There’s something supremely satisfying about watching stats rise on the Internet. Whether it’s followers and views on a blog, Facebook, stuff on Twitter … it’s all kinda neat. Now if only I could translate that somehow to work for weightloss.
Anyone wanna click on my scales?
Here’s a free book! Now available at Amazon, this sexy collection is a labour of love put together by myself and eleven talented friends. We had a blast writing them and getting them ready for today’s celebration of all that is Irish, including a liberal dash of shenanigans.
Here’s an excerpt from my story, Limerick:
It was St. Patrick’s Day eve, but celebrations were already well underway. The bar was hot and muggy with the scent of perfume and testosterone, but the beer was cold and green. The DJ was playing Moist, or so he’d said. Jason wasn’t sure if that was the name of the song or the name of the band. He sat at the bar scanning the room, Henry beside him. He wondered if the guy always had the lost puppy dog air about him: they’d been there for half an hour and Henry had followed in Jason’s every footstep. He was almost scared to go to the men’s room.
Not that he was afraid of what might happen. Experimentation with a guy was one of Jason’s fantasies. One he occasionally jerked off to. Before anything could happen, he wanted to feel the guy out, so to speak. And he wanted to be felt out. Not jumped at a urinal.
But tonight was all about the ladies. And apparently, according to three quarters of the t-shirts in the room, most of them were Irish and wanted to be kissed.
Jason sipped his beer and wracked his brain for a word that rhymed with “Irish.”
“I got nothing,” he murmured.
“What?” Henry asked. He seemed happy to have a chance to chat, so Jason turned on his barstool to face the bar and have a conversation with the guy.
“Just trying to work something out in my head. So, you ready to mingle?”
“Sure. What am I looking for again?”
“A woman from Nantucket. I don’t have any problem getting women, but I gotta know where they’re from. Got it?”
Henry quailed a bit. “I’m not as good looking as you.”
“That’s not a problem, little friend,” Jason said, slapping him on the back. Henry wasn’t really little. He wasn’t built like a brick shithouse like Jason was, either. “Just ask them where they’re from. Easy. And if you find one from Nantucket, point her in my direction.”
Pick up your copy today!
Isabella Morgan is a published author!! Shamrocks, Shillelaghs & Shenanigans is free on Smashwords, Nook, and Kobo!
It’s a sexy collection of St. Patrick’s Day stories by both new and notable authors, with an Introduction by someone very close to me.
Here’s the description of my story, Limerick:
Jason is a purist who wants his poetry to imitate reality. Henry, his roommate, has secret, naughty thoughts about him. All that separates them is one limerick and a girl from Nantucket. (m/m/f)
Here are the links:
It’s up on Kindle as well, but we’re waiting for them to drop the price from their minimum of 99¢ before we start advertising links. The Apple iBooks version will be coming soon!
Well how’s this for a coincidence? I show up here for the first time in ages, and it just happens to be my WordPress anniversary.
Hopefully I’ll be around a little more, since I’m (me, Izzy) about to become a published author. You’ll find me in this free (YES, FREE!!) book of short stories on March 17th, 2018!
Here’s to SHAMROCKS, SHILLELAGHS & SHENANIGANS. Sláinte!
I think I may have figured out what my problem is of late. Yes, menopause is a bitch on ‘roids and I’m sure part of it has to do with my hormones. But I’ve been on edge for so long, stressed out, unsure whether I want to race a car around the block on foot or sleep for a week, and I think some of it at least has to do with the fact that I haven’t written anything substantial in about six months. I thought writing a fiction post every day might help, but it doesn’t. All it really does is add to my workload of editing two novels, keeping up with my main blog, as well as caring for my kids and my mother… and my house. I really should vacuum one of these years.
My little guy is going away to his dad’s for the weekend, so I’ll have time (hopefully) to get at least one editing project finished. Speaking of that, if any of you would like to volunteer to proofread a 10K romantic comedy novelette, that’d be fantastic. It’s a quick read. I should be finished my own final edit by the weekend. I’ll get it to you after that. I’m hoping to get it published in June. Once that’s out of the way, I’ll get back to working on one of the two novels I’ve started. With any luck it will lead to a happier, more pleasant, Izzy. And maybe some of the hair I’ve been yanking out by the roots can start to grow back.
“What do you mean there’s no one up there? The crowd’s ready to riot! I don’t care what you have to do, just get a band on the stage!!”
This post is part of Tuesday Use It In A Sentence, brought to you by MLW at A Word Adventure. This week’s word is “abandon.” Click here to find out how you can participate!
Okay, so here’s the deal: My ex moved three hours’ drive out of town a couple of years ago. His job requires him to work way too much, and so he can’t see the kids every other weekend like he’s supposed to. Add to this the fact that he doesn’t want to drive 12 hours every weekend that he does have them, so he moves into my house and I have to move out. At my cost. As my mother so eloquently put it, I have to pay to leave my own home. When their dad does take them to his place (actually, only one of them because he doesn’t have room for both) he expects me to drive half way to meet him. At my cost.
From the time he had the kids last, to the time he has them next, I will have had them for 5 weeks (four weekends). My dilemma is this: do I start drinking wine now? And if so, should I try to have any of the 20 bottles I have in my basement left by the time I get another weekend off (at my cost)? Or should I just throw up my hands and drink the lot?
My life seriously fucking sucks sometimes.
I don’t like to talk about my mother on my regular blog, but I think I’m okay to talk about her here, where I’m somewhat anonymous. I’m not sure if any of my family follows this blog. I’ve only ever mentioned it once, a long time ago.
My mother is my only parent, my dad having died when I was young. I’m an only child, so it’s just her and me. And my kids, of course. I grew up with her, my dad, and their two best friends. My mother is the only one left. I used to think she was the lucky one, to have survived everyone else. Now I wonder.
She doesn’t remember anything from one minute to the next. She can ask me the same question every 15 seconds for 10 minutes. She’s beginning to lose her long-term memory as well. So I’ve been patient. But it’s not easy.
Lately she’s taken to accusing me of selling all she owned when I moved her into a retirement home. In actuality, she was there for the whole thing. She went through all her stuff and decided what to keep and what not to, she met the auctioneer who sold all she didn’t want. But now she asks me how I could sell everything she owns–her whole life–without telling her I was going to do it. It makes me feel small, guilty even, though I know I didn’t do anything wrong.
It’s tough watching your parents forget. It’s hard to deal with the forgetfulness, the anger, the bewilderment… And yes, I feel just as guilty for saying that maybe she’s not that lucky for having to go through all this. But life is cruel. I’m bewildered myself.
You can find the rules for Stream of Consciousness Saturday here https://lindaghill.com/2016/05/06/the-friday-reminder-and-prompt-for-socs-may-716/
Gotta love it when the school calls to say your kid is missing. That apparently the last person to see him, spotted him outside 45 minutes ago in his jacket and with his backpack. And this from an acting temporary principal who, to his credit, sounded legitimately nervous when he apologized for losing my son. He, then, sounded a bit relieved when I told him I could contact the miscreant via cell phone. Which I did. He’s back at school now.
That he’s an Autistic 20 year old makes things difficult in regards to disciplinary actions. But hey, rules are rules. He’s probably facing the consequences as I write this.
Thank god for cell phones.
Isabella Morgan has officially been alive for one year. Funny, I don’t feel a day less than 25.
I think about updating this blog every so often, but strangely I can never think of a thing to say when I get here. I intend to hang on to it though. Never know when I’m going to want to lash out over something that I can’t express, using my real name.
Anyhoo, I’m not saying anything here either, other than that I’m amazed it’s been a year. Maybe I should make a resolution to come back here every so often and post what I’m really thinking. Which is usually along the lines of, WHAT THE FUCK?
Happy Blogaversary to me!