Saturday, April 19, 2003

I asked my mother why we weren't decorating any eggs this year.
"Because," she said, "I was afraid you'd go beserk again about the baby chick fetuses we were killing, or something."
You see, I'm a pesco-pollo vegetarian. This came about on a family vacation to Wales, during lambing time. You drive anywhere in Wales and you're guaranteed to see at least a couple hundred baby sheep frolicking in the green green grass with their mothers, all accompanied by the sounds of Dido if you so wish (to defend myself, this took place a couple of years ago).
My parents and my insane uncle (more about him another time, but I promise you he looks like Rasputin and tried to get my father to invest in a perpetual motion machine. He also enjoys eating hospital food. This is coupled by a weird Australian/Scottish/American accent, as he's never in one place long enough just to pick one.) all ordered lamb that evening.
I couldn't believe this. I thought they were doing it to taunt me, it all seemed so cruel. So I decided, right then and there, to become a vegetarian. I ordered a salad.
Now it is all well and good to decide to become vegetarian while you're on vacation in Europe; under those circumstances it is basically a crime to have reason to eat at a McDonald's. But when we returned home, things got a little tougher. Volleyball tournaments require McDonald's, and I was forced to order salads every time. And not even a chef salad.
I admit it, damnit. I broke down. I became a pesco-pollo vegetarian, if only for the reason to taste some sweet, sweet chicken and salmon once in awhile. But cows and pigs (and lambs) were still right out.
And yes, yes, I did taunt my little cousins last year as they ate their Easter ham, snidely remarking, "You know what that is, don't you? It's Babe. It's Babe's muscle tissue."
But damnit, can't I have some sort of a childhood (in a loose sense) and still dye some damn Easter eggs? C'mon, I know they're not fertilized. Please?
With cherries and oranges on top?

Fresh squeezed by melly at 8:58 AM

Wednesday, April 16, 2003

I know I am a girl of many wants, but these shirts are particularly wanted.
I laughed at the "Say Yes to Michigan" shirt. That one is still wanted, but extremely less so.
I just felt like sharing.
Wanting yet sharing. I was going to work in some moral lesson at this point, but I'm gonna need more tortilla chips for that.

Fresh squeezed by melly at 7:52 PM

Tuesday, April 15, 2003

Melly's big, bad, life-affirming list of equations-- (inspired by The Rambler)
Sappy Hallmark Story + Abundance of Caffiene -- Commercials= Happy
Sappy Music+Sundeck+Warm Weather+Headphones=Happy
Sappy Emotions -- Trauma= Happy
Pine -- Sap + Six Strings = Happy
Sappy Sweat+Win=Happy
Rhyming Words= Happy
Empty House + Hot Water + Music= Happy
Krispy Kremes+ No Calories= Happy
Melly Squared + G Squared = Happy
Cryptic Messages + Knowledge = Happy

Fresh squeezed by melly at 8:46 PM

Monday, April 14, 2003

As my sandwich was being made today at Subway, I noticed a sign that read, "Ask your Sandwich Artist about our new Italian Herbs and Cheese Bread!"
I was confused at first. What the hell was a Sandwich Artist? A person that eats sandwiches as they create works of art, and then get endorsed by Subway? Then I realized it was the job title of the people that make the sandwiches.
I smiled. That is a kick-ass job title. "Sandwich Artist." Much cooler than the "Gap Salesperson" I was geared up to be this summer. I decided right then and there that this was a job I was destined to have; making sandwiches for those people in the world craving Italian Herbs and Cheese Bread. I'll get a nifty little baseball cap and everything, and provide service with a motherfucking smile even if it causes me to salivate on my sandwich-making utensils.
Which, I think, is ok, seeing as the guy making my sandwich apparently had a cold and was not wearing gloves. This resulted in what I imagine is a fair amount of snot on my sandwich that I so lovingly paid 3.99 for. I should've called his manager in, and then applied for the job to his face, to show Mr. Snotty Nose that there are plenty of people willing to join the workforce that do not battle allergies.
Did I mention that I am going to be a kick-ass Sandwich Artist?
It's all about the title, baby.

Fresh squeezed by melly at 7:15 PM

Sunday, April 13, 2003

I failed the self-imposed sniff test on Thursday through Friday.
Thursday gym: "Extreme Volleyball" T-shirt (standard fare)
Thursday track practice: "Extreme Volleyball" T-shirt (forgot extra clothes, wore gym stuffish)
Thursday volleyball practice: "Extreme Volleyball" T-shirt (lazy)
Thursday night pajamas: "Extreme Volleyball" T-shirt (damn lazy)
Friday, all day: "Extreme Volleyball" T-shirt (beyond damn lazy, was accompanied by a bathrobe).
It's sad when you can't live up to your own expectations and your own requirements. Really, it is. It makes you feel all hypocritical inside, even if it's a hidden feeling.
It's not about the sniff test, it's about the smart test and the athletic test and the eating test and the emotional well-being test and, oh yeah, the personal hygiene test. Sometimes I feel like I'm failing everything.
Barely passing science, feeling burned out, eating lots of junk food, having a crush on a guy that I shouldn't even look twice yet. I know that these are all minute, bump-in-the-great-road-of-growing-up mishaps, and next week I'll look back at this post and think how immature I am. But it's Sunday night, and I feel like I'm being enveloped by all of it. I hate failure. I can deal with being bad, I can't deal with having to re-take the class. And you can't re-do life.
It's a beautiful day outside, I just felt I had to ruin it by this ultimately depressing thought.

Fresh squeezed by melly at 7:56 PM