Journeys in the Mundane:
I realized today that the only arguement I've ever won against my mother was regarding which wall outlet to plug the vacuum into.
Mom: "You scratch the furniture when you move the vacuum like that! Just plug it into this outlet!"
Me: "But, Mom, if I use that outlet I can't reach this piece of carpet! I have to use this outlet!"
The silence that my mother returned was most satisfying.
However, if this is the best battle I have won, things do not bode well for my mandatory debate class.
Fresh squeezed by melly at 6:40 PM
Friday, June 06, 2003
Eating at Olga's tonight with my bestest bud, we saw an old lady dressed all in black come in. She didn't wait to be seated; she just waltzed up to a table that was obviously hers. The black beads on her black muumuu jingled as she walked, their fluidity in stark contrast to her massive head of raven hair that was messily mounded on top of her head. She looked kind of like a depressed fortune teller to tell the truth. (A depressed fortune teller? In a mall restaurant chain?!)
I nudged Elyn, who was giggling on about a little boy she's babysitting. She stared at the old woman for a second before shaking her head.
"Oh. Her. She's always here when I'm here. Isn't that weird?"
Indeed, it was. The old lady; a mere two tables away from us; did not hear our conversation and asked the waitress to bring her 'the usual'. I think this is so cool. I want to be able to ask for 'the usual' someday and have people know what I want.
'The usual', in this case, turned out to be a spinach pie. The lady sighed to herself with her hands on her temples. She did not touch the spinach pie. She sat at the table, alone, for about 15 minutes just sighing and rubbing her temples and staring into space. She then exited the restaurant without paying.
I found this to be most interesting.
Fresh squeezed by melly at 9:08 PM
Thursday, June 05, 2003
It's the end of the [school] year, and we all know what that means! Graduation. Parties.
And with that, I present to you Melly's Ne'er-Fail Quick and Easy Guide to Writing Yearbook Inscriptions to People You Don't Really Know. Simply pick a line under each category (Greeting, Opening, Body, and Conclusion) and add your signature. It even comes with a money-back guarantee!
-Hola! (Note: Bonjour, Guten tag, or any other language other than Spanish is unacceptable.)
-We made it!
-It's been fun getting to know you!
-This year went by so fast!
-I'll never forget the time when [fill in the blank]
-[Fill in the blank] class was so much fun!
-Hanging out at [fill in the blank] was awesome!
-Love ya lots/ Love ya like a sis/ Love ya like a brother
-Have a kickass summer! See ya next year!
Fresh squeezed by melly at 3:17 PM
Wednesday, June 04, 2003
I remembered today about a commercial that aired two or three or six years ago for some bank or mortgage company or something of the fy-nan-she-al sort. It featured a boy aged about ten years old dressed in spotless white clothing that walked around, observing people who were not observing him. Beck played quietly in the background. All was well, and one-eight-hundred numbers were dialed.
During that same time of two or three or six years ago I was a rather depressed individual. This was all well and good, however, because I was an adolescent and therefore allowed and almost encouraged to be a rather depressed individual. Anyway, there was nothing more in the world that I wanted (well, besides maybe a trip to the mall and a trip to Europe and a trip in general) besides being in that commercial. I wanted to be the somber young child dressed in spotless yet stylish white clothes and observe without being observed. I was good at the last part, now all I needed was the wardrobe and the agent.
There's always a modeling show going on in our town at least twice a year, the kind where you drive down to the Ritz-Carlton hotel and there's agents and they look at you and maybe you'll get a contract. I convinced my mother to take me that summer, in all of my adolescent glory.
I primped that day, performing magic tricks on my face with powders and tubes in order to make my freckles disappear and my eyes and lips stand out. I probably looked like a very badly put together hooker. Thankfully, my mother ordered me to wipe it all off before we headed out the door. I still have the blue eyeshadow stain on that old blouse.
I went. I was looked at. I was invited to come back for a second modeling. I never returned, for so many reasons and none at all. But I continued to observe without being observed, TV commercial or not.
They see you coming they see you go.
They know your secrets and you know theirs
This town is crazy, but nobody cares.
Beck, Lost Cause
Fresh squeezed by melly at 9:32 PM
I know I'm a little late on addressing this, but have y'all heard that Counting Crows/Vanessa Carlton cover of "Big Yellow Taxi"? And you know that part where it goes, "You never know what you've got til it's gone?"
I find it strangely ironic seeing as we can only now mourn the loss of an already bad song now that it's been covered even more badly.
Get what I'm saying?
Fresh squeezed by melly at 3:13 PM
Tuesday, June 03, 2003
I did not want to be sitting here, on the blue knit couch in the walkout basement in the late afternoon.
My father sat here 8 days ago, surrounded by packages and hopeful smiles and forced renditions of "happy birthday"s just as I was today, opening things that he really didn't want and objects we really didn't want to give. There are unspoken sighs.
It's kind of scary, to be celebrating this way. More for him than it is for me, I suppose. I'm still young, there are possibilities ahead of me. Yet my father, 40 years of age, is still sitting in a sad suburbia on a blue knit couch. I never had a more clear goal than that was presented to me 8 days ago. I will not spend my life on a blue knit couch in a dimly lit room. I just can't.
My dad and I were born 26 years and 357 days apart. We both have the same thin brown hair. We're both extremely tall and thin (He's 6'4'' and weighs 170, I'm 5'9'' and weigh 108). We have the same narrow face. We're both athletic, introverted, and scholars. We both like music. I am not just my father's daughter, I am his female counterpart.
There's this picture that Sean drew once, of a middle aged man that is sitting alone in a weathered chair listening to an old record that he had forgotten about. The record ended, and the man had said, "Oh well."
This is the only piece of artwork that has ever made my cry in my entire life. I don't get choked up about art. It's nice to look at, but then I move on. Yet this hit home; Sean had drawn a picture of my father that I was scared of becoming.
I recieved socks today from a close friend, socks with dancing smiling happy cows that bring to mind my La Vache Qui Rit poster that hangs on my wall. I looked at them tonight, after the blue knit couch episode, and thought, "I'm ok. I'm not my father, my mother, or anyone else. I will not live my life sad in suburbia. For I have socks that are not of the ordinary."
And it all boils down to that.
Fresh squeezed by melly at 9:25 PM
Monday, June 02, 2003
Today was my last Monday attending school for this school year. It was a mantra I repeated in my head today, urging myself to plod through one last week.
It's funny how something you once looked forward to suddenly becomes a chore, something that you gottahaftamust complete before you can fall away to sweet oblivion.
My writing has become this way. I used to love writing as much as life itself--in fact, I lived through my writing. I loved the words, the thoughts, the style, the way my purple pen wiggled on the page when I was excited about writing something. Ever since I learned how to read I would hide under the covers with a flashlight, reading up way past my bedtime. I decided then that I, too, wanted to write; although the specifics of my writing have changed a little through the years (from novelist to songwriter to journalist). Writing was my dream and my future, I wanted nothing more than to pour out my ideas on paper.
In the past few weeks, however, writing has become a chore. No longer do I eagerly doodle on scraps of paper. The act of writing has bogged me down with memories I have tried to forget and callouses that I have tried to heal, in both a metaphorical and literal sense. I would much rather live my life than record it, it seems, and you can sense the listlessness in my blog, in my notebooks, and even in my schoolwork.
Yet I will continue to write, dear readers, if not for you, but for me. Something I said to The Rambler made me think about my own life. I think that one must have undying love for oneself before they can truly live. I cannot write beautifully for others if I cannot yet write for myself. I have to figure out who I am, what I believe in, and where I'm going before I can translate this to all other aspects of writing. I must give up trying to be witty and thoughtful and funny and provoking until I can just write for myself, and write it how it is.
My birthday is tomorrow. You're all free to send me notebooks with inspirational quotes emblazoned on the covers, and I will send them back to you full of love and hate and laughter that you will be free to ignore.
Fresh squeezed by melly at 6:37 PM