I know I tend to voice more of my half-glass-empty perspectives on this here blog. I apologize for that.
Do recognize that I’m not a complete self-loather, or reality-hater, or anything of the sort.
I tend to just analyze and pick apart my feelings when I’m in a bad mood, at the expense of you, the reader.
But I’ve gotta give it up for stress and horrible, awful moments, because it really does make days like today feel as if God high-fived me generously.
So thanks for that, life.
Among doors opened slightly ajar, and the phrase “same difference,” one of my biggest pet peeves is when people tell me or preach to me things I already know. That’s not meant in a smart-ass or cocky way. I’m well aware of my ignorance and naiveness in numerous pockets of life. If we measured the vast amount of information I haven’t even come close to comprehending, it would wrap around the universe an infinite amount of times.
But when people do harp on me about aspects of life that I’m fully mindful of, I slowly start to grind my teeth. Especially when I’m being preached to by someone who uses empty, lazy mumbo jumbo that I can probably just read verbatim inside the closest elementary school library, on a stock-imaged-rainbow motivational poster.
Like today, someone told me I only live once so I shouldn’t stress out.
Wow. How do I respond to such constructive advice? I guess I should’ve said, “Oh god, thank you. Because that totally alleviates and solves all of my problems and does all of my work for me. I shouldn’t stress or vent or feel any anxiety at all because you’ve finalized the idea that I could die tomorrow and I was completely unaware of that fact until now.”
I know that life is short, that I could stop breathing suddenly or croak in a freak accident, surrendering to the idea that I’d be inevitably forgotten generations from now.
I know that you should technically “live in the moment” because that’s all we really own right? Live and appreciate this exact moment because this is the only time it will ever, ever exist?
I know I shouldn’t stress out. It’s bad for your head, your heart, and your overall interactions with other people. But slapping a fake smile on has the same aftereffects.
I know I must sound like the biggest bitch of the west right now, but that’s reality—in this moment.
When I laugh or poke fun at people who spit these meaningless phrases at me, it’s not because i’m a pessimist and I disagree with it. It’s because I’m a realist, and the steps to reaching this supposed “nirvana” is, for an ironic lack of an original phrase, easier said than done.
“We are all dealing with shit of different levels of frustration and annoyance and sorrow. Doesn’t make it any less valid, unless you’re a narcissistic asshole who has no sense of perspective, which you are not.” —My boss, to me.
Without a grain of sarcasm, this lifted my overall esteem. (AKA, hooray! My boss doesn’t think I’m a tool!)
. . . Researching car insurance policies for the state of California. This blows. Really, really hard.
I’m still wrangling all of this car stuff that’s decided to reign my bank account and time into smithereens.
Still on my to-do list before my “arraignment” in July: (They actually wrote “arraignment” on a letter and I’m supposed to plead guilty or not guilty. Whatthefuck!)
If you’ve ever wondered where I go when I’m stressed out, I go there.
In other news, the roomies and I just started season 3 of Breaking Bad. If you’ve never watched Breaking Bad, I feel sorry for you, and you should go watch the first season right this second. Or don’t. Whatev. I really don’t feel sorry for you. But I do believe it’s a fantastic show.
I spent an hour and a half this morning at the Santa Monica DMV, attempting to tackle the two citations I received last month. Yeah, I can feel how jealous you all are.
As much as I loathe that place, I do regret not getting a chance to thank the DMV worker who was helping me for a good hour. I’m sure my incompetence toward vehicle titles, vehicle value, and smog tests straight baffled her. But she handled my questions and wrongly filled-out documents with patience and poise.
It really freakin’ bothers me that I didn’t say “thank you.” I didn’t know she would get up from her desk while I got my license picture taken. And I’m not sure why this is bothering me more than it should. She helped me tremendously and I didn’t even catch her name.
Is it weird that little things, like forgetting to say “thank you” or worrying that someone’s first impression of you is off, irks me the most?
Anyways, if you ever read this, kind, knowledgeable, and sassy DMV-lady, I owe you a batch of cupcakes.
I daydream about 15-20% of my day. Mostly during my morning commute, which I understand is uber-dangerous, but other than work stuff, world hunger, impending sin, and how I wish I had “I Hear A Symphony” by The Supremes on my iPod, there isn’t really anything else to think about other than things I wish I could do, places I’d love to travel to, and things I’d like to buy.
This post will be about the latter. And only a handful (I call things I list in fives a “handful”) of the bajillion things I’d do with a million buckaroos (or maybe just $500):
1. USB Typewriter. How effing cool is this? Of course, this would mean I would need an iPad to go with it. Totally besides the point, though.
2. Unofficial Arrested Development pint glasses. How could I not need this?
3. A Battlestar Galactica Ring. Even though I don’t wear rings at all. I’d wear it around my neck, or something. So say we all!
4. Harry Potter flask. My last flask was taken away from me. It was only worth $10>, but still, parting was such sweet sorrow, especially when you’re being escorted/kicked out of a shady bar in downtown L.A. that you didn’t even want to go into in the first place. A Polyjuice Potion flask would make my dreams come true.
5. Concert tickets. I just signed up for Songkick to track all the shows I want to go to, and it’s just made me tear up because I feel so, so poor.
Writing a note at 12:21 a.m. to someone who will never read it isn’t really my style. (Unless it’s during an impromptu therapy session and the letter is to myself five years from now. But until that time comes . . .)
My irked level is off the charts right now, thanks to the lovely neighbors above me.
So I’ll make an exception.
Dear person who lives in Rm 201,
Merry Christmas, you son of a gun. Oh, is it not Christmas Eve? Then why the hell are you watching Love Actually right now, at 12:23 a.m., on a Thursday night in May? And don’t deny it. I can hear Billy Mack singing about his magical fingers and toes through the thin ceiling. I can also hear the sadness in Sam’s voice, as he contemplates unrequited love for the first time. I have the same amount of saturated sadness housed within myself, since I’m just now realizing that I’ve seen that movie enough times to pinpoint the exact scene you’re watching.
You’re pushing me to reevaluate my life choices. And I haven’t got the energy, time, or patience to dive into deep thought right now.
Although, this is a step up from you blasting “Sweet Child o’ Mine” and Boston at one in the morning. Have you beaten your best score in Guitar Hero yet? You’ll hit Expert in no time, you bloody bastard.
Or maybe I can borrow your lovely clogs. Your moves must be fire, what with you Gregory Haines-ing it up all the time. Yeah, I just verbified Gregory Haines. And yeah, I did just make up the word “verbify.”
Oh sweet, now it’s the lake scene with Colin Firth. Did it ever bother you that the chick he was pining over had a super-duper tramp stamp? Or that they used music from The Sims for this moment and called it sound design? Because that has always annoyed me, and I should not be wasting thoughts on this right now. Not ever, really.
I truly hope that one day you’re stuck in an elevator with the person who lives in the apartment to the left of me. And that he or she traps you with bad Linkin Park covers and Simple Plan late-night karaoke.
Only then will you be welcomed to my personal Hell.
With lots of crazy swearing and middle fingers,
Mel from Rm. 101
Because of my lack of timing and attention, my old url ohmelgee.com is now defunct and up for grabs. That is, if you have $280 to spare. I don’t really care about shelving over $200 bones, so I bought the domain name ohmel-gee.com. Horrible part is that Google searches still lead to ohmelgee.com. I’m hoping that Google’s smart bots will figure it out and redirect, but I’m still reading up on how to do all of that. UGH.
In the meantime, I defer you to this boring but very important news.
Also note that I plan to do a site revamp once again. It’s been really hard updating this dear, dear blog, but I need to remap it out.
Don’t cry too much,
Mel
Ugh, I just sneezed into my own hair. Gross.
Anyways, I hope I’m not getting sick. There’s usually one week every month when I feel less than par. And it’s not PMS, I promise.
Just because I have no other segway into this, I’m going to right out tell you that I sometimes wish I was Nancy Drew. Okay, most of the time.
As one of my childhood heroes, Ms. Drew has done it all. She’s saved heirlooms, caught missing persons, and manhandled “ghosts” with barely a scratch. I’d say she’s had a nearly perfect life.
Look at her entourage: a lawyer-father, a maid/nanny/surrogate grandmother who makes amazing cookies, two best buds who always have her back, a hot boyfriend who doesn’t let his manly mojo get in the way of the shere fact that Nancy is clearly smarter than he, and a cute-ass chocolate lab.
Also, she’s been solving crimes within 100 pages (since the age of ten).
The only thing this sleuth lacks is proper detective disguises. I’m pretty sure there’s a limit on how many times you can put a scarf on your head and call yourself a traveling secretary.
Luckily, during my late-night window shopping, as in online window shopping (funny how “window shopping” inadvertently has two meanings in one–a big sigh for our digital society), I stumbled upon this:
1. Someone buy this for me.
2. Penny Warner is a genius. As much as I commend her, I have an exact amount of contempt, because I’m jealous I didn’t think of this first.
3. Someone buy this for me.
Also, I came across this book:
. . . Which I also just deemed I need in my life.
I’d also like to put on the record that I want to own every single Nancy Drew mystery, and a Nancy Drew poster to boot.
And in case you think I’m a weird freak, here are my other heroes (some are also from childhood):
-Sherlock Holmes. I love you, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
-Encyclopedia Brown
-Veronica Mars
I guess you’re smart enough to sense that there’s a trend there. You’re a regular gumshoe.
This is the post where Mel goes a little soft. And apparently speaks in third person simultaneously. (Okay, I’m stopping the third-person narration now.)
I am, without a doubt, absolutely lucky to have more high-quality friends than I can count on my fingers.
This statement isn’t meant to be arrogant. It’s mainly because I’m ridiculously undeserving and I like to remind myself of that from time-to-time.
And it wasn’t until I received a picture-text from one of my closest friends and favorite people ever that I wised up.
I’ve always been a quality-over-quantity type of girl (and I’m not saying that because it’s commendatory—I don’t rightly give a fuck about characteristics that cultivate compliments—I’m saying it because it’s the truth). I only really keep in contact with the people I want to keep in contact with, which may make me an asshole in some cases, but I shrug them off.
I’ve totally made a few friendship flubs here and there—but who hasn’t? That’s how you learn—you analyze your mistakes in combination with others’. But while fallouts were all mentally digested, I don’t necessarily still talk to ex-friends (I honestly still deem them “crazy-ass bitches.”)
A typed-up, meant for snail-mail-but-sent-via-picture-text is the best letter of all!
Anyways, so I read this letter from my friend. She passed on post-college-graduation-advice to me and radiated how proud she was of me, and said how one day I will “do great things and that’s a fact,” and I swear to God I nearly sobbed my eyes out.
That’s when I realized that, fuck, I have friends who have my back just as much as I have theirs, who actually truly give a fuck about my wellbeing and my life and genuinely want the best for me (and vice-versa).
This certain genre of friend is hard to come by. It’s rare and coveted.
It’s almost like solid gold in that it’s prone to malleability yet highly valued. (Only, it’s not found in the insides of contemporary rappers’ mouths.)
I have friends from elementary, middle, high school, and college who I routinely don’t talk to for months and months because our schedules don’t align or because we have new groups of friends and we’re busy creating new memories, or just because we have “big kid jobs” that tire us the fuck out.
But when we finally do catch up—and we do—two hours have passed by and we’re crying from laughing and massaging our faces because our jaws are sore.
And when the conversation finally starts to wind-down, there’s the remnants of an understanding there—a real kinship—that it’s a tried and true friendship and these “catch-ups” are never-ending.
Corniness and clichés are taking over me, but I do not care. Le sigh.
oh mel, gee . . . 