The Mel Show

That Kid is Up To Something

2012-02-15T08:00:00.000-05:00

Conversation with Johnny just now.

Mel: Hey. I'm going to go make a phone call in the other room. Can you keep an eye on Mikey for a minute?

Johnny: Sure thing.

Mel: How'd I get so lucky? You're such a good kid.

Johnny: How'd I get so lucky to have such a great mom?

Mel: I don't know what you're up to, but I like it.

Johnny: And such a beautiful mom, too.

Mel: Oh man. You're laying it on thick today, buddy.

Johnny: Laying it on what?

Mel: Nothing. I'm buying you car. You can drive it now. Laws be damned.

Johnny: No. That's okay. I don't want you to get arrested.

WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON? Johnny's a good kid. He's also a kid with ADHD. Exceptionally poor impulse control. The whole lot. He is behaving PERFECTLY today. I know I probably shouldn't question it. But wtf?

A few weeks ago I read an article about a 9 year old who stabbed like three people over a capri sun. I was discussing it with a friend, and her first response was "What is wrong with that kid's parents?" I know poor parenting can be blamed for a lot. But I also know that you can be a really good parent and your kid still won't be perfect. Your kid might, for example, empty an entire bottle of baby powder all over your bedroom because it looks like snow. Or he might hide all of the toilet paper in the house. Or he might write a note at school to a friend that says "you are a bucket of shit" because he finds curse words HILARIOUS and because the friend originally wrote "You are a fucking asshole" in THEIR note. And maybe they just wanted to try cursing because that's what kids DO. And it probably doesn't mean they're awful or you're awful or they're going to stab someone.

But what are the warning signs for a stabby kid? See, this is where I get worried. I don't know what behaviors mean "this kid might stab someone over a juice box" because I never thought I had to be on the look out for that kind of thing. And maybe the parents of the stabby kid were doing a really good job and just never thought to tell their kid that there were other options for getting the capri sun that you want. You know, other than stabbing. Maybe we all need to tell our kids not to stab people over juice boxes because maybe they are all predisposed to stabbing and the only kids who DON'T do it are the ones who are explicitly told not to. What if stabbing is the new Pokemon?

Mel: Johnny. Don't stab anyone, okay?

Johnny: What? Why?

Mel: For any reason. Just don't do it.

Johnny: Why would I stab someone? Did you just read that on the Internet?

Mel: I don't know. Just don't do it. There are better ways to resolve conflicts.

Johnny: Okay.

Crisis averted.

One Conversation. Two Ways.

2012-02-13T07:37:00.001-05:00

I'm a slutty texter. If you don't respond to me immediately, I will forward my original message to someone else. Occasionally, I end up having the same conversation with two different people, and with two very different outcomes.

Mel: I just made the very important decision to start wearing false eyelashes.

Mel, 2 hours later: Your lack of response forces me to forward this very important message which I brought to you first to someone else so I can continue discussing this life altering decision. I hope you're happy with yourself.

Nicole: Wait wait wait.

Mel: You abandoned me in my time of miniscule need. You're a monster.

Nicole: I was on the phone with Jim. He lost his keys at work.

Mel: I see where your priorities are.

Nicole: I think fake lashes are fucking glam. Go for it.

CONVERSATION #2

Mel: I just made the very important decision to start wearing false eyelashes.

Tasha: Individual lashes or full?

Mel: Individual. I'm not a tranny. Just an aging mom convinced that she can recapture her youthful looks with glue.

Tasha: A chick I work with used Latisse and the results are amazing. Lashes=youth?

Mel: But Latisse could turn my blue eyes brown. And that's not what that song's about.

Tasha: Does your salon apply them? At mine they apply them and it lasts like 3 months. Like a weave for your lashes.

Mel: I'm going to try and apply them myself. The Today Show said I can. Did I mention that this was The Today Show's idea?

Mel: I'm sure they will look professionally done. It sounds like something I'm qualified to do.

Mel: I'll watch a bunch of YouTube tutorials first. It'll be fine.

Mel: I'm going to blind myself.

Tasha: You're going to glue your finger to your eyelid and then go blind. And the false lash is going to be glued to the tip of your nose. And no one is ever going to tell you about the falsies on your nose and you won't know either because you'll be blind. You'll be the girl with the hairy nose.

Mel: Stop being so jealous of how awesome my false eyelashes are going to be. You're really embarrassing yourself.

So this morning I tried applying false eyelashes. You win this round, Tasha.

I Just Wrote it on the Internet. Now it's a Fact.

2012-02-12T09:18:00.012-05:00

The way I see it, there are two distinct problems with the Internet:

1) You always end up somewhere you didn't expect. Always. You sit down thinking "I want to learn more about badgers!" and 45 minutes later you are reading seriously in depth descriptions of exorcisms. Congratulations! You're an expert on exorcisms now. And you're never sleeping again. I'm not even just using two random examples to make my point. THIS HAPPENED TO ME. After awhile, your brain starts working this way. You're thinking about kittens and before you know it, you're pondering the Egyptian Book of the Dead. Don't bother trying to figure out how you got there. Your brain doesn't have search history.

2) You start taking everything you've read on the internet to be the gospel truth. The sheer number of things that I have put on my face because the internet told me to is ASTOUNDING. Some of them have actually been really great. Oil cleansing? OMG BEST THING EVER. (read about it here and here, if you want to change your life.) Orange juice and baking soda? DON'T DO IT. I mean. That's a base and an acid. I think. I could google it, but I'd just believe whatever the first result tells me. But pretty much, you put it on your face and your face is then Pompeii.

The plus side of believing everything you read on the internet is that you can pretty much win any argument if you're the only one with access to the internet at the time. Even if it's an argument you started because your brain went through a weird black hole of thinking and you ended up somewhere downright weird. Behold.

Mel's Brain: That sign said "Women's Correctional Facility." I think it's weird that they call them correctional facilities. I don't think we do enough to correct things in jails. I mean, they have television and gyms and stuff. And too much free time. And nobody is getting rehabilitated by making license plates. You're not going to leave prison and put "making license plates" on your resume and suddenly be this really desirable job candidate. You're still sort of effed in the job market. Prison needs to be more disciplined. Like stop letting prisoners hang out and tattoo one another's lips and stuff. I bet less lip tattooing would lead to less gangs in prison. I bet there are like no gangs in Chinese prisons. They're just all around disciplined. The Olympics opening ceremonies? I bet they make them practice drumming like that in Chinese prisons for 20 hours a day. And then they get out of prison and they can put "badass drummer" on their resume. And I see ads on Craig's List for drummers ALL THE TIME, so you really have a shot when you get out of Chinese prison. And also, they exercise at the office and stuff together there. That's the kind of exercise we should have in prisons here. Don't give them awesome gyms so they can get strong enough to kill each other. Everyone line up and do jumping jacks. It's impossible to look threatening doing jumping jacks. They probably have NO gangs in Chinese prisons. We need to be more like China.

Mel(out loud): You know. I bet there is no gang violence in Chinese prisons.

Todd: Oh Jesus Christ. WHY?

Mel: Because those people are disciplined. They, like, exercise in big groups before work every day. There's no way they don't have something similar happening in their prison system.

Todd: That's Japan. In Japan they exercise in big groups before work.

Mel: Fine. I bet there is no gang violence in Japanese prisons.

Todd: You would be wrong. Yakuza. Triads. Japanese gangs are no joke.

Mel: Fine. I was right the first time, then. There is no gang violence in Chinese prisons.

Todd: I really don't think you're right about this. There is absolutely gang violence in China. But feel free to google it.

Mel: I WILL.

So I googled for a solid 60 seconds, found this blog with a single sentence to validate my point, and fucking WON the argument. And the internet, I think.

Mel: So, it says right here that "Every major American city has well-established and vicious Chinese street gangs. They simply lack a significant counterpart in their home country." I TOLD YOU.

Todd: What are you reading? Are you just reading some blog? You're going to need to quote a valid source. Who wrote this?

Mel: AN EXPERT ON GANGS. Stop hating when I'm right.

P.S. 20 minutes later at a gas station, the attendant was being awful to us. I mean really awful. Like muttering under his breath and actually mocking Todd when he spoke. I DON'T KNOW WHY. It was very confusing. But the attendant was Japanese. So when Todd opened his mouth to say something back to him, I whispered very quietly "NO. YAKUZA BOSS." Because with an extra 20 minutes of googling, I was an expert, too. And I know a Yakuza boss when I see one.

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This Post is For My Mother In Law

2012-02-11T09:36:00.006-05:00

If you've been here before, you might remember this post where I told the tale of the awful gift that I bought for my friend, Brittany. This post was a cliffhanger. I couldn't tell you the end until she received it. And then when she DID receive it, she wrote an awesome post on her blog telling all about it, and linked it in the comments. To make sure everyone saw the ending, I edited my original post and linked to her post. I did this for two reasons:

1) She's funny. Her post was funny. I saw no need for me to try and be funny talking about the same thing a second time.
2) Blogging is like a big circle jerk. You link to someone, they link to you, you comment on their blog, they comment on yours. Everyone's jerking someone at any given time. That's how it works.

But I don't think my mother in law has seen Britto's post. I say this because she posted on Facebook specifically asking me to follow up on this. Ladies, listen to me. Do what your mother in law says. She raised your husband. If you decided to marry him, chances are she did a pretty good job with him. Your husband might have moved away from her to be with you. He probably hasn't gone to see her on Mother's Day since he moved in with you because you spend Mother's Day with YOUR mother. And since he moved away, he probably doesn't see her as frequently as he'd like. Maybe not even on all of the holidays because you have kids now and it's a pain in the ass to travel all around on the holidays with kids. You took her son out of state and now he's all grown up with kids and she only gets to see him and her grandchildren once a month, at best. For fuck's sake. When she wants to hear more about the stupid shit that you bought for your friends, you comply with this request. Because one day you are going to have a daughter in law. And if you can't tell that little son stealing wench what a wonderful and doting daughter in law YOU once were, you. are. fucked.

Debbie. My friend Brittany received her gift and told us all about it here. Sorry about that whole "moving Todd to Jersey" thing.

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For Better or Worse

2012-02-04T20:21:00.007-05:00

Before my husband was my husband, he was my boyfriend from Connecticut. To make a Connecticut/New Jersey relationship work, a lot of travel was involved. It wasn't uncommon for him to get off from his shift at the bar where he worked as a bouncer at 2:00 am on a Saturday morning and drive through the night to arrive at my house at four or five o'clock in the morning. To me, this was mind boggling and also REALLY romantic. I asked him once how he could stay awake to drive down here at such an hour. His response? "I turn classical music on and turn it up really loud and drive with the windows down. I don't know. I just really like listening to classical music while I'm driving long distances." My response? "Omg marry me and let's make babies, sexy sexy classical music listening man."

Today we were driving to Pennsylvania to visit my parents. He scanned through the radio stations a bit, and then settled upon a classical music station. After we listened for a few minutes, he turned to me and said "Doesn't this make you think of Tom and Jerry? Like this part right here. Doesn't it sound like Jerry is sneaking around with some cheese or something? I don't know, I just like thinking of that."

Classic example of perception vs reality, y'all. I married a fucking idiot.

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I Bought You Something Awful

2012-01-14T09:47:00.008-05:00

This blog post needs a picture. But it can't have one. Not yet. Because it's a surprise. This blog post? It's a cliffhanger. Because you have to read it today and then wait for UPS to do it's magic. And in a few days, if UPS doesn't lose it, I can post what I'm talking about. Doesn't that sound exciting? It does. I'm excited for you. So let's talk about it.

In September, my friend Tasha and I were driving to North Jersey for a bit of shopping. I'm not good at being places on time, so we were already way later than we should have been when it happened. And by "it" I mean, we passed a garage sale. And as we drove past, the most glorious thing I've ever seen caught my eye.

Me: OMG. Did you SEE that?
Tasha: See what?
Me: THAT. We have to stop. I have to own that. We're turning around.
Tasha: Seriously? You're going to turn around and go to a garage sale for THAT? What are you even going to do with it?
Me: Be awesome. THAT's what.

So we turned around and drove back to the garage sale. As we got closer to the object in question, it became even more amazing. I know you don't know what it is, but trust me, it was everything it SHOULD be and then a whole lot more. My eyes lit up. I practically ran across the lawn. I couldn't risk someone else getting to it before me.

Me: How much for THAT?
Garage sale lady: THAT? Let's call it two dollars.
Me: YES. Two dollars. I will give you two dollars, and I will take that.

Later that night I brought it home and showed it to Todd and he said "What are we even going to do with that?" And I was like "I don't know, but I couldn't just NOT buy it. Look at it." He seemed strangely unimpressed. The next day, I realized I knew exactly what to do with it. I had to send it to someone. Not just any someone. No. I had someone in mind. But not yet. Timing is everything with these things. And so it's been in the back of my closet ever since. Waiting for the right moment. I thought about sending it immediately. I thought about sending it at Halloween. I thought about sending it at Christmas. But no. Those were the wrong moments. This? This is the moment.

My friend Brittany ran her first half marathon last weekend. I'm so proud of her. Just like I want to hug her until I crush her proud, you know? You can read all about it here on her blog, which is what you should be reading all the time if you like awesome people who inspire you and stuff. And now is the right time for me to send her a present which I think is hilarious and probably sums up how only I think I'm funny.

Britto. You're changing the way you live your life and accomplished something pretty amazing. Me? I bought you something awful. This thing is your problem now. YOU'RE WELCOME.

FOLLOW UP: She got it. And she's gonna pay it forward. The internet is the best place in the world.

I Resolve to do Some Things

2012-01-07T22:52:00.008-05:00

New Year's was last week. So this is late. But that's on my list of things which I resolve to change this year, so it's OKAY. I made my resolutions at about 8:00 PM on New Year's Eve. Right around the time that I was tricking my children into thinking it was midnight with a youtube video of the countdown and fireworks that had aired earlier that day as Australia rang in the New Year. I wanted to be laying in bed watching Doctor Who at midnight. Not finishing off the last bit of cider with two small children up way past their bedtime. I thought they fell for it, but the next day Johnny told my mom "Mom made us do New Year's at 8:00. Lame." Whatever, kid. You needed your sleep. And so did I. Plusalso, an hour of Mikey running around the house yelling "3, 2, 1, TOUCHDOWN!" was cute. Anything more than that would have been overkill. Know when to kill a joke. Important lesson.

Anyway. My resolutions. Here they are:

1) Get more healthy. Just, in general. Stop smoking (again). Start exercising instead of restricting calories and relying on red bull for energy. You know. Just be an all around adult about my health. That seems important.

2) Blog more. At least three times a week. Because I'm never going to win the internet by blogging once a month.

3) Blog while things are still relevant. Like my one year anniversary which was also New Year's Eve. New Year's Eve would have been a good time to blog about that. Instead of a week later. It's irrelevant and I don't even remember what I wanted to say now. Something about loving my husband, probably.

4) Actually make some of the things that I pin. I have a very expensive sewing machine taking up space on my floor right now. It's very capable. It can make many things. So can I, for that matter. So I guess this is more about laziness and less about sewing. But I want to SEW MORE THINGS.

5) Work on that whole thing where I'm sort of an asshole. I mean, I don't want to STOP being an asshole. It's a pretty big part of my charm. Just going to reserve it for appropriate situations. Like don't make fun of little kids...that sort of thing. The stuff that's a no-brainer for everyone else but has somehow eluded me? Yea. Gonna work on that.

And that's pretty much it. This isn't a very exciting post. So I'll close with a conversation I had with my husband about why peacocks are sluts. YOU'RE WELCOME:

Me: You know. If you think about it, we're an awful lot like peacocks.
Todd: What the fuck are you on about now?
Me: Think about it. When we're young and of an age to mate with, we're all pretty and shiny. And we have brightly colored hair and pretty skin and our bodies are all tight and, you know, good to look at and stuff.
Todd: Yes...
Me: But when we get old, we get gray and wrinkly and our skin is all loose and gross. It's like nature's way of saying "Don't bother with this one. She's dried up."
Todd: But peacocks are pretty and colorful their whole lives. They don't get gray and ugly. So we're nothing like peacocks.
Me: WE ARE JUST LIKE PEACOCKS. They're just sluts.

Happy New Year, gang.

*Header image from DougandMorri.com, who may or may not have eaten that peacock by now.

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My Regards to Arthur Kady

2011-12-06T22:32:00.005-05:00

See that girl up there? That's me. In sixth grade. No, I don't have the hat anymore and if I did I wouldn't even let you borrow it anyway. When I was in sixth grade I had a crush on a boy named Arthur Kady. My crush lasted more than a few weeks, so it was SERIOUS. (Arthur, by the way, had a twin brother named Bruno. Bruno had an unfortunate face mole. So Arthur won my heart). Somehow I got it in my head that the way to make this known (WHY WOULD I WANT TO MAKE IT KNOWN?) was to put it on my shirt. Like literally- have a shirt made to tell him that I liked him. Solid thinking, 12 year old Mel. If there's anything that 12 year old boys like, it's that weird girl from band walking around using her as yet undeveloped chest as a billboard for her love. Foolproof plan.

Someone should have talked me out of this. Like my mom. I can only assume I was really being a shit on the day I asked about this and that she had been looking for a way to even the score, because she was all for it. Picture it.

12 Year Old Mel: Mom? Can we please go to the flea market tonight?
Mom: Why?
12 y/o Mel: You know that tee shirt place? I want to get a tee shirt made.
Mom: Why do we have to do this tonight?
12 y/o Mel: Well, I am in love with Arthur Kady. And I want him to know it. So I want to get a tee shirt made that says "I heart Arthur Kady.*" And I want to wear it to school tomorrow.
Mom: Yep. Let's do this.

And that's what we did. We went to the flea market. I picked out a peach tee shirt, and I very carefully spelled his name out for the shop girl. I can only assume she was dying on the inside as I told her my plan. But she really wasn't invested in my emotional well being, and those shirts cost like twenty bucks, so she was more than happy to contribute to my demise.

The next day, I woke up and jumped out of bed. I put on my shirt...but then I got nervous. What if he saw me first thing in the morning and made fun of me? Did I mention that I had never even spoken to Arthur Kady? He probably had no idea who I was until that day. This was not just a declaration of my love. It was our introduction. I decided to play it safe and wear a shirt over my rad tee shirt, that way I could reveal it in the middle of the day. When I got to school, of course I lifted my top layer up so all of my friends could see it. They all decided not to stop me from doing this, either. In fact, they might be the biggest assholes in this whole story. Want to know why? I'LL TELL YOU.

I finally decided that I would remove the top layer just after French class and just before lunch. I had chickened out a bit, and usually didn't see Arthur Kady in the halls after French class, so I could still look cool to my friends without humiliating myself. I had finally figured out that this was a bad idea, but it had already gone too far to turn back. So into the bathroom I slipped after French, and I was pretty pleased with my plan. Until I walked out of the bathroom. There were all of my friends. And Arthur Kady. He laughed and walked away. I died inside.

When I got home, my mom was WAY too happy to see me come through the door. She asked how it went. She asked how everyone liked my shirt. She asked how ARTHUR liked my shirt. So I did the only reasonable thing there was left to do. Stormed up to my room yelling "OMG IT WAS FINE WHY DO YOU ALWAYS HAVE TO ASK ME THINGS!" and slammed my door.

I have no idea what happened to Arthur Kady. I have no memories of him or his brother past the sixth grade. And the rest of sixth grade was pretty much uneventful. I wore a lot of hammer pants, farted in the gymnastics show (damn back somersaults), and really overacted my one line in the school play. But I am probably still always going to be the girl in the I Heart Arthur Kady shirt.

*Let it be known that 33 year old me is disappointed in the phrasing on the shirt more than anything. "My Regards to Arthur Kady" would have been much much cooler.

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Live blogging the ER

2011-11-02T15:23:00.006-04:00

As my husband was being wheeled away for tests just now, he asked the nurse two questions.

1) In the event of a zombie apocalypse, I feel that it will be important to know my blood type. Can you tell me that?

2) Can I push the wheel things?

Nurse:

1) They'll tell you that later.

2) No.

So I did the mature thing. Pulled out my phone and started texting him.

Me: Well. She doesn't like you at all. She's rooting for the zombies.

Todd: She hates me. I asked her what she did in the laser room, and she said it was a chest. What does that even mean?

Me: It means you either tone it down, or she "loses" your blood and they have to draw more.

Todd: I hate you a little right now. You better lose that attitude when the zombies make their entrance.

Me: Stop talking about zombies in the hospital. This is how it starts. In six months, I don't want to be sleeping with your best friend in the woods.* Not my style.

His lack of return text, I assume, means he sees my point and has determined it to be sound. I win the ER.

* If you don't watch The Walking Dead, you don't deserve an explanation.

Sent from my iPhone

Don't Piss Off My Subconscious

2011-10-03T17:39:00.005-04:00

Me: Last night I had a dream that I was in some hotel and someone stabbed me. I ran out of the room and into the lobby and told the concierge (it was a nice hotel) that I’d been stabbed and told him to call the police. Then the dude who stabbed me came down into the lobby and tried to check out, and it was you. And I started yelling at you that you couldn’t just stab me and then try to CHECK OUT OF THE HOTEL LIKE NOTHING HAPPENED. So then you started running, but I was ninja fast in my dream and we had this awesome on-foot chase sequence where we were jumping over banisters and railings and rolling across the ground and stuff. And at one point you jumped down like two flights of stairs and rolled into the landing and I yelled “YOU’RE NOT JASON BOURNE, YOU KNOW!” and that was hilarious to me (it still is now- your man crush on Matt Damon has leaked into my dreams). Then the police came and arrested you. But then it wasn’t you again, and I was with you at our house (which was really nice, btw. We’re apparently really successful in my dreams) and you were consoling me about being stabbed and assuring me everything would be okay. So here’s the thing- you didn’t stab me, then you did, then you didn’t. WHAT ARE YOU HIDING?

Todd: If this is what your dreams are like now maybe you shouldn't take chantix.

Me: Don’t dodge the question there, Stabby. WHAT ARE YOU HIDING?

Todd: Apparently a knife.

Me: It’s not funny. What if this means we need couples therapy? YOU TRIED TO KILL ME.

Todd: To be fair I did and I didn't.

Me: I’m glad you find this so funny. Know who doesn’t think you’re funny? My subconscious. It thinks you’re trying to kill me. And it’s mad at you. Again.

/end email.

I have no idea what I'm going home to now.

P.S. When I was searching for a photo, I found the one you see up there on howtofightlikejasonbourne.com. I haven't looked at the site yet, but I'm intrigued. The internet is full of treasures.

Squirrels are Inconsolable

2011-08-31T13:07:00.006-04:00

Guys. Last week was crazy. Remember? Earthquake. Hurricane. Tornadoes*. Plagues of Frogs.** I wanted to write about all of these things, especially while "Earthquake" was still producing fantastic search engine traffic, but I FORGOT. So here's my quick rundown of how I seriously overreacted to these situations, and also how I'm a hero.

The hurricane actually came second but, of the stories I have, it's the least exciting. I know technically I should lead with the better story. Inverted pyramid and all. But let's just get the hurricane out of the way. Chronological order is for suckers. Here's my hurricane story: It came. It left. I still have 11 gallons of water, one pack of unopened D batteries, and an exceptionally smug husband. Fuck all.

Days before the hurricane came the earthquake. Remember the earthquake? You probably do. You were either here and you started praying even though you don't believe in God, or you were elsewhere and you mocked all of us. Whatever. You remember it. I was at work. At first I thought I was having some sort of fit. Then I was like "I've never had a fit before. That doesn't seem like something I would do." So then I thought "Super. Terrorists." Then my chair started moving across the floor and I thought "Oh holy sweet baby Jesus crap, an earthquake. I have no idea what to do in an earthquake. ALL OF MY TRAINING IS IN SHARK ATTACKS!" I figured someone else was probably ready for this, so I stood up and walked around my wall so I could look for someone who looked prepared. But they all looked confused, too. I finally heard one person say "DO I GET UNDER MY DESK?" I thought that sounded right, but then everyone grabbed their purses and left, so I figured...okay. Let's leave.*** As I was walking out, I came upon one lone woman still sitting at her desk, talking to a client on the phone. I stood there for a minute, then I said "Everyone's leaving. You should call that client back." And then we walked out together. When we got outside, she said "Boy, everyone else left me behind." I was going to shrug it off, but then I realized she was right. They DID all leave her behind. Nobody else has used the word "heroic" to describe the 60 seconds I lingered at her desk before urging her to come with me, but I bet they're all thinking it. I hope I get a plaque for my desk.

Later that day, I got to worrying about my dogs. I texted Todd, but he said it probably wouldn't be okay for him to leave work early to console our dogs. While that makes perfect sense, it felt wrong to me. As I sat outside thinking how Todd clearly hates our dogs, I couldn't help but notice that the squirrels were acting strange. You know why? Squirrels don't have Twitter. They had NO IDEA what just happened. I decided that somebody needed to talk to them. Poor guys. So I got down on their level (on the ground, as it were) and tried to console them. You want to know something? Squirrels are inconsolable.

*Tornado warnings when there are no actual tornadoes are still scary, okay? THEY COUNT.

**To the best of my knowledge, there was no plague of frogs. But that was on the first page of a google image search for "earthquake" so I figure there COULD have been a plague of frogs that none of us noticed.

**If there is an earthquake, please don't do this. Apparently going under our desks was the right answer, not rushing outside. WE DIDN'T KNOW, okay?

Teenagers Will Punch You In Your Face

2011-08-20T12:02:00.004-04:00

Last night, Tasha and I got manicures and then went to Starbucks. The manicure people were VERY cranky that we arrived at 7:00 and they were closing at 7:30, and the girl who did mine was all "we have to hurry because we close in like 15 minutes," and I was all "Whoa. Time moves faster here? Are we in the Territories?"; and she didn't get it.*

After our 30 minute (15 minute?) manicures, we decided we'd go to Starbucks because everywhere that wasn't Starbucks would be full of
teenagers, and we didn't want that. But guess what? Did you guess? There were teenagers there. And they brought their baby. And they sat outside with their baby at 9:30 in the cold and smoked all over their baby. And we DIDN'T KNOW WHAT TO DO.

We started off just glaring at them and whispering how it was SO SAD. We wanted to do more, though. Every fiber within us said we needed to MAKE A SCENE. We started talking about the possible scene when Tasha had a moment of clarity.

"Melissa, those are teenagers. They haven't yet learned not to resort to fisticuffs to resolve their problems. If we make a scene, they
will punch us in the face".

There was no denying that she was right. They would punch our faces. So we had to grumble quietly while trying to determine the appropriate way for 30-somethings to react to this. The correct answer, in case you're wondering, is: go home and blog about it.

*I probably just said that in my head, which is irrelevant, because she wasn't listening anyway.

Sent from my iPhone

He Might End Up Murdering Me

2011-08-16T16:45:00.010-04:00

Pretty often, I have no choice but to question how it is that my husband tolerates me. I'm an idiot, for sure, and I find it downright charming. Nobody has to put up with more of this than Todd. If I stub my toe, I am going to WHINE about it for a good long while and demand that things be brought to me. If I don't understand something, I will demand that it be explained to me in a very specific way (EX. Ok. I get that I can't train a great white to love me. BUT LET'S JUST PRETEND HERE- if I could, which kind of soup would it prefer? or So you're saying that a T Rex would be bigger than our house but not as big as that tree? Is it the size of a roller coaster? ) I probably only survived my pregnancy because he was so willing to go to the supermarket seven times a day to bring me home new snacks. Pregnancy was SERIOUS, and I needed pork roll at odd hours.

When he's not fetching sandwiches or explaining the debt ceiling to me, my husband works in a wonderful place that appreciates it's employees. They have a program where an associate who finds a way to save the company money is cut a check for a percentage of the savings. That's a sweet deal. He's worked out some savings before and it's nice getting those checks. I love spending money* and I really love spending found money. And that's what these bonus checks are to me: found money. To my husband, though, they're just one more thing that turns me into an idiot. Here is what he had to put up with today:

Todd: (spreadsheet that made little sense but had pretty colors was attached, as well) So ... even if they only give me 20% savings for the WORD MEL DOESN'T UNDERSTAND I'm still looking at a total of UNDISCLOSED DOLLAR AMOUNT in savings. If they give me the whole OTHER WORD MEL DOESN'T UNDERSTAND savings it'd be UNDISCLOSED DOLLAR AMOUNT.

I'll gladlly take 10% of either.

This spreadsheet is what I've been doing ALL day. I think my eyes are bleeding.

Mel: I don’t even know what I’m looking at. Just tell me when we’ll have a check. I have already mentally blown the whole thing at IKEA.

Todd: Not for a month or two at the earliest.

Mel: Speed it up there, Sparky. Momma wants a new bedroom. And living room. And kid’s room. WE CAN BUY SO MUCH AT IKEA! IT’S LIKE WHEN MICHAEL WENT TO BURLINGTON COAT FACTORY!!!

Todd: Am I allowed to get anything that I want or do you have ALL of it spent already?

Mel: I assumed what you wanted most was my happiness. That seems like something you’d say, doesn’t it?

Todd: Yup … turns out this check is only going to be for like UNDISCLOSED DOLLAR AMOUNT max.

Mel: Why? You saved them way more than that.

Todd: That’s just the way it is, dear. That’s just the way it is.

Mel: That’s not the way it is in AMERICA. Nope. OUR COLORS DON’T RUN.

I’m sorry, I don’t really know what I’m talking about. But I will spend less of this money since there will be less of it, okay? Maybe I can just have some sort of Swedish duvet or shower curtain? You know how I love a new shower curtain. IT CHANGES THE WHOLE ROOM.

Todd: I’m effing with you, love. If I tell you there is only UNDISCLOSED DOLLAR AMOUNT I get to spend DIFFERENT UNDISCLOSED DOLLAR AMOUNT. See how that worked?

Mel: I just got the stupidest smile on my face. Like a “shucks, you got me” sort of idiot grin. I love you. This is why I ALWAYS think we won the lottery and you’re just waiting to get the check to tell me. That’s something you’d do. And then I’d be all “OMG, work, I just won the lottery and my husband just rolled up in a HOVERCRAFT. PEACE OUT.”

/email

He probably won't respond anymore. That's usually how this works. I get it up to a level of unfathomable stupidity, and I assume he then sits thoughtfully at his desk, looking at my picture and trying to remember the days when I tried to make a good impression on him. Imagine if I had a hovercraft, though?

* As Todd has explained it to me, even though I am horribly immature and irresponsible with money, my spending habits are still better than the government's. While both myself and the government will look at our bank accounts and say "Gee, I only have $3, but that item that I want is $5. I will buy it anyway," the government has yet to get on board with my "only overdraft once" plan. Here's how that works. You know it's getting tight in your bank account? Figure out everything you need and go buy it all at once. Then you just sail along to your next pay day, and you only had to eat that one $35 fee from your bank. YOU'RE WELCOME.

Technology Rarely Mixes Well With Mel

2011-06-25T13:35:00.004-04:00

I tried to set up my account so I could text my blog posts. Imagine, reading every stupid fucking thought that passes through my mind. Thrilling idea, no? Well it didn't work. So now I've tried to configure it so that I can email them. And this here? This is what we call a test email. In the off chance that it works, here is the stupid fucking thought in my head right now:
It is far too easy to remove or manipulate the pants of the male members of my household when they are sleeping. I just rummaged around in Todd's pocket for a solid minute trying to remove his phone, and the dude was not fazed. (FYI, until like two days ago I thought that should be "phased". There is nothing worse than finding out you've incorrectly spelled a word for years). Anyway, I also change Mikey's diapers when he's asleep all the time, and the kid just lays there. Having my pants removed would wake me up, I'm sure of it. And I'd wake up MAD, y'all. Boys are different.

Sent from my iPhone

Important Things

2011-06-25T12:29:00.004-04:00

So here's what happens. Every now and again, I think "ZOMG, I am depriving the world of my very important thoughts by never updating my blog! I need to go tell things to the internet right now!" These thoughts tend to happen at work, and when I remember that blogger is blocked at work, I vow to BLOG WHEN I GET HOME. Then I don't becuase my laziness is extraordinary.

But it's Saturday, and my husband and kids are sleeping. I need to talk about very important things.

Important thing #1- I don't care what it costs, I'm hiring a maid. I'm pretty sure you can't place a value on that. I'm not sure Todd wants to spend money on a maid, so I will start working from home on the days when the maid comes, and then I can be all "look at all the cleaning I got done on my lunch break today!" I think he'll buy it.

Important thing #2- Todd might be trying to kill me. Last night when I told him how I almost DIED because the sprinklers startled me when they kicked on he totally was NOT concerned.

Me (after shaking him awake): You weren't there for me when I almost just died right now.
Todd: How did you almost just die?
Me: I was outside, and I heard a hissing sound and my feet got wet. And so I thought there was a snake throwing venom at me before he attacked, but I couldn't think of any snakes that project venom prior to an attack. So then I figured it was that dinosaur in Jurassic Park with the funny head that spit venom at Newman and killed him. But it was just the sprinklers.
Todd: You're right, I should have been there for you. Go to bed.

I think he set the timer on the sprinklers, y'all. He knows my brain goes straight to "monster" when I hear a new sound. That was a pre-mediatated heart attack attempt, I think.

Important thing #3- We're going food shopping and to BJs today. I only agreed that going to BJs for our protein needs was a good idea because they have a booze section in BJs. Like I care if my steak comes at a fair price.

I'll Get Dressed...Someday

2009-10-18T20:31:00.005-04:00

Letting myself go hasn't been as liberating as one might expect. To be fair, I'm still battling against the idea that I have, in fact, let myself go. I'm still somewhat convinced that I just have a new baby and rarely go anywhere of interest, and therefore have no need to wear more than sweats or attempt cosmetics and hair care on a daily basis. If this is the case, that's just super, but I do wish I could feel a bit more carefree about the situation rather than just, well...dirty and lazy. Today I went to the store in sweat pants, sneakers, and a giant sweatshirt belonging to Todd. No makeup, hair piled on top of my head in a messy bun...it was just the pharmacy, why drag out even a poly blend for such a jersey cotton occasion? Rather than a feeling of "whatever, I'm just running to the store" I had more a feeling of "they are all judging me. Harshly."

I might also add that I already behave like a teenager when I purchase condoms. I cruise past the aisle once or twice, then position myself across from them and determine my needs before making my final approach. Once a decision has been made, I walk past and grab them without stopping and then quickly drop them into my basket. In my mind I will forever be seventeen, and I feel as though old ladies throughout the store are glaring at me and deeming me a harlot. Except today. Today it felt more like the old ladies were smirking at me and inwardly laughing while thinking "yea, right." So that was fun. Going forward, my level of grooming upon leaving the house will strictly adhere to the expected contents of my shopping basket. Perhaps I won't be asked to run any further errands after hearing so many hours of my pondering, hammering away at the endless debate occurring within the depths of my closet: just which blouse, exactly, coordinates with Gatorade and apples?

As it turns out, that's pretty much all that I have to say of interest today. Caring for a newborn again has really turned me into a riveting character. Tune in tomorrow, when I will expel all of my feelings on bleach vs bleach alternative.

Johnny Says...

2009-10-08T15:52:00.003-04:00

Johnny brought home a to do list last night. It reads as follows:
1) Clean room
2) Ant farm
3) Play with friends
4) Have some pez
5) Lift weights
6) Pick a movie
7) Go to bed

He just came home from school, and is hard at work cleaning his room. I hate knowing that all this means is that he is up to something. I can't deny that I'm looking forward to seeing the weightlifting portion of the evening, though.

Johnny Says...

2009-08-25T11:01:00.003-04:00

My kid has got it pretty much all figured out...

Johnny: I wish there were no parents in the world, so the kids could do whatever they wanted all the time.

Me: You want to get rid of me? That's mean.

Johnny: I'll wish you back in five days.

Me: Where will I be for those five days, though?

Johnny: Florida.

Please Don't Touch Me

2009-08-04T11:42:00.005-04:00

I've got something I need to bitch about and, quite frankly, I'm rather certain that Todd is sick of hearing it because there's just not a damn thing he can do to help. If you're an offender, it should be clear, so please don't comment here or message me privately to ask if you're one of the people I'm talking about. If you've done even one of these things then yes, you are one of those people and no, there is no special group into which you can be put that would mean this doesn't apply to you (unless you are my mother, which isn't likely, since computers scare her. Or my mother-in-law. Or a sister-in-law. Or Grandma. Or extremely close friend. You have exemption status, the lot of you). Everyone else, hang your head in shame, and do better next time, mkay?

1) Hands off. Seriously. The area upon which you are putting your hands/face/everything is VERY close to my vagina and my breasts. Sort of just sandwiched right in between there, it is. I'm not a loose woman, and were I inclined to BE a loose woman, you'd at least have to attempt to touch those areas in PRIVATE. Unless I've come out and said "please come and feel my womb!" you should not be touching me. If I'm smiling at you while you're doing it, I still hate you. So stop.

2) Eyes off. If you are a perfect stranger, there is no need for you to comment on how "cute" I look or how I'm carrying. In addition, there's no reason for you to ask when I'm due, what the gender will be, if I plan on breastfeeding, or any of the other 100's of inappropriate things which strangers for some reason feel the need to ask pregnant women with whom they are not even mildly acquainted. The fact that we are both currently reaching for basil in the supermarket doesn't mean you need to know my current stage of gestation. Basil and the gestational age of the child in my womb have absolutely nothing in common, can you see that? I understand that, for some reason, these "baby people" like to approach pregnant women and engage them in conversation. But please understand that I like to give dirty looks to these people and wish to trip them. If you need to admire my damn miracle, do it silently from way over there by the cantaloupe.

3) You're not a doctor, so please do shut the fuck up. I don't want your advice, I don't welcome it, and the more you offer it, the more I hate you. I've been to the big show before, and I already know what I'm in for. There is nothing more annoying than unsolicited advice from some woman who thinks her birth/maternal experience was more informative/important/educational than another's. By giving your entirely unwelcome advice all you do is say "My experience is the true experience, what you have been through and learned means nothing in comparison." So you know, this is heard as "I'm a righteous cunt and you really should just tune me out completely." And that's what I'm doing. And then I'm talking about you behind your back.

Well I'm glad that's out. Carry on.

The Mel Show (again)

2009-07-29T12:38:00.004-04:00

So today I moved my LiveJournal to Blogger. Why? Because I don't remember my LiveJournal login. I'm sure I could take some wee test about my mother's maiden name and hometown to find that information, but eh...this seemed like just as much work, and ever since the (failed) gossip blog experiment, I've come to enjoy the Blogger format better. So my blog is here now. The point of all this? Probably very little. Being on maternity leave has freed up lots of time, so it really can't hurt to reopen my other venues of communication with the world. I had a fun time reading through the posts on LiveJournal as I moved them over. Finding that I could recall writing each and my mindset when doing so was surprising. Finding that I can recall what I WASN'T saying was even more surprising. Reading through posts as far back as early 2006 and thinking "I was desperately in love with Todd and in no way prepared to tell him about it when I wrote this" made me smile quite a bit. I plan to tell him about it when he gets home, and I hope he smiles just as much. Reading through other early posts which were written during a failed relationship raised the question: do I move this post, or pretend it never happened? I decided to move everything, because attempting to rewrite history by rewriting a blog is silly. It happened, and I'm leaving it as it is. This is already a truly abridged history of the past three to four years of my life, I won't shorten it any further by removing some of it's poetry.
So, that's pretty much that, y'all. I moved my blog and will possibly post once more to it before I get bored and forget it exists again. Fun, yea? Glad you're on board.

When Cool Kids Grow Up To Be Even Cooler Adults

2008-11-06T01:53:00.002-05:00

My wee cousin Michele is no longer wee. Aside from being old enough to drink and vote now, she's apparently also old enough to be awesome. I was pretty sure this was the case, and today it was confirmed. Behold:

Mel: My work hates gmail, and kills chat pretty regularly.
I didn't jump ship.
ADP just cut the brakes, or something...I don't know, I don't have any other boat references, cars are the closest I've got.

Michele: I know this is completely random, but that reminded me of something funny: did you see the new Indiana Jones movie? It sparked a new expression. Taking successful franchises from the past and making new (not nearly as well-made) movies for them is now referred to as "nuking the fridge."

Mel: So does that mean that the inclusion of aliens in the Indiana Jones franchise is no longer considered jumping the shark? Or did the inclusion of aliens still, in fact, jump the shark, whereas the fact that the movie was ever made at all nuked the fridge?

Michele: I believe it's the latter. However, that doesn't change the fact that they're still considering making a fifth.

Mel: ...which will clearly include Transformers and The Joker.

Michele: Played by Bruce Willis and Sylvestor Stallone.

I'm Trying To Save Your Life Here, Man

2007-02-12T17:39:00.000-05:00

I'm not sure how to begin telling this story. For starters, you should probably go watch The Departed. It was a good movie, and it'll help you to understand my mindset. I should also inform you of how drunk I was when this happened. The question, really, is how much more drunk could I have been? And the answer is none. None more drunk. (go watch This IS Spinal Tap if you didn't giggle just now a little.)
If you've been paying attention, then you know I have a story that begins with me drinking and watching The Departed. Laying in bed with an ice bucket o' beer for Todd and a bottle of wine for me, that's where our story begins. Scorcese flick, so clearly it was a long one. With around 45 minutes left in the movie, I fell asleep. Or rather, I passed out. I can only assume that I began dreaming and in said dream, everything I was hearing in the movie was making it's way into my thoughts. The results of this are where my story gets interesting.
I'm not entirely sure what the situation was that awoke me, but I'm told I started this rant with a bitchy sounding "So I take it the movie is over?" At this point I started explaining to Todd how I needed to go back to sleep, because today was a very big day. Why was today such a big day in my mind? Why did I need my sleep and a clear head by morning? Well because I'm an undercover police officer, of course, and my poor confused boyfriend is also an undercover police officer who has infiltrated Jack Nicholson's mob. And on the flip side, Natasha is a mobster who has made her way into the police department. And today? Well, today is the day they either kill Todd or arrest Natasha. CLEARLY I need my sleep, because all of this comes down to me. I have surveillance on Natasha, and I have to get it to the FBI, by God, and get Todd pulled out of this assignment before Natasha reveals to good ol' Jack Nicholson what he's up to. I told this to Todd once. I told it to him twice. I told it a total of three times before I became dangerous. My confused and rightly scared boyfriend asks "Baby, what are you talking about? PLEASE explain this to me again." Fed up (by God, how can I save him if he won't let me SLEEP?) I start yelling. "Do you or don't you go to work every day and PRETEND to be a bad guy, hmmm? I KNOW you do, and I have to get you out of there." Or some such. I explain again that if we can get the surveillance on Tasha to the FBI, we can get him off this assignment and he'll be safe. And by Christ, STOP asking me if I'm awake, clearly I'm awake. We've been having this conversation for fifteen minutes, after all. The light is turned on at this point. I'm being tugged on to turn and look at him, I'm screaming to let go of me and let me get back to sleep. I'm starting to wonder when I became a police officer and got myself involved in this mess to begin with. Todd, on the other hand, is now terrified and standing at the edge of the bed, making ready to go sleep on the sofa, since I'm an undercover police officer and our relationship is clearly a sham of some sort. I'm still muttering, telling him it's for his own good and other such things when it strikes me that I work in payroll and Todd is not an informant of any sort. Embarrassment hits. I giggle. I giggle uncontrollably. I giggle to keep myself from crying and inevitably questioning if I might not have an alternate personality that I'm not aware of.
I begin explaining that I awoke from a dream and ran with it. I assume he'll understand, as it's happened before. There was the time I woke up and thought we were eating mexican food, and I had concerns for the guacamole. There was the time I woke up and thought I was a ghost hunter and started explaining the footage I had caught. I thought he would understand, and I think he did...I think. I also think he's probably going to sleep with a camera running tonight. Which might not be a bad idea, since Heroes is on, and judging by my sleep history there's a good chance I'm going to think I'm the cheerleader and start cutting myself to watch my miracle healing.

Now, I know I went crazy, and I'm blaming the sleep and the drink for it. But here's my question: What has he done that would make him believe that an undercover police officer were assigned to him to infiltrate his life so deeply and completely? Hmmmm? I may be crazy, but I think this here story is going to have a follow up...

In The Spirit of the Season, I've Decided Not to Tip You

2006-12-14T01:24:00.000-05:00

In the past five minutes, I've come to a very important decision. I reached it while waiting for my medium vanilla chai at a Dunkin Donuts drive-thru. I've decided to stop giving people my money. Plain and simple. My money. Not gonna give it to you. Now, it's been bothering me for some time now to see tip cups popping up at drive-thru windows. I took the *easy* way by staying in my car. If I wanted to sit down and be waited on, I'd have gone to such an establishment. But no, I am in my car. You, oh maker of my coffee, are standing indoors and handing me a beverage through a window. I'm not sure when it was decided that this task merited my spare change, but I'm standing up and starting the chant to end it right here and now. And you're not alone, oh purveyor of sweets. Read on, donutslinger, you're in good company:

Terrible waitress at the Cracker Barrel-
You're done. DONE. Hear these words, take them in, they meant something to me: "WHAT?! You've never been to Cracker Barrel?! Babe, you don't know what you're missing. Sunday morning. Me and you. Cracker Barrel. It's on." That, young lady with neither manners nor work ethic, is how it became possible for you to come into my life. I pumped you up. I made you out to be the best damn eating establishment with grits on the menu to ever grace this state. There was build up to this visit. There was FASTING. Oh, we were ready for you. We set out determined and starving, and we put ourselves at your mercy. A 30 minute wait just for a table. "Oh, it'll be worth it babe. I expected this...let's shop." And we did. We sniffed your candles. We eyed your useless country trinkets. Two cigarettes and one and a half games of checkers later, we were finally cursed with a table in your section. I thought we had a winner on our hands. You hit our table three times before we were ready to order. I thought you were on the ball, and you let me down. First you forget the orange juice, so clearly stated. You deliver water. A second orange juice is ordered. You forget this one as well. You are reminded. You deliver only one and act confused at our insistence upon having a second. You do not refill coffee. You deliver cold food ages after everyone else has eaten. You deliver biscuits with no butter, food with no silverware. You deliver shame upon your people. The next time I see you, I want my six dollars back. Welcome to the new world, where tips are given for actual service. Enjoy your stay here.

Oh Casey, my lovely hairdresser-
Hi. How are you? I still love my highlights. You're a genius with both bleach and flat iron.
There's something I've been meaning to tell you...I'm not coming by with a Christmas tip this year. See, here's how it is. I give you $20 every time you cut my hair. I give you $30 if you cut and dye it. I give you $40 if you do an entire head of foils. I give you $50 if you cut it, do a full head of foils, and do my eyebrows. I also give your shampoo girl $10 every time I visit you. She rinses my hair. I give her $10. This exchange has always left me feeling slightly raped, but I do it nonetheless out of my love for you. But I've decided that this year, I'm not going to tip you for the same things I've tipped you for throughout the year. I've had my hair dyed 4 times this year. I've had 4 haircuts. Two of those dyejobs were full foils, and I can't even count all of the eyebrow waxings. Casey, let's be honest...in tips alone, you've taken at least $300 out of my wallet this year. Tips alone. Let's not get started on the actual bill for your services, services which have NEVER even had the offer of a happy ending. Lady, I'll see you in January, and I'll tip you then.

Dunkin Donuts Drive Thru Worker-
Yes, we're back to you again. You deserve as much explanation as those you are sitting with on the un-tipped bench. Let's be honest...you're not trying very hard. Large black coffee, three equal, two ice cubes. I can say it in my sleep. Sometimes, I do. Have you noticed what you've been giving me? Sometimes it's a large black coffee. Sometimes you remember the equal. The burned tongue as I drive away must amuse you, as you never deliver on the ice cubes. Sometimes you replace the word "ice cube" with "whole milk" and it must amuse you greatly to see the mini-vomit upon my first sip. In addition to your unwavering inability to correctly process my order, is the fact that you have not performed a tip worthy task. You took my order through a speaker and handed it to me, usually without looking at me or making any contact whatsoever, through a window. Your brazen attempt at simply holding onto my change and hoping I will drive away will not be tolerated. That's MY $.43. Hand it here and service your next unsatisfied customer.

People I will continue to tip happily:
My Starbucks Barista-
Oh, you...you know right how to get at the heart of me. You know my order. You know that someone who is going to pay $6+ for a coffee really WANTS that coffee. They're going to savor it. They made a special trip just to come and get it. They've got plans for THAT coffee. You're not just pressing buttons, you're creating a delicious grande no foam raspberry white mocha with an extra shot of espresso. You already know that I want whip on that if I've ordered it hot, and you know not to go near that decadent cream if I've ordered it iced. You point out those special days when my favorite chocolate croissants are in stock. You set aside new beans you think I'll like. You, sir, deserve not just my spare change but my spare bills. You, sir, are my lunchtime hero.

Sushi Delivery Woman-
Do your worst, lady, my tip will never falter nor lessen when it comes to those who prepare my raw fish products. Show up late, deliver the wrong thing, I don't really care. You continue to NOT give me an intestinal worm and I'll continue to give you $10 every time you reach my door.

My Muse in Seventeen Syllables

2006-12-04T22:02:00.000-05:00

sunday afternoon
wading through the blanket sea
your eyes hungry blue

Some Thoughts on God and Roast Beef

2006-10-26T17:20:00.000-04:00

It happened sometime this past Saturday. Driving back from a random drive(so, I suppose, still just randomly driving), the strong desire for a roast beef sandwich struck me. Roast beef, as raw as possible, on a hard roll with a bit of provolone and lots of salt. This would appease me greatly. I mention it out loud, but not until Todd is nearly done parking the car. "I really want a roast beef sandwich," I say, having no idea the angst that my desire for this sandwich will end up causing me. He offers to go get one and I giggle, having already known he would, but decline. I'll get one tomorrow, I say.
I do not get a roast beef sandwich when that tomorrow comes. Not at first, not while driving home as I had intended. As I had dreamed, even. Lying in bed, hating the thought of leaving but hanging on to at least the promise of a delicious sandwich to compensate. But no, I do not get my sandwich upon setting out that afternoon. Instead I get a double quarter pounder with cheese, which I eat while swerving in and out of 95 traffic. I love a challenge, and keeping all of the condiments and toppings on a double quarter pounder with cheese with only one hand while inciting the hate of my fellow motorists is indeed a satisfying challenge. I take a call in the middle of this. A pickle is sacrificed in the process. I stop two more times on my drive. I stop at a Starbucks. I stop at a gas station. I do not stop at any delis. I have a new plan.
I arrive home and head indoors. I grab a menu from my refrigerator and I dial my local pizzeria. A whole roast beef sub, I order, with lettuce, onions, oil, vinegar, mayonnaise, salt, pepper, and provolone. My dream sandwich has grown, it has morphed into something much larger than I had originally desired. I order a root beer, and some jalapeno poppers. I sit back and wait for my reward. I wait an hour, and my sandwich is somewhere in town crying out for me. I cry back, and my doorbell rings. My sandwich.
My sandwich is all wrong. The roast beef is dark and sliced thick, there is no provolone in sight, the lettuce is brown. I eat the whole thing out of spite. I swear off ordering any more sandwiches from Angelo's II. My money is going to plain old Angelo's from now on. I save the jalapeno poppers, eat them cold. Make myself a root beer float.
Today is Thursday, and I am struck by the thought that today might be the day to try and relive the dream. I set off at lunchtime for Wawa, remembering from months ago that Thursday is tomato soup day at the Moorestown Wawa. Tomato soup and my perfect roast beef sandwich. Oh, yes. Yes. A thousand times, yes.
At the Wawa I enjoy the new space-age touch screen ordering process. I tell the machine exactly what I want, and it gives me confirmation in the form of a receipt. How could anything go wrong? 1 sm tom soup. 1 clas. rb/prov ltl mayo salt. Yes, machine. That's the damn ticket. I make myself a strawberry milkshake, and I wait. 52 is my number. I wait and when I hear them call 52, I smile. It's been a long time coming, it has. Back at the office, I turn the red-eyed doll to face the wall. I don't like it when she watches me eat, I'll tell you that for free.
I start with my soup, the perfect tomato soup. The color of lobster bisque, the consistency of a two hour old milkshake...tomato soup as the Lord intended, that's what they sell down at the Wawa. I move toward the sandwich, wondering what the brown sauce on the otherwise unmarked white wrapping could be. I unwrap...I unwrap and find a hot roast beef sandwich. A hot roast beef sandwich still beset with provolone, mayonnaise, and salt. I check my ticket...I rethink my steps. I opted for a cold sandwich. I OPTED FOR A COLD SANDWICH! I eat what is likely the best hot roast beef sub I have ever encountered, and I hate it and curse it's mother all the while.

God has decided I am not meant for my roast beef sandwich. In my mind, I imagine quite clearly that my next taste of cold roast beef will be my last somehow. That I will choke violently on the perfectly sliced thin raw meat. God has another purpose for me, it seems, but I still want my fucking sandwich.

The Importance of Staying Classy

2006-10-04T21:01:00.000-04:00

In an effort to fully embarrass myself while reaching all of my viewers at once, I'm reposting this verbatim from my other stomping grounds. I give you: The Ballad of Friday Night

Christ...
Okay. Friday night. There was drinking. Not that godawful much of it, so I'm not sure how I ended up where I did, but I digress. There was drinking and Todd and I had just finished beating Mike Beck and Ad in an exciting overtime inducing game of beer pong. Once they cleared off the table, we took on Lance Bass. Don't question me, this is all true. The newly outed N'Sync-er somehow beat us, so we took a moment to sit and smoke. The rest...is sort of blurry. The first thing I recall is being quite adamant about needing to locate my lip gloss. Now, the lip gloss turned out to be in my pocket, but I was not aware of this at the time. I went inside and did not bother turning on any lights. I took off the pants containing the lip gloss and put on sweat pants. It seemed imperative at the time to get into some sweat pants. I then sat on the bed next to my purse and rifled around in it while whining about the lip gloss situation. I'd think it's a fair estimate that ten minutes went by and then Todd came looking for me, and found me in this same spot on the bed still whining about the lip gloss. This is when things got dangerous. Todd kissed me, and I quickly learned that laying down was not something I was meant to do. I muttered something at him while sitting up, which resulted in me becoming extremely dizzy and heading toward the bathroom. I surprised the hell out of myself by vomiting into my hands in the hallway. I assumed this would go unnoticed, and locked myself in the bathroom to regurgitate in peace. The walls are thin in this house. Quite thin. I didn't get more than one retch out of me before Todd somehow broke into the bathroom, where I kneeled poised above the toilet, completely covered in my own vomit. I do not exaggerate when I say completely covered. My aim is not so good. I remained there, in front of the toilet, for far longer than I recall. I think I slept a little. I KNOW that I began a mantra of "I don't want you seeing me like this," which I repeated ad nauseum for the remainder of the upchucking session. Little did I know that he'd soon be seeing me in a far worse position. At some point my heaving must have ceased, and Todd decided I REALLY needed a shower. The problem with this, clearly, was that I had no control whatsoever over my limbs. The solution was that Todd had to remove my vomit encrusted clothes and PUT me in the shower. It seemed we might be in the clear at this point. The shower door was closed, and I stood there trying to figure out what exactly I was supposed to be doing. The answer I came up with in response to this question was "fall down naked, lie in the fetal position, and vomit some more." I apparently made quite the racket when I hit the shower floor, because Todd came running and found me doing just that. Naked. Wet. Vomiting. HOT. After this wrinkle in the plan, Todd decided I should just go to bed. Again, not something I could do on my own. So, my naked wet vomity body was lifted from the shower floor, covered in a towel, and brought to bed. The next few minutes were spent trying to dress me, an event I took no part in whatsoever except to mutter "well, I can't move." A bucket was placed at my face, which I vomited in until I passed out. I awoke several hours later in a pair of Todd's shorts, no shirt, and lying under three towels and several hoodies, as I clearly wouldn't agree to getting under the blankets. A voice reached me asking "are you feeling any better?" I assumed this was a doctor of some sort, only I couldn't recall what I should be feeling better about. Then I opened my eyes, realized I was half naked and smelled of vomit, and had spent the previous evening lying naked and wet in several different locations. I demanded tylenol and mouthwash, went back to sleep, and woke up again several hours later with not a hangover in sight.

That, ladies and gentlemen, was Friday night. I'm not proud, but I am amused.

You Know Who...

2006-09-18T22:39:00.000-04:00

sixteen steps to the where
ten dark moons left to the when
the how of bliss, there

A Better Version of Me?

2006-09-12T01:04:00.000-04:00

Things that have occurred to me recently:

I've always followed the same exact patterns in everything I do. In the people I choose to be with, in the way I choose to act around them, in the portrait I choose to display of myself. There's always this three month trial period...try your first three months of Mel FREE! No bitching, no whining, no waiting! How exciting. An extremely fake trial period to rope one in.

I've recently dropped that bit of my program. Now I bitch and whine from the start. Poor fella :( I'm a pain in the ass from the gate this round. No surprises, no exchanges, no refunds. Here is Mel before she has had her coffee and is not happy about that fact. Here is Mel drooling on your pillow. Here is Mel consuming more of her burger than you can consume of yours. Here is Mel crying. Here is Mel breaking things. Here is Mel refusing to admit she's wrong.
Now you tell me, what are the odds I'd find the one person on the planet who thinks all of this is adorable? Behold, children, the power of prayer.

I'm in my "shout it from the rooftops" phase right now, and I'm trying for all of your sakes to refrain. But goddamn if I don't want to broadcast it on the evening news. Veronica Corningstone and I had sex, and we are in love. Or something closely resembling that... Yea. Spread that gospel

Hey, I Still Have a Blog...

2006-08-31T21:07:00.000-04:00

So I'm at work way past the hour I need to be again, and once again the hallway is sort of creeping me out. It's unnaturally dark in that hallway. There are unnecessary loud noises coming from that hallway. There are no other cars in the parking lot. Just me...and the hallway. The hallway houses the bathroom, and I've just finished my second iced lite latte of the day...oh, the possibilities. Once again I am struck by the fear of that godsdamned bogeyman out there, waiting to kill me the moment I drop trou. That is not the way I imagined myself finally making my Today Show debut. No no, my today show debut is reserved for my terrible rock climbing accident which will leave me trapped with no option but to eat through my own elbow. Ah yes, this is how I will meet Matt, not post mortem via autopsy photo.

Things I Have Said Aloud to My Cat

2006-05-26T21:31:00.000-04:00

"Maybe if you had some respect for yourself you wouldn't weigh so much and you could get down from this dresser on your own."

"Do that one more time and I'm selling you to the Libyans"

"You know, guacamole is underrated as a condiment"

"Hand me the spray tanner, please"

"Maybe if you had a JOB you could have the good food"

"You can't come out here, you have AIDS. Now go think about that"

"You tell me, did I look better with black hair?"

"I should probably get up at some point today. What time is it?"

"This is the hand that God dealt you. Deal with it"

"You sonnuvabitch, I'm sending you west"

"Johnny's your brother. Respect him and his right to ride on your back"

"Seriously, the fuck, you're a cat...go look at someone else that way"

All The Syllables I Can Muster

2006-05-16T03:06:00.000-04:00

your scent washed away
fast to these idols i cling
my stupid heart waits

...

2006-04-03T00:42:00.000-04:00

Tattered grey tee-shirt
your scent still dancing throughout
holes to match my heart

Where I've Been, Who I've Seen

2006-03-22T01:31:00.000-05:00

New job. Not so bad. The past two days have been mostly training. I need more training, but they don't seem to think so. They threw me in the pool today. I treaded frantically. I am still breathing, so I guess they're keeping me. Good for me ego, bad for me leisure activities. It's really going to suck until I figure out a way to goof off all day again. I mean...really, they expect me to work the full 8 hours I'm there? I'm not unreasonable. I'm willing to give them a solid 3 hours of my brain. After that, though, I really need to goof off on the internet. I don't think they've really plugged into the needs of my generation. I view my time there as a learning experience for them.
So, I haven't packed anything yet. Not a single thing. I've made a nice mess, though. At least I've accomplished something. I'm quite afraid that the new job and my move all at once is going to disconnect me from my friends. I haven't really had time to return phone calls this past year, like, at all. I'm aware of it, but phone calls fall so low on my list of priorities. I feel bad for saying so, but it's true. I'm more than a bit afraid that my lack of contact over the next month or so is going to alter my friendships, and I don't know that I'm prepared to deal with that. I feel like I should wear a sign or something. "Just because I can't talk to you as much doesn't mean I don't love you dearly" or something. I've already not returned two calls today, and I don't plan on doing so anytime soon. I plan of finishing this dull little update, ironing my clothes for tomorrow, blowdrying my hair, and getting to bed. Then I will wake up tomorrow at 5:30 and do it all over again, and find myself tomorrow night with the same lack of time. The weekend will come, and I will be so busy with the things I didn't have time to do during the week that I will not return calls then, either.
If you are my friend, I love you. I love you dearly and don't want anything about what makes us "us" to change. Please just bear with me. I'm still here somewhere buried under all of this, I promise.

How To Sprain Your Neck

2006-03-16T20:21:00.000-05:00

My child sprained his neck. I was unaware that it was possible to do such a thing until my boy went and did it. How do you sprain your neck, you ask? You dance. You dance like a crazy 4 year old with a strong desire to earn chocolate and make your mother laugh, that's how. He's doing much better now, thank the gods and starfish. He's up and about (slightly) just enough to start making a mess again. I say: mess all you want, we are leaving this place.
I got the condo I wanted today. Not the super expensive one that I was crying about a few days ago. No, this is the slightly smaller, more reasonably priced one, in an even BETTER neighborhood. I'm ecstatic, and I plan on enjoying that ecstasy (I never connected ecstatic to ecstasy until just this very minute) for as long as I can until I start freaking out at my to do list. I now have to find a new tenant for my current apartment, pack up the whole place, sign the lease, produce the funds, arrange for a moving van, bribe together a moving crew, and likely be quite poor for a month or so. HOWEVER, things are looking up. I'm trying very very hard not to let the list of things to do get me down, I'm going to take things one at a time as the very wise and wonderful Todd once advised me. Hopefully I can follow that advice, and three weeks after settling into my new place I hope to celebrate with a Fisters reunion. Oh, how I miss my fisters.

A Lesson in Real Estate

2006-03-13T21:49:00.000-05:00

Today I went and saw a condo that I can't afford. Now, I knew when I saw the ad that I couldn't afford it, but I held onto the hope that some of the utilities might be included. I knew when I call and inquired of it and learned that no utilities were included that I could not afford it, yet I made the appointment. I went on the appointment, not caring that a condo that size would double my utility bills. I filled out the application, and agreed to return it tomorrow with the down payment, and also agreed to have the security desposit ready next week. The lease on the condo I can't afford starts on April 1st. I still have two months left on my current lease. I don't have the money to move, or even the money to bring in the application along with the down payment tomorrow. I really liked that condo. Maybe I'll write that guy a bad check and hope that he doesn't notice. He seemed to really like me. Maybe he won't mind every month when my rent check is $200 short.
I really liked that condo.

To Infinity, and Grandma's House

2006-03-12T12:48:00.000-05:00

Woke up this morning after Johnny. Clearly he was bored in my absence, but opted to allow his old mom to sleep in a bit. Was finally roused from sleep by his quiet muttering to find him adhering Buzz Lightyear stickers to my wall. First reaction: annoyance. Second reaction: hey, that's sorta cool. Third reaction, after hearing his explanation: I have the greatest child on earth.
His explanation, in three parts:
When Johnny and I first moved into our new apartment, it was late spring and the nights on our balcony were perfect. His bedtime was set later and later each night as we would sit well into the night with lemonade, laying atop our blankets and counting the stars. Making up constellations; the dragonslayer, Bunny McStarster, Princess Poopsalot. One night, cuddled on my lap, he says "Mommy, I want the stars and moon. Lift me up." Indulging him, I hold him up on my lap as he reaches for them. Unsuccesful, we begin to contemplate who we might enlist for help. We consider asking the birds, or buying an airplane. My very sleepy then three year old son decides finally to ask Santa for help. And why not? Inside we go, and on green construction paper he draws a picture, then dictates a letter to his mother. "dear santa, please bring us the moon and the stars and please can I pet your reindeer? Love Johnny and Mommy" Into the mailbox our letter goes, and after several weeks of asking, my boy learns the patience that comes with waiting from May till December for his fondest wish.
Christmas comes, and at the last minute I remember the wish for the moon and stars. A quick trip to Spencer's on Christmas Eve produces a $3 bag of glow in the dark stars. After all the presents are under the tree and he is fast asleep, I set about creating the consteallations on Johnny's ceiling, and he wakes the next morning to his first Christmas wish come true: Santa has brought the moon and stars. He lays in bed counting them for twenty minutes before even emerging from his room to take stock of the rest of his loot. A very happy mom pats herself on the back.
Comes this morning. A very sleepy mom mutters at first, then looks with newer eyes at the stickers placed upon her wall. Finally, hours later, she asks her son why he would do such a thing. "I asked Santa to bring us the moon and stars, but they're all in my room. I'm just sharing."

There is no better morning than this one, and every other Sunday to come that I will spend with my boy. To love is one thing. To have someone who knows what your heart feels like from the inside, and at each turn will do all that is earthly possible to keep that heart going, is quite another. One day I will find a way to give him the moon and the stars.

Some Thoughts on the Accordion

2006-03-11T23:51:00.000-05:00

Someone allowed their child to bring an accordion into the walmart. This intrigues me. It leads me to wonder if they simply would not stand up to said child and tell him no, and that walmart was no place for an accordion. Or, perhaps, the child had picked out the accordion when they first entered the store and was excited and therefore playing it all the while. The third option, as I see it, is that the wise parent realized that a 4 year old child with an accordion would play the accordion relentlessly while in the store, never tiring of it's godawful sound. It would be quite difficult to misplace a child with an accordion. I certainly wouldn't kidnap a child with an accordion, were I so inclined to kidnap. And had my child an accordion, I'm sure that I could keep tabs on him in toys even if I were all the way down in cosmetics. I'm choosing to believe that the third option is what led me to encounter a child with an accordion at a walmart in Camden, and that a woman with my particular sense of humor and inventive parenting was a mere three aisles away from me all evening.

Haiku, a study of three

2006-03-08T23:44:00.001-05:00

tuesday evening, love
dusk comes blue, cold, without him
my heart bends westward

--

and today it came
rushing beating harmony
it's you in my veins

--

don't know why i write
those things you won't hear or feel
you should hear my heart

Fuzzy and Blue. I'm Oh So Fuzzy and Blue

2006-02-02T00:49:00.000-05:00

I've just tripped over a Super Grover stuffed animal and hurt my elbow quite badly. Good god that smarts. He didn't look so super when I threw him across the room.
Discontent tonight. Ill at ease, with no good reason. I didn't go do my laundry. No idea why, just didn't feel like it. I went and picked up a copy of Cell, which is mildly disappointing so far. Picked up three newspapers to look for a new job (Careerbuilder delivers nothing of substance to me) and I haven't even looked at them yet. Had a glass of wine, but what I really want is coffee. I really must start purchasing unleaded coffee so I can satisfy this nightly urge without being wired and restless well past 2 am. I hate my nights without Johnny. I have so much I could do, but I'd rather be watching Willy Wonka for the hundreth time with some cocoa and my little guy.
Picked up the Valentine's for Johnny's class today. Every year I sit there and write out 16 little Valentines to little Britney and Mackenzie and Tyler and Hunter and Blaine. Kids names are so damn stupid anymore. Why can't these people name their children Susan and Mikey and Joe? For crying out loud, I went through three cards last year trying to spell Aveanah just right. That's not even a name. It sounds like bottled water.
Other news of interest: I got into college (again). Once I get my ass in gear and secure the funds for this endeavor, I'll be back on track for a future I can actually tolerate again. I started hesitantly writing again. I'd like to say I have some confidence in this one, but it'd be a lie. I'm being so cautious with every word that I don't know that it's worth my time. But it's good to have a character to escape with now and then, even if she ends up as dead as my last idea.

I Belong in the Wal*Mart

2005-10-30T15:55:00.000-05:00

I've just balanced my checkbook and set me budget for the upcoming month. It really would have been wiser to pay the bills and balance the checkbook on Thursday, when I got the check, rather than spending little bits of it until Sunday and then sitting down, only to realize I've overspent yet again. I didn't even purchase anything of value, $20 here, $20 there...goodness but it adds up. Turns out those people I give odd looks to in the Walmart are my equal, they're just smart about things. They don't spend money they don't have and cry to daddy when they can't pay their bills. They make do with what they have. They don't allow their vanity to rule them and force them to purchase things completely out of line for their financial status. I have got to get a hold of things soon, or it is going to be a very un-merry Christmas. My first order of business today is to go and cancel the television I ordered. I cannot afford a new television, and will have to make do with the little ghetto one I already have. Rather than looking at it and feeling ashamed that it does not fill up it's spot on the entertainment center properly, I am going to look at it with pride knowing that I didn't give in to my need for material possessions for once. Errr...at least I'm going to try and look at it that way. Then I am going to clean my house again. I think better with freshly scrubbed floors. I am currently beyond distracted, knowing that there are dishes in the sink. I don't think I can figure out this budget with dishes in the sink. After that, I will call my fella and apologize for being a bitch last night. I will blame the wine, and hope he accepts the wine's apology. Then I will do my wash, iron the wash, and put it away. After that, I can sit down and look at this with fresh eyes that have nothing else to see but the numbers. Actually, I should probably give myself a manicure first, because unkempt nails will distract me, as well.
I've got more issues than Vogue, gang.