night, I thought about the stupid pickles again. Finding sleep to be elusive, I took a Clonopin. Back under my warm comforter, I counted sheep and tears. I fell off the edge of consciousness into oblivion.

My week progressed as did the darkness in my soul. By Friday, I’d had enough. I wanted to stay home, but Lo Lo wanted me to meet her new guy. We went out dancing, which I usually adore. But my heart wasn’t in it. That Friday was the first time in almost two months I felt like I’d never be with another man. That no one would ever want a woman my age, size, intellect, or a multitude of other qualities. That I either did or didn’t possess.

By the following Monday, I was wallowing in self-pity, but I didn’t drink. After a huge argument with my friend and a shit ton of tears shed, I’d had enough. I crawled into bed and slept like a stone.

The next morning, I awoke and smiled. The dark cloud that had hung over my heart had vanished. I showered, dressed and got ready to leave for work. Before I did, I opened the fridge and removed the expired jar of pickles. After throwing them in the garbage, I locked the deadbolt and made my way out the door.

Friday Fictioneers-To Tell the Truth

Posted on by

23

copyright-ted-strutz

The couple stand at the railing, hands clasped. The ferry rocks them gently. Almost lovingly. Jason can find no security in it though. He’s anxious about the conversation to come.

‘I envy your strength, Miranda.’

‘Don’t, it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.’

‘Where do I begin?’

‘At the beginning of course.’

‘I’ve never lived on my own.’

‘It’s time you did. Tell your truth.’

As the sun dips below the horizon, the impending darkness gives Jason newfound strength. In port, he leaves Miranda at the railing.

Meeting his wife at the dock, he declares, ‘Love, our story’s over.’

100 words/Genre: love story?

Thank you Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting Friday Fictioneers. It tickles me to death to write with such a great group of writers. Please be sure to go to her page and read their stories too. We are a rather eclectic group and the genres run the gamut.

I welcome kudos and criticism. Happy reading!