One morning, I woke up and layed in bed leisurely (alright, lazily) and wondered what it would be like if I woke up somewhere else, as someone else. It inspired a story that's surprised me, being the only love story I've ever written. (It didn't start out that way.) This one, well, it's just fun. I like Anna and Oleifr, and this story is easy to write, so I write it when I take a break from everything else. This part is somewhere around chapter 3, but I think you can catch enough to know what's happened thus far.

*****

He opened the door, and Bera entered the room with a cheerful smile. Are these people forever smiling? It's barely even sunrise! Anna thought to herself. But despite her attempt at irritation, she couldn't help but be pleased to see Bera. At least the woman wasn't threatening to throttle her, unlike her present company. Vile brews she could deal with. Idiotic men were something else entirely.

"I don't suppose you've got any coffee in that bag of yours, do you?" Bera's blank stare was answer enough. "Oh well, wishful thinking, I guess. Coffee would be heavenly right now." Better than that disgusting concoction you gave me yesterday. What was in that thing? She shuddered involuntarily. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, Bera, but the drink you made didn't do a bit of good." Anna turned slightly green remembering the fuzzy things floating in the cup of "tea" she had been forced to drink in an effort to "cure" her. Please let that bag be empty this time, she prayed to herself.

Bera merely smiled, and settled into the seat across from Anna. "I am not surprised, truth be told." She reached into the satchel, and Anna gulped loudly. "I have cast the lots, and they tell me this sickness is beyond the power of simple herbs and roots." Anna let out an audible sigh at that. "Instead, I have carved this amulet with healing runes for you to wear near your heart, but please don't mention it to Father Phineus. His lectures seem to be getting longer and longer these days." She gave an exasperated sigh at the mention of the clergyman, and handed the necklace to the other woman.

Anna warily took the piece of jewelry from Bera's outstretched hand and studied the carving on the flat pale disc. "Is this bone?" she asked.

Bera nodded and pointed to the symbols that had been etched into the white surface. "See, here is the rune, ansuz, this means divine breath, to show you the order of your life. And there, that is kenaz, for clarity and understanding. This is perdhro, the most powerful rune for you, for memory and problem solving."

Well, I could use all the help I can get in that area, thought Anna. She let Bera tie the leather thong around her neck and she tucked it into the collar of her gown. Maybe it will do something for this headache, too. The throbbing pain had plagued Anna since the beginning of this whole mess, and it was getting worse. She rubbed her temples absently. Bera noticed, and announced, "Up. Out of this bed. A clear mind begins with a clean body. You need a bath." She wrinkled her nose. "Or perhaps that is you, Oleifr." Anna snorted back a laugh, and Oleifr glared menacingly at the healer. Undaunted, Bera shoved him towards the door with orders to retrieve water. He looked grumpily at the two women, opened his mouth to say something, then thought the better of it. He stomped across the cabin, grabbed a warm cloak and leather boots and left muttering something about stubborn wenches, or was that witches?

Smiling to herself, Bera removed a large basin from it's peg on the wall and placed it before the fire. Oleifr returned shortly with a huge wooden barrel of water, lifting it with an ease that surprised Anna. Without a word, he left, and Bera filled the iron cauldron and placed it back on the hearth to warm, humming merrily to herself. She added rosehips to the water and soon the room was filled with the inviting scent. As Bera worked, Anna took the opportunity to explore her surroundings. It was cozy, which puzzled her. It didn't seem to match the man, who was decidedly uncozy. Each item in the room was practical and useful, yet beautifully carved and created. Functional pieces were also artistic, and the craftmanship of these simple things rivaled art she'd seen in galleries. Tapestries hung on the walls, eloborate and colorful, and she wondered where they came from, and who made them, and mostly, who hung them. A woman? She dismissed her curiosity on the matter. It certainly made no difference to her.

Her fingers traced the elegant carving on a wooden trunk, following the interlocking patterns with awe. I bet he made this. She stumbled in surprise at the thought. No, not that oaf, she told herself. He couldn't make a... a... pancake! She laughed. I never was very good at analogies.

Bera summoned her to the bronze tub, and slipped out of the room quietly, much to Anna's relief. In the short twenty-four hours she had been here, she'd been poked and prodded and generally ogled by enough strangers. She was in no mood for an audience now. Anna eagerly sank into the steaming water, and submerged herself up to her ears. Her thoughts soon turned to her bizarre beginning in this strange place. As she soaked, she examined and discarded a million different theories about her appearance yesterday morning in what could only be described as a Viking village.

The only logical conclusion was that she had gone absolutely, certifiably, nuts. I'm probably wandering through the neighborhood in my nightgown right this very moment. She looked down. At least, I hope I'm in my nightgown.

She sighed. Either way, I think I'm in trouble.

Even if it is chocolate. This beauty has been filed under "Things That Make Shannon Cringe".

The fact that it was a smashing success at my parent's house during Christmas of 2000 - well, that is dually filed under "Proof that I May Be Adopted" and "Things That Must Never Be Admitted in Public".

Those files are getting a little out of hand, folks. Scary.

My body is in full rebellion at the thought of the word "gym" today. It just refuses to budge.

UP you willful thing, we had a deal! You knew yesterday when you had that second helping of banana pudding that this day would come. Now come on!

I wanted to let Mike know over at A Jeep in Summer that his comments were acting screwy, and since he had his AIM on his blog, I instant messaged him. Neat! That's the first time I've ever chatted (albeit very briefly) with a fellow blogger. It put a whole new level to blogging, and Mike became more "real" to me. So "real" that he didn't even have time to talk, the chump. (Mike, I'm kidding.)

Anyway, all that to say, I'm putting my chat info in the sidebar under Side Notes. If you see me on, feel free to say hello!

I'll try not to blow you off... unlike some people.

1.) Remembering, describing, or visualizing the make and model of cars. Incurable disability, I think I inherited from my mother. I can, however, recognize my own car, and Patricks. Flashcards, baby. They make all the difference.

2.) Drawing. Oh sweet mercy, I am bad at it. Here's an example of what was supposed to be a princess, but I wasn't paying attention and instead drew something that traumatized my child forever. I think I saw this same woman on an episode of Cops. You can imagine what her crime was. (notice the prince screaming in horror behind her.)

3.) Timing the toaster. I burned three, THREE bagels the other morning. The fourth one was barely edible, and only then because of a ridiculous amount of cream cheese. I cry over this.

4.) Keeping up with earrings. The thing is, it's never my fault. I mean, I left them right there. Honestly. Just one second ago! Side note: I know you love me, but please don't buy me diamonds. Trust me. Ask my parents.

5.) Judging distance. This is highly debilitating. 5 feet? 20 feet? 50 yards? It's all the same to me. I'm sorry. I try to be smart, but this is the moment you're going to see my eyes glaze over.

6.) Closely related to number 5, estimating the time it takes to get somewhere. I'm just shooting in the dark, don't ever believe me when I tell you I think it only takes an hour to get somewhere. I'm lying. I have no clue. I'm still going to try to help you out, cause that's the kind of person I am. Helpful, huh?

7.) Spotting whatever it is that you're pointing at. Sadly, I've missed all kinds of cool things because I have this handicap. Don't get mad at me- I really wanna see that escaped kangeroo at the edge of the woods but I CAN'T SEE IT! WHERE??? Oh, too late. Crap.

8.) Knowing a good price for ground beef. This one is a mystery to me. After buying and cooking it for at least eight years, you'd think I would have come up with a good, average price to look for. But no. It just won't stick in my head.

9.) Remembering to remind people of things they've asked me to. Please don't depend on me for that. I have excellent intentions of reminding you of whatever it was, if I could only remember what that was.

10.) Coming up with the very last item for a list. I suck at that.

Don't you just looooove it when you unknowingly flash about thirty people at one time?

Mor.ti.fi.cation.

Sometimes it's good to be stupid.
Then it's good to laugh at yourself.
Then it's good to try and look normal again to recover some dignity.

Wrenn, who will be four in a month, started school last week. I was probably more excited than she was about it, and I was dying for the details when I picked her up the first day. Unfortunately, information was not forthcoming. Instead, this is what I get.

Me: How was school sweetie?
Wrenn: *blink blink*
Me: What did you do?
Wrenn: um...nothing.
Me: Really? The whole time? You didn't do one single thing?
Wrenn: I didn't.
Me (trying another tactic): What was your favorite part?
Wrenn: poopy.
Me: Poopy? Poopy was your favorite part?
Wrenn: yes ma'am. (hysterical giggle)
Me: I'll never know what you do in school, will I?
Wrenn: poopy.

Ah, the joys of being (nearly) four, when "poopy" is the wittiest response to any question you don't feel like answering.

I talked to some of the other mothers, trying to find out what their kids learned, but they all just rolled their eyes and said, "All I could find out was poopy."

Yay. I can see that tuition money at work already.

*I will be posting pictures soon.

You're Alice.


Which Alice in Wonderland Character are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

I much prefer this Alice (click the link below) from the American-Mcgee game. She's scary. Don't click it if you're a big baby who doesn't like scary stuff.

Hey, wait, didn't I just get fussed at about role playing games and being a nerd and all? Jerks. Off with their heads. And I do not have emotional problems.

Continue reading "A Very Merry Unbirthday"

AAAAAGGGHHHH! I've been stolen!!!!!

"Dooby Dooby Doo..."
I miss the Bud Ice Penguin. He made beer come alive for me in a way that Badtz Maru never could. Though, I'll hand it to Badtz, he really tried. But he just couldn't shake that nasty attitude.
He was such a mean drunk.

"Don't make me cut you."

And now, for the next installment of Why You're On My Bloglist.

Bob immedietely caught my attention by... well, being A Girl Named Bob. The fact that she's a great writer and a hilarious blogger is just dandy, too. She is a regular read for me. Her Fly post earned her a permanent place at APOG, and I present it to you here in it's entirety. Now shoo.

***
The Petulant Pest
These days, I usually like to eat bananas for breakfast. They're yummy and filling, and all that potassium and magnesium helps my insomnia a bit. But apparently fruit flies like bananas a lot too. If I don't take out the trash right away, they start taking over my kitchen. That's what happened this week. I guess I wasn't fast enough, and even though I took out the trash last night, there were still quite a few of them hanging around today.

This evening when I got home from work, I noticed that one of them was just chilling on the outside of my door near the peep hole. It was like he got locked out and was waiting all day for me to come home and let him in. Before I put my key up to the lock, I shooed him away. But then as I opened the door and stepped in, I saw him fly past me.

"You don't live here!" I yelled, as he soared above my reach.
Fruit flies may not have middle fingers, but they can still behave in a insolent manner.

She serves up funny on a daily basis. Go read.

"Everytime a child says, 'I don't believe in fairies', there's a little fairy somewhere that falls down dead." JM Barrie.

I was out running errands the other day and noticed a sign for a subdivision that intrigued me. The Seven Pies. I thought, oh how cool! To live at 312 Seven Pies- that's awesome! I wondered how in the world they came up with that- was it an old legend of the area that a woman bakes a pie for each day of the week? Was it a fable about seven pies on a window sill? Was it good luck? I thought about it the whole time I was out, trying out different sentences and scenarios in my head with the words, "The Seven Pies". (Hey, what else should I do in line at the post office?) Then driving home, I passed it again.

I looked a little closer, and to my disappointment, I saw that it was The Seven Pines not Pies. How utterly dull. It was such a letdown! Here I thought, somebody has really broken out of the box and given us something with no explanation, and no apology. Ballsy! I was bummed when I realized it was just another generic, run-of-the-mill, blah blah blah.

However, it did go in my journal, and one day, maybe one of my characters will live in a quirky neighborhood called The Seven Pies, and nobody will know why it has that name, but they love it anyway.

So there you have it. Birth of an idea. Maybe a dumb one, but hey, at least the wheels are working, right?

Oh do shut up, Joey. ;)

(PS: I don't normally do "the wink", but I made an exception today. Sue me.)

*This is a true story, though the name has been changed in respect for my friend's privacy.

Ariel painted a solid wooden cube for me for my eleventh birthday. Each side portrayed some aspect of me in her eyes. A big yellow “S” on one side, a cross on another, a goofy face with glasses, a bright sunshine, and some other things that escape me at the moment. She was artistic and creative, and terribly complicated, even at that young age. I knew she had a sadness about her, but I didn’t know why. It was beyond my perceptions at that age to know that she was being sexually abused by a family member. I thought… she’s just sad. So I’ll make her happy. We made the woods our playground, swinging from vines, catching tadpoles in milkjugs, and hiding from the neighborhood boys in massive ferns. If we weren’t outdoors, we settled ourselves someplace quiet with sketch pads and drew women in wild and fanciful dresses, or detailed layouts for underground bomb-shelters. We talked about God, and the boys at our school, and what we wanted to be when we grew up. She ate chili with my family on Christmas day; she hunted Easter eggs at my cousin’s house. My grandmother was “Nanny” to her. Ariel was my sister, in all the ways that counted.

So the day she missed school, I immediately knocked on her door when I got off the bus. Her stepsister answered the door. “Go away.” she growled at me. I was used to her animosity. I didn’t understand it, but I shook it off like I always did. I wasn’t here for her. I was here for Ariel.

“Where’s Ariel? Is she sick?”
“Ariel doesn’t want to see you anymore,” she said viciously.

“What-“ I sputtered, “What’s wrong?”

“She tried to kill herself. Because of you!” Her words were shards of glass in my heart, cutting with a fury. I was mute before her anger, shocked and scared.

”Why?” I managed a horrified whisper.

“Because you keep trying to make her go to church and she doesn’t want to go anymore.”

I turned and fled home, escaping into my room before I crumpled to the floor. My heart broke in a way I’d never known. I did indeed ask Ariel to come to church with me every Sunday, and she came a lot. I desperately tried to remember if I’d pressured her in any way. I was sure I hadn’t, but what else was I to believe? I knew it didn’t seem right, that Ariel would feel that way, but the weight of the possibility was too great. I was bowed under with the guilt that I might have caused my friend, whom I loved like a sister, to want to end her life. It didn’t matter that it didn’t make sense.

We were eleven. How was this possible? How could I possibly undo whatever it was I had done?

My mom heard me, and opened the door, mistaking my sobs for laughter and she asked cheerfully, “What’s so funny in here?” I remember how absurd that sounded to me, how relieved I was to hear my mother’s voice.

In my mind, the gap between that instant and the next time I saw Ariel is nonexistent. But, I know that it was at least a week before I was able to see her. The bandages on her wrists were frightening and too adult for my childish mind. My gaze slipped away from them, to the pale glow of her skin, the hollowness of her eyes. I was grieved by the misery that radiated from her. The sadness I had known was there all along, had taken root, had claimed Ariel. But all I could think when I saw her was that we would fix it, we would wipe out that pain and she could be happy again because she was alive. My young heart had never known such despair and such relief mingled together.

Ariel never told me why she did it. I know it wasn’t because of me, for she grasped my hands in her weakened grip that day and assured me that all was well with us. As I got older, I had suspicions about the reason, but she could never fully voice it to me. I didn’t press her, because in my heart, I knew why she’d done it. I wish I had known then though, because I would have helped her, I would have done something.

Her stepsister, in her own pain and confusion and God knows what else, had wanted to hurt the one thing that was good in Ariel’s life. I dare not judge her for that bitter moment, because I imagine her circumstances weren’t much better than Ariel’s. I forgave her for it, the same way you forgive an animal for lashing out at you when it’s in pain. Suffering will make you do things you’d never do otherwise. I understood that, even then.

Besides, her attempt failed. Ariel remained a dear friend of mine for many years after that. She never lost the haunted look in her eye, never fully returned from that complicated and distant place. But, she also never lost her artistic and soulful way of living. She walked in dark places, but she painted the light into her life. Her art has depths to it that astound me, just like her spirit does.

I still have the cube she painted for me so long ago. I pull it out every now and then, surprised by its weight after all these years. I look at myself through her eyes, what she saw in me, how she defined me, what our friendship meant to her. And I am grateful all anew. Ariel may have been the one who needed an escape, who needed a friend. What she doesn’t know though, is that in the process, she taught me how to be a friend. I wouldn’t be who I am without her, without that cube. Without that day.

That’s a gift I’ll never forget.

I enjoy the fact that people don't know what APOG really means, because truth be told, I'm a little hard-pressed to define it myself. Throw a few chicken references in there and you get some fairly amusing looks (not to mention how it affects the search results).

This picture still cracks me up, even though it's a year old. It makes sense, I think, on some level. Nah, I take that back. It's absurd.

I do feel a little sorry for him, though. He looks pretty despondant. Cheer up, chicken. I'm sure things will turn around for you.

Anyway... I digress. For you artsy-fartsy types, this is your mission, should you choose to accept it. Take the picture and put your own caption on it. (this is why we love photoshop, for these very practical applications)

Amuse me. (Chicken: She's not kidding around here folks, better do what she says.)

Shoot me an email with the result! shannontrisler at hotmail dot com.

Ahhhhh....

That's the sound of me relaxing. Which is what I'm doing about my writing. I've realized something in the last few weeks. I need to write less, and listen and watch more. Fully aware of how cliché this sounds, (and saying it anyway!), there are stories all around me, waiting to be written. But, I can't do that if I'm not looking for them. Writing is not just about putting a pen to paper and stringing together some nice sounding words. (That’s the heart of my epiphany, folks!!) Being a writer is a way of life, a state of mind. Though you may not have a pen in hand, you never cease to be a writer, because you never stop observing life. It's not just something I do; it's what I am. That's so hard to say, because you worry that people will think you're pretentious or have delusions of grandeur if you say "I'm a writer". But it's not about that. It's not me being any of those things. It's just me being me. God put this love of writing in me for a reason. To record, to capture, to save. Duh, huh? I guess I should have known that, but I didn't. Now I see that I have the chance to preserve the world around me, to voice the intricacies of life and the people living it. Wow. How cool is that?

I've bought a rather lovely, brown leather journal to carry around with me, just like I'd imagine The Greats to have used. I'm inspired just looking at the thing! When thoughts pop in my head, I'll jot them down. When I see that cowboy in his beat-up car waiting at the stoplight, I'll write about him. When I see the lady beside me at the gym trying to hide the fact that she's crying, well I'll write about her, too. It's not for anything in particular; there are no limitations or expectations for this journal. Its only function is to help me learn to SEE better. I know this will, in turn, help me to WRITE better, but you know what, I don't even care about that right now. What comes will come, and that is sufficient for me. Right now, I only want to do the thing I feel called to do, and that is enough.

The rest will take care of itself.

1. See Kill Bill.
2. See Kill Bill Two.
3. Overcome fear of blood spraying from severed limbs.
4. Decide if Uma Thurman is wildly beautiful or mostly weird-looking.
5. Rent some old Kung-Fu Theatre.
6. High-five Q.T. next time I see him.

That orange creeps me out, and I feel like the Sequoia Citrus Association is trying to brainwash me. Get out of my head, you fiends!

Give them a truly moronic name.

I am continually amazed at the names (and the spellings) that I come across at work. I mean, you just can't DO that! It's crazy! But, apparently, there are no rules when it comes to names. You can make them up, disregard all natural phonetics, and have as much fun with them as you want.

I like the cheerful ones. Like Sparkle. Or Peaceful. And Lucky. Rainbow is a classic. Or you could save yourself some time and go ahead and name your baby Hippie. Or Tree-Hugger. Either one will work.

And spelling? Pshaw! Do what you want! Kurismah, excellent alternative to Charisma. And Tiphuknee is so much lovelier than Tiffany. Twyalite is nice for Twilight, plus you get bonus points for the hippie factor. Kennedy, nice presidential ring to it, but far too bland. Name them Kinnadeigh. Shake it up a little.

Also, do away with vowels whenever possible. That's fun. Conklqulio. Wish I had more exmpls, bt is hrdr thn it lks.

Product endorsement? Go for it. Puma. Espn (pronounced Espin). Finesse? Why not? Loreal? Perfect. Velveeta is a little out there, but so be it. Camry? Sweet.

Let's have some fun with these kids, by george.

But, all joking aside, please tell me that Dopplar Radar is just an urban legend. I simply cannot believe there's some poor kid out there with that name.

If there is, then Dopplar, I'm really sorry. You have my permission to legally change your name and kick your parents in the shins.

Ow. Ow. Ow. Crick in the neck. It's evil, and I'm feeling quite sorry for myself.

I need some TLC.

Guess what came in the mail for me this week? A check. For $500. From no other than... Mr. Bill Gates of Microsoft!!

I knew forwarding that stupid email would pay off!

Hoorah!! I'm rich! Mwahahahaha (evil laugh).

I had a friend in highschool who got into a car wreck once. He was hurt, but not in the hospital. I went to see him, and I asked him what he was thinking at the moment he got into the accident.

He said, "You know, I had a headache all day. But the second I hit the windshield, I had this sickening relief from it. The pressure just knocked it right out of my skull. I remember thinking, at least that's going away." He laughed.

I thought for a moment, and said, "But now there's glass embedded in your head."

"Yeah, well, there is that," he admitted.

"And you're actually missing some hair above your forehead." I added.

"Oh, you noticed that."

"And you've got a really bad black eye," I remarked.

"Yeah, I know."

"Not to mention your car. It's totaled, right?"

"Shannon?"

"Yeah?"

"You're not helping."

"Oh, right. Sorry 'bout that."

******
Don't know why I just thought about that. It amuses me though.

I tend to get introspective, and occasionally blue, on Sundays, and I am not surprised that this post reflects that. Forgive a little self evaluation, if you will.

[writing exercise]

Write what disturbs you, what you fear, what you have not been willing to speak about.

When all the external things in my life are taken away, when I am bare of the titles and roles I fill, I begin to cast my eyes this way and that, looking for any distraction. A good mother? I am. A good wife? I think so. A good sister, daughter, aunt? Yes. I believe that could be said of me.

But take those things away, and leave me standing alone in a room, hands idle and no task to prove my worthiness- Well, that disturbs me. There is some place inside me that is fully my own, and I fear that what lies there is not acceptable and not deserving because it is not good. Oh, it's well hidden. And if I bring it to light, people who love me are quick to say, oh, no, you're being hard on yourself! You're worthy of love, of respect, of the blessings you've received-- don't think so poorly of yourself. God loves you, so you must love yourself!

But, I. I am the one who knows. Even if I confide some of it to you, it's the gentler version, so as not to shock you, to shatter your illusion of me, because there is, after all, my pride to think of.

I'm the good girl. Just ask anybody. Even the rebellious moments of youth, were not, in fact, so bad. But it's hard to carry that righteous neon sign all the time. Sometimes, I want to come clean and say, you know what? I'm not good! I'm prideful! And selfish! And care too much what the world thinks of me! You don't really know me, because I don't really know me because I'm too afraid. Afraid of what is really there when all the trappings of life are gone, when I have no excuses to look away from the person I really am.

But, when I am writing, I am brave. Those internal struggles find their way into my words, and they are exorcised, they are weakened. I am alone with the pen, alone with my soul, and that's getting easier.

My one hope, my one grace, is that I am disturbed. I am not content with the state, with the inside and outside unmatched. I am driven to find the balance, and as long as I am searching for it, I know it can be found.

Not looking for argument here, okay? Don't post that you think I'm a wonderful person-- or you miss the point entirely. Give me some credit for knowing myself. Instead, go to your blog (or even here in my comments), and write about what disturbs you.

It's really quite liberating. [/writing exercise]

Julia Childs passed away today (although I'm not the first to report it!). My favorite memory of her happened on the Oprah show, back before O achieved goddess status and I refused to watch anymore. Anyway, Oprah was surprising famous chefs in their homes to see what was in their refridgerators.

Julia was nonplussed, and opened her huge, beautiful fridge with an innocent smile. No gourmet food there, no sirree. It was full of cokes, leftover chinese food, pudding cups, and beer.

I laughed my heiny off.

I put a spoon in Eli's hand this morning and said, "Go to it, boy!". And as true Southerners, we naturally had grits for breakfast.

I seriously don't know if he'll ever be clean again.

The most irritating dance in the world? That would be the cha-cha. [And yet] I cannot resist a mental Friday Cha-cha line today. Come on, ya'll! Friday, Friday, Fri-Day! Okay. Enough of that silliness. Everybody get back in your seats. (Hey, you too, Wil Wheaton. No lollygagging.)

Spiderman comes up alot at APOG. And no, I don't know why, let's not go there, okay? Well, here he is again, and this time he made me laugh so hard, milk came out my nose. Which is weird, considering I don't even drink the stuff. Anyway, this comes from the Presurfer, who never ceases to amaze me with his finds. He's the King of the Internet, and I am a loyal subject.

So, without further ado, I present you with Spiderman Reviews Crayons. Go ahead, tell me how much you love me for this one. (Oh yeah, a little language to watch out for in case you're at work)

Wow. That's a freaking big picture of Spiderman.

Today's assignment: write for ten solid minutes. Start with one sentence. Then write the next. And the next. Don't think ahead about the direction, the story, the plot, just write one sentence at a time and keep your fingers moving.

**
There was a gap in the wall, and the edge of the paper was sticking out. I stuck my finger into the dark space and wiggled it around, trying to dislodge it. I finally managed to get enough out to pinch between my fingers, and I pulled. It was yellowed, but surprisingly intact. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. I think part of me hoped that it would have disintegrated, dissolved into nothing, just like my heart had when I’d shoved the paper into this crack so long ago. I swallowed hard, and gently opened up the letter. My hands were shaking slightly, as I read the words I had carried in my heart for too long.

“Jessie,
There is no easy way to tell you that I have to leave. I wish I was man enough to face you, but we both know that’s not the case. Maybe, one day, I will be. Please forgive me, although I know I don’t deserve it. I will pray for you every single day. Peter”

I didn’t blame him now, looking back on it. But at the time, it was all I could do to keep breathing, keep existing. The anger I’d felt when I discovered his letter was almost as deep and raging as the anger that consumed me when I learned I had cancer. A broken heart and a broken body, I couldn't decide which was worse. It was not a time I care to recall with great detail. But, time healed my body. And, to some lesser extent, it healed my heart.

So, why come back? Why revisit a moment of such utter and complete despair? This piece of paper has been lodged into this wall, and into my heart, for too long. It is time for hidden hurts to be exposed, faced in the light of the day. What good is a healthy body if you have a heart that has forgotten how to love?

I folded the letter again, and placed it in my pocket. I looked back at the hole in the wall that had hidden my pain for so long. “Thanks,” I say. "I can take it from here."

Why is it so funny to drive the car ahead a foot or so when someone is trying to get in the passenger's side? Joey did that to me last weekend, and I'm still laughing about it.

Jerk.

Why? Why the compulsion to take quizzes about what kind of anime hero, atari game, country, flavor, machinery, and even goat I am? It's sick, isn't it?

You are the independent thinker goat. You stand on
your stump at the ice cream farm and won't get
down for anyone or anything...except for the
unguarded ice cream cones of the unaware.


What kind of goat are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

(pirated from Matt)

I could seriously kick myself when I type "your" when I mean "you're". I know the difference, really, and I still do it. Grr.

I really need to think of a better, shorter title for this segment. Too much typing. Shannon don't likey. (If you'd like to contribute to APOG, this could be your chance-- think up something clever for me, won't ya?)

Anyway. Why, you may ask, is Christin on my blogroll? Well, she is my sister-in-law's husband's sister, which makes us.. um.. not related at all. So it's not a family obligation. The truth of the matter is, she is funny and witty and has a heightened sense of sarcasm. She once told me, "Think pink. But dress black." I loved that, and I think it sums her up quite well. The cool picture of her in the sidebar, her crush on Shepherd Smith, her admittedly dangerous obessesion with grammar, and her fear of things that go bump in the night - these things keep me coming back for more. Here's a little taste of Verbing Nouns for your sampling. Enjoy.

I've Said it Before and I'll Say it Again

"If I had to name a super-power that I already have, I would say it's either my super-human capacity for wearing more than 20 pairs of shoes in one week or my abnormal ability to win paper/rock/scissors two out of three times, but if I could choose any super-power that I wanted, I might consider "Teleportation," but in the end, I'd have to go with "Super Bendy Thumbs", 'cause, man: think of the possibilities."

Funny stuff.

You are only an ancient family name to me, removed by over a century from my own life. Yet, without you, I would not be here, and I owe you--- something. Yet, this surprises you, I’m sure. You would not feel you are owed anything. After all, you abandoned your children. Abandoned. Your. Children. You severed your life from the family tree, as if you didn’t even exist. You left them in the care of their father, and you never looked back. Not once. Two children, of your own body, carried around the pain of that betrayal their entire lives. It is the only legacy that we have of you, the only fact handed down to the generations that followed. I know you only as the Woman Who Left. I am saddened for you because of this. Because no matter why you made the choices you did, this harsh memorial is no fate a woman would seek. No fate a mother would seek.

I feel some kinship with you, though. I can't say I understand why you did what you did, and you'll find no approval with me. But, there are moments in my own life when I crave solitude, and relief from my responsibilities. Did you face those thoughts? Did you lose yourself the way I have sometimes, the way all women do? I wonder about you. I wonder how different I am from you. Would you look at me and see some glimmer of yourself? Are my weaknesses familiar to you?

I know I could never kiss my babies goodbye, and walk away from them forever. I knew that the moment I held their little forms in my arms, stroking the sweet, soft skin of their cheeks, smelling the intoxicating scent of newness. How then, did you? What drove you so far from that maternal nature? Did you hold your own sons to your breast, and vow to love, protect them, swear you’d never forsake them? Tell me, warn me, show me the folly of your ways. I would guard myself against the weaknesses you fell prey to, if you will name them.

I would not. I will never. Did you say those things, as I do?

The things that make us different, are they greater than the things that make us the same? I pray that is so. Your story is gone, the reasons, the excuses, all faded into oblivion. We will never hear them, never understand. All that remains of you is that single act, unexplained, and condemning.

The children you left grew into men. They were strong and brave, and loved kin and country. I don't know if you knew that. I hope you did. But they missed you. They suffered. The wouldn't speak of you, not ever. The pain of your abandonment was an inheritance that is still remembered today. But, there are those of us who've gleaned a lesson from your legacy, and that is why I write this. It is what I owe you. I have been touched by the tragedy you wrought, and it strengthens my resolve. It shaped the woman I became.

You were The Woman Who Left, and because of that... I will be The Woman Who Stayed.

My sweet Ikea, you rock. You totally rule. You’re so cheap and big, and I mean that in the most awesome way possible. I love that you like kids, that you even made them a huge supervised playground. You’re such a good cook- I liked your meatballs and your lasagna. You even tried to entertain me, and although I don’t like Arnold from Nickelodeon, I appreciate the gesture. The steel drum bands were neat, though. I love your retro furnishings and clever storage and edgy lighting. I don’t know how you do it, Ikea, but you are the bomb. I wish I could date you, but you’re a building and I’m married, so that’s that. I think we’d have cute kids though. They’d be trendy and imaginative and wouldn’t eat much and maybe they’d have shag rugs like yours.

Anyway, I will come see you again, I promise. And next time, I’ll bring more of you home with me.

I’ll never forget your big blue walls.

Love,
Shannon

This is so going on my wishlist.

Dusting out my blog a little, and updating ye olde bloglist. If something disappears/reappears, don't be surprised, don't freak out, don't panic, don't cry.

And no hard feelings, but if you aren't writing, I ain't linking. Hey, I didn't make the rules. Blame uh... well... Amos, I guess. He started it.

I seem to be referring to myself in the 3rd person a lot lately. Shannon wonders why that is.

A clean house makes a happy Shannon. It’s strange, as much as I procrastinate when it comes to housework, I actually do enjoy the process and the outcome. Vivaldi and Beethoven provide the soundtrack, as I wage war, armed with cleaners and gloves and merciless brutality. Dust bunnies flee before me, trembling in my wake. Wood shelves take hit after hit of Old English, until they relinquish their dull ways. Bathrooms cower before my scrubbing brush and foaming bubbles. I bravely tame the wild beast that is my home, until finally, in a crescendo of classical music and toxic chemical fumes, the deed is done. My home sparkles into submission, and I nod in satisfaction at the work I have wrought this day.

Oh alright. Maybe I got a little carried away with that one. It was fun, though.

What also makes Shannon happy, you ask? The weather. It was overcast today, protecting us from the sun’s evil and hateful late summer rays. (I actually feel bad for being mean to the sun, I really do like the sun normally. But lately, it’s been in a MOOD! Sheesh!) I’ve had to drive the Dreaded Car to work a few times this week (that would be the one with no AC and the innumerable squeaks). I will remind you that I live in South Louisiana. It’s August. I go to work at 2 in the afternoon. I would laugh, but that might cause dehydration. So, a break from the heat was ohmygoshsowonderful.

Fortunately, (thankyouthankyouthankyou), the Dreaded Car will soon be put to pasture, as the transmission is nearly finished in our Other Car, complete with AC. You can’t see it, but there are actually tears of joy streaming down my face right now. (or that could be sweat, it’s hard to tell.)

And the final ingredient in my happiness today is the excursion to Houston with my cousin tomorrow. I feel like my days off are spent catching up with all the little things I need to do, but this is a trip just for pure fun. Yeehaw! (as they say in Texas). I’ve been there a few times, I’ve gotta lot of love for those cowboys and cowgirls. Texan wit- it cracks me up. Like this one- “You’re all hat and no cattle.” Funny. I keep waiting for an opportunity to say that to someone, but so far, no luck.

Anyway, ‘nuff of my rambling. Have a good weekend, everybody! Behave, you.