I Don’t Want Comfort

I don't want comfort

 

It’s been such a long time since I’ve posted anything. I don’t even know where to begin, or what stories to tell. Life continues, and with it so many changes. We’ll start with a quote, and see what develops from there. 

I don’t want comfort, and there is poetry, danger, freedom, goodness and sin all around me. All I need to do is find it. Or better yet, let it find me. My impulsive days are over. At least, I think they are anyway, we’ll see.

Happy Tuesday my loves, have a splendid day.

 

Love, 

A Sparkly Girl who’s shine is beginning to return

An Open Letter to My Daughter

Dear Meggie,

Today, when you were waving at us across the concourse at your college graduation, I was reminded of the day you were born. Blonde ringlets covered with my warm blood. Your tiny hands balled into fists as you wailed during your first breaths. You were so angry to be removed from the warm nest you’d been residing in for almost 10 months. They placed you on my swollen belly. I counted 10 fingers; 10 toes. Your blue eyes focused on me and I knew right then, the true meaning of unconditional love. I remember during labor, asking your father if he was proud of me. He said, “more than I have ever been in my life.”

After the doctors assessed your health, Daddy pulled you into his arms. I’ve never seen him so happy. He placed a bottle of glucose water to your lips. You pulled at the nipple and ate ravenously. That wasn’t the only day he fed you. Your father was a fantastic baby dad. Hell, he was and continues to be a great father.

When you were a few months old, I’d watch you sleep. Your eyelids were almost translucent, a blue vein displayed prominently across your nose. I’d see the blood course through it, while your lids fluttered during REM sleep. That perfect, tiny mouth of yours would instinctively move in a sucking motion. Sometimes you’d smile or make incoherent sounds. I was mesmerized by those little movements. Your cooing would create this stirring within my body. This primitive need to nurture and protect you, from everything that this big, bad world was going to dish out at you.

Years later when you were a teenager, I’d wander through the horribly litter strewn mess you called a bedroom just to catch a glimpse of you sleeping. The face was that of a young woman, but altogether childlike in slumber. Your eyelids, no longer translucent would still flutter during REM sleep, but there was no more of the prominent vein visible across your nose. Gone were the lips of a baby. They had been replaced with the full and ripe lips of a teenager that had a few years prior tasted her first kiss. No, you didn’t sleep the same as when you were a baby, but I was still mesmerized. Why is it we can watch our sleeping children at any age and still envision them as infants?

Your freshman year of high school was one of transition. I knew you didn’t need me that much anymore. It took awhile for me to realize you had a good head on your shoulders. I watched you interact with boys. Oh, how they adored you. The boy that I saw you with at that time was the handsome Merrill. I caught you sitting on his lap in the choir room. You jumped up, afraid that I would be upset about it. You had little to fear though, I was excited at the prospect of a boy as cute as him liking you. I was a little worried that he was a senior.

There would be many more boys that you liked. Many that would like you. I recall being jealous of your beauty and the ease with which boys gravitated to you. Like bees to honey. Or moths to an open flame. How could someone that looked just like me be so good with boys, when I struggled so? I grappled with that question for a long time. In your senior year, at Matthew’s graduation party you said, “Mom, you have to let go. This is my time now.” You were right, my time had passed. Whatever happened in my teenage years were long gone, and it was time for me to stop dwelling on them.

 So today, as I watched my baby, now 24 years old graduate from college, I realized you still wail, but in a classically trained voice. And in different languages. You still throw those balled fists in the air, but with purpose. With drive. You want to be a choir teacher and change the world one student at a time. All I ask is that you don’t become complacent or jaded. Stay the course, and live to your highest potential. Continue to breathe life into your surroundings. Never stop growing or changing.

I’m so very proud of you my daughter. You are my example of unconditional love. My Meggie, Megabucks, and Diva. You’re my everything.

Go ahead Girl, let that little light of yours shine.

Love,

Your Momma

 

**The quote at the beginning of the video was one that we had posted in our Tecumseh home for many years. Meggie and Adam knew they were brilliant, but they were to be humble in their pursuits.**

Our Only Constant is Change

I attended a training session on how to make myself marketable for a new job venture at the university that I’ve worked at for the last 25 years. Basically, the ‘instructor’ wanted me to market myself as a product. Like a gym shoe made by Nike. A car for Motor Company. Or  a new formula type of soda made by Coca Cola. I was shocked. Here I am, a human, being told to liken myself to an object. As you all know, that’s not me. I am very flawed individual. I’ve  shared that fact with all of you on many, many occasions.

One of the things they told us to do was change our privacy settings on Facebook. Basically hide who and what we really are. In my mind, I stomped my feet like the insolent child I am, and adamantly opposed doing so. It didn’t matter that no one in the room knew of my rebellion. I did, and that was all that mattered. I’m an author, and I have to write. I want my words read. And felt. And shared. So the setting stayed public.

At our break, I met a fellow employee that I had corresponded with over email and the phone. We hugged and laughed. And talked way too loud. We were then shushed by the ‘instructor’. I nearly lost my ever loving mind. I wanted to say ‘fuck you’, I’m talking to a human being and I don’t have to take your shit. My colleague and I stared at each other in disbelief. She shrugged her shoulders. Everything was changing around us. How we ‘marketed’ ourselves. Our jobs. Our lives. Even the interview process was going to be sterilized for us.

In retaliation to the shushing, I hugged my colleague again. Once seated, I jokingly told the ‘instructor’ we were colleagues that had never met. She looked at me coolly and said, ‘isn’t that nice.’ No smile. No warmth. Barely an acknowledgement that we were all going through incredible changes. She was a consultant and clearly didn’t give a shit. All she was focused on was getting through the workbook that we were working on.

I sat through the rest of the ‘workshop’. At the end, I silently left the conference room. Never looked up at the ‘instructor. I just kept my head down and walked out. And vowed that I would not attend another ‘class’. I did jump through the hoops of the resume and interview process. I waited patiently to find out if I’d been promoted. I guess 25 years of experience and supervising employees for 15 years results in a lateral move. I wouldn’t be supervising anyone. I couldn’t believe it! After a week of knowing my fate, I’m still struggling with the decision they made.

Now, I’m on extended sick leave until at least the middle of June. A major car accident and lengthy recovery reminded me that impulsiveness is a very, very bad thing. I know I have a job when I return. I’ll be back at my beloved faculty and staff at the SSW. For how long, I’m unsure. I’ve rediscovered yet again, that change is the only constant in our lives.

If I have to move to a new location that’s fine. It’s closer to where I live. I’ll walk to work.  I can’t wait to see my colleague from the ‘workshop’ we attended. I’ll give her tons of hugs, and talk too loud. You see, these folks at my new place of employment have no idea what they’re in for when I finally settle in. No idea at all. I’m a leader, not a follower. I have big plans, and they don’t include sitting in a cubicle till I retire. I’ll do it, for the pay.

But my heart, ah yes, my heart, it will be living for another place altogether. It will be in the country on a blanket spread out in the backyard. French Bulldog lying in my lap. Pen and notebook in my hand. Flowers in my hair. And dirty bare feet. Yep, that’s where my heart will be….

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Lucy, You Got Some ‘Splaining to Do

Lucille Ball

“I’m not funny. What I am is brave.”-Lucille Ball

**Special thanks to Adam at TheChowderHead.com for the sexy-ass banner design. I don’t know how he did it, but he captured my personality perfectly. You can see every aspect of my life and desires in that banner. How he did so without us meeting face to face, I’ll never know. Sure, he’s a funny one, but I’m beginning to see he’s a dude with depth.

So yeah, about giving up the blog thing, I lied. I don’t know if it was indeed a lie. I think I was just, tired. And pretty fucking uninspired. 

I found my ‘fire’ as my brother in arms, Rory puts it, at The Bus Stop.

And from a little book by John Green titled, “Looking for Alaska.” As I was reading the inner monologue of the main character Pudge, I realized that though the verbiage was simple, the story was complex. I came to the realization that even I could write a book like this. Hell I’ve written stories like it, why not go for it all??!! But that’s when the fear comes in. That tickle of doubt that slides across your heart. Making it cold, and thrum against your ribs. Then the voices begin. You know the ones. Those that have told you your whole life that you’re not good enough.

You must understand that I’m terribly afraid that once I get started writing a book, I won’t stop. That I will forget to eat, sleep, bathe, or even breathe….. I do tend to get a tad, shall we say, passionate. I have a day job. I gotta work, because I’m taking care of myself now. I’m all I’ve got.

My erotic writing will continue under a pen name. No, I won’t tell you what it is. If you find her and read her work, I don’t want you to know it’s me. I need the freedom to write as I wish. My muse is wild, free, and very sexual. Yet broken. Even more broken than I will ever admit on my Rendezvous page.

Romance belongs here. Stories of inspiration belong here. Flash fiction too. Observational stories about fellow humans belong here. Comedy, sarcasm and the word fuck belong here. With romance, comes depictions of want. I’m good with that, because I’m no one trick pony when it comes to writing. I believe all stories, no matter the genre are about that word-want.

I’m a word whore, and this is what I was born to do. It’s who I am. It’s time for this word whore to make a plan. To quit flying by the seat of her pants. Time for me to write my Looking for Alaska.

Love,

A silly and hopeful, and ultimately brave Rendezvous Girl

When We Were Young

When we were young.

We thought we knew so much didn’t we?

Our young brains could only comprehended the present.

We never thought of the future and what we’d be like when we were middle aged.

Now, we are no longer children, yet our hearts are childlike.

We are less stodgy than our parents were at this time in their lives.

At least we hope we are.

We think about the future.

About our children all grown up and moved away.

Living lives we’ll know only a smidgen of.

We think about retirement.

Maybe, we’ll live somewhere warm in the winter months.

Yet we live with that niggling fear that we’ll miss out on being groovy grandparents.

We’re no longer young, and that’s okay.

I’ve the feeling that what’s around the bend is going to be so much better than we anticipated.

*Special thanks to my friend Stephen Uelk for inspiring this little verse.*

The Bus Stop

The Bus Stop

I see her every morning at the bus stop. She is dark haired and tall. Statuesque I’d guess you’d say. Her long dark hair is always piled high atop her head and her brown eyes are framed by little square glasses. They are also black. Usually she is bundled up and covered to the point where all I can see are her dark eyes and the warm breath escaping from the break in the scarf that covers her mouth.

Today, it was 19 degrees and with her face uncovered, she ventured to light a cigarette in the otherwise bitter winter we’ve been having. I could tell she was a polite smoker, keeping the lit end held close to the ground and away from the man that was standing at the bus stop with her. He seemed indignant as she exhaled a plume of smoke into the air, away from him. He sauntered from where his feet are usually planted while he waits to climb aboard the warm bus that will take him to I’ve no idea where.

I watched this young woman that I assumed would throw her middle fingers up at the rest of the world, drop the freshly lit cigarette into the snow. She mashed it out with her toad stompin’ boots (a description coined by my brother-in-law for the choice of boots I often wear), then turn to the man that stood next to her. She didn’t say anything to him, but I think she was trying to send him some kind of signal that she understood his disdain for her dirty habit.

My light turned green, I let my foot up on the brake and pressed the gas pedal. In my rear view mirror, I saw the man move back to his usual spot next to the dark haired woman. She turned her body away from him, finding comfort in their closeness, but not really.

I thought about other situations that we humans find ourselves in that may deem uncomfortable. Elevators, stadium or theater seats and conference rooms. They raise our anxiety, cause heart palpitations, and other forms of stress. The beautiful woman at the bus stop today gave the non-descriptive man that she usually stands with some comfort. Probably without even knowing it.

Isn’t that something we should all be doing, giving comfort? Or finding ways to of making things better for others? Such are the thoughts that fall out of my blond brain on my way to work on a Wednesday morning.

Love,

Renee

(I’m not sure how much I will be posting here. I’ve missed writing and sharing my thoughts with you all. Thank you for reading.)

Journal Entry-Happiness and 180 Days

Happiness“Life is really simple, but we insist on making it complicated.”-Confucius

Yeah, I know it’s been awhile, but I’m back.

The holidays were different this year, but none the less special. My ex-husband, Roger Darling and I shared the expense of buying gifts for our four kids. We prepared dinner together. Prime rib, mashed red skin potatoes, and a wonderful salad bar. We ate heartily and laughed exuberantly. Even though our family is now fractured, there is still happiness and laughter.

We spoiled our children with good gifts like we always have. And filled their stockings with everything they could possibly want. Thank you God for the dollar store!!!

The kids drank wine and beer, but it didn’t bother me. I drank Diet Coke and quietly celebrated my own milestone of another day without a drop of alcohol. I know Roger Darling keeps track of my sobriety, which I’m kind of honored by. I will never understand how a man who’s heart I shattered could give two shits about me. Never mind, I do know. Even after everything we’ve been through, he still loves me. I may not love him the same way, but we will always have a connection. We were a family, once upon a time…

In this New Year, I celebrate that I’ve been sober for over 180 days.

Many times I’ve stood in the liquor aisle and stroked the bottles of flavored vodka. They called to me like they were my lover, but it is a siren’s song. I knew if I took a drink, I would crash into the shore of my own self-destruction again, and again, and again.

I made myself walk away from those bottles of poison, more than once. No matter how lonely, depressed or angry I got, I never drank.

I just knew the next day would be full of hope, promise and at least one reason to smile.

I’m still finding my way back to happy. It isn’t in the bottom of a vodka bottle.

It’s within me.

My heart, mind and soul are happier, sober.

I’m no Pollyanna. There are days that I can barely get out of bed. I force myself to get up and face the day. Just waking up without a hangover and going to work is blessing enough.

Happy New Year my dear friends. I hope that 2014 is a better year for all of you. May you all let go of fear, and live the lives you desire.

Love,

A sober and somewhat happy Sparkly Girl

It Started With a Jar of Pickles

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.

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.

The Photograph

Friends-best friend-friend picture-freinds wallpaper-friendship (2)

“The most I can do for my friend is simply to be his friend. I have no wealth to bestow on him. If he knows that I am happy in loving him, he will want no other reward. Is not friendship divine in this?-Henry David Thoreau

I placed the photograph of the five of us in the picture frame. We looked fabulous! On it the sentiment reads:

Friends

Life is to be shared with our greatest friends

Who would have thought the photo I would add to it would be of the five us? My four best friends from high school. After 25 years, and a lifetime of changes, we were together again. To celebrate the first wedding for our friend A. We looked the same, but didn’t. We acted the same, but saner. We had become grown ups. Some of us parents. Some of us married. Well, A. was married. The rest of us had tried to maintain relationships, but most of us were single again.

It was the first time I’d been to a wedding reception without Roger Darling. It felt strange, but not. I felt freedom as I ran around the reception hall. Hugging everyone and chatting away. P. and I spoke inappropriately to each other and laughed about the fact that you could tell who the recovered alkies were during the wedding toast. Everyone else had champagne, we had sparkling cider colored purple.

T and I skittered around the kitchen wearing aprons. We talked non-stop as we sliced cakes and filled trays with delicious desserts for the guests. We did our best to keep the bride’s family out of the kitchen, so they could enjoy the evening. T and I had a blast, even when she cut her finger and was bleeding profusely all over the place. We patched her up and continued our kitchen duty. Who would have thought I’d be standing there with her? My T. The girl that called me Pookie Chow Chow when we were kids. Don’t ask me why, she just did.

Rhodes came all the way from West “By God” Virginia to photograph the festivities. We asked her to take the photo of us, P, A, L, T and me. Most of us had gone years without speaking. There were fights, misunderstandings, changes in personality and attitudes. There were hurt feelings too. I recall sending a Christmas card to one of my friends with pictures of my little son and daughter in it. It was returned to me unopened, stating that the address was unknown. It saddened me a little, but such is life. We move on. Grow. Change. Mature. Live. Break. Rebuild.

The frame that holds my treasured photo was meant to contain a picture from another time. My friend Linda and I never got to take that photo. A diagnosis of cancer and her swift retreat from my life made it impossible. She died not soon after, and I hid the frame in my closet. I figured I would get the chance to have another photo taken with the three remaining friends that were with me on the day I received the gift from Lin. But circumstances with all of them changed and our friendships scattered to the wind.

I’m of the belief that everything happens for a reason. Be it fate or God, or both. Linda gave me that frame to house a precious photo. Who knew it would be of the four friends I had in high school? They were my Breakfast Club. My Lloyd Dobler, from Say Anything. My Pretty in Pink. My Sixteen Candles. And they had all come home to my heart. Isn’t it funny, the ones you thought would always be with you fly away. And the ones you thought would never come back, do with such love you wonder how you ever lived a day without them.

The photo is my treasure and I look upon it every day. Life truly is to be shared with our greatest friends.