The Procrastinating Ogre

Ahaha. I just found this article I wrote about 'Packing for College'. I felt like laughing my head off when I saw it a few seconds ago. I wrote this story as a junior in highschool. I have no IDEA how to pack for college! In fact, I'm just now finding out how LITTLE I do know. ;) You can tell by my article that I am reaching a bit. In all reality, I am one of those writers who needs to experience something before writing about it. This article is no exception. That, of course, is not to say that I don't hit on some profound points. But, still... Ick. And yet, I'm sure one day when I'm older and wiser (if that's possible) I'll stumble across this blog and exploit these words to a degrading fan-network for the sake of laughter. That's a depressing thought. And yet, I do love these discoveries of mine. It makes life more interesting. So may I present to you, my dear faithful readers, this long-lost interesting discovery.

--Packing for college, from a five year olds point of view, would be as comforting as cleaning the room pretty much right when Mom suggests it get clean. From a 13 year olds perspective, it would be a warm, inviting thought, similar to studying for a big science test. But from the big-stuff 18 year old point of view? It's the end to the summer.

--Picturing myself before an open bag that needs clothes, toothbrushes, deodorant, and various assortments of underwear, causes me to pause. Imagining my new room mates for a second, I can literally visualize the intimidating leer, as the diva, my new closest year-long friend, criticizes the contents of my luggage. So, as any normal red-blooded 18 year old girl, my first thought is 'shopping'. My second thought is startlingly faithful as it pops up screaming, 'money'. So I, still hypothetically picturing myself, would probably leave the bag sitting open, shoved behind my bed, until I could get the money to buy the items to pack the bag.

--That thought process is the classic example of a chain-reaction. I'm not going to be a business-woman and say it all goes back to money, but I am going to say that it all goes back to being prepared. From needing a job, to getting the money, to finding the right merchandise at the right price, packing for college is a big deal. Which is why, packing the week before college is quite simply, hard.

--You need to prepare ahead of time for that big day when you leave home, so you can say goodbye to your family without screaming mid-"I love you" that you forgot such-and-such a life-altering thing at home. Preparing is not just a spur of the moment decision, neither is it a habit that will miraculously grow on you when get to college. It's a step-by-step process that, as a young child, you first begin the hard process of learning.

--From cleaning a room when mom says (notice, not later), to studying for a science test before (note: not after), you and I were both being taught that when we get things done on time, things go easier for us. When we were little, procrastinating was just a really big word. Now, where college and the future will hold you and I responsible, it holds big meaning.

--So what are some quick tips to not procrastinating? First, I'd have to say the thing that would help me, is write a list. Even just numbering your agenda, much like making yourself a schedule, or writing this paragraph, keeps things in order. Second, aim for punctuality. Set specific times for yourself when you want to get up and be places, and make sure you follow them. It won't suddenly get easier when you're in the dorm and people are screaming for you to push the snooze. Third, be diligent not to overwhelm yourself with un-necessaries. By un-necessaries, I mean trips to the grocery store to get another box of donuts. Don't weigh yourself down with tons of tiny little things on your list that don't really need to be done. Things like that.

--Here's a tip. My brother is about to head off to college. What's on his mind? Nothing. He's gotten the down-payment on his college bill paid, so as far as he's concerned, he's good for a while. While it's not a bad idea to level out your stress intake, you also need to be preparing yourself for the fast pace life that's ahead. Procrastinating, in his case, could be as simple as not THINKING about what he might need to be attacking in the near-future. It's something he is putting off until it's absolutely upon him, breathing down his neck and growling, "Whachu lookin' at?"

--So before you reach that big day when you say goodbye to high school and wave hello to the procrastination ogre, I hope that no matter what your age or level of maturity, you can go beyond your expectations, and someday look back at the world who thought you'd never make it, and ask them, with just a little attitude, "Wachu lookin' at?"


La, I want to die from laughter. A good healthy humorous death, I'd say.

Don't Jump

Imagine you're at the library, and you've just picked up a best-seller. Ta-da! My book! It's a short story, really, but my article choices tonight were between writing about my dramatic dog-feeding epiode or this short story I wrote a while back. I decided to save you from my dog-bitterness-soliloquy and share this story with you instead. It's been around for a while and I just kind of let it sit in my files. Feel free to critique and comment. And as it is late Thursday night, may I be the first to say 'Happy Friday!'. ;) Talk to you guys later.

Romance/ Fiction

...I love the story. I've read a lot of very good articles here, and a few good stories and poems, but this is the first one that made me cry! I kept wanting to stop reading, because it's really difficult in the rating window, especially as it appears as one really long paragraph. But I simply couldn't stop! Good characters grabbed me, good imagery, good story....Thanks for a really good read.

-Helium Articles Reviewer

A lone picnic table, shadowed by a fortress of willow trees, is just on the outskirts of the lake.

His name is James. He sits there. Old, alone and quiet. He crosses his legs and stares at them, deep in thought.

"Poppa! Look at me!"

He looks up with a start. Who said that?

The playground is silent. The wind blows in warning of a storm, and picks up the empty swing on the playground to rock it sporadically.

The gray haired man looks back down, but this time - focuses on his hands. How long has it been since they have been strong and wrinkle-free? How long since he has heard little Meryl's voice on the phone? He feels a catch in his throat, longing to iron out the memories as though there had never been wrinkles, weakness', or loss. Growing up, people always considered him too quiet.

They would say, "James, you need to get out more. Need to talk about these things."

Talk about what? The fact that his grand daughter is missing? That his wife, Jenny, is dead? That his daugher is a drunken mess? What should he start with?

The still, afternoon ripples of Lake Winnebago have long been turned towards the winds soft fingers and thronged themselves into waves for her to run her hands through.

James knew he is all alone in the park near the water. He feels it painfully. He wishes Meryl were here, but she is missing.

She ran away, her mother said.

Right. A little mentally disabled girl ran away. And where would she go?

James looks out over the stormy water. The sky is dark and foreboding, like a lion about to pounce on that which is helpless. Meryl, where are you?

Just 1 week ago, Meryl was sitting beside him. When she smiled up at him, James never saw the disability in her. He saw the life that was so abundantly able in those dark eyes.

"Poppa, tell me a story. Tell me about you and Grandma, when you first met on this lake."

James would grow very quiet, and his grand-daughter's laughing lips would tease up into a big, pleading smile. He'd take a deep breath and would give in reluctantly. "She lived across the lake from me during the summers when I was a very young boy. And we both had the same habit. We loved to watch the lake at night."

Meryl would interrupt, her slow, thick tongue eager to know the next part of the story, "She sang, didn't Grandma sing?"

James nodded slowly with a chuckle, "And it wasn't very beautiful at that." He loved how his grand-daughter would ease him up, away from his shyness. She didn't seem to fear his height or get scared of him like so many other little children did.

"I remember the first summer night I went out on my father's dock, and set up a small telescope. That shows you how shy I was, Meryl. See, you may be able to talk the head off a chicken, but I'd rather study astronomy."

"What's astronomy, Poppa?"

James would sigh dramatically and declare, "Do you want me to tell this story, or not? Astronomy is studying the stars, baby. Now, shhh."

He bobbed little Meryl gently on his knee and continued with a smile. The story went like this...

--I was on the dock, and heard a high-pitched voice singing from across the lake. It wasn't very good singing, I'll say that much. I got curious about it after a while, and since I couldn't see across the lake when it got dark, I got the idea to sneak over there at night in my dad's boat. I made out like I really didn't care who it was, because I wasn't the type to go liking girls and holding their hands and the like. I just thought it would be funny for me and my buddies to find out who it was. Even though I was a quiet guy, my summer-time buddies always knew to listen when my idea's involved my father's patrol boat. We just knew to be real quiet about it, because my Dad was a big man and would not take kindly to our borrowing it. Dan, Hosea, and I snuck out one night during after-wake hours and we giggled all the way across the lake. As soon as I got close enough, I knew the house where the singing came from belonged to Harry Grisham. He was the sullen barber who owned 'Harry's Haircuts'. We used to think it was greatly ironic that Harry from Harry's cut hair. His niece living with him was 14. As I saw her that night, I recognized her from church - kids used to have to go to church back then. She was a pretty little thing, but I didn't think much about that at first. There she stood, dressed in white, singing her heart out and sounding horrible. Worse yet, it was clear she thought her singing was just as good that night as she thought it was in church. Only this time she stood on a dock, and there was no podium. The boat was rocking in our effort to hold our laughter. Hosea had a big, high laugh, though, and he let loose with a nervous string of it. Well, that girl was Jenny, your grandmother, you know, and she suddenly realized her singing was no private matter. Problem is, by the time we'd had the good nerve to laugh, she had already read out-loud from her journal about how she wanted to meet a boy who would sweep her off her feet, kiss her in the rain, and go swimming with her at night. Well, my buddies and I, we laughed all the way home until we got there and saw my Daddy standing there with a red face from holding the anger in. My daddy didn't believe in grounding. I got whooped, and I felt it a week after. Thankfully, though, my Daddy didn't tell the other boy's parents, and it was a private matter. I considered myself the sacrifice for us all, and I had done my buddies a service.

I didn't say anything to Jenny at church because I was pretty sure she just thought Hosea was the creep who had intruded on her privacy. I really didn't care too much about girls as a boy, and so it didn't hurt me much to be your grandma's secret enemy. I'm sure she wasn't sure who sneaked up on her, and was therefore suspicious of all the boys who had summer houses at the lake.

However, my mid-night glory was short-lived. As a result of some of my other mischievousness that summer, my dad forced me to get a summer job at the library. I thought I was big stuff... the best prankster around and it wasn’t -- how do you say it these days? -- cool for me to be working at the library. Pretty soon, though, I found out that Jenny's favorite haunt was the library. Your grandmother would sneak into the library every chance she got, as though she were ashamed to be there, and would find the furthest back corner to sit and read in. At first, I told my buddies and we laughed together we found her so predictable. But, soon, my laughter turned still when I heard her back there, crying. I told myself she was crying about a romantic novel that touched her heart in a painful sort of way. But when she left, and I was returning her perfect stack of books to their shelves, I realized I was reading the titles. I was curious as to why she was picking out titles that dealt with depression, suicide, and grief. I found myself heading toward the back of the library whenever I knew she was there to shelve books, but I couldn't hear any more than the turns of pages. Any tears were muffled, and private. I asked around about her learned that her name was Jenny and learned that she had come from New York to be with her Uncle after her parents had died in an apartment fire. I felt immediate regret for the laughter I'd shared against her, and found myself looking for ways to be kind to her. I cleaned the back part of the library where no one but her had stirred the dust in the years since it had last been cleaned. I kept the books that seemed to be her favorites out on a shelf near where she sat. I even got fond enough to say hello to her when she came in. But I never had the nerve to do more than that.--

"Why not, Poppa?" Those wide, trusting eyes.

--I was very shy as a young boy. Never quite out-grew it, but especially when I was young, I was painfully shy where social things were concerned. I was good at playing pranks behind people's backs, but when it came to facing the music, I melted like butter. But the more I saw her intense eyes, and watched her shoulder's square, the more I wanted to talk to her. I needed to know about her. I was smitten. I finally became curious enough to sneak over to her house in my old rowboat, and was smart enough to take her some freshly picked flowers. There was no girl in white singing outside, but I did see a white curtain fluttering at a window. I crept close enough to see a girl inside, bent over her journal writing furiously, only to throw her book at the wall and scream with a deep anger. I quietly left the field flowers on her window sill, and stole back over the lake.

The next day, I over-heard her despairing to one of her friends that someone had put weeds in her room, and I felt bad that I hadn't gone to more effort to buy her something. So, the next night, I snuck back over and placed two roses. from our kitchen at her window, and left a card that read ever so subtly, "Secret Admirer". I waited until she found those, and watched her face light up with delight. She was so beautiful to me, even though her body was still not quite developed. She just wasn't like the other girls who only laughed and never seemed to really care. Jenny cared. That was enough for me. All through that summer, I continued to look out for her, wishing I could talk to her. By the end of that summer, I was infatuated with her. But when that summer came to an end, I headed back to New Jersey for school, without ever getting up the nerve to talk to her.--

Meryl would look confused at this point. "You never talked to her?" James had to laugh deeply.

--Not that summer. But the next summer, when I came back to our summer home, I was surprised to find that she had changed dramatically. Gone was the little girl with the awkward limbs and sad eyes. In her place was a dark-haired beauty that all my buddies were suddenly tripping over to talk to. I knew I had to do something to win her over before they did.--

James expected her to say something like, "What'd ya do, Poppa?", but she would sometimes just wait patiently without talking just to throw him off.

--I didn't have a job at the library that summer, because my Dad liked to fool himself into thinking I was more mature and didn't need to be kept out of his hair anymore. Besides, he was more interested in a neighboring woman gracing the age of 25, than his own son of 17. which is another story entirely. Between a love for studying the stars, and a quiet love for Jenny, I was a very frustrated young man. Jenny, however, still happily visited the library regularly, and I was the only one who knew she sought her privacy there. I was fascinated with her. I knew she would like me if I could only convince her I was good enough.

So, even though I knew it was wrong, I followed her there, and watched her from a corner where I was sure she couldn't see me. She pulled out a paper notebook from under the couch, and opened up a few books and laid them out by her but she completely ignored those books, and began to write instead. She finished writing and then put the notebook back under the couch without a word, and left. I was unavoidably curious, as you can imagine, and snuck to the couch to read from the notebook. There were a few scribbles, and then it read, in big bold letters.

I am in love with a boy. And I know he's going to read this some day. But I wish I could tell him now how I could just die with my undying affection for him. The way his face lights up at my arrival the way he quietly watches me from a distance the way he tries to talk to me, and so royally stumbles over his words. I love every bit of it. I know I am unlovable but I wish he would love me like I love him. Does he? His name is Peter. I wish he would be romantic and give me flowers get me that green necklace on display at Miss Graclers' department store that Ive been dying to have or at least TALK to me.

At first, I could not contain my joy that she might be talking about me, although I disliked the thought that she considered my pauses between words to be stumbling. Then I read, Peter', and my heart sank. Who was Peter? Definitely not me. But then I got an idea. Whoever Peter was, he was an awful lot like me who was at that point desperate to win her over. And I had the upper hand. I knew what she wanted. So I set off to that store to buy her the necklace. Only problem is, it was 23 dollars and 81 cents. I have it memorized to this day. A lot of money in that day.--

“Was the necklace pretty, Poppa?" James liked to imagine her toothy smile, her proud, adventurous 12 year old cheeks dimpling up at him. Meryl couldn't help it that her brain worked slower, and she looked different. She'd been born mentally challenged. Why couldn't people accept it?

--I thought that necklace was the ugliest thing I had ever seen. It was made up of big fat beads that were an ugly green color. The clasps were tiny and aluminum with cheap gold plating. I think even Miss Gracler thought I was crazy for asking about it, much less buying it, the way she narrowed her spectacled eyes and leaned forward to look harder at me. I couldn't imagine spending my summer allowance, $20, plus $3.81 on a necklace like that. But, I put my money together, did a few odd jobs, and bought that necklace, grimacing all the way home with it. I decided I wasn't just paying $23.81 for a necklace, but was instead paying $23.81 for a girl; a far more worthy purchase.

All the while, I was wondering who Peter was, and how dead he would be after he finished kicking himself for not knowing how to even talk to Jenny much less get her the necklace of her dreams. I delivered it late at night to her window, and then rowed back over the lake to my house, feeling a satisfied swell deep in my stomach. I had left a letter that read, "Secret Admirer", and had left that necklace with a kiss of luck that was sure to make her heart swell with uncontrollable love. I was Mr. Smooth. Mission accomplished.

However, the next day when I followed her to the library and then waited till she left to pull out the notebook from under the couch, I read,

Peter got me the necklace! But he didn't get me flowers! And he won't come to my window at night and read me romantic poetry, like he promised. I found myself in a fix on this one.

She thought the necklace was from Peter. And not only did she get that necklace from Peter, but she wanted more from Peter. Who was Peter? What good was I doing in being the invisible James? I decided then and there, that there was only one thing left for me to do. I would just have to be Peter.--

Meryl would interrupt with a little hand on James' shoulder, "Who is Peter again?" James was patient. "The boy that your grandmother liked."

"How did you know that she liked him?"

"I read it in her journal, remember?"

"But how did you know she liked him if you never saw him and you weren't supposed to be reading her journal?" Meryl would barely take a breath for that one.

James had to look at her questioningly. What had she just said? "I just did. Now are you listening, or do you want to go back to Mommy's?"

James remembers the wide eyes that Meryl gave him, and the way he had regretted saying that. Sara didn't even know that Meryl didn’t like to be with her. He tried not to think about it by getting back on track with the story again. "Where was I?", he said with a softer voice. She playfully put her thumb in her mouth, and teased him, "Peter wanted romantical poetry."

"Oh, yes." James laughed, gently tugging Meryl's thumb out of her mouth.--

--Jenny wrote that she wished Peter would read her poetry by her window at night. So, you know me... Mr. Gallant. I checked out a book of William Shakespeares' poetry at the library and snuck over to her house a few days later. The night was pitch black but I could see her in the lit window, and took a position far enough away from her window where she couldn't see me.

My voice cracked slightly, as I fixed my eyes on her and quoted Shakespears' sonnet 116.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds

Admit impediments.

Love is not love

Which alters when it alteration finds,

Or bends with the remover to remove:

O no! it is an ever-fixed mark

That looks on tempests and is never shaken;

It is the star to every wandering bark,

Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.

Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

Within his bending sickle's compass come:

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

If this be error and upon me proved,

I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

The silence after that speech was powerful, and only the crickets in the nearby oak trees dared break it periodically. I heard sudden giggling, and looked up to see the window close. I closed my book apprehensively, feeling suddenly like a fool flying around with my heart open on a girly man-angel's arrow in some far-off midnight sky.

I said nothing more, picked up my pride and quietly got in my rowboat and snuck back over the lake . The next day, it took a little more effort than normal to lift my head up in public, but I did enough to nonchalantly say hi to her outside of the library, and ask her how she likes living with her Uncle, Mr. Grisham.

She eyed me with a wary smile and said, "It's fine. How do you like living with your Dad?".

I remember not expecting that and stuttering, "I, um, like it a lot. I don't have a choice to live any where else, I guess." And then I laughed awkwardly, my eyes questioning, "I'm sorry, I guess I just didn't expect-"

She raised an eyebrow at me, "You just didn't expect me to ask you if your life is as miserable as mine, did you?" Jenny smiled teasingly. "It's okay. My Uncle is a very occupied man. He's rather wrapped up in his work at the shop. Busy things, work, you know. I don't really care for him much, but he's nice to me. I suppose it doesn't matter, as long as one is looked after."

We walked along the lake edge, and I found myself surprised to be walking with her instead of being in the library, sneaking under the dusty couch. She continued talking, her voice suddenly strong, "I guess you could say I have the whole house to myself and it's a nice one. Big Victorian, with a nice porch swing in the back." She turned a dark, flirtatious eye towards me, and I found myself mesmerized at seeing her so up-close. Her face actually had details. A soft cheek turned my way, red lips, a cute spatter of freckles on her nose, and a mysteriously easy smile... I won't make you sick with it all, but I will say it was hard to concentrate on her talking.

"Have you ever seen my house?" she was asking. I was suddenly wide awake when she asked that one, and stammered, "Your house? Well I don't know for sure if I can say where it is. Where is it?" She laughed easily, as though she had heard none of the stammering, "Why, it's just over that hill, over there. Quite directly across from your place, really. Your dad is the police official in these parts, isn't he?"

"Yeah, he has a really nice patrol boat with a good engine," I said, before I thought about it. She looked thoughtful, and I wished I could take the mention of the vehicle in crime back.

"Isn't that the blue boat with a green stripe across it?"

I felt myself sweating. I was sure she would remember the incident from the year before when we had snuck up to her house and laughed at her singing.

"Yeah, it gets around a lot. And its nice, but he won't let me touch it."

She laughed and said, "It was that way with my mother's jewelry growing up. I would brag to my friends about her pearls and gold, but if I was caught sneaking away to wear any of it in the privacy of my room, I faced the wrath of my mother. I never understood why I couldn't try on just one necklace." She had a lilting laugh, that was very forgiving of the memories, but still, there was just a touch of sadness in it. I found myself smiling awkwardly, but enjoying the fact that she was carrying the conversation. Her laughter was still fresh on her lips when she acknowledged, "I guess that sounds silly to someone who doesn't have to buy jewelry and see the prices out there. Have you ever bought jewelry, James?"

I felt my heart catch in my stomach and the whole duet rise to lodge in my throat. But miraculously, I found a way to turn the tables against those dancing, quiet eyes, "My mother died when I was born. I guess I never really had reason to play with jewelry." She quieted instantly, and I could see she felt bad for saying anything, and she stopped walking, her feet edging onto the wave-licked sands of the shore.

"I'm sorry," she said softly, and tried, "I guess I don't know what it's like never have known a parent."

I remember putting my hands in my pockets and trying to think of something to say so she wouldn't feel bad but I could think of nothing. So I smiled forgivingly, and after a few seconds managed to squeak out, "Sometimes things just happen, and you have to accept it. It's not always easy, but I think I did that a long time ago."

She smiled at me, as though she saw me in a new light, and skipped a stone with a healthy twist of her wrist as she walked. I found myself in love with her bare feet digging into the sand banks, looking so natural with her sandy, rolled up Capri's. So we walked on, and finally reached the back yard of her house.

It looked different in the day light, and I found myself squinting my eyes to see her window. "Well, this is it," she crowed with a winking smile. "If you haven't seen a big house before, you've seen it now." I smiled, angry at my shyness, and had the sense to comment on how beautiful the big tree in the back yard was. I had not seen it like that in the dark. Lush, deep mahogany flowers were in bloom, all around the jagged bark. It didn't seem possible that such beautiful flowers could come from such a dense jungle of twigs.

I said as much, as manly as I could manage, and her smile seemed subtly impressed. I felt my heart swell, and realized I had long lost the urge to run to the library and poke around to read the withered pages of a girl's notebook. All I could think, as I leaned against the fence railing near her dock, was, Poor, poor Peter.

She looked up at me curiously, and I felt suddenly self conscious. Was the sun shining through my blonde hair and making the gel on it glimmer? Was she noticing the scar I had by my left eye from that hunting accident last winter? Were my eyes too big, or my shirt too blue? She said then, her voice low and her hands hanging over the fence, as though they were reaching out to claim the water, "Do you ever wish you could jump?"

I swallowed nervously, and whispered, "Jump?" She nodded and looked me in the eyes, "Jump. Jump away from everything. Every painful memory," Her voice got stronger, and more callous, "Every grade you got that was unfair, every person who ever loved you and didn't care to show you, every last parting word. Every boy who ever broke your heart." I perked up at that. Talk about grief and death scared me. But, boys? I knew boys. I was one.

"What boy would want to break your heart?" I couldn't help but sound sincere, because I felt sincere even if I sounded corny.

She paused, swallowed, and said, "There's a boy named Peter. He...he's so..." her voice rose with anger, "Well, I hate him!" I was shocked. What? She hated Peter? This was great! Then I sucked in a breath, realizing that at times, I was Peter.

"Why do you hate this boy named Peter?" I asked, my voice very careful.

She sighed, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell at you. It's just so frustrating. He won't talk to me, but I think he likes me. He got me this ugly necklace, and read me this ratty poetry about my voice being great, but he has never told me how he really feels. He never has the courage to talk to me and try to win me over. I don't know, maybe he thinks he can just buy me or something. It's just frustrating."

My mind was racing, and I folded my hands carefully, looking at them with a scared tilt of my head, "Maybe he doesn't really like you. Maybe he doesn't think you're worth it, and he knows some other guy is better for you."

Her eyes sharpened like she'd been slapped. "What a jerk!"

I felt taken back, as though she were calling me a jerk. I hurried to explain. "Maybe he wants another chance at showing you how much he loves you. Maybe he just needs to know how you feel about all this."

I was thinking, Peter, you had better thank me big later. Then my approach took an evil twist, when I said, "But, if I were you, I wouldn't stay with him one more second if he's not treating you right and being the kind of guy you need."

Jenny's lip pouted slightly and she bit on it intelligently, "You think, James?"

"I know," I declared, quite confident of two things. One, that she was swallowing it, and two, that Peter-what's-his-face was going down.

She sighed, her finger twirling in her dark brown hair slowly, "It's just that, I kinda asked him to meet me down here tonight, and he said he didn't know if he could. I just felt so hurt that he cared so little that he wouldn't sneak out of his house at night to just talk with me, or maybe sing me a song. Isn't that heartless of him - or am I just reading into this too much?"--

This was the point where Meryl's eyes began drooping, and she yawned against James' chest. He didn't stop telling the story, though. He was enjoying reliving the past.

--I looked at her out of the corner of my eye. What was my next move? Tell her I would come, or show up under the safe cover of Peter?

"I would give him another chance. You never know, he may show up. And if he doesn't, don't worry. He's a jerk. There are more people in your life other than Peter."

Jenny nodded and gave a small smile of troubled thanks my way. I remember parting with a stupid line like, "Hey, don't worry," and then added for good measure, "And don't jump."

I left kicking myself, whole-heartedly wishing Peter was in my shoes for those awkward minutes I suffered. However, on my way home, my heart was fairly skipping that I had talked so easily with the girl I had sought to win since the day I nearly cried to hear her sing, and then eventually broke to hear her cry.

I walked past a temptation. The library. It called to me; Told me to go in and visit my old fellow employee - Miz Shrump (a classic librarian name). So I obliged, found Miz Shrump was not in near vicinity, and made my way to the couch to see if Jenny had written any more about her Peter in her journal. I pulled out the notebook, convincing myself that I needed to know so I could better understand how to comfort her for when I took his place.

I read eagerly.

I love somebody. I love a lot of people, actually. I love anybody who does not try to force me to love them. I love those people who are good, decent people. They respect my privacy, talk straight with me if there is something on their mind, and they care enough about me to not read my private journals. And most of all, they don't need to know anything about fictional characters like Peter.

I gagged. Literally gagged. The notebook was stuffed underneath the couch, before I knew what my hands were doing, and I was running home before my feet knew what they were doing. I was so stupid. That whole time, she had been trying to see how deeply I felt about her. And I had peeked into her private life. I had taken my concern about her and blown it up to fit my needs. I had given her advice on a boy that was really me. I was Peter, wasn't I? I realized that the whole time I had called Peter a jerk, I had been the real jerk. The whole time I had stared at her to see if she was "okay", she knew I was spying on her, and must have decided to teach me a lesson. Every time I sent a nonchalant 'hi' her way, she lovingly smiled with lips that knew how horrible I was behind her back. Each time I tried to look good in her eyes, those dark eyes had already seen me sneaking around to win her with my bad deeds. I couldn't go to see her at night. I couldn't be Peter' one more time. But as I thought about it...--

James, tucked Meryl's soft blonde head under his gray, stubbly chin. She was snoring softly, which made him smile wryly. She never did make it to the end of the story. But he told it anyway.

--I realized that every time she must have been talking about Peter, she was really talking about me. Boy, was I slow. But I knew if she had made up Peter, she must have known that I would be the one to come in his place and she didn't mind that. Did she? There was only one way to find out, and it took courage. I sucked my gut in, swiped my hair back like the hot stuff I longed to be and knew I wasn't, and rowed across the lake, my oars licking into the lake at somewhere around midnight.--

James stared off fondly into the stormy lake at the memory. The wind was picking up, ruffling his graying hair, and swiping across his face with the shadow of past ghosts.--

She was standing there in a simple white gown that was blowing with the wind around her lithe body. Her back was stiff and angry, I could tell that even from the dock with my bad eye-sight. I tied my boat around the dock post, noticing with some worry that the waves were a little choppy. It would be a rough ride back. My hands were shaking, and I wasn't sure if they were wet from sweat or the spray of the tossing lake waves.

I faced her silently, and she walked, her feet bare on the wood of the dock, towards me. She faced me quietly, and with a moonlight gaze, she whispered, "Hello, Peter."

I laughed quietly, and I'm afraid a little bitterly as I stepped closer and stared into her un-blinking dark eyes. "So, have I matched up to your standard this time? Am I loveable enough?" I took a deep breath and whispered into her blowing hair, my hands finding her wrists, "Am I telling you by coming here that I love you, maybe? Was I trying to tell you with that ugly necklace, silent as it was, that I cared deeply enough to spend all that I had on you? I know you had your fair share of boys who could say in minutes what I couldn't in years but couldn't you see, that those boys forgot about you in minutes, but I still haven't forgotten about you, since the day I saw you two years ago?" She stepped closer, her voice low and angry, "And when was that day ... the one when you first saw me? Tell me, when, Peter."

I paused. "You were singing. And and you were the most sincere vision of white I have ever seen. When I heard you flinging yourself at the world with such passion and hope, I knew you were different. I laughed a little bit, yeah, but when I heard you crying out with anger for someone to jump before you did so you would know which way to take, I knew you needed love just like anyone else."

Jenny’s lips pursed in thought, her dark eyes set back with confusion, and she said, "Why didn't you just come to me? Why did you let it go two summers? I could tell you liked me. Why couldn't you see that I would like you back?"

I didn't know what to say. I thought I'd said it all. But as I looked at her, her eyes so vulnerable, I could see the pain in her eyes. She had been lonely last year, and she had needed a friend, not a silent behind-the-scenes admirer. She had needed respect and conversation, not a private-journal-snatcher and house-watcher. I said the only thing I had left in my gut. The only thing left to feel and left to say. "I'm sorry."

Her eyes blinked. I continued, feeling so ashamed of myself for taking so long to say it. "I was stupid. Some people are stupid that way. And you just have to forgive and believe in them so they can do better." She just looked at me, her eyes full of questions. I looked down at her hands and saw they were trembling, much like mine.

"You're cold," I whispered, putting my hands over hers, and then - feeling like every womans' hero, I shrugged out of my brown-leather coat and put it around her. We walked to the shore and sat down on the grassy slope above the shore. She let her legs dangle over the edge, and I saw a tear drop down below her feet and melt in the damp sand. I looked at her questioningly, but her eyes were burning a hole in the ground, and when she talked, her voice was monotone and lacking of any emotion.

"You can't like me, because you can't know me. I'm secretly, deep down, a horrible person. I'm... why my parent’s died. My momma died in the fire. I saw her burn. I watched her screaming from the ground floor. I was supposed to be in there. Around the end of my 13th year, I had become desperate to get out of my home where my mother drank heavily and my father would work to stay away from home. So I got to hanging out with a bad crowd, sneaking out to drink late at night, and trying to hook up with a jerk named Richard. I called him Rich. He was the most conceited 18 year old boy I knew and he wouldn't have thought twice about taking a 13 year old in for a 'good time'. And I was seriously considering it. I knew my daddy loved me, but he was gone so much he didn't seem to care. I didn't see any other purpose in life."

She sat there, her back stiff as a rock. I still remember the way her eyes looked so vulnerable and her heart shattered in them. She continued with a deep, ragged breath, "I was out with that purposeless crowd, when my parents' apartment caught on fire from a coupla cigs I lit and didn't dispose of proper like. I was so stupid."

I wanted to say, ‘don't beat yourself up', but I let her talk. "I just wanted to die when I heard those screams And then I heard my daddy had just come in from a night-shift and that he was up there too, and I... I just-"

She began to sob chokingly, and I didn't know what to do. I felt desperate until I finally told myself that across from me was the most beautiful, hurting girl I knew and pulling away from her would help neither of us. So I put my hands on her shoulders and looked her deep in those strong, tear-welling eyes, and broke because she was biting her lip to keep from crying.

My hands were rough on her cheeks, when I wiped away those splotchy tears that were turning her face red, and said, "I don't know what you're going through, but I care, and I'm here. Whatever you feel like you did, has already happened. You were thirteen, and you were stupid. Let it go."

I felt desperate to make her see what I saw in her, so that I might bring back a reluctant smile that would blossom into that easy laugh. So I sighed and realized it was the moment to bear all, "I always felt like like I was responsible for my mother's death."

She looked up sharply, "Oh, no, no. Don't do that. You can't-"

"Yeah, I know, but my Dad blamed me. She gave her life giving birth to me. My Dad always took care of me and stuff, but it was always in the back of both of our minds. A death is a powerful thing, because it's something you can't take back. But, you know what I think? I think you can spend your whole life acting like other people around you are dead, when you just don't want to take the time to forgive. If you ask me, death is powerful, but life is surprisingly more powerful. Because, you can do something with life. Death is just the past. You have got to let it go."

She was shaking with the hiccups of after-sobs, but she was trying to smile under all those tears. I slipped my arms around her, and felt strong, holding her like that in the middle of a brewing storm.

My voice was soft and low, "So, don't hate me, okay? …For loving you before you kill me." She gave a sad laugh and dropped her head on my shoulder. I brushed a sticky strand of hair from her forehead, and loved her for the tears gave me the chance to hold her and tell her by that moment away from comfortable silence that I loved her enough to be there. I looked up at the night sky and pointed towards the sky, where clouds were whipping in and out and smiled, breathing softly into her hair, "Someday, remind me to show you the stars."

She laughed suddenly, "We sound like a couple of sappy old romantics." I laughed, hearing how I sounded, and felt like a man with my arms around her laughing and crying waist. We just sat there for a while, under the shelter of our Mahogany tree, watching the storm stir up the waves and purple the sky with a finger of lightning.

I was curious and thought to ask, "How did you know it was me? The flowers the spying in the library the necklace?"

She gazed off into the lake, and whispered, "You talk in your sleep."

My drowsy eyes flew open, "How did you know that?"

Her laughter was a music that won my forgiveness, "You're not the only one who can spy," she said, falling back on my chest, as I tried to fathom just how little I knew about the girl.

We sat for a little longer that way; exhausted from our emotions released in the storm to lie damp in uneven spatters of tears and rain at our feet. The storm was finally beginning to calm down, and the morning light was edging the corner of the sky behind her house, when she turned sleepy eyes my way.

"Thank you," she said quietly, a small embarrassed smile on her face, as she leaned up on one arm. "Sorry I kind of blew up on you and spied on you." The rain was blowing down in gentle spatters. I took her soft chin in my young, roughening hands and whispered with ever so much wit, "Any time."

I leaned forward hesitantly, breathing on her tear-soaked lips, and couldn't help but kiss her slow and sweet. When the kiss broke, I grinned and whispered roguishly, "Kissing in the rain."

A laugh bubbled up from her throat and she rested her head on my chest. "You remembered," she smiled. I loved feeling like that night was only the beginning, as I walked to un-loop the rope from the dock. The boat bobbed gently in the lake as I picked up the splintery oars and slid in. "See ya around," I said with a casual smile, feeling my heart lurch at her wry smile and wave.--

James remembers the story always ended unfinished. He would look down at his little granddaughter's lumpy form, chuckling at her sleep-stroked breaths and think with wonder how it had all begun at that lake, and how one girl had forever imprisoned him to the breath and storm of that lake.

He sits there now, no grand-daughter beside him. His grand-daughter is no longer 12. She is 13, if she is still alive. Meryl has been missing for almost a week now, and James cannot bear the search-parties, the endless questions, or the late-night hours.

Who took her? Did she run away? Was there ever any cause for reason to believe that she was being abused? Where was she seen last? Where could she have gone?

He stares now, at the wind-tossed swing-set, the angry waves, and feels angry and wind-tossed himself. He feels lost against the unknown odds, and wants nothing more than to walk to the edge of that sandy, fenced-off cliff and jump. Jump away from the loss of his dear sweet Jenny to cancer only last year. Jump from the anger towards his daughter, Sara, for losing herself to drinking during the hours she could have been showing - not telling - showing her little girl, Meryl, that she loved her. Jump from that deep hurt within him for Meryl, who is somewhere alone, cold, and longing for her little world to turn right for her just once.

James stands and walks to the edge of the cliff. He feels his feet clutching at the sandy edge, raises his hands to the all-seeing wind, closes his eyes and wishes he could be with Jenny again. He longs for something right in his world once more. His feet are slipping... his heart begins losing it's clutch to hope in this old world. And then he hears it. Singing. Brave, cold, shivering singing, is echoing out across the lake.

And suddenly, James' eyes open, and he knows. He knows where Meryl is. The long-abandoned home he and Jenny raised their children in, until termites crept in and made it their home. The place where James first kissed Jenny in the rain, and where they later spent their first married years, and went swimming together at night. The place where he once took Meryl to visit Jenny's grave. The white Victorian house across the lake. James looks about him wildly, and knows that the park he is in takes winding paths back to the main road. It would take him an hour out of the way if he went that way. The straightest shot is across the lake.

His weak eyes hone in on a small craft bobbing on the water. He knows he has to borrow it and that repaying someone for its use later is far better than risking his grand daughters life. James jumps in, desperately looking for a key or the wires to jump start it.

The salty spray of the lake gets in his mouth, and he gags, reaching blindly for the rope as he unties the boat. A key! It was firmly in the ignition all along. A swift twist sparks the engine to life, with him breathing a prayer that the owner of the boat will be understanding. Directing the boat's nose towards the opposite shore, he suddenly has an eerie feeling that he has been in this boat before. But he can't think about that now. Meryl needs him. She has to be so scared right now. It must to be taking all of her courage just to come out of that house and onto those rotten boards and sing. James' eyes widen, and he opens throttle. Rotten boards! No part of that house - or that dock is safe! The clouds would be invisible if not for the gray shroud dusting around the full moon. James keeps getting the sting of water in his eyes, and isn't sure where he is going.

He keeps the nose of the boat pointed toward the distant haze of the shore, as a feeling of disorientation sweeps in and mighty waves begin knocking with full force against his boat. He remembers, with dim terror, that night when he was 18.

He was rowing back from Jenny's house, with Jenny in the boat with him. Young romancers smiles were still on their lips, when a storm blew in without warning, and they were capsized into the lake. He had always scoffed at life-jackets, knowing he was an able swimmer, but Jenny was no swimmer. And in that weather, he didn't know his left from his right. There was no knowing where to swim, even if they could.

He recalls despairing, as they clung to each other, her long hair wet against his soaked white shirt, kicking to stay alive in the freezing water. He kept whispering in her ear, "Kick, baby. Kick, just keep kicking." He could read in her eyes what was in his eyes. They both thought they would die that night.

A young 18 year old boy destined for the army, and a 16 year old girl barely in the bloom of her youth. And then, as Jenny was trying to keep from crying, she suddenly stilled and looked up at the night sky, her little legs blue from the cold, and kicking faintly. "You said you would show me the stars sometime," she whispered with some effort. James nodded, his teeth chattering. "Yes, I know. I will. We'll get through-" She put a trembling finger to his lips and said with a stronger voice, "Well, show them to me." James looked at her, with questioning eyes, and glanced up at the night sky. He looked back at her and realized that she was praying. Over and over. God, please help us. God, please help us.

He looked back up, and saw the faintest of clearing in the gray sky, and could make out the distant outline of some of those familiar galaxies of stars that he had spent so long studying on those warm nights on the dock. "Th-there's the big dipper. See it, Jenny?" He didn't point, he just looked.

She was kicking fainter, and he looked desperately into her eyes. And then it hit him, and he looked back up. "A-and there's the north star over there. Right above where m-my house should be."

She smiled faintly at him, her lips purple with cold and he could feel her arms sagging around him. He began kicking harder then, a determination in his gut, and he began to swim towards that brave, shining star, towing Jenny along with him.

He remembers swallowing more water than he had ever swallowed willfully in his life, but he kept kicking, kept pushing her head above water, kept swimming. And after a couple of minutes, he realized they had only been a few feet from land. He had felt so scared at first, and then so unbelievably relieved as he dragged her onto the dock, his back aching from exhaustion, and got her inside in front of the fire-place.

She was cold and just barely breathing. When she woke up in his arms, he had never loved to see those eyes open more. She turned serious eyes to him, groaning softly, and whispered, "We made it?"

He nodded, feeling tears in his throat that they had come so close to not making it. The fire-place crackled deliciously at her bare feet, and he loved the sound of her shifting in his arms. "Thank you for saving my-"

James put a finger to her lips and said to her, "No, thank you."

She smiled wanly, and added sleepily, "No, thank God."

He had nodded about that then, but years later, when she died from breast cancer, that was the last person he wanted to thank.

Now, in the tossing lake, he feels that old familiar panic, and knows God has no reason to smile down on him now with those winking eyes in the sky. His eyes are filled with water, or are they tears? And he doesn't know better than to think that his boat is filled with water, too. But, he has no other avenue to take. There is no way to avoid Someone who is bigger than him. He had felt like jumping only moments ago because he had no other person to turn to, but now that he remembers Jenny, and knows Meryl needs him, he knows there is only one way to turn.

So he begins praying, from deep within him. God, please help us. God, please help us. The windy sky goes unheeding, still tossing like a mirror of the churning lake. James feels his heart sink. Is he, the man who feels like a failure in every way, just not worth it? He looks back up at the sky, his chest raw with loss, and then slowly realizes what he can see. The moon. A very full moon, shining wanly down at him. He squints his eyes, and thinks hard. The moon was ahead of him at the park, so it had to be a little left of Jenny's house. He turns the wheel sharply to the right, and heads with blind faith the opposite direction that he had been headed. A few yards in, he sees it. Brave and small is the little form of his grand-daughter.

He realized later, that in that moment he wasn't seeing her unstable legs, or back humped with scoliosis. He couldn't see her cross-eyed expression, or her unusually tiny hands. She looked to him like the stars of the sky in one body, standing bravely, just a pinpoint on the shore of the lake. But within the moment, he can see with growing fear, that she is standing very near the edge of the dock, where the boards are rotten and decaying.

The waves are playing a game of tug-of-war with both the boat and the dock, and the only thought in James head is, just hang on, don't jump, don't fall. He is three feet from the dock, and can tell she sees him.

She turns to him, her eyes widening with recognition, and he hears the splinter of wood as the dock beneath her crumbles

"No!" James kills the boat, and dives towards the dock, feeling the slam of the water against his own weak back, and watches her tumble unsteadily into the dark water. "Meryl!", his head is sucked under-water, and he gurgles to come back up.

Choking, the water fills his nostrils sickeningly, and he screams again, "Meryl!"

Something catches at his feet, and he realizes with horror that his pant leg is caught on one of the underground support rods for the dock. He yanks at his leg, holding on to a board that is still wedged to the foundation, screaming her name with ragged terror. The wind is whipping at his face, and howling to suffocate him, as he screams with every helpless thing in him, "Please, God! Help us!"

The wind stills almost instantly, and he sees her there under the moon-light, lying face down in the water a few feet from the dock. He sees the boat, too, and vaguely realizes it is almost identical to the one he and Jenny capsized years ago.

James hears his pant-leg rip as he breaks free and dives towards her, dragging her with great effort to the shore. Her body flops onto the sand, and he desperately begins pumping water from her chest.

Pump, over and over, Please God I believe in you. Please. I don't care what happens to me, just save her. Please let her live. Much to his relief, she gives a slight choke. Water spews down her chin and off her cheeks. Her little pink overalls are torn and wet.

James' eyes fill with tears and he cries aloud to see her barely still alive. He continues trying to pump water out of her, and whispering, "Hold on, baby."

She chokes again, sitting up this time, her body shaking to rid itself of the water. It takes several minutes of her shivering before she can look up at him, her eyes full of tears, her lips looking sick and chapped but smiling.

"Poppa?"

"Yeah, baby, I'm here. I'm here."

"You came. How'd you know-," she coughed, "-I was here?"

James' eyebrows lift with brave effort to still the tears, but they flow down his cheeks anyway.

He brushes the hair out of her face with trembling, worn hands. "I heard you singing."

She looks up at him with questioning eyes, "I wasn't singing."

James struggles to lift her onto his lap, his arms wrapped around her tightly and declares, "Yes you were, baby. I heard you." Dear God, did the water knock it clear out of her?

She shakes her head violently, "No, Poppa. I wasn't singing. I was praying. Just like you said you did, when you and Grandma capsized in the water."

James breath catches and he feels like crying all over again, "I didn't know you heard me when I got to that part of the story."

Her eyes wrinkle up like it was always obvious, "I was always listening, Poppa."

James feels her shivering, and stands, his red-plaid shirt hanging limp at his sides as he reaches down to pick her up. Her teeth are barely chattering with the death-ice cold. The doctors always said she would be tiny for her age, and that her system would always be very sensitive.

With overwhelming worry, James hears a rattle in her throat, and knows he needs to get her to safety. She smiles up at him, her lips blue and daring to tremble. She points with shaking fingers, "Look, Poppa. Our mahogany tree. Just like you said." James shakes his head with a quick, terse smile and sets her down beneath the trees warm arms, and bends over to tuck Meryl's hair behind her ears.

"Now, I'm going to go get help. You've got to stay right here until I come back, okay Meryl?" She nods fiercely, and he feels his heart break with love for the little girl he can see is dying.

He kisses her damp head, and whispers something he doesn't find the time to say very often, "I love you, baby girl. Just hang on." James takes off his plaid shirt and tucks it around her little shoulders and turns to limp through the old familiar knots of grass in a white under-shirt and jeans.

"Is there anybody there! Anybody! We need help! Please!" Flash-lights sweep the yard and hit James in the face, making him squint.

An echoing voice, "Who's there?!"

James begins breathing hard, his hand up in front of his eyes. "Please, we just need help. My grand-daughter... she almost drowned. She was missing, and was just now found. She is very sick and will die if we don't get her help right now."

His voice sounds faint to his ears, and he begins to see spots. "Please-" And then he knows no more.

A couple of days later, James wakes up in St. Marys hospital. He can hear the doctors telling his daughter in hushed tones that he has a severe case of pneumonia. His time on this earth, they inform the crushed Sara, is not very long. Little Meryl pads into his hospital room, her legs a little bowed, but strong and capable. She looks solemnly into his eyes, and holds his wrinkled hands between her small ones. She says nothing, just watches him with a trembling limp, and little tears tricke down her face. James tries to talk, but can only whisper because of the tube in his throat.

"I... how have you been?"

Meryl breaks off a sob to whisper bravely, "Momma says I'm all better now. I can go home." She traces the hospital band around his age-freckled wrist and whispers, "Momma says she's going to try harder to be with me more. And no more drinking."

James tries to lift his head and look at her, but can only manage to turn it slightly and rasp, "Is that why you ran away?" She nods, tears running out freely from her simple little eyes, "I was so scared. I thought she didn't love me."

James wets his dry lips and tries to talk, but he feels tears running down the back of his cheeks instead. He finally takes a breath and says slowly, "Sometimes people forget to show you how much they love you, and they just need a second chance. And, Meryl, I love you. You don't have to run away to know that."

She nods sadly, as Sara, her mother comes in behind her, a hesitant hand on Meryl's shoulder. James looks into Sara's tear streaked face, and sees there a broken single mom who needs someone to believe in her.

James can think of nothing to say, as is his nature, but he smiles weakly at both of them, and takes their hands one at a time to squeeze them. He watches them go. Two scared hands linked together.

They'll make it, he thinks with a watery smile, turning his eyes to the ceiling where the sky should be. After all, Jenny did, and so will I. He finds himself staring at the white and black speckled ceiling, trying to count the black specks in the tile. Is what Jenny said about God true? James cries silently, “God, I believe. I’m sorry for all the times I didn’t. I truly believe in You. Please, I want to be with you and Jenny now. This old earth is too old for me. Take me home, Jesus.”

James dies like that, with the kiss of warm little hands still on his fingers. He falls asleep counting dots on a ceiling, and wakes up in heaven. To this day, Meryl often confesses that she can picture him counting the stars with Jenny beside him, looking out over the old Victorian house.

Meryl grows up, talking often about her grandmother, Jenny, as if she is alive and living out some kind of story. She also talks about her deep love for her silent Poppa, and clings to his memory as she grows up. It keeps her from giving up, and won't let her even think about jumping. She develops a love for singing, and becomes well-known as the little disability girl that is abundantly able. People cry to hear her sing, and her mother is the one back-stage to hug her when she is finished.

Even now, when Meryl looks up and sees those stars winking, she thinks of her Poppa, and knows she has to hang on even when no one else believes in God, even when she wants to jump, and even when she can't see through the storms to see the love. By not jumping, James inspired a girl to keep going no matter what. The best part of this story? One likes to think that James narrated this from his place in the sky, as he whispered in Sara's ear at night that someone else out there needed to hear this story. So she wrote. God loves you. Someone needs you. Don't jump.

9/11 no longer sacred...

I was listening to Vicki McKenna, and heard her say that some deem 911 'no longer sacred' and that it is now okay to make fun of it. As a result, there are supposed to be comedies coming out centered around the 911 time, making fun of it. I don't know if I heard wrong or not, but that made me SO mad. I googled it, but I couldn't find much on it besides an article from the New York Times about how 'we need to move on', and people should not 'balk to have parties on September 11'. Many times 9/11 was compared with the Memorial day, and the article I found was saying that Memorial day is festive, so...why not 9/11? I don't know, this all just disturbed me. Anybody hear anything about this?

Attitude in Relation with Current Barometric Pressure

It's nearing mid-week, and I have to say that I am happy, happy, happy! I hate Wednesdays. They are neither close to the beginning of a fresh new week, nor close to the exciting weekend. That kills me because I can't ask my customers 'How was your weekend?' like I can Monday an Tuesday. And I can't ask, 'So, big plans for your weekend?' on Thursday and Friday. For most of you that may seem like a simple dilemma, but to me it is horrific. But, the sun has smiled my way, for I have a new inspiration to smile on my Wednesday. Amidst the fabulous 65 degree weather due tomorrow, McDonalds' is giving out different free drinks on Mon-Wed. Monday offers a free sampler coffee, Tuesday supplies a sweet southern tea sampler (hint: a bit too sweet), and Wednesday is my favorite; an Iced Coffee sampler. So tomorrow I plan to trudge over to a nice friendly McD's and ask for Iced Coffee. So the thought of such ice-cold deliciousnes mellows out the horridness of Wednesday.

While the previous paragraph may appear pointless, it has a reason. Everything I say has a point - it's just not always obvious. I wrote that about Wednesdays, because I am discovering more and more that how one's day/life goes depends almost entirely on ones' attitude to it. As a result, I find myself wincing more and more when I meet people who are determined to be pecimistic.

Example: A few short weeks ago, it was mentioned that it would just be so nice to see grass. There was so much snow, that even a blade of brown grass would be pleasant. If it could be more like spring, it would be easier to have a nice day.

Today I realized that some people in this world are just whiners. No matter WHAT, they WANT to be pecimistic. (I have been guilty of this before, so I am not speaking from lack of experience.) This is dangerous, my friends, because a dark cloud often spreads. Later, as I thought back on the balmy 63 degree weather, I remembered some of what people had to say about it today.

One pleasant gentleman: It's too hot.
One woman: I hear it's windy.
Another man: I feel a chill. It's too chilly.
One customer (no joke): I am doing well, in relation to the current barometric pressure and changing of wind patterns.

Imagine my chagrin when I realized how much stock even I put in the weather! With each customer, I felt like I was being deflated about the weather, and I had to come to its' defense. (That's what makes Global Warming so laughable. We couldn't even change the weather if we wanted to!) How ridiculous! I must be dedicated to NOT letting the weather affect me so much, because while I cannot control the weather, I CAN control my attitude to it. It works the same way with the day of the week, be it Monday or Wednesday or Friday. For those of you techincal people who want a point to everything, this concept also applies to your environment and your work situation. Now I REALIZE that many jobs are difficult and completely mind-absorbing. But a good attitude goes a long way. Like today I went to McDonalds for the sweet tea sampler (ick), and the cashier was kindly asked how she liked her job. "It's horrible." "You... you don't like it?" her customer asked a bit taken back. "No, I don't like it. It's sometimes good, but it's alot bad." Then she said, "How can I help you?" lol! If I tried that I would have to just sit down and laugh at myself. La... people are funny. They amuse me. Life is amusing. This blog is amusing. I've been accused of turning it into a diary, but I don't care. If an issue presents itself, I will research and dash it out upon the rocks of commentators. But if I just want to write... well, I'll write. Thank God for real life experiences, no? ;) And... to be honest, I love the lush carpets of bright-green lawns. It does perk me up a bit to wake up to sunlight and birds in the still of the morning.

Every season has its' benefits. Good is so often over-looked. One merely must choose to be thankful for every pleasant thing that comes along. After all, life is full of surprises...

The Boy Rex Musical Genius

I found the story of this boy, Rex, really touching.

http://60minutes.yahoo.com/segment/91/rex

Music has a passionate lodging in my soul - I would not be the same person if I had not been raised in a home dedicated to creating and studying music. When I read/heard about this blind, mentally disabled boy playing the piano with great ability - I felt inspired. Most folks have many ways of communicating. We communicate with our expressions, our body-language, our mouths, our attitudes, and even by the simple way we walk. But some people cannot communicate at all. The deaf live in a silent world. The blind live in a dark one. The mentally disturbed live in a misunderstood world. And yet, some people suffer from a multitude of these problems, and have discovered that music is the way for them to communicate with the world...maybe even to communicate a sense of order and peace within themselves. It's amazing to me how normal people are passe, but those disabled who seem to have something astoundingly deeper in them pluck a fascinated string in our hearts. At least, my string was plucked or whatever. Hope this interests ya'll. Happy weekend and all that!

Fascinating Friday Learning Experiences

I'm presently drinking sugar-free hot chocolate. Imagine the ecstatic face that I'm making as a result. The drink was my brother's master-piece creation. How can I not like it?

Anyways, so Happy Friday!! Today dawned brightly, full of fresh possibilites, and endless opportunities. (At least if a customer dares ask me how my day is going, that is what I say.) I have so many interests. It keeps life from getting bland and predictable. One of my many interests, is an interest in languages. Grace, my Korean boss, accuses me of being a linguist with something akin to pride and fear. She told my German friend that, 'withen Andilea, no keeping secrets. She knowing.' Ahaha, I could not hold the laughter in. What irony! Grace and I often have misunderstandings when speaking English, but when I listen carefully and spew back a couple of her Korean words, she says I 'scaring her' because I understand what she's saying. That makes me smirk. I tease that there's a nymph between us, taking her English words and distorting them before they get to me. After all, any place you work with humans, there will be misunderstandings. It has gotten especially amusing at times like when Grace ordered, "Getting Mariana sauce, sweetie." And I then set about looking for Banana sauce in a state of confusion.

There is a woman named Kathy who gets a large coffee every morning at work, and over time we have begun greeting each other in German. German is her first language (although lost since childhood), and with my few Pimsleur-memorized phrases, we are slowly building up our German vocabulary. Anyways, I like Kathy. If any of you, my dearest readers, have ever had a customer service job, you know that one of the most refreshing things about customer service is having a regular customer with whom you lose the formalities and actually talk human. Kathy is one such down-to-earth person who probably has a world of knowledge beyond me, but slows down every morning to laugh at herself in German and swap a few simple phrases with me. There's something triumphant in our smiles when we finish flourishing our limited German vocabulary.
"Gutentag!" Hello!
"Eh, Gutenmorgen!" Eh, Good morning!
"Ve guets?" How's it going?
"Es guet mia gut, danke. Unt ze?" It goes to me well. And you?
"Zia gut, danke." Very good, thank you.
Today our new phrase was, "Ist Fritag!" It's Friday!
"Ist Freelich Fritag!" It's Happy Friday!
I totally butchered the spelling there, but you get the idea. My other customers look on with a mixture of awe and apprehension, but she and I are often too wrapped up in self-satisfaction to notice. Mornings with Kathy have convinced me that sometimes some of the simplest accomplishments in life are the sweetest. Anyways, I love languages. That's just something you didn't know about me.

I feel like sighing. Politics are boring me right now. I thought that two-faced baby from India was altogether fascinating, though. A bit freaky, but intriguing. Poor little thing. Yet she probably doesn't even know what she has been born into. How can one escape such a fate? Where one face would smile on being an Indian goddess, would the other face be berated by the glare of the spectators' spot-light? You wonder if she is one soul, or two in one body. And what would it be like to see out of both sides of your head? Pretty awesome, I would imagine! Although, if I had been born with two faces I would probably have accepted double sight by now because I would have never known anything different. I can't imagine having two faces, though. But hey, twice the smile, twice the talking! At that, my brother would groan proffusely, I am without doubt. When I mentioned all of this phenomenon to my mother, she sniffed, "I already know plenty of two-faced people." I laughed. Good point.

I am sighing now. It's kind of a warped sigh/yawn. Time to sign out, turn the covers, and click out the light. Tomorrow's my second day at PotBelly! Wish me fascinating learning experiences! G'Night.

Brilliant Tuesday Concepts

Right now I am sitting at my computer, glaring holes into the screen. My brother is watching a loud film (where someone with amnesia is constantly having loud 'flashbacks') and rustling bags of 'sugar-free' candy. About 5 minutes ago he happened to look over at his dormant little sister and made a face. "Why are there Q-tips sticking out of your ears?" See, that's the thing about men that I've learned. They see the surface problem and think 'uh, how wierd'. But they don't understand that what they see is just a symptom of the real problem. In fact, I can't concentrate on writing this blog while all of his noise is echoing about. So I am muting out that noise, while also cleaning out my ears. It serves a dual purpose, that on first glance, most men would not pick up on.

Earlier this afternoon, I was lounging blissfully in my lazyboy, meditating on school, when a rather profound concept hit me. What people know the most about, they want to talk the most about. Simple enough, but often forgotten. Really, if one gets this concept down, one is helped immensely when trying to understand people. Think about it. Why else do so many people love to talk about themselves at first opportunity? Why does someone knowledgeable about nutrition tend to sneak a nutritional fact into every meal-time? Why do writers love to go to writers conferences and talk to other writers about their writing? I told this to the woman from which I off-springed from and she said, "So what do you like to talk about?"
I had to think about that. Hmm. I replied, "I guess I like to talk about everything. I have alot of interests in alot of things. I like to hear what alot of people have to say. I like to soak up as much knowledge as possible."
"So does that mean you know it all?" My mother's brow furrowed. "Andria, you need to watch how you come across."
I laughed with delight. People pleasure in accusing me of being a know-it-all, but I've found that I'm most often accused only when I insert an opinion that didn't promote their own knowledge. Hah, see it's all in how you look at it. I don't feel a need to defend myself. I'm pleased that I don't really know it all, because that leaves me room for learning more brilliant things in this old life I am presently subjected to.

Another thing I realized starkly tonight, is that I really appreciate good customer service. There is such a thing as a 'friendly atmosphere'. I've walked into some department stores, and I feel immediately like the employees there are telling me with their eyes, "Leave. Make my job easier and leeeeave." Tonight I experienced such at the TJ Max department store. Some kids about my age were wearing little TJ Max shirts and were putting clothes on racks at the rate of molasses. When I went to the fitting room, accusing glittery eyes flitted over me and a terse voice said, "Put the clothes on the rack." The girl then counted the clothes, and I felt instantly like I was being searched for some indescrepancy. When there was no indescrepancy found she handed me a number briskly and then went back to sitting in her roller chair and staring at her long fingernails. I was like 'okay?', but said 'Thank you' politely. She grunted. I felt like grunting back, but refrained. I just didn't get it. She could have at least pretended to be nice. I felt like I was in an environment that did not want me, the customer, to enjoy liesurely bargain shopping. It was TJ Max's good fortune that I found something half-way agreeable and decided to purchase it. I walked to the counter and the boss of the employed TJ Max children smiled at me somewhat like an obliging school-marm. "What can I do for you?" she asked crisply, and I felt it was pretty obvious that I was in line because I wanted to purchase something. I put some pants on the counter and still could not shake this feeling that I was a bother at that counter. It was so wierd. It wasn't until I donated a dollar to 'autism' that she actually smiled at me and seemed sincere in helping me. Walking into places like that, I am just so thankful for fun places like PotBelly and Grace's where I can have fun doing work and can actually delight in seeing customers walk into my restaurants. But maybe it's all different at clothing stores. I suppose no regulars go to Kohls to get clothes every morning before they head off to work. That's why I love food stores. I remember as a child when I would stay home 'sick' from kindergarten. My mom would read Berenstein bears books to me, I would watch 'Whinnie the Pooh', and then if macaroni and cheese wasn't on the menu, my mother would take me out to McDonalds for lunch. That was extremely exciting for me, and my mother warned that I shouldn't tell my brother or he would get jealous. Of course, I waited a few days, and then got mad at my brother for something and told him in anticipation of that jealousy. La, such a wicked child. But even in all that wickedness, I found pure unadultrated delight in getting a simple chicken mcnuggets, fries, and coke. Food is exciting; temperal, but then again - all pleasure is. That decides it. My place is among food.

What brilliance I stumble on while I am writing to you! What would I do without words, people, food, Q-tips and the ability to love...

La... What a beeootiful Saturday... Live, Live, Live

I'm going to free-write here, so you (my dear readers) are well-warned. Today I was very ambitious! I started a second job today! Yay- first days! I love first days. Initially on first days I always feel apprehensive, and I have big bad thoughts about all these things that could go wrong. Predictably, I felt that way today - being my first day and all. But there's something awesome about first days. One doesn't have to be afraid to fail. If one does fail, one can smile demurely and whisper, "Tis my first day. Do accept my pardons." That sounds wierd, but picture me saying it and it'll be okay.

My new job is at Potbelly (a Sandwich-with-the-works store). I worked all day today before I finally had my first official Potbelly Sandwich. It felt funny because I was garbed in this huge Potbelly t-shirt and had a Potbelly visor, but I didn't even know where to stand in line. The lady who helped me - my new coworker! - was amply-sized and had a no-nonsense face. She was one of the many new co-workers I was to meet. When I first saw her, I thought, "Oh dear, she's going to take an instant dislike to me." At first she ignored me and I felt quite non-existent. But then half-way through my day, she looked at me sharply and said, "Have you been checking the bathroom every 30 minutes?" I nodded responsibly and said, "12:00, 12:30 and we're just coming up on 1:00 here." She smiled and said, "I knew I was going to like you the minute I saw you." I felt pleased but did not venture to tell her what I had thought when I first saw her.

My boss warned me that "first days are never glamorous". I nodded, took that with a grain of salt, and set about my tasks with a shy fervor. Basically, after going through orientation and getting the 'official tour' of the place, I was assigned to keep people's tables clean, sweep the floors, sanitize baskets and trays, take peoples' trash, and check the bathrooms every 30 minutes for total toilet-paper efficiency. They called the position a 'fronter', and I was the 'fronter associate' of the day. When I told my friend Kim that, she said, "Oh, so you're like a bus-boy." Groan - but it made me laugh and I clarified, "I'm the best bus-woman around."

Anyways, so I now have two jobs. That's kinda cool. I was warned by my Potbelly boss that I was not allowed to take Potbelly secrets and share them with Grace at my other job. Hahaha, I wanted to laugh. I couldn't steal secrets even if I wanted to. I'm one of those who just knows good food when I taste it. And today, I had some mighty good sandwich food. My mom's a southern cook -- quite good, in fact. Grace is a Korean cook -- extremely good and in some cases just downright unique. Then, to top it all off, I'm a pretty good cook myself if I'm allowed to say so. I make a mean batch of Ramen noodles and baked potatoes. Watch out, future hubby.

It's funny because my boss thought I was married for the majority of my orientation. I thought it was wierd because he kept referring to my 'hubby' and my 'significant other' and then I realized that I would have to clarify my state of singleness or I would be introduced to my coworkers as "Mrs. Andria so-and-so..." La, that seems so laughable.

Anyways, so I was exhausted after that first five-hour shift, but it was a new experience for me! I love learning new things! I can now ask people for trash with the utmost efficiency, and I can clean off tables in a sort of mesmerizing dance-like fury. La I'm laughing at myself. All week I've been so tired and I've just wanted to go to bed, and then suddenly it's like... hey, I'm living. This is life. Whoo! See, you gotta make it happen. Don't expect it to all come crawling to you. Live, live, live.

More later. Expect it, dear readers of mine.

Ephemeral Pleasures Dictionary

This is the Indefagitable Eudaimonia. I've decided that's my new pseudonym. So if you guys ever hear of some famous author by that name, you know who you're dealing with.

I've been learning some new words. It's pretty awesome. Every time I find a word that sounds bogus in a book I'm reading, I write it down on my book-mark. My lil' book mark has become covered with words, but I was determined to learn their meaning and then pull them out when I needed to sound intelligent. Really, I've found that most people who randomly pull big words out of their hat generally just want to sound hot - they don't even know what they're saying. I of course am the exception. But in case you run into any big-mouthed people over your week, here's Andria's dictionary. You can use it as a reference in time of need. You'll be relieved to know it is in development and is only in the beginning stages.

Predilections- a strong liking in favor of something
Deardorff- a kind of camera
Ubiquitous- omnipresent one
Perspicacity- discernment, keenness, shrewdness, insight
Indefagitable- invincible
Dipsomaniac- uncontrollable craving for alcohol
Eudaimonia- human flourishing, pleasant state of mind, good spirit
Kudos- a praising remark
Macabre- emphasis on the details and symbols of death, characterized by a grim and deadly atmosphere
Maudlin- effusively or tearfully sentimental
Parsimonious- ‘less is better’, frugality
Garrulous- excessively talking about drivel/matters of insignificance/in a round about manner
Caprice- a sudden, unpredictable, impulsive, seemingly unmotivated action
Precocious- exceptionally early development
Vogue- prevailing fashion or style
Ephemeral- lasting a very short time (ephemeral pleasures) (such as this ephemeral article)