The smell of gasoline has always seduced me. I've always liked the smell of gas stations, particulary so when I'm stretching my legs, using the restroom, and buying convience-store junk food after a long multi-hour car ride. I enjoy walking down metropolitan streets and breathing in the not-clean air. A sudden but intense whiff of the stuff will recall memories of our old pontoon boat we used to have, sputtering away on the lake. I'm not sure whether to be worried at my fondness for the smell or just ignore it.
If y'all are interested, you're welcome to join me in viewing Down With Love tonight, you Matrix-haters you.
Of course, if you can't stand Renne Zellweger, you could always go to a Michigan Week Parade.
Hey, I'm just sayin'.
Fresh squeezed by melly at 3:48 PM
Thursday, May 15, 2003
I was at my prime as a solitary person yesterday; that is, as happy as I could be with the aid of material goods. I came home smiling with new glasses from which to view the world with, a bottle of intoxicating sugary liquid, and new, sweet music.
The glasses are not suited for daytime, for my contacts hold that beloved position, but the thick black frame that refuses to mesh with my pale freckled skin works nicely for nightime when I'm staring goulishly at battered pages anyway.
If Bush wants to raise his popularity, he could make Jones Soda the Official Drink of Gulf War: The Sequel. I got a bottle of the Peachy Keen variety, drinking it slowly and smoothly and placing the empty bottle upon the shelf with the other black and white memories. My bottlecap fortune read "time is prime to play up a hunch."
Sigur Ros, Grandaddy, in the bag. I pause at the Oasis on the shelf, knowing that it is safe and McCartney-ish (Paul), and it will goad me with praises of my morning glory-esque beauty. But the white-men-do-reggae was calling me from across the aisle, and I gave in to the hunch. I was in love.
All of my life I have appreciated All of the Sad Songs, melting in the woe-is-me, woe-is-the-world beauty of both lyrics and sound. I was happy to be depressed, happiest when I wanted to cry. Yesterday I wanted to cry when I realized that the reggae was happy, was joyful, was energetic, with no hint of love.
I fell in love with the music and the man behind it long ago, the man that introduced me to the whole concept. I fell in love because he made me laugh. I fell in love because he tolerated my cynicism. I fell in love because he was sensitive. I fell in love because I wasn't supposed to. I fell in love because he was happy and joyful and energetic and with no hint of love. I fell in love because he was the music, the kind that I haven't heard all of my life, the kind where white men do, in fact, do reggae.
--dispatch, "out loud"
Fresh squeezed by melly at 10:02 PM
Wednesday, May 14, 2003
"Hello!" the perky blonde chirped. "I'm Bet!sy, Dr! Dopps! assistant!" Her voice rises with enthusiasm at unnatural places. I know mine sure as hell wouldn't if I had to look into peoples mouth's all day for a living.
I tried to offer greeties in return, but she was already on to me. "Ok, Mere!i!dith, you can sit! right here! in this chair!" I obeyed. I did not want to see this woman angry. Bet!sy pushes a button, and suddenly I'm falling. I resist the urge to cream, and when I open my eyes there is a large piece of paper towel clipped to the front of my shirt.
"Say! Ahh!" she says. I merely open my mouth, not wishing to say anything at all. I'm morbidly fascinated with how long Bet!sy can carry on excited conversations with herself.
A metal mirror on a stick finds its way into my mouth. Bet!sy pokes around for awhile; the proclaims I have no cavaties. I breathe a sigh of relief until Bet!sy starts to vigourously floss my teeth. I mutter my first statement of the day, which is "Oww!". It actually comes out sounding like "oww" despite all of the foreign objects in my mouthal region. I'm secretly proud of myself.
"My!My, it seems! that your gums are a little sens!i!tive. Look at all! the blood!" I hate Bet!sy as soon as the blood pours out and floods my paper-clipped paper towel. Bet!sy continues to floss. I wince.
I noticed, then (for I was trying to avoid eye contact with the blonde mistress of doom) that there is a TV mounted to the ceiling. Bet!sy follows my eye movement as she begins to massage my teeth with an electric toothbrush.
"Oh, you! can change the station if! you want," she says, "the guy be!fore you wanted to watch! CNN, but! I don't really enjoy! it." And she hands me a cheap beige remote.
I hold it in my hands, but touch nothing. I like CNN, and Bet!sy does not. Things seemed fine just the way they were.
Perhaps she thought it strange for a teenage girl to be interested in CNN, but I thought it was strange how she enunciated her words; Bet!sy was allowed no beef against me, but I garbled nonsense to quench her curiousity anyway (I hoped it would relieve the pain of flossing). How she interpreted the garbles I have no idea, but it's part of her job to smile and nod at any form of communication from her patients; Bet!sy fulfilled this requirement admirably. "How! interesting!" she chirped, and the face of Prince William filled the screen. "Do you! think he's cute!?" Bet!sy asked, with a mischievious grin on her face. She wanted to bond.
I do not want to pour out my feelings on the sexuality of certain members of the British royalty to this amazingly happy assistant who makes my gums hurt. She does not need to know if I have a boyfriend (I wish), if I play sports (too often), or what I'm doing this weekend (loafing). I volunteer no real information and I wade through the innocent Q and A session with muttered half-hearted responses.
Bet!sy seems to tire of me so she quickly sticks some pina colada flavored foam flouride in mymouth and runs off to fetch Dr! Dopp! I try not to swallow; last time I was here I consumed too much of the stuff and was forced to retch in the staff bathroom, spilling some of my previously eaten lunch on the way. They have enough of my DNA floating around in this place anyway.
Dr! Dopp! walkis in with Bet!sy as a news story about a fabricating ex journalist for the NY Times finishes up. She removes the heathonous pina colada foam from my mouth as he makes notes on an offical looking clipboard. I look at him expectantly.
"No cavaties" he says gruffly, then walks out of the room. I hope that fucker doesn't get paid much, although I know that is a vain hope.
Bet!sy forces a smile, pushes a button, and I'm sitting upright again. Christiane Amanpour-Live from Baghdad is out of sight, out of mind.
"You! get to pick out! a toothbrush!" says Bet!sy, "And would! you like mint! or cherry floss?"
I have serious issues with anything cherry (despite their revered place on my pajama bottoms, their taste has disheartened me ever since I drank a CherryCoke expecting regular) so I take a light purple toothbrush and mint dental floss, thankyou!verymuch, right!this!way, haveanice!day!, and I'm free.
I swear my mother only brings me there for the free coffe she gets while she's waiting for me.
Fresh squeezed by melly at 4:06 PM
Tuesday, May 13, 2003
I wore a large marijuana leaf on my chest today. Inadvertantly, of course.
It looked beautiful in the store, sitting atop a pile of three other shirts sharing its same sheer white cottony fabric and green rounded print. "Proud to Farm" it announced boldly on the salestable, flanked by a vintage looking graphic of a Plant Thing. I was feeling safe (the store did not test its makeup products on animals; I had asked) and my friend thought nothing out of the ordinary about the shirt when she marched up to the cash register and bought it for me (a birthday present for the present future, she said), so I assumed the Plant Thing was a poorly rendered cornstalk, or perhaps the future emblem of Farmer's Bureau Insurance.
I was happy. I layered it upon layers of tank tops and t-shirts, allowing the menagerie to be displayed under the sheer theater of the Plant Thing. Looking in the mirror, (for I am so vain that I do, in fact, think this song is about me) I took another look at the newly-purchased t-shirt. I counted leaves in my head, certain I would come up with the incorrect number. One...two...four. No. Yes. Five leaves on that that Plant Thing. Proud to farm, indeed.
I giggled throughout the rest of the day, high at the mere mention of my illegal t-shirt. But if anyone asks, it's the bad corn they've been sending me from the Farmer's Bureau Insurance.
Fresh squeezed by melly at 4:51 PM
Monday, May 12, 2003
I didn't spend Mother's Day with my Mother, because I am a Bad Daughter. (Although, if it raises your opinion of me at all, I did get up at four ay emm to make her breakfast in bed before I ditched her for the rest of the day.)
You see, I was captured by the evil beast named Volleyball.
Volleyball is a Big Sport in southwest Michigan, and it has such an elevated status in my life that it begs for a capital lettering. I breathe, sleep, eat, and fear Volleyball, because it is my life, and I'm afraid of failing at it.
I belong to a travel club called Magnum (an ode to our egocentric head coach named Maagelsen). Practices are 3 hours a day, 4 days a week, plus all-day (all day= 14 hour plus) state and regional tournaments every weekend. I own a countless number of pieces of Volleyball gear and random articles of paraphenalia. I doodle volleyballs on various scraps of paper. My days are split into Volleyball hours and non-Volleyball hours. I have a one-track mind, and it belongs to Volleyball.
Despite all that I give up for Volleyball, I hate it with a passion. It's like a cult I am unable to free myself from. I dread going to practices. I am sick of my coach, my teammates. I despise the entire preppy, spandexed atmospere. The only thing that keeps me going is to play, to get out on the court and just play the game well and have fun doing it. But it seems that this has become less and less of a joy for me, encroached upon by the impending doom of armswings and extensions and footwork and above all else, Technique. I can't enjoy the sweat anymore, I must worry which way my hips are facing (towards the ball or towards the net or towards the setter or God knows what other direction they have turned. I'm worse than Elvis).
Despite all this hatred for Volleyball, I'm afraid to let it go. It takes up so much of my life now that I'm worried what will happen to me if it suddenly all disapears. Literally, I wonder if I would disapear. It's kind of scary.
So in the meantime, I'll continue to keep my elbow up (though not nessesarily my head) and keep swinging. And, of course, listen to to Elvis And Other Urban Hymns (TeeEmm).
Fresh squeezed by melly at 7:32 PM