Wednesday, November 26, 2003

And Thanks For All The Fish
This will be my fourteenth Thanksgiving; the second I will be able to place exact details to. (Last year's involved a new sweater, a slightly musty rented-out church basement, and a headache; before this I forget but expect they incorporated more of the same, plus or minus the consumation of turkey.)
My father returned some aluminum cans at the grocery store yesterday and came back with ten dollars. He said he comtemplated buying one of the parakeets there with the money, and I found this to be utterly romantic.
My mother, her thin bob of hair freshly and odorly permed, is happiest when she's catalogue-shopping for armoires and desk organizers, god bless her heart. Scrabble games and heavy perusal through the realtors' section in the newspaper promise to be on the menu for today.
Anna, the younger girl with whom I share my genetic makeup, has been snooping around with my Flaming Lips ceedee and muttering the word "Yoshimi". She writes things like "his work is like a glass rose, complete and full with emotion" about Tchaikovsky in her notebooks. I'm not supposed to know, but I am proud and later guffaw, respectively.
In simplest terms, I am thankful for--family, firends, home, words, rock-hard shortbread cookies, kindergarten friends, stragetically placed kleenex boxes, pavement, teddy bears, goofy American holidays, tacky television shows, unmanicured nails, pens that work without struggle, secretaries that say things like, "The new Hummer is beautiful", secret telephone calls, clean windows withh pleasant views, foriegn languages, nonscary mutts that are soft and auburn, hormones, stretches of anything, running water, bicycles and beanbags, gasoline, Doonesbury, the batteries that headphones run on, life, and the million other things that shape who I am unconsiously. I'm young--too young, really, to know what all of these things are yet. I'm admitting that now, after about a year of trying to get around that fact in this blog.
The tattered, paperbacked, school-loaned copy of Grapes of Wrath lies on the greyish-white thickly knit carpet of my bedroom, covering the orange spot of paint that fell past the tarps when I painted the walls. On the cover lies a pink post-it note that reads simply "SMILE MYSTERIOUSLY". It's not my handwriting.

Fresh squeezed by melly at 11:29 PM

Tuesday, November 25, 2003

Mooching, Or, It Could Have Happened
I order just a bun on the slow Sunday afternoon; no meat, no cheese, and hold the onions. The lady at the cash register gives it to me for free, wanting to see the homeless smile until she hears the clickety click of my red strappy heels. Or my mothers, actually, chafing the skin on our same-sized feet. Pinky toes rub raw and red.
The man in front of me takes today’s newspaper issue out of the rack, dumps all of the advertisements and coupons into his briefcase, and then proceeds to put the paper back on the rack and to talk with his overweight wife/girlfriend/sister/inbred mother without making the fifty cent “recommended” contribution to the Ronald McDonald house.
I can’t find the extra nickel I need for tax to get a parfait off of the dollar menu, so I leave before it starts to rain. Clean humidity and hamburgers perfume the overcast sky. I contemplate removing the shoes and running barefoot down the street to somewhere, but I decide against it when I see the broken bottles on the pavement. The straps cut in harder, and the toes blush in protest. I’m glad I live far away from this place.
The bun tastes just hot it should-processed and safe. The mushiness of it lingers in the crevices of my mouth, and my tongue sets to work. I check the progress in the reflection of a shard of beer glass.
I knock on a door and ask for a toothpick, and then I’m on my way again.

Fresh squeezed by melly at 8:25 PM