Venting about walking

The NOVEL continues

Okay.  So, I am re-writing my novel,  WAKING UP, for the ....umpteenth time.  As I take out the very poorly written parts, the book gets shorter.  And shorter.  This may end up as 'short' story.
Well, poopah.
I do add things, and mostly I like what I add, until I read the entire chapter and go,.....hmmmm, didn't I already say that?  Or, more likely, that's dumb.
But I still enjoy the process.  I write every day, sometimes in the morning, sometimes in the evening, sometimes both.
My days are lovely.  As soon as I get up, dressed, teeth brushed, I am out the door for my morning walk.  I hate it.  I am, however, 'mildly over nourished', and if I don't exercise, I will become fat.  My husband said that time is nearing.  Boo Hiss.  Or is it Boo Him?
So I walk.  Somedays I go to the pool and swim instead, or in addition too.  Yesterday, I walked and went to the gym.  I hate it all.
In a perfect world, we could eat pretty much what we want, (with reason, of course, and everyones reasons are different :).), exercise moderately; walking to the fridge, bathroom, car, around the mall, etc., and stay a normal size.  Like an 6, or 8.  Well, I'm a 12, once in a while a 10, and once in a while a 14, but mostly a 12.  If I get down to a 10 or :) an 8, I will have to buy new clothes.  I think my husband would rather I stay fat.
I have altered my diet.  I no longer have my snifter of B & B in the evening.  I have only one beer before dinner, not two.  I don't eat potato chips, I have switched to baked sweet potato chips.  I eat my hamburgers without the bun.  I limit my ice cream to Gelato. And, well, that's about it.  I mean we are trying to eat more healthy, but it's hard.
I don't do hard very well.
So, my rant for the day is over.
Couldn't I just take a pill?

Uh oh. It's Friday the 13th. My 63rd birthday. I'm having a great day, kinda waiting for the 'other shoe' to drop. Hope it does't! 102 earthquakes here in the last 13 days. Most pretty small, but....does this mean something?

Thirty one years ago today, my youngest child was born. She was 5 pounds even, so scrawny she looked like a baby bird. Lots of brown curly hair. Now she is married, 2 loving children, going to school to become an RN. You never foresee what these tiny babies will do nor how they will fill, crush, and fill again your heart. Happy Birthday, my daughter. You are loved.

My dog is a poodle, not a pitbull. I'm afraid of pitbulls. My husband loves me. I love him back. Our three married children have blessed us with nine grandchildren. We live in a tiny, lovely home in a place with palm trees, sunshine, free golf and lots of good friends. We have a great little van we travel in. Most of our family are pretty healthy and ALMOST normal. Money coming in is close to money going out. Sometimes. Is life perfect? Pretty much. Does it have to be? Not at all. I don't know the reason God has blessed us with such bounty, I can't think of any reason we deserve it. On my knees, I thank you Lord, for all you have provided. It isn't luck. Maybe someday the other shoe will drop, meanwhile, I'm going to sit in the sun, have a glass of wine, lay my head back, smile and breathe deep.

The story of Pietro and Valencia was born November 26, 2009, Thanksgiving, after an evening of dancing, dreaming and wine. I have had the honor of sharing the creating of this saga with my brother. What a wonderful experience; I wrote a chapter, then he wrote the next. Not only was it fun and challenging, but it brought us closer to an understanding of ourselves and each other. Everyone should be so lucky. I have had great difficulties with editing. I write it but when it appears it's all jumbled up. In frustration I have given up trying to fix it, please forgive the details, just enjoy the story. Two years, four months, one day and the end is now here. I will miss the rash, naive young lovers, the loyal but weak villagers, and yes, even the evil Coyote. It's been a fun journey and I have truly enjoyed it. Will I write another? Who knows? It's all part of God's plan. Jan Roswold Brown P.S. I know there is someone out there who can teach me the technical part of this blogging. I really am not an idiot, just...well...you know. I would love to be able to present this story properly. Volunteers welcome.

Pietro and Valencia part seventeen

The Coyote was on the prowl. A venomous slime oozed out of his pores, his hair was matted with vomit and his clothes stiff with dried offal. He cared not at all. He was consumed with the need for revenge, something he was very familiar with. His body was weak, dehydrated, sore, but he was in his truck, it was running, rough, but running. He didn't know it but he was very close to the turnoff that led to Estrella's little house. "Madre Diaz!" The Coyote spit out words like bullets. "Where is that fucking road? If that little sucker gave me wrong information I will go back to the village and kill him again!" The people back in the village had yet to discover that a young boy had been tortured and murdered. When the body was found, with the letters c, o, and y, scratched crookedly in the dirt, a bloodied hand grasping a bloody stick, it was obvious that the boy had been left for dead, that he had lived only long enough to try to identify his killer, that he had suffered terribly before death gave him release from his pain. No one had any doubts who it was that had created this gruesome scene. If the villagers had been angry with the actions of the Coyote before, it was nothing compared to the rage that grew within each of them now. The young boys Mother kneeled on the ground next to her son beating the ground with her hands, keening with her loss. A few of the men drew away from the crowd. No words were spoken, they knew what they must do. Each went their separate ways to gather things they would need to punish the man, no, the animal they would soon seek. It was not long before they met again, loaded their things into a truck, most of them riding in the back, and blew dust as they headed out to capture their prey. El Diablo's truck slid sideways, brakes squealing, as he tried to make the turn that would lead him to Estrella. The truck rocked, almost on two wheels before the spinning tires grabbed the dust and the vehicle roared on. "I am coming, you old whore! You will tell me where they went or get your wrinkled old skin ready to be scraped from your body!". The Coyote howled. He almost hoped the old woman would resist so he could cause more pain. He thought of the screams he would hear. He smiled. He was pushing the truck so hard it slid from side to side as he flew up the road. It was not long before Estrella's house came into view. The grin grew wider. The mouth and the spaces where teeth used to be formed an evil look, almost like a face carved into a jack-o-lantern. Estrella saw dust before she heard the sounds of the truck. She knew who was coming. She was ready for him. She knew the information he sought from her would never pass her lips. After a life lived alone, caring for herself, Estrella was not afraid to die to protect Pietro and Valencia, in fact, it was her plan to do just that. The Coyote would not be expecting that. Her lips curved into a smile. She was sorry that she wouldn't live to see the frustration and anger that would distort the Coyote's evil face. If one could look down from the sky over the desert between the village and Talico, they would see Pietro and Valencia limping down the mountain, the dead jeep left behind, very close to reaching their destination. The retched Coyote still had fuel left but it would not be enough to catch the young couple. With no information from Estrella, the Coyote's search zigzagged all over the mountain, his efforts to get his revenge successfully foiled, at least for now. And the villagers following the Coyote? They knew where they were going. They had left Estrella's after burying her mutilated body, easily finding the trail the Coyote left. If one could look down from the skies would would they wonder how it would all end? Or just smile, knowing it was all part of God's plan.