Wednesday, June 30, 2010

If I never post again, you'll know that Marilyn Monroe got me. Oh, shit.

It was about 3:30 in the morning and I was in my bedroom, listening to music and stuff. Not too loudly, though, because when the front door creaked open above me I could hear it clearly. It stopped, fully open, and I froze for about a second, wondering who's in the house now. The white trash coke addict neighbors with a vendetta against my dad*? A burglar who would have no issue with killing me? That serial killer with a hook for a hand? Samara from The Ring? Katie from Paranormal Activities? Marilyn Monroe?

Ignoring all that, I started to wander upstairs to the door. I wondered briefly about grabbing a baseball bat, but decided against it. Yeah, my five foot tall frame could totally take down any man/horror movie character. Like, totally. Not that I had a bat, or any weapons at all, actually, nearby. I guess I could have thrown my little plastic fan at someone, or flung perfume and hoped some of it got in their eyes, but that's pretty much it. Well, other than my, you know, fists. Yeah, I could take on anyone.

Actually, I was more worried about looking ridiculous than getting killed. Priorities, you know? I've got them.

When I got to the foyer, the door was undeniably open. There were about a million june bugs on the screen. They made me jump. I kinda might have taken their movements for the killer, though I'm not entirely sure why he would go back outside after putting through all the effort of opening the door. Kind of defeats the purpose. Anyway, everything was wicked dark, with tons of shadows. Especially when I looked up the other set of stairs. It was fucking freaky. But I didn't hear anyone. After about a minute or so of standing breathless I got up and closed and locked the door. When no one jumped out at me with a gun, I decided that there's either no knife wielding assassin, or they don't want to be found and I should really just let them be. And that's pretty much where I am now.

This is actually not the first time that I risked my life (totally, dude) like that. When I was about thirteen, my mom's mom (my grammy) was over. It was probably about nine or ten at night, and for some reason, we were the only ones home. I was in my room (back then, it was upstairs) doing whatevs when grammy comes over to tell me that the she could hear the tv going on downstairs. It hadn't been on earlier. Slowly, I tiptoe downstairs with her behind me, and turn the tv off. There wasn't a burglar that time, either. And, honestly, if there had been one, it would have been a really dense one. Seriously, kids, if you want to rob a house, turning on the tv and thus giving up your location is retarded.

I don't really remember too much of the first time I (clearly) saved everyone's life because it was actually sort of a dream. But it totally felt like real life. And so it counts. And, actually, it probably should count quadruple, because if I remember correctly, the people we were hiding from were gonna eat us or something. Yeah. But I was the one who opened the garage door and saved us. Or, I might not have saved us, but I definitely put forth a valiant effort. And I was, like, ten, and you really can't expect perfection from a ten year old. I probably died a hero. In my dream.

*funny story about that, actually. That'll have to be a different post.

Thursday, June 24, 2010

Dear Blog,

I promise that someday I will be a good blogger. The kind that doesn't go nearly 20 days without a post. Someday.

Anyhoo, remember that post about technology hating me? Well, tomorrow I get to find out just how much loathing it really does hold for me. Last Thursday, my poor macbook suffered an awful water spilling accident at the hands of my little brother. (Incidentally, I typoed awful as awfuk, which was pretty much my reaction when I found out what happened). My laptop's been drying off since then, but tomorrow I get to find out whether it's totally dead or not.

Actually, funny story about that. My iPod was still kinda half dead, and it couldn't hold all of my music, so a few days before my laptop became the Titanic, I ordered a new one. Naturally, said new one didn't come in until a few days ago, too late for me to transfer all my iTunes. Sighhhhh.

That's not my only tragic story, though. If anything, this one beats my laptop sadness. It deals with freezie pops. Or, more specifically, "Fla-Vor-Ice," whatever that means. Seriously, namers of delicious frozen treats, bad job.

It's been really (really, really, really, really) hot on Cape lately. And ridiculously (ridiculously, ridiculously, ridiculously, ridiculously, ridiculously) muggy. Freezie pops were clearly in order. So I nabbed the box pretty much as soon as they were colder than lukewarm. It takes way too long for them to freeze, and the melty bits are always the best parts anyway. Anyway, I'm ripping the popsicles apart, trying to get to a red or pink one, and a blue one totally tears open. Oh, shit. It spills all over the kitchen counter as I'm wondering whether to try to eat/drink/whatevs that one or toss it. I decide to grab another. This time I get a red one.. Annnddd it totally spills, too. Everywhere. Except this time, it kind of looks like blood. Really bright, koolaidish blood, but still. All over the counters.

I give up and have a fudgesicle instead. But it was bitter. (Except not really. Fudesicles are even better than freezie pops).


Cross your fingers for my laptop! Or at least my hard drive.

Sunday, June 6, 2010

People Are Strange

So, I'm at my register at work during a lull, waiting for someone to decide to buy something, when this woman comes up to me. She doesn't have a carriage or basket on her, so it isn't like she's about to buy anything. No, she wants to know how old I am.

Me: 19, but I'm almost 20
Her: When?
Me: In July
Her: When in July?
Me: The 26th
Her: Ok

Then she leaves. That's it. She wanted to know my birthday. I still have no idea why. I'm secretly hoping she'll get me a present.

Wednesday, June 2, 2010

Just Live

I'm going back to work at the Christmas Tree Shop in the morning. Seven hours. It's going to be the first time this year. (Stoked, right?) So, I figured, what better thing to post than a poem partly to do with being lazy? Well, it's more than just that, but still.

Anyway, as always, I heart comments. Is it good? Bad? Wicked awful? How can I make it better?

Oh, and it's probably obvious, but I wrote this a while ago. I've been editing it every once in a while over a few months, but I started it on that first beautiful day in March. Even though the grass was dead, it wasn't covered in snow, and the air was full of crisp warmth and amazingness. All anyone wanted to do was lie down in the sun.

Just Live

let’s do nothing today
just lie down on the wet dirt
khaki straw grass and airy sun.
just live.

we can say
all those things we need to
and never do.

let’s pick at the grass
still dead
from that long winter.
it falls apart
so easily
in your fingers when you pull.

we don't have to race to the sky
right now.
climbing the criss-crossing
roads on top bridges
can wait.

we can do life slowly.
we can shut our eyes
from everything you don’t want.
all those falling stars.

we can,
can't we, just stay here
lying in the grass,
eyes shut in the glowing.

Tuesday, June 1, 2010

How's My Driving? I'm Perplexed.

How's My Driving?
I'm Terrified.

The above was an awesome (well, maybe not so much that) and confusing bumper sticker I saw on my way to Hyannis. It was funny-- while the first half was just boring black and white printing, the second half was really dramatic, with a dripping blood font. But, of course, the more important bit was that it made no sense. I spent the rest of the car ride (well, about five minutes) joking about what it could possibly mean. I figured that there could be about four options:
  • The reason he's presumably driving so terribly is that he's afraid of something. Like, maybe there's some sketchy dude in the backseat with a hook instead of a hand and a rusty knife. Like in all those urban legends. But, you know, he (the person driving) is such a great guy that he just felt so bad about almost slamming into you and he just had to explain. He hopes you won't be too mad at him.
  • He's afraid of your reaction to his mad driving skillz (and yet, against all odds, his heart still yearns-- needs, even, to know).
  • He is afraid of your reaction to his driving, and that fear is making him drive badly (he's a very nervous fellow, you see).
  • He wants to know what you think of his driving, and he's also terrified, but the two aren't related. He'd really wanted to get two bumper stickers, but could only afford one for some really depressing reason. Like, he had a sick hermit crab at home and all of the money he makes working in the coal mines, save two dollars, is going into buying medicine to keep little Hermie alive. So, sure, he has black lung (pa) from the coal mines, but he's such a nice guy that he doesn't care about himself. Just Hermie. Oh, and bumper stickers. The poor thing.

I actually had hermit crabs when I was a little kid. For, like, a day. Back when I was six, seven, eight, we were always at the the beach. Seriously, we'd go every single day during summer vacation. And there were always loads of hermit crabs. We'd catch them and force them to live in drippy castles with moats for a few hours or until the tide came back in. Sometimes we'd make them hang with other bigger crabs, but only if one of my brothers caught them because I was too afraid of getting pinched to pick one up. The poor hermits.

Once in a while (like twice, maybe, ever) we'd get to take them home with us. I'm sure the hermit crabs were overjoyed. Seriously, what animal used to the freedom of the sea and long jetties wouldn't be totes stoked to spend the rest of its days in a pail and be fed seaweed (do they even eat seaweed?) by an overeager seven year old?

I remember this one time we were swimming, and there were a ton out. They were just everywhere, and we caught like eighty (or twentyish, but we could have caught eighty if we'd wanted). Instead of, as we usually did, leaving them to fend for themselves in their drippy castle fortresses, I put them in a clear plastic bucket with some sand, rocks, and water. When we got home, I put them on my dresser, wicked excited that I finally finally finally had pets. The next morning, when I woke up, I cheerfully trotted over to check on them. Annnnnd... they were all dead.

It sucked.

They probably committed suicide.