Love and Potato Chips
I didn't want to write this right now, as I'm afraid I'll come off as childish and grievious and pathetic. However, this is the only few scraps of time I'll have to myself for a couple of days, and editing myself won't change the fact that I still am childish and grievious and pathetic.
My bird died yesterday. I was at Heathuh-Rose's. My mom called. She said, "Chirp died."
I didn't want to go back home. But I cried, anyway. Heathuh-Rose cried too. She always said Chirp reminded her of herself. Vain. Happy. I loved both Chirp and Heathuh-Rose.
I went to a movie. The movie involved parrots and skeletons. I stuffed gummi-bears into my mouth furiously. I did not cry, then.
I stayed up until 2, Heathuh-Rose and I, watching Almost Famous and not thinking at all. It was the first night I did not struggle to get to sleep.
I played foos-ball in the morning, and then came home. I cried silently for 6 hours, pretending to read. My family ignored me. They didn't say anything when I didn't eat my supper.
Here, downstairs, is where his cage used to be. It's been replaced by flowers, now. I don't ask questions.
I sit home alone and sing "Mad World" to myself quietly, covering up the noise that's not here. Chirp always hated it when I sang.
I bought Chirp with my own money when I was in second grade, because I was upset that everyone else had a pet but not us. He was on sale for 12 dollars at SuperPets, in a large cage with about 25 other parakeets. I didn't want him. I wanted a parakeet with feathers of a lighter blue. But Chirp was the one that flew out of the cage before the frightened salesman could stop him, and we chased him around the store before we put him in what looked like a Chinese take-out box and took him home.
Despite his name, he didn't chirp for three days.
We let him fly around the house, instead of locking him up in his cage all day. He would fly onto our heads and shoulders and just sit there contentedly. He loved to peck at shoes. Or socks. He loved to sit on my dad's slippers as my dad watched a baseball game on TV. Even though I was his favorite. I was the one that fed him potato chips. I was the one that would let him follow me around the house. I was the one that would let him out of his cage and play with him, throwing little plastic happy-meals toys around that he would fetch.
Chirp liked mirrors, too. He pecked at his reflection endlessly. There's still a feather of his in my bathroom, near the mirror. There's still a black-and-white photograph of him in my room.
I know it sounds stupid to get worked up over a bird; a parakeet at that. But Chirp was my first and only pet. People love their cats and dogs like family.
I loved my parakeet.
Fresh squeezed by melly at 7:14 PM
Thursday, July 10, 2003
I accompanied my mother yesterday to WalMart for 15 minutes to find some office-supply organizers for rubber cement and such (she's a teacher). It was just one of the many stops on our long mental list of errands for the day. We stop at WalMart because they just built a new one near us, and Staples is on the other side of town.
The concept of WalMart has always fascinated me. It's like Target, only cheaper. I never knew that there were lowere chains than Target on the price scale totem.
But what interests me most about WalMart is the people that shop there. Here, anyway, it's white-trash city at first glance. I know that sounds harsh, but what mother lets her six year old daughter wear shorts that say "sexy" on the butt? Later I noticed the same shorts in the clothing section. It's like this never-ending cycle of smarmy parents taking their smarmy children to Walmart, who will then have underage sex and reproduce and take their own HIV-riddled children back to WalMart in a few years.
This is not to put all patrons of WalMart in the same unsavory trailor park. Obviously, I shop there too on occasion, and so do many other people I know and respect. WalMart doesn't just have good prices, it has good enough prices for well-to-do people wade through aisles of broken mechanical "Hulk" toys to get them. WalMart is a gathering place for the impoverished and the well-off, the intelligent and the slow, the dweebs and the homecoming court, the young and the restless, the gay and the straight, and the neo-nazis and the foriegn immigrants to share the same rolled-back-with-a-smiley-face-price on deoderant.
But as I pass a middle-aged woman with one of those button-thingys in her thought that she has to press to talk examining a huge case of leftover fireweorks from the weekend (Was: 224.99$ Now: 99.99$!), I began to rethink that warm, fuzzy, let's-all-come-together statement.
"Does she want to get another hole blown in her head?" I whisper dryly to my mother.
She coughs, trying to hide her giggle. If I got to hell, at least I'll have company.
We never make it to the office supplies. My mother stops in the kitchenware section as I gaze into a large, mostly empy cardboard box that contains no less that a roll of paper towels, one baby shoe, Triscuits, and a paperback romance.
"Look at this!" squeals my mother excitedly.
I look up from the curious box to see what she has in her hands. "Yes, mom, it's a salt-and-pepper shaker."
"Right, but I could not use the shakers and still be left with this to put the rubber cement and glue in!" she motioned at the red ceramic dish that the shakers were packaged with.
"You mean, you'd be left with a soap dish." Well, that's what it resembled. I picked up a nearby ceramic soap dish to illustrate my point.
"Perfect!" My mother bought the soapdish right out of my hands.
WalMart Nation, here we come.
Fresh squeezed by melly at 8:39 AM
Wednesday, July 09, 2003
It's Three AM, I Must Be Lonely
Augh insomnia. It's plagued me for about 2 weeks now.
It's not insomnia, in a strict sense. It's more of a summer burden. If I get up at 10, then to get a 16 hour day in I'm not going to fall asleep again until 2 ay emm the next day. And if I go to bed at 2, there is no way there is any possibility of me getting up before 10 again. It's a never ending cycle.
To break that habit, I ended up setting my alarm to wake me up at 7:30. I'm dead tired today, having only gotten around 4 hours of sleep, but hopefully I'll get to bed tonight at a more humane time of the night.
However, my "cure" didn't help last night. I was up until 3, composing bad poetry out of snippets of classic rock songs stuck in my head.
Of course, bad poetry posted on the interweb always has the possibility to be rather amusing. So for your enjoyment's sake, may I present to you my ode to Springsteen, Bryan Adams, Lynyrd Skynyrd, The Rolling Stones, The Beatles, and Tom Petty (Ha! Ha! I despise Tom Petty and Bryan Adams!):
I am told
That I was born in the USA
That I got my first real six string at the 5 and dime
This bird I cannot change
I can't get no satisfaction
Beneath the blue suburban skies
And I'm free-fallin
For a radio cure
Please understand that the effects of not sleeping and being isolated had me feeling pretty darn loopy. This was a labour of love, posting this poem for y'all.
There better be some cookies for me coming in the mail, along with some NyQuil or something.
Fresh squeezed by melly at 1:01 PM
Tuesday, July 08, 2003
There's Something About Melly
Because it's a slow day, I'm gradually catching up with all of the staple little bloggy things every blogger occasionally has/does. So here is my installment of "100 Things About Melly". What's next? A Friday Five? Blogrolling? Quizilla Quiz Scores? Archives?.
I found this hard to do. No one can ever sum themselves up in 100 points or less. You will never get a full picture of a person. Rather than try to struggle against this rule, I just wrote the following list as a stream of conscience, one thing leading to another. In no way does the following 100 points present a full view of Melly, but hopefully it's mildly amusing reading.
1. My full name is Meredith Kathryn.
2. I've had a love/hate relationship with that name. A friend told me that it reminded him of a cross between a southern belle serving tea and Molly Shannon's character in "Superstar."
3. I liked that movie.
4. But my favorite movie is "Best In Show", whether it's an amusing farce of human's capability to be odd or not.
5. I have this desire to be a Starbucks-sipping yuppie
6. Probably because it's a more sophisticated stereotype of what I already am.
7. My lucky number is 6, not 7. 7 is so casino tacky.
8. A casino is being built about 45 minutes away from my home.
9. I find this somewhat amusing because this lands it nearly in the backyards of my overly rural Dutch relatives.
10. I highly dislike my mother's side of the family.
11. I really do love my mother.
12. She has type 2 diabetes.
13. I really hope that it's not genetic, because I really do love Jones Soda.
14. I collect the bottles. They decorate my orange bedroom.
15. I started this blog the same day I got a fortune reading "You have a way with words. Maximize on it." from a bottlecap.
16. Well, not really. But it sounded nice. And it could have happened.
17. There's a Wilco song that goes, "All my lies are only wishes."
18. That sounds nice too.
19. I'm a sucker for lyrics and music in general.
20. My favorite band used to be Coldplay, but I hated them as soon as everyone else started to realize their greatness.
21. And the whole bit about their lead singer, Chris Martin, dating Gwenyth Paltrow.
22. I do believe I'm skinnier than Gwenyth Paltrow. With straighter hair, too.
23. I'm not proud of this. I generally dislike my appearence, except for my eyes.
24. I love my eyes, which is ironic because they are pretty much worthless.
25. I'm blind as a bat without my contacts.
26. I used to have glasses. My prescription was so thick that in the 5th grade, a girl named Katherine Doyle mistakenly told me that my lenses were falling out of my frames.
27. Incidentilly, 5th grade was also the year I told Louis Standiford I thought he was cute.
28. My 5th grade teacher felt sorry for me and had to tuck my collar in properly for me every morning.
29. 5th grade was not a good year.
30. Most years have been ok, though.
31. Not that I've had too many years to experience. I'm only a teenager.
32. I always feel awkward about my age in the blogging sense, because most of the other bloggers I read from regularly are easily 10 years older than me.
33. I could say "whatever" to the above statement, but that would re-emphasize my Gen-Y status.
34. My to-do list includes "rename my generation, because the term 'Gen-Y' is entirely uncreative."
35. My to-do list also includes "clean room"
36. I'm a chronic slob.
37. I feel bad for my future dorm mates.
38. My life focuses on going to an East Coast university.
39. And then becoming a succesful journalist for the NY Times or the Boston Globe and having a totally cool inner-city loft after "Trading Spaces" comes to make it over.
40. See? Elitist yuppie snob.
41. If I ever have a baby girl, her name will be Wesley.
42. This is not a male-only name, you pigs. It's cute. Cute!
43. I can't think of any cute little-boys names.
44. This doesn't worry me, because I already know my imagination is very limited and besides, I'm getting a little ahead of myself.
45. I do that a lot. I don't like to live in the present, unless the present includes no less than a water-skiing date with Josh Hartnett and plenty of yogurt-covered cherries.
46. I'm a demanding person from everyone but myself.
47. This is why I feel like I have a kinship with Marie Antoinette. Becuase I sure as hell like anybody that lets me eat cake.
48. It's hard for me to truly like anybody. But if I do, they're liked for life.
49. Nothing personal.
50. I also have the habit of apologizing way too often.
51. I think I've covered most of my bad habits by now.
52. Well, except for the one that involves me ripping off the tips of my fingernails all the time so that they never grwo past my fingertips and they bleed profusely.
53. You probably didn't need to know that.
54. I could sell all the blood that I leak through various nail-ripping incidents, nosebleeds, and sports injuries and become filthy rich.
54. I'm a greedy materialistic bastard.
55. Nearly every item of clothing I own comes from American Eagle.
56. Just because I like that store.
57. I'm pretty sure that 57 is a prime number. "Pretty sure" is a euphamism for "I'm good at math, but don't apply myself."
58. I prefer writing.
59. Writing is just thoughts, and you think regardless whether you put it down on paper or not, so you might as well get credit for it.
60. Plus you know those "What Personality Disorder Are You?" tests? I always come out as Histronic.
61. I think that means I'm a spotlight-craving bitch, but "Histronic" sounds nicer. History is a pleasurable subject.
62. Except for the Civil War. I hated learning about the Civil War. Probably because our teacher kept popping documentaries into the VCR like pills while she surfed the Dr. Phil website.
63. I don't like Dr. Phil, the primary reasons being his mustache and the fact that I have this hunch that he's a republican.
64. If I could vote, I'd vote Dean.
65. Because I'm pretty sure he's the only liberal capable of taking on Bush in the '04 election.
66. Actually, I have no political views. I just read that last line from last Tuesday's installment of Time magazine.
67. Tuesday is my favorite day of the week.
68. I know this makes me a freak for not saying that Saturday is my favorite day of the week, but deal.
69. I fell in love on a Tuesday once. Refer to #2.
70. The other times I don't remember.
71. This is good, because otherwise I would blubber on sentimentally forever.
72. I quite often disgust myself. This is the result of having a really sappy yet cynical psyche.
73. Contrary to popular belief, I will not make a schizophrenia joke here.
74. I've never met anyone with schizophrenia. I'm not sure how I would act. I'm a sick person, so I'm hoping I won't ever find out.
75. My mom's cousin had leukemia, though. Again, I never met her, but I went to her funeral when I was around 8. That was the only funeral I have ever been to.
76. As long as I'm on the subject of saddening family ties, I once had a crush on my dad's second cousin's stepson.
77. I can't believe I just admitted that. But we're not related by blood, so I'm not a redneck hillbilly. Still, my best friend would think me odd.
78. Although she's the one with the desire to play pro tennis for a month when she's never picked up a racket.
79. I'm the athletic one, anyway.
80. My volleyball team made it to nationals in Chicago, but we finished so-so.
81. It was one of the best times I've had in my life.
82. My coach once benched me for a game when he heard that I was taking guitar lessons, because he was afraid I wouldn't have time for practices. He's a bit of a nutcase.
83. I can play "Take Me Home, Country Roads" on my guitar with quite some precision.
84. I despise country. And mainstream pop.
85. Unless it's the Beatles.
86. I once wrote a 5 act play based purely on the song "Eleanor Rigby".
87. I will never playwrite again.
88. I also refuse to mow the lawn every again, because I had this really scary nightmare about the lawnmower shaving my head.
89. That would really hurt if it came true, not just because a huge blade would be whizzing by my head, but because my scalp is currently sunburned.
90. I never tan. I just get burned, and then it turns into freckles.
91. My butt's sunburned too, actually. I can't offer up any explanation, except that it's quite uncomfortable to wear underwear when you have a peeling butt.
92. The above was meant in the utmost of good taste.
93. I'm not a prude. I'm not a dweeb. I'm not peeling-butt ugly. Now that we have those misconceptions out of the way, we can continue.
94. I used to confuse the words "prude" and "prune".
95. When I was 6, I took great shame in the fact that my family visited West Lake Drug, because I didn't understand the difference between Tylenol and street drugs.
96. I live on West Lake now.
97. Local folklore explains the manmade phenom as such, "In the sixties, this guy wanted to increase the value of a large parcel of real estate he owned. So he got some dynamite and put it in the middle and blew up West Lake."
98. Apparently, the house in which I currently reside was once the said lunatic's.
99. This fills me with glee. I'm a gleeful person, really.
100. This is the song that never ends, yes it goes on and on my friends...:D
Fresh squeezed by melly at 4:26 PM
Jackie O's Got Nothin' On Me
I have this weird fascination with the 50s and 60s (as in the decades, not as in the senior citizens of America). And today was the third day in a row of on again, off again rain. What's a Melly to do?
Drive down to Schoolcraft, of course.
Schoolcraft is a bordering town. It's probably more like a village, though. It has a population of 250 or something like that. Of the 11 stores on its' main street, 4 of them are antique stores.
I returned with a buck fifty lighter in my pockets and 3 really cool vintage pin things. They all look very art deco. I'm not even quite sure on the exact definition of art deco, but these pins seem to fit it. I'll wear them in bunches for the ultimate oddity.
What I really wanted to get was this really cool hat, one of those with netting that pulls down over the eyes. Except it wasn't a whole hat, it was like a quarter hat...a little strip of netting that just sat on the crown of your head and that is that. But it cost thirty-five clams, and while I despise seafood I thought it wise to hold on to a bucket full of clams like that.
Old hairbrushes are really freaky. You know? Especially if there's hair on them.
I was rather disapointed that I saw no vintage advertisement posters. My La Vache Qui Rit is getting lonely.
It's quite sad, really, when a trip to Schoolcraft's antique stores is the highlight of my day. But so it was, and so it shall be.
Fresh squeezed by melly at 3:35 PM
Sunday, July 06, 2003
"We need to be different," I said decisively, "So that this can truly be a vacation, even from ourselves."
So we looked at our bath towels to assume our new identities. She was Heather-Rose, I was Caramel.
And off we went, Heather-Rose and I, from the boat that was, of course, named "Yachta Yachta Yachta", past the goose that hissed and the fat shirtless old men, over the hill where matches lay, through the marina where children played in the gasoline (mm! gasoline!) water, over the Lennon lyrics carved in the street, past the convience store that was once a church with a steeple, through the meadow with all of the wild red-orange lilies, past the deli and the sweet soda and old lady making egg salad sandwiches, by the upturned bridge where we had to wait awhile, under the non-existant streetlamps on a dark night to the warm blue water wildly lapping on the sandy beach where we jumped in and shrieked and jumped and laughed as washboard abs looked on; matching flip-flops flip-floppin all the way in rythym. And then the flip-floppin stopped, and the lights went out, and we layed down in the warm sand and watched as God blessed America and things blew up in the sky in pretty colors.
You would never know that this magical place was South Haven, and the only chain-store for miles was a Wal-Mart that sold nothing but green bananas.
I turned. "Heathuh-Rose", I drawled, "This is fab-u-lous", and I flicked my wrist as a new joke was born.
And she smiled, and we sang, and we burned like old neon on a Jersey boardwalk.
Fresh squeezed by melly at 5:39 PM