blog*spot

Saturday, April 05, 2003

[sarcasm]On TV tonight at 8:
The Spice Girls: The "E!" True Hollywood Story
I am so there.[/sarcasm]

Fresh squeezed by melly at 8:20 PM

For future reference, I will never bring myself to watch "The Shining" again.
I saw Stephen King's house once. He lives only a block or two down from my great aunt and uncle in Bangor, Maine. There's a huge wrought-iron gate surrounding the whole house with bats and such built into it. The house itself looks a lot like a huge abandoned Victorian mansion. The Maine sky provides the whole thing with perpetual gray light. It's a creepy place, but then again, King is a creepy guy.
The Shining wasn't that bad, I guess, minus the twins and the dead lady and the "Heeeeeeereeeeeeee's Johnny!" scene. Even the killing of the chef guy didn't creep me out--it's the suspense, not the gore, that gets to me more. I just can't watch thriller/horror movies period. Although I think I'd fare a lot better in these kinds of movies if not for the soundtrack--the music can build anything up into complete terror, even if nothing happens.

Fresh squeezed by melly at 1:23 PM

Friday, April 04, 2003

I am a battery addict. I crave my headphones, actually, and my headphones crave batteries, so as a result I crave batteries. I was desperately searching for some sweet, sweet double A's last night at around 11, and, unable to find them, I took to pawing through every drawer in my desk to find some energy lovin'. Instead of finding batteries, I found some old notebooks, scribbled in with diaries and short stories and to-do lists. I found some Beanie Babies, reminiscent of the time when you could stuff a piece of material with some beans, write a poem, and sell it for five dollars. No wonder the 90's were a great economic time. I also found a charm bracelet.
The charm bracelet was made of chunky silver chain, which looked all the more chunkier in comparison to the four dainty charms connected to it. There was a tiny music note, a polished "A+", a perfect star, and a gleaming "BEST FRIENDS".
I remember the girl that gave it to me some 5 odd years ago, and indeed, I still know her. We are not, nor ever were, best friends. While I appreciate music, an eighth note represents music of the more classical sort to me--I would've preferred a guitar. I am not a perfect star, nor any other celestial body. And while I do get good grades, it's not the sort of thing you like to brag about and wear on your wrist in my position.
I wonder, if I could make my own charm bracelet, what I would put on it. Maybe a battery.

Fresh squeezed by melly at 2:22 PM

Thursday, April 03, 2003

About three years ago, before I departed (alone) on a trip to France, I asked my family what various knicknacks they wanted me to bring home for them. Anna wanted a beret, Dad wanted a book (in French) on the Louvre, and Mom wanted a box of chocolates.
I neglected these souvenir duties until my last day in Paris. Frantic, I had my adopted French family give me one more whirlwind tour--namely, a local stand in the market, the Louvre giftshop, and a chocolate shop. I purchased the neccasary goods except for one- the box of chocolates. For some reason, the Gays (and that was my family's honest-to-goodness last name) persuaded me to buy my mother some perfume instead. I did, and was happy.
I returned home after my three week trip with gifts in tow. Red beret for my sister, chunky book for my father, perfume for my mother, t-shirts and photographs for me. Everyone was happy, but I think this was more because of my presence rather than the souvenirs. My mother, obviously, was disappointed by the lack of chocolate. I vowed that the next time I was in France, I would bring my mother back some chocolate.
Last winter, my mother became ill. She had no energy. Even lying down was an effort for her. She stayed in bed all day, everday, for the two weeks preceding Christmas. Mom went to the doctor's, and was prescribed to drink lots of fruit juice. She complied, but kept getting worse and worse. On the customary car drive to Minnesota for Christmas to visit the grandparents, my mom was pretty much comatose. She stumbled in to my grandparent's large house in St. Paul (she couldn't walk, Anna and I had to carry her), she was diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes.
I was scared. I thought she might die. She was very close to it, as we found out. But with the help of my grandfather (who is a doctor), my uncle (who is an ER surgeon) and my father (who creates medicine), she was in good hands and didn't have to spend Christmas in the hospital. She completely recovered.
Upon returning to Michigan, my mother fired her doctor (Gee, thanks for the fruit juice recommandation) and began to monitor her blood sugar levels and administer insulin via lots of needles and such. It's still pretty scary, but she's fine and I'm amazed she can handle it.
Anyway, that summer was the summer my family had planned long in advance to visit France again and meet the Gays. We did. But I could not fulfill my vow of buying chocolate for my mother--she, of course, can no longer eat it. To this day, I still feel like I've disappointed her. It's a box of chocolate, I know, but it seems like so much more now. She's no longer just my mother, she's my diabetic mother. I know this sounds harsh, but in all honesty she's a completely different person. She has to be.
I love you, Mom. Happy Birthday.

Fresh squeezed by melly at 10:31 PM

Wednesday, April 02, 2003

I like how when you're driving fast down the highway on a sunny, warm day you can open your window and feel your ears pop; a sucking vacuum is created.
PS: Read

Fresh squeezed by melly at 6:27 PM

Tuesday, April 01, 2003

Ducklings were born down by the lake sometime around last week, and I saw a few of them paddling around in the chanel today with their mom. It was kind of cute, them treading water in all of their fuzzy glory.
I'm not a big animal person. Sure, I have a parakeet, and I love it to death, but I'm not about to join PETA or whatever. Lovesick animal people annoy me. You won't find any puppy or kitten folders on my desk.
I drew heat awhile ago for not caring whether or not this dog was left outside in the cold. I don't like dogs. They smell. They shed. They poop. They terrorize birds. And in all honesty, so do I, but I employ lots of double standards and am not abashed to admit this.
So there they were, the little ducklings, learning to swim and such, and I had this sudden uncontrollable urge to learn how to throw a skipping stone. If they can learn I can too, and it's not my fault that my learning employs a small, hard object that might hit them in their little fuzzy heads.
I'm so cruel. But in case you were wondering, I did not injure any ducklings.

Fresh squeezed by melly at 8:44 PM

Monday, March 31, 2003

I got highlights in my hair today; butter yellow drips of color in my normally golden brown hair (I say golden brown to sound glamorous, you say light brown to sound truthful).
The blonde in my hair reminds me of the blonde that used to be in my roots naturally. I was a pale child, in hair color and eyes and skin and toenails. The Boston sun isn't much, you see. But I was happy.
My hair darkened up as I grew up. I wasn't happy with this, as all the models and actresses and such are all blonde, their golden hair reflecting in the spotlight. So I started dying my hair paler shades, never enough to look fake but always enough to look different.
Then one day Mandy Moore went brunette. This shocked me. Brown hair by choice? I realize that Mandy Moore is not exactly a wonderful role model, but she was a model/actress/celebrity thingamabob nonetheless. And so I stopped highlighting my hair.
My hair was of normal, natural color until today, when I ventured to change a room from stark white to a pale yellow, and as I pushed hair out of my eyes I brushed up against a wall.
So the "highlights" (nay, you say, they are but streaks of paint!) aren't permanent, you see, just worth mentioning, because they reminded me of the time before when I was young and impressionable.

Fresh squeezed by melly at 2:04 PM

Sunday, March 30, 2003

I rubbed my eyes so hard last night as I was falling asleep that my right eye was slightly bruised when I woke up this morning. It kind of looks like I got in a fight, and indeed I did, but only with myself and no other physical damage was sustained.
So it isn't really that bad.
I'm falling out of bed, no doubt of love.
I hope you understand.

Fresh squeezed by melly at 7:18 PM