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Saturday, December 28, 2002

I seem to have lacked sufficient explanation in my last post. The man-eating tree is a ride in Camp Snoopy. It's a giant tree (fake) that has swings on it that spin around and such. My amusement comes from the graphic picture of Charlie Brown being strangled by kite strings painted on the trunk of aforementioned tree.
Abercrombie and Fitch occasionally has nice things. But they lose all class when they have a guy standing in his boxer shorts as an advertisement. At this particular location, he was alive and posing for pictures with 12 year olds.
That being said, I think we can all look in horror at malls forever now.

Fresh squeezed by melly at 4:10 PM

Friday, December 27, 2002

I bravely entered the Mall o' America yesterday. It seems that the peoples of the frozen tundra tried to make up for the frigid landscape by building a huge hunk of commercial retailing. The hunk is waaaay to big for it's own good. You could literally spend your whole life in that mall- it has a birthing center, a college, and a wedding chapel. Plus an entire store devoted to those little Russian dolls that open up and contain little miniture copies of themselves. I forgot the name of such a phenom, but you know what I'm talking about, right? Of course you do. I see your heads nodding for spinach.
Speaking of spinach and other repungant things, Abercrombie and Fitch.
That's all.

Fresh squeezed by melly at 2:28 PM

Tuesday, December 24, 2002

My aunt is the coolest person I know. She's 6 feet tall, lives in Mexico City, and plays the guitar. So naturally, I went to the airport with my uncle, my cousin, and my grandfather to pick her up from the St. Paul airport yesterday at approxomatly 10 o clock.
I swear to god, I thought my uncle was going to kidnap us all on the way there and kill us. For some unknown reason, we got off the highway and drove through the Minneapolis slums to get to l'aeroport. And we went through every stoplight, to ensure that my cousin (age four, sitting in booster seat) would fall asleep. And fall asleep he did. At this point, Uncle Eric began humming along eerily with the Christmas music in the background- Christmas music that sounded like it was being sung by Phil Collins on helium. Needless to say, I think the music furthered my paranoia. By the time we got to the airport, I was noticing my surroundings and thinking things like, "Hey! Those rocks would be a good place for Uncle Eric to bash our heads upon and then cast us over that bridge into oblivion!"
I was more than happy to accompany my grandfather into the airport to meet Aunt Jenny while Uncle Eric and Christian (the four year old sleeping cousin) stayed in the car, even though I did fear for Christian's health during this time.
It turns out that Aunt Jenny's plane landed two hours prior to the time we arrived. But our lateness was excused, because she had spent the time cussing out the baggage claim people for not getting her bags on the plane and also breaking her bottles of tequila that she had brought as gifts for random people. We were still sitting there waiting for another 30 minutes while she took names of managers and filed complaints. All was not lost, however, because I had my first celebrity sighting- Genevieve Gorder, a designer from Trading Spaces, was standing right next to us. I said hi. I don't think she heard me. But she seemed nice, and all.
Fortunatly, when we got back to the car, Christian was still alive and well (if not smothered by a large, mysterious sweatshirt on his head), and the drugged Phil Collins music had vanished. Bad 80's music was in its place, but you choose your battles. We hadn't passed the bridge-of-rocks yet.
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I just realized that there was a card sitting next to the computer here. It's in Spanish, I believe. It has a picture of the pope dancing with a friendly potato.
If any of you Spanish geeks would care to explain, it says "Hay de papas a papas". And please, explain quickly. The potato is as large as the pope, and it's a bit frightening.
My family refuses to conform to normal American traditions, so we opened presents today. At noon. After a lunch of salad with pears in it.
I am now the proud owner of exactly 11 different Doonesbury books, all of which I have read. They meant well. I can feel it.
And here, dear Courtney, is my gift to you:
Christmas songs that I can stand to listen to at least once without screaming:
Children Go Where I Send Thee- Natalie Merchant
God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen - Barenaked Ladies with Sarah McLachlan
Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas - Coldplay
Winter Wonderland - Phantom Planet
Green Sleeves - Vanessa Carlton
Maybe This Christmas - Ron Sexsmith
Short list, I know. Not enough to fill a CD. But that's about all I know of that's worth it, folks. Any other suggestions?
Merry Christmas!

Fresh squeezed by melly at 5:38 PM

Monday, December 23, 2002

I discovered today that I posess two valuable resources: a digital camera, and a dog that looks like a feral bat.
Pictures follow for your enjoyment.

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Update: Nevermind. For some reason, the pictures didn't upload right. And I can't fix it. Why? Because this is a Mac. And I'm stubborn, dangit.

Fresh squeezed by melly at 4:21 PM

Sunday, December 22, 2002

I am sitting here in the middle of a frozen tundra called Minnesota using an iMac. I really, really despise iMacs.
The drive here yesterday was odd. When you sit in a car for 10 hours looking at the constantly-repeating view of the highway, your thoughts get skewed somehow. Maybe it's due to hysteria or boredom. Maybe it's because you finally have time to think.
Driving through Illinois, I spotted a house close to the road on fire. There were big billows of smoke everywhere, paining the already gray-ish sky black. The plumes of smoke almost totally concealed the flames, beacons of orange-red light through the haze. In an odd sense, it was almost beautiful. Yet you can't help contain the horror that erupts inside of you when you realize that somebody's whole life is being consumed by a force they can't control, and it's on public display.
In Wisconsin, we stopped for lunch at Burger King. I ordered a veggie burger, but couldn't down even that when I heard the rushing liquid of grease being poured out. I went into the bathroom to wash my hands, and noticed that the hand-dryer was manufactured by "Corporation of Beer Parts".
Not until I saw an elderly man driving a car with a bumper sticker that read "Come F*** with me, I'll enjoy it" did the laughter come spurting out. This lasted the rest of the way to St. Paul, where I now reside in a house on White Bear Lake.
The spurts of laughter have ended, now I'm just spurting onion, parsley, and green pepper chunks. The salad that my grandmother served last night did not agree with me.
My family is all at church. I was exempted due to my barfing tendancies. This is a good thing, as the minister at my grandparent's church looks exactly like Bill Clinton. He's scary in other ways, too- his sermons make him so emotional (if no one else) that every week without fail is like watching a bad soap opera. He's constantly yelling and crying on the pulpit. If I had a kid and lived here, my baby would NOT be baptized by him. Nononononono.
Although a small part of me wishes I was with ma famille at this moment. It's a bit creepy sitting alone in an obscenely large house filled with rugs from Mexico, pottery from the Netherlands, and an old sword from somewhere in the middle east. There is also a cuckoo clock to be dealt with. And a bulldog that looks like a bat with a flatulence problem. Yet I must keep myself busy, for risk of spewing chunks again. There are Doonesbury comic books to be read, and Christmas song lists to be made.

Fresh squeezed by melly at 12:01 PM