Information

Vivienne
Legacy Name: Vivienne.

The Glade Priggle
Owner: PinkPanther

Age: 12 years, 1 month, 6 days

Born: March 12th, 2012

Adopted: 12 years, 1 month, 6 days ago

Adopted: March 12th, 2012

Pet Spotlight Winner
May 13th, 2014

Statistics

• Level: 20
   
• Strength: 50
   
• Defense: 50
   
• Speed: 51
   
• Health: 51
   
• HP: 51/51
   
• Intelligence: 45
   
• Books Read: 45
• Food Eaten: 0
• Job: Security Guard

My name is Lene and throughout my very strange and often (for lack of a better word) quirky life, I have told the stories of my mother. Complete strangers would say to me, “This is hilarious! You should write a book!” Of course, I promptly ignored the comments and went on about my life. I mean, why should I write a book about my family and who would want to read it? Despite my best intentions to steer clear of writing another book, I could not ignore the idea completely. The thoughts often resurfaced from the depths of my far too overstuffed mind; so to unclog it, I decided to give in and write a few of the more memorable ones down.

(Wrap up: Take # 1) And so, I present my mother—or at least the stories about her, since actually having her in the book would be a tad creepy.

(Wrap up: Take # 2) So with these thoughts and the idea that something interesting will come forth, I am pleased to give you my mother…please take her.

(Wrap up: Take # 3) And because I had to grow up with her, I am subjecting you…

(Wrap up: Take # 4) Okay, so I don’t know how to introduce this strange tale… What I do know is that whoever coined the phrase, “Truth is stranger than fiction,” must have met my mum.

P.S. Some of these stories have been embellished a tad. Some of these stories actually never occurred, and some of these stories are exactly as they happened. It is up to you which you choose to believe is what—if it makes you feel better to believe that none of these stories occurred then go for it. I am just supplying the information—do with it as you please.

******

“Get up, breakfast is ready,” called a voice from the distance. I pulled my duvet up over my head and ignored it, in favour of some more sleep. It might have worked if I didn’t feel a sudden sting on my bum, as my mother whacked me with the spatula that was in her hand. “Lene, I said get up. I made waffles. Come and eat before it gets cold.”

I started moving but my body protested, like it hadn’t fully gotten my allotted time for sleep. I glanced over at the clock on my night stand. It read 03.00 … that can’t be right, I thought. Groggily, I got up and stumbled to the breakfast table. My mother was wearing her multicoloured tie-died furry slippers which I swear look radioactive. I was eating my first waffle when I noticed darkness through the window... My mum collects odd clocks. She had about 30 on the wall behind me, tic-tock-ing away, all telling me it was 03.23. My fork clattered on to the plate, spraying me with bits of waffles. “Mum,” I exclaimed trying to choke back my horror, “please tell me it is not 3 in the morning!”

“Of course not, “my mum replied with her back still facing me as she fixed more waffles, “it’s almost 3.30 because you wouldn’t move faster. Now hurry and eat your waffles, we don’t want to be late!”“Late? Its 3.30 in the bloody morning! How are we going to be late?!”

“Lene, don’t swear, it’s not becoming of a young lady; and we are catching the train and going to the next town over. There’s an early-bird sale on and we simply can’t miss it. You can go in your pyjamas if you want. No one will care. Doesn’t that sound fun?”

“Oh sure, that sounds like fun,” I muttered, “can’t wait to be the laughing stock of the town as I wonder about the place in my pyjamas all day.”

“Good, finish up and go get ready.”

Great, she completely missed my sarcasm. What’s the point of carefully honing one’s wit if no one notices it? So we caught the train at this most ungodly hour—seriously mornings should be banned by law. My mum was unpleasantly chipper the entire time, signing songs that would make that singing nun in the Sound of Music want to run for the hills. Finally, the abysmal train ride ended and we had a day full of “fun” shopping. We are in Norway; why the hell are we shopping for swimsuits in the dead of winter? No one is going to be swimming the beaches in water so cold the fish don’t want to be in it. Despite the oddity of the season, we did actually find swimwear for each of us. But it’s hard to get excited when it’ll be six months before trying this new suit out.

******

Okay, so remember those ugly tie-died furry slippers I mentioned earlier? The reason I made sure to point out that detail will become quite obvious in this little story. See, recently my mother decided to go out and run errands. She had gotten onto the bus, paid the fare and got to the next town before realizing that she had only brought enough money with her to cover the initial bus fare to the next town. She was also wearing her horrible radioactive-looking furry slippers on her feet. How she didn’t notice was beyond me, but standing in those lovely slippers, she had to beg the bus driver to allow her to ride home for free since she had left her money on the kitchen counter.

******

Now I’ve been trying to find a transition from the last story to this one, but dash it all, I can’t seem to think of anything, so let’s just pretend I have an awesome transition here and I’ll just go about telling the tale, shall we? My folks owned and ran our family’s fast food restaurant and catering business, along with my uncle and auntie. One night my Uncle Ernst was working late, closing up when my mum got a frantic phone call. Uncle Ernst said about six paragraphs of words in about two seconds flat. It was impossible to discern what he was agitated about, but it was clear she had to drop everything to come down that minute. Now, Uncle Ernest can be described as Santa—without the white hair and red suit. He could wiggle his ears on command, though—something that impressed me to no end when I was little; but I digress. Now being a larger man, one wouldn’t believe the reason for him being so panic-stricken. But my mother frantically ran to the shop, freaking out that someone was hurt. When she got there, Uncle Ernest was simply hysterical over this cute teeny hedgehog that had found its way into the kitchen. Mum removed the adorable little critter trying her best to choke down the laughter.

******

In my mother’s little garden she has a sign that reads, “A single rose can be my garden... a single friend, my world.” This is how I view my mum. She’s whimsical, funny, charismatic and my best friend. I love you mum.

Story by Raven Profile by Athene

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