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Just in case a few of my newly found old friends find this journal via Facebook, I thought I needed a "sticky" post with instructions on how to gain access to my brilliant prose contained within this digital journal.

Anyone who would like to be "friended" and granted an ALL ACCESS pass to Shay, please comment below letting me know who you are. Once upon a time my journal was public, then along came a troll and I had to shut the door, only allowing a select few to enter. (I sound so very exclusive don't I?)

My entries are pretty mundane and are mostly about my family and writing.

*waves at new/old Facebook friendos*


Back At It Again

Damn Shay, it's been how long since your last LJ post?

Too long I guess. I think I want to write again. My brain is doing that thing it does when it has a story that needs to come out. Writing now is like re-learning how to ride a bike. I sort of remember how to do it, but I feel nervous going forward. It's been three years since I've written anything of substance. Plus, a tiny part of me wonders why I keep doing it. I guess it's my nature.


Not Enough Time

There is no way I can read all the introductions for LJ Idol. I feel bad about that, but time is really at a premium for me at the moment. Since my son-in-law had knee surgery, my days start at 6:40 am and I'm busy non-stop till the time I collapse in bed for the night. I've almost reached the point where it is too much. He can't drive, so I've had to drive the kids to school and pick them up three days a week, plus try to keep up with laundry, dishes, and meals. As well as work online as much as I can to keep paying my phone bill.

Trying to find a place to wedge in Idol is going to take creative juggling or digging into my energy reserves. My health has sucked the past year. Partly because I haven't been taking very good care of myself and partly because I'm getting older and the chronic illnesses are eating away at my body. My joints are stiffer and my pain more intense as of late. Just walking to the rest room can be a chore and I worry one day I won't be able to walk at all. That freaks me out to be honest.

Anyway, I'm truly sorry all you Idol people for not reading your introductions. I will try to be better about reading entries and participating in the Green Room.

Come and Get Your Love

I think The Guardians of the Galaxy soundtrack might be the best thing for chair dancing. I love every song on it. This is a rare quality for any album to have. There is usually always that one song you skip over when listening to a album. Now a days I'm sure most people just fill their playlists with all their favorite songs and listening to a complete album is a thing of the past.

Don't You Know Who I Think I Am

I've reached the ripe old age of forty-eight and I'm still discovering who am I. Just when I think I have it figured out, the world shifts and everything I know is distorted. It is similar to gazing through a child's kaleidoscope, the view is constantly changing. When I was twenty and barely dipping my toe into life, this wasn't the future I imagined. Somehow I pictured my life would more glamorous or bigger than it actually turned out to be.

If pressed for an answer, I would say I am a survivor. Surviving one misfortune after another has been the theme of my life. I want to claim this isn't the life I would have chosen for myself, but the majority of things I have overcome are the direct result of a decision made by myself. Now I am older, I finally understand the phrase "youth is wasted on the young." That said, I don't know if I would change a thing, even the bad times. Each event has left its mark upon me and without my scars I would be a different person entirely.

Even after living to tell the tale, I haven't lost my sense of humor or the ability to dance like no one is watching. Life is too short to wallow and be miserable. I try to squeeze as much fun as I can out of every situation, good or bad. I'd rather spend my time and energy spreading love around rather than hate.

Hit Me With Your Best Shot

Today Gary informed me there were a couple of sponsored slots open in his little contest, The Real LJ Idol. After a bit of arm twisting and hippie kicking, I agreed to come back to Live Journal and play. I don't know how well I will do or how active I will be on Live Journal outside of the contest.

But it is official! I AM IN!!!!  


The Evolution of The Yetis

Nine years ago something beautiful was born.

It began with two strangers in a coffee shop. We were brought together through a common goal, to write fifty thousand words in the month of November. For two years we were alone, cheering each other on. We hoped others in our area would join us and looked every week for more people to influence and inspire.

Two long years we waited.

And then...

In 2007 our prayers were answered. Two lost souls found their way to us, sisters with a love for the written word. We revealed in the delight of finding more like ourselves. We bestowed countless gifts upon the sisters and took numerous photographs to document their existence. They were an answer to an unspoken prayer. The tiny group of two was now four.

The quartet began meeting regularly before November began to hone their writing skills. The sound of our giggles rang through the coffee shop as we created short pieces of fiction inspired by our self-created random prompt generator, affectionately named “Shay's Box of Doom.”

And then...

Two weeks later three more joined our group. We were over the moon ecstatic. We had been alone for two long years, hoping this would happen. Now it had. Two teaching friends found us through the NaNoWriMo forums. They came with one another for support. The other was a traveler from a city almost forty-five minutes away. We embraced them all with open arms and invited them to take part in our “Box of Doom” exercises.

And then...

A token male joined our group of writing women. The sisters brought their mother, a teacher, along. The traveler brought two other writers from her town. What started out as a couple of writers longing for companionship, blossomed into a full blown writer's group. Over the course of a month, two became eleven.

We spent the month of November meeting every Tuesday night at the coffee shop. We encouraged each other to keep writing. It is rare when you get eleven people together and they click as well together as we did. As the end of November neared, we grew sad to think we wouldn't be having write-ins any more. None of us wanted it be over. Our time together felt magical, like it was a unique unicorn in a herd of drab horses. So it was decided we would keep meeting after November ended. We would become a writing group.

The Pimp Yeti Hos were born.

We are still meeting up as much as we can, though we have lost several members over the years, as well as gained a few. We have shared good times and bad. Through it all, we have become more than friends and more than a writing group. We are a family.

My life has been enriched by the Yetis in ways they will never know. I am blessed to have been a part of the greatest writing group that ever was or is.

It all started with two strangers meeting at the coffee shop, and then....

Magic happened.


Death Match Dance Off

Dr. Terror, or as his friends knew him, Bob, stood on the outskirts of the party crowd surveying the lay of the land. He was summoned to tonight’s soirée by his foe, Captain Champion. The invitation promised a death match, but from the look of things, it was to be the dreaded dance off.

"Superheroes don't dance," he muttered under his breath, clenching and unclenching his fists as he watched the couples sway on the dance floor.

He had been practicing his dance moves whenever he was able to get a day off from his cover job at Weiner King. Yet, he still felt inadequate and out of place as he watched the scantily clad bodies gyrate to the music through his aqua tinted glasses. He swore to himself to have the dance off removed from the death match listings. He’d rather wrestle a pig in a wet suit than do the Hustle in front of a crowd of scornful youth.

Bob wound his way through the moving bodies, scanning the room for Captain Champion’s trademark red hair. He spotted her by the punch bowl, adopting the role of shy wall flower. Her act didn’t fool him, he could see through her homely veneer to witness the super hero contained within. Captain Champion spotted him at roughly the same time he made her, their eyes meeting across the dance floor. She raised an eyebrow and he shot her a wink, before sliding up next to her.

“I see you dressed in full geek regalia tonight,” she taunted, her voice a sexy purr.

Bob patted his pocket, “Don’t diss the protector woman. Just be glad I left the Plutonium at home this time.”

She rolled her eyes and edged closer to Dr. Terror. “Are you ready to do this?”

“Are you? The fate of the free world depends on your ability to two-step to a disco beat.”

“Bring it on Weiner boy.”

Dr. Terror held out his hand. Captain Champion put hers in his and let him lead her to the dance floor.

“Let the games begin!” she cried as the music changed to a slow dance. Dr. Terror leaned in close, pressing up against Captain Champion as they moved back and forth to the beat. After several minutes she jerked away her eyes filled with disgust.

“Sorry.” Bob blushed, extracting a pen from his pants pocket. “Vibrating pen. It was a gift from my mother.” They resumed their dance, parrying underneath the disco lights using the guise of couple in love.

The song ended and the dance was over. The sworn enemies pulled apart somewhat reluctantly. It was a tie.

"They should remove the dance off from the death match list," Bob said. The smell of Captain Champion's shampoo was intoxicating and Bob fought to stay focused. "I mean superheroes don't dance," he mumbled. The Captain pulled away, a twinkle in her eye.

"Real superheroes do." And with that she was gone. Bob was left standing in the middle of the dance floor alone, but alive to fight another day.


Carry On

Invisible chronic illnesses are exactly what they sound like, conditions which last a life time and aren't immediately obvious to others. The percentage of people afflicted with these conditions is great enough, likely everyone knows someone affected by an invisible disability to some degree. I am one of those people. I live every day with several chronic debilitating illnesses.

When I first became ill, I wanted to find a "fix," a cure. I was sure a drug or therapy existed to heal me. The search, paired with the pain I endured, took over my life. I was determined to find a "magic" pill I could take to make my illness disappear. Then my rheumatologist at the time told me something I thought was extremely cruel, but have since realized was something that saved my life. He looked me directly in the eye and told me, "You are sick. You are going to be sick for the rest of your life. The sooner you realize this, the better off you will be." He was right. Once I accepted the fact I was chronically ill and always would be, I began learning how to live with my conditions. I stood up and refused to let my sickness kill the beautiful person I am.

The pain I feel every day is a reminder. I am breathing and alive. I would rather be in constant pain and aware of the world around me, than to be numb and oblivious. There are days when I feel like laying down and giving in to the illness. These are the times when I straighten my back and forge on. I refuse to let my sickness become who I am. I will not let it define me.


Trigger warning: contains sexual abuse

Everyone, at some point in their life, faces an ugly truth. Secrets are revealed through self-examination.
Maturity brings a better understanding of the facts. My moment of reckoning happened when I was in my late thirties.

I was sexually molested as a child.
Read more...Collapse )

Avoiding Grandpa's goodnight kiss advances was a part of my childhood. It was something I accepted as normal
and didn't speak about with my parents or siblings. Growing up in the late 70's and early 80's, I was taught
to fear strangers in white vans offering the promises of candy. In my mind, what my grandfather was doing
wasn't abuse. It wasn't until I was an adult with children of my own, that I realized my relationship with
my grandfather wasn't normal. It was abuse.