Sweet Melissa

Rebellion & Revenge

Tue, 03 Oct 2006 21:08:35 GMT

Okay, so I’ve listed two topics here. I think they are really related in a lot of ways, so I’m combining the two into one great big thingy. So here goes . . .

“Revenge”
“Have you ever rebelled? If you have, how did you do it?”

I wouldn’t consider it Rebelling.

I would consider it doing What is Necessary to Get My Point Across. If a few windows get smashed along the way or a few nights get spent in a jail, whatever. And the problem isn’t me, hellooo. If more people would do What is Necessary to Get Their Points Across, the world wouldn’t be so screwed up. I hate seeing people sitting back and getting taken advantage of by big mean businesses or government entities and stuff like that. People need to take a stand when they see an injustice. Maybe that’s why I like working in a law firm. That’s all these people ever do is take stands. I know it’s cool to hate lawyers and stuff these days, but honestly, I like what I see in the people I work with. In . . . terms . . . of . . how they do their jobs anyway. *pauses to think about how to describe the past few weeks’ occurrences* Okay, I won’t even get IN to how certain people around here operate their personal lives, not to mention the fact that their personal lives always seem to be popping up (ohhh, bad choice of words) in whatever closet I happen to open.

Of course, (moving on to Revenge now), I feel better when I get revenge by telling EVERYONE in the office every detail of what I’ve seen, and I do. I think the higher-ups know by now I’m the one who spreads all these “rumors” but they also know they can’t do anything about it because all the rumors are true. But, for the most part, I find revenge to be unnecessary. Most people who do something revenge-worthy end up being “punished” by their own doings and un-doings, or they, you know, escape to a New York Office before I have a chance to take revenge on them, or I’ll find that they just don’t need to me to take revenge on them because they are already punishing themselves.

*closes eyes*

What? What was I supposed to do? Believe me, I wanted to scratch his eyes out when I found them together, and I wanted to scratch her eyes out even MORE but the weird thing is I was totally mad at her for doing it with him but now I’m even MORE mad at her for leaving him and I don’t understand why anyone would be so callous as to just walk away and - - who cares. God, whatever. It’s not my problem.

But anyway, to provide a proper conclusion to my essay, I just have to say that rebellion is totally glorious and justifiable, while revenge . . . *looks down the hallway at a closed door* . . . revenge just has a way of working itself out.

TM Challenge: Do you make friends easily?

Thu, 24 Aug 2006 04:45:29 GMT

Yes! I make friends easily.

I mean, I guess it depends on what you mean by “friend.” But people I meet usually like me. And if they don’t there’s usually something wrong with them. I think I’ve made really really good friends with everyone at the office, except, you know, with the people who have something wrong with them. Like . . . okay. Denny. (and Marlene, but I’d rather not even talk about her) But you know? Denny’s just . . . I know he’s Alan’s best friend and stuff, but, I don’t know. I’m still trying to figure that relationship out. They are complete opposites and - Oh my god, this is so weird. I’m reading the latest issue of marie claire right now, the one with totally sexy Maggie Gyllenhaal on the cover, and there’s this interview with a woman from Dubai, and she says she likes to wear her long black “abaya” thingy because it makes her feel glamorous while still representing her culture. Then the interviewer lady goes “how many abaya do you own?” and she’s like “How many pairs of shoes does Carrie Bradshaw own?” My god. Is that cool or what? I could probably be best friends with that woman, and she’s from a totally different culture. So, yes. I make friends easily.

But . . . Denny. I don’t understand Alan’s taste in friends. Maybe they’re both trying to challenge themselves. I mean, I guess it shows that both of them can be open minded when they need to. They put aside their political differences for each other, just like I could do with the woman from Dubai. So I guess it’s pretty cool. Maybe I’ll have to be more open minded around Denny. I just don’t think he likes me. It would be natural for him to see me as competition, since Alan and I are in love, but I’m completely willing to let Alan spend time with his friends. I wouldn’t be one of these demanding, high maintenance wives who’s all, ‘pay attention to me! me! me!. No, I’d be like Jane Asher in the original Alfie (Cuz Jude Law doesn’t hold a candle to Michael Caine) And I’m actually a pretty good cook . . .

Anyway, yes I make friends easily. I feel sorry for people who don’t, or can’t, make friends. Sometimes I think about super shy people like Jerry (ooc: okay, someone has got to pick up ‘Hands’ as an LJ character) and I wonder how sad it would be to be like them. So, I guess I’m lucky. I suppose I fit into the category of “well-adjusted, outgoing people with strongly developed social skills.”

tm challenge: 136 That which doesn't kill me . . .

Wed, 02 Aug 2006 23:36:16 GMT

136 'What doesn't kill us makes us stronger.' Do you agree or disagree? Why?

I absolutely agree!

I mean, look at all the things that haven’t killed me. I survived the murderous rampage of ~~Hands~~ Jerry. Hmmm, I hope he’s doing better these days. I survived getting arrested twice, once in front of all my co-workers, and once where I had to share a jail cell with . . . Lizzie. I survived, and actually kind of enjoyed, my subsequent trial, And speaking of trials, I’m surviving the trials and tribulations of my on again/off again love affair with Alan Shore, which he likes to claim has always been in “off” mode. That reminds me, my hairdresser says I need to start thinking of him in a more . . . avuncular way. Sigh. That which doesn’t kill me makes me stronger. That which doesn’t kill me makes me stronger. Anyway, back to the topic. All of these things have made me stronger. I can’t believe how much I’ve learned and grown emotionally just in the past year. AND I’ve managed to hold down a steady job AND I haven’t gotten arrested in quite a while AND my credit is totally under control right now. I just hope all these hardships I’ve been through don’t give me pre-mature wrinkles . . .

tm challenge #131: Retreat

Mon, 10 Jul 2006 02:54:18 GMT

My favorite . . . tough crap Alan!!! . . . retreat. Sorry, just had to say that. Tough crap. You could have had me, but now you CAN'T. Do you get it? You had your chance and you blew it on The Squid.

Okay, whatever, my favorite retreat. Right now is the beach. I've perfected myself in a swim suit, and nothing makes me more happy in the summer time than flaunting it. I've got it. I know it. And I fully plan to enjoy myself this summer. I know Boston isn't famous for its beach community, but you know, here's all you have to do is "Take the Red Line to Broadway T station, then No. 9 or 10 bus to end of line; or Red Line to South Station, No. 7 bus; or Red Line to Andrew T station, No. 10 bus; or Green Line to Copley Station, No. 9 or 10 bus to end of line. Also: Red Line to JFK-UMass and walk to Carson." Where you'll find "Our prize for the most urban-feeling shore goes to South Boston, where you find Castle Island, L Street Beach,and Carson Beach. Here, the sunburned descendants of Irish brick masons share sand with elderly Vietnames e fisherwomen and Dominican middle-school students. You'll hear Cambodian and Creole mixed with the tinkling of the ice cream truck and the bumping bass of the 69 Boys; you'll smell hot dogs and salt water. You will also have to pause inyour conversation every few minutes as yet another jet plane roars low overhead on its way to Logan Airport."

I ripped that off from the Boston Globe, but I'm more than happy to credit them. That's where you'll find me this summer. Hanging out on the beach. My favorite retreat.

My other favorite retreat is shopping. There's something about shopping that makes me feel so complete. I suppose if I had a therapist they might tell me it's some sort of substitution for real emotions or connections with other human beings, but whatever. My tikki torches never forget to call me. My cappucino maker never screws around with other women. My stainless steel pepper mill never ceases to arouse. Shopping rocks. I know you understand.

tm Challenge: Write About Your Mother

Wed, 17 May 2006 18:22:13 GMT

My mother. Ok. I guess I’ll write about my mother. Anything to keep my mind off . . . The Squid. That’s right. I’m going to just pretend I didn’t hear the . . . I guess we’ll call it ‘ruckus’ . . . in his office the other day AND pay no attention to the graphic rumors flying around AND continue to believe those scratches on his face and neck and god knows where else are just from some inexplicable fall. I can ignore all of this. He’s still mine. Whether he knows it yet or not.

Anyway, back to my mother.

I guess the word mother can mean a lot of things. I mean, it’s just a word. It can just mean the person who gave birth to you, or I guess it can mean the person who raised you and cared for you. I’m not sure the best way to describe my mother. All I really knew, growing up, was that my mother was different. She was never traditional, and she always followed her own paths. Which is good! Believe me, it’s good. I totally admire this about her. It was really great how she traveled a lot, and explored a lot, and never got stuck in those awful ruts of having a traditional job or a traditional marriage. 'You only live once, don’t you,' she would say. But anyway, it seemed like she was always the happiest when my dad would come for visits. I remember them in his van, singing along to the radio. We never actually went anywhere, we just drove around and I would pretend we were a normal family, taking a normal Sunday drive. But we don’t really talk about him any more. I think her new boyfriend doesn’t like him. I wonder what Alan’s mother was like.

*stares at typewriter*

Hmmm, I’m still thinking about The Squid.

tm challenge: What you miss

Sat, 29 Apr 2006 14:51:51 GMT

CURRENT TOPIC: "Close your eyes and think about what you've been missing in your life lately. It could be a person, pet, place, thing, occasion, feeling. Anything at all that you miss dearly."

It’s interesting that you asked me to close my eyes first. Because, you know, the answer sort of changes when I close my eyes. When I have my eyes open the answer is that I miss the cool suede corkscrew chairs which I had to sell when I went into that credit card debt dealio. But with my eyes closed . . . I honestly miss my grandfather. I only think about it when I have my eyes closed, maybe, or something.

It reminds me of a line in For Whom the Bell Tolls (yes I read classics! What in the hell made you think I didn’t?) Robert Jordan talks about the closeness he had to his grandfather and he mentions what a shame it was that there was so much “time” in between people like himself and his grandfather. And it is a shame. Why didn’t my grandfather and I get to share the same time frame? Maybe it’s mean, but I feel like I would have been better off having my grand father as a parent, instead of maybe, having my parents as parents. My grandfather was someone who provided . . . guidance, I guess would be the word. I think that’s something parents used to provide. I guess I wish I could have spent more time with him. It’s not fair that I lost him so soon. I could really use him now. I think the whole world could.

I just miss him, is all.

TM Challenge: What People Are Thinking

Thu, 30 Mar 2006 16:57:39 GMT

CURRENT TOPIC: At times, lots of people never tell us what they are really thinking. Who is the one person that you would really like to know what they are thinking (as far as how they feel about you), and why?

* * *

I used to always wish I could read minds. Can you imagine how fun that would be? You'd like, know, but the other person wouldn't know that you know. And they'd be so freaked out because you'd be able to, well whatever. Back to the topic. I'm sure everyone reading this knows who I'm going to talk about, so I'm not even going to say his name.

For a long time I wanted to know everything he was thinking, wondered how he felt about me, wondered if he knew how I felt about him. At first I assumed that if he did think about me, it was just some sicko pervy thought that I'd rather not know. But then . . . There are still a lot of things I wish I knew, but I don't think he always knows or understands what he's thinking. It's like, even if I could read his mind I'd probably still be completely confused. (You know, he probably thinks in that word salad language, which would explain why he started talking that way. Hmm. Hopefully Denny is taking good care of him)

But anyway, the other day after my trial I stopped wondering. It was like I suddenly just knew. When I looked at him and asked him to celebrate with me, I knew he wouldn't, that he couldn't. And the weird thing is I completely completely understood why he wouldn't or couldn't, and I'm not hurt by it at all - for some reason I actually feel complimented - but it does make me sad for him, in ways I can't explain. I guess the reason a lot of people don't say what they are thinking is because sometimes it is impossible to verbalize. I couldn't explain what exactly happened after the trial to an outsider, but I just know that when he asked me to stop, but then didn't stop me everything suddenly made sense. There are certain things and certain feelings which aren't meant to be put into words. They can't be. I guess that's why I kissed him. I knew he would totally get it, and then neither of us would have to explain anything or discuss it further. Plus, I knew a kiss was all I was going to get.

My grandfather would've liked him.

TM Challenge: Write about a time you mocked somebody

Fri, 10 Mar 2006 15:23:27 GMT

I was cool when I was in fifth grade.

I mean, I’m still cool of course, but for a fifth grader, I was really cool. I was one of those girls who knew how to dress, who knew what to say, who knew which boys to like, and who knew which girls to . . . pick on. I was tall, blonde, and my very cool friends were like a fifth grade version of Veronica’s friends in Heathers. So, anyway, me and Colleen and Monica ruled the bus stop. We determined who got on the bus first, last, and the order in between. But anyway, the point of all this is I want to talk about a girl named Listie.

Listie. Bizarre name. Bizarre girl. She was younger than all of us, I think only in third grade, and she was sort of screwed in the head. She would have these, like, chronic panic attacks if she wasn’t allowed to be the first one to get onto the bus. I think she was afraid she might end up sitting with a boy or something. And she really dressed bad. She would wear stuff that was popular last year, or things just wouldn’t match. We couldn’t believe it.

So mocking Listie was fun. We’d laugh at her clothes, laugh at her name, tell her the stickers on her folders were uncool, laugh at her strawberry shortcake socks. We’d push her to the back of the line, hoping to incite a panic attack, and wait for her to scowl and her face to crinkle and mimic her, flailing our arms and pretending to cry. She would shut her eyes and try to ignore us, her face scrunched into an ugly pout.

But then one day she showed up at the bus stop and walked up to the front, right in front of me. She refused to move, so Colleen and I grabbed both of her arms and pulled her to the back of the line. “That’s where you belong,” we informed her and did our usual mockery of her panic attack. But this time she started to cry for real! She started to cry and – get this – she shoved me! With both arms, she just shoved me with everything she had. I can still feel her hands on my shoulders.

“Oooooooooh!” Colleen giggled. “Listie’s pissed! Listie Pistie! Pistie Listie!” Then, just as I was preparing myself for battle, Listie turned and walked away, without looking back. She started walking down the street, away from the bus stop, her Strawberry Shortcake backpack sliding off her shoulders and falling into the middle of the street. We could still hear her crying. “Ooooooh, Listie’s scared of Missy. Listie’s too stupid to – “

“Maybe we should go after her,” Monica suggested, noticing Listie was almost to the bridge, which we were always told never to cross alone. Monica had a point. And something about the sight of the backpack scared me, something about the way it was lying there, abandoned and forgotten, in the street. Something about it.

We didn’t go after her. The bus came and we got on. The driver didn’t even see the backpack, which I looked at from my seat in the back row until it was out of sight. From the back row, since we, as fifth graders, also had full claim to the back seats in the bus.

Listie never came back to the bus stop after that. I don’t know what happened to her that day. No one would talk about it, and her family moved very soon afterwards. She’s alive and everything though. I know because I saw her once, years later. At least I think it was her. At the food court in the mall. She was sitting there with her parents wearing really dorky clothes and not eating the food they had gotten for her. We looked at each other. She looked right at me. I looked away. Then I walked away, and didn’t look back again. But I can still feel her eyes on my back.

Melissa's Date

Mon, 06 Feb 2006 22:43:00 GMT

Miles was 34. A stock broker. A man with a slight resemblance to Matthew McConaughey who was extremely conservative with his money and even more conservative with his political leanings. He had, over the course of his life, acquired a substantial nest egg and would be considered, by your average red blooded female, as a good “catch.”

But Melissa saw none of this. In fact, having already vowed to “hate” her hapless escort for the evening, she only saw him as something she would have to endure in order to get a free dinner and to shut up her friend who had set her up on this “date” in the first place. To be fair, she had arranged her hair and clothes in the most elegant way she knew, proving she was at least willing to do her part and allow Miles the privilege of being seen with her at whatever expensive restaurant he had hopefully chosen for this occasion.

However, she was NOT prepared for what greeted her as the car made an unexpected turn away from the elegant downtown restaurants and toward the convention center. As it approached she saw something frightening on the flashing autotron sign on the convention center marquis. “Destination: Financial Independence . . . Destination: Financial Independence . . . Destination: Financial Independence . . . ” it mocked in a continuous red scroll.

“Uhhhhhhmmm. Miles?” she refrained from pronouncing his name with too much sarcasm. “I thought we were going out to dinner?”

“Ah HAH! You’re on the ball!” he remarked with pointless clap of his hands, completely unaware that fiscal responsibility was a . . . sensitive . . . topic for his date. “We ARE going to dinner. Tonight is the American Century Investments Annual Customer Appreciation Buffet!” He doesn’t mention that the real reason they are going to the American Century Investments Annual Customer Appreciation Buffet is because it’s free for American Century Investments Preferred Customers and guests.

“And!” he announces with another clap. “In addition to the buffet featuring international cuisine, there will be a mariachi band, a Lucille Ball impersonator, and a speaker from the corporation to talk about retirement options. He’ll explain the benefits of a 401K, the differences between a Roth IRA and a traditional IRA, how investing in REITs can round out any portfolio and – ‘

“Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. RETIREMENT? What? No!!” Melissa, now convinced that this is not really a date at all, but instead a cruel joke her friend must have concocted with the help of Alan, tries frantically to pull on the door handle of the moving vehicle.

But Miles’ car is equipped with a safety feature that will not allow the door to open. He doesn’t notice her escape attempt, and pulls the car safely into Parking Lot D, after a lengthy discussion with the parking attendant about whether the parking fee can be waived for attendees of the event, since Miles was, after all, a Preferred Customer.

Melissa is wearing her best high heels which makes the walk from Parking Lot D, into the foyer, through the lobby, up the escalator, down the escalator, up the correct escalator and up to the line where they have to wait for their Preferred Customer name tags, all that much more tiresome.

“What do you MEAN you’re not going to validate my parking ticket??” Miles demanded of the woman who was attempting to hand him his name tag along with a brochure entitled “Your Money . . . Your Future.”

“Can we just go IN?” Melissa is wrapping her hand around her cell phone inside her purse.

Miles sighs as they enter the buffet line. “That’s the trouble with brokerages today. They don’t go that extra . . . mile . . . when it comes to customer service.”

To Melissa surprise, the buffet turns out to be amazingly bountiful. Multiple stations scattered across the room featuring delights like cheese blintzes, crab legs, a pasta bar, leg of lamb with mint sauce, chicken cacciatore, and miniature bagels with smoked salmon and capers. Every type of cheese on earth. And free drinks. Mimosas! Mojitos! Appletini’s! A vast array of international specialties. And sure enough. A Lucille Ball impersonator. There are also Chinese dancers, strolling musicians, suede chaises to lounge upon, and candlelit glass tables. In spite of herself, she enjoys the food. Upon loading up her third plate, Melissa looks around and notices something curious.

“How come nobody is paying?” She asks, noticing several Preferred Customers are casually sauntering out of the hall. Miles looks surprised, then laughs, once again clapping his hands.

“I told you! It’s a Preferred Customer Appreciation Buffet. It’s all complimentary.”

Melissa is quiet.

Brushing aside the insulting realization that Miles has brought her to a free event, she looks around at the mostly gray-haired well-suited Preferred Customers, gorging themselves on the merciful bounty and wrinkles her brow. This is a new world. The world of rich people, where food is free and drinks are free and you get to be entertained for free by mariachi bands and Lucille Ball? Why do they get to do this? Why isn’t she a Preferred Customer? What does a person have to do to enter this strangely gluttonous complimentary side of the world? How come the people with all the money don’t have to pay for anything?

Miles doesn’t notice her perplexed expression, instead enraptured with the speaker, who, Melissa surmises, must be speaking in a foreign language. She can’t look at Miles, whose mouth is agape while he nods his head in agreement with the speaker. She looks around the room, suddenly feeling like she is some kind of alien freak, having just landed on a mysterious planet populated by a bunch of elderly money grubbing robots. She tries to read the brochure, but it seems to be written in the same foreign language that the speaker is speaking. Sadly, she doesn’t realize that the speaker is providing her with extremely valuable information which could have provided her a future of financial security, nor does she realize that if she were even slightly nicer to Miles, who was already smitten with her long hair and long legs, that she could have been set for life, marrying into a world of blissful upscale Bostonian suburbia, replete with all the cushy comforts afforded to such wives. But Melissa had a way of sabotaging any good fortune that may have come her way.

Instead, she looks into her purse at her cell phone, as if she can somehow will it to ring. When it doesn’t, she begins quietly hitting her speed dial buttons, one after the other, then hanging up promptly. Surely one of her speed dialees will figure out she needs to be rescued and will call with some feigned emergency. Some incredulous situation that requires Melissa to leave the Convention Center, to leave Miles, to leave the elderly robots immediately, to return downtown to the comforts of . . . what? Her apartment? No. It was virtually empty after she returned most of her furniture to the Pottery Barrel. To what then? It didn’t matter. She just realized she hated Miles. And the speaker. And having gotten her fill of cheese blintzes with blackberry sauce, she saw no reason to stay. C’mon. Ring!

CURRENT TOPIC: What is the greatest sacrifice you've made for love?

Mon, 23 Jan 2006 17:00:22 GMT

CURRENT TOPIC: What is the greatest sacrifice you've made for love?

Ok, first of all, love? Yeah. Second of all, why would I make sacrifices for it, or anything else for that matter? I don’t sacrifice. Life is hard enough already without making any additional sacrifices. I mean, look at what’s happened to me now! Here I am working on a whole different floor, with all these people I don’t even know, and there’s a freaky woman with some kind of eye twitch, and no one trusts me to do any work because they know I’m just here on the mean and unnecessary order of Ms. Schmidt *takes a breath and glares at cubicle wall* and I don’t know anything about what an “H.R.” person really does. Truth is, I don’t think they know. These people are seriously from a different planet.

Oh well, I guess it’s good resume material. And, it does give me better access to certain . . . things I wouldn’t otherwise have access to. And, hopefully it’s only temporary.

Anyway, back to the topic. I don’t think I’ve ever made a sacrifice for love. Unless you count the time I . . . well no, that wouldn’t count. Whatever. Why are we talking about this?

Wed, 11 Jan 2006 16:36:31 GMT

Hands wigged out.

Duh. We all should’ve seen that one coming. The guy was totally weird, but I guess I really didn’t think he’d freak on Shirley and try to kill her! I mean, dude. All I can say is thank god for those typing lessons. I can’t even imagine what would have happened . . . And here I was honestly going to make an effort to be nicer to him, I really was. I mean, I kind of owe him one, but maybe it’s just as well that I didn’t. Can I just say I was completely and utterly CREEPED OUT when he called me the hot secretary who makes him nervous? *shudders* But you know, it is unfair how the partners were treating him. I mean, Alan and I couldn’t have won that case without him. The guy is a genius. Everyone takes advantage of his super brain, and then just – poof! – disregards him when they don’t need him anymore. Uncool.

But whatever. I’m just still just trying to recover. I am happy for Mr. Chase though. He seems to fit in really well with the partners. It’s just too bad everybody can’t be a partner.

This is so the weirdest job I’ve ever had.

TM Challenge: New Years Eve Reflections

Tue, 03 Jan 2006 16:19:43 GMT

CURRENT TOPIC: New Years Eve Reflections: Over the last year, did things go pretty much as you'd expected or planned, or did your life take a significant, unexpected turn? Overall, was it a good year or one that you want to put behind you as fast as you can? (canon or fanon)

****

After Mr. Chase declines my offer to accompany him to a bar – what a rejection! – I decide to leave work. I’m just not in the mood to be here. I scribble “Left” on a post-it note and stick it onto my computer screen. Hopefully Alan will see it there and understand. Hopefully Alan won’t fire me. What’s wrong with me today? Why did the Lizzie thing upset me so much?

It’s all snowy and gray outside. But now I’m careful to walk as far away from the curb as possible. The slush stain which that stupid Mercedes splashed on me this morning is still on my coat. My hair is getting wet from the heavy snow which is coming down. I see my bus approaching but realize that in order to catch it I’ll have to dash across traffic and hop a few puddles, and that seems like too much effort. And at the same moment I’m captivated by a woolen knit hat in the shop window in front of me. Just as I’m about to go in and buy it I’m captivated by something else. An empty bench. Right now it looks like the most appealing thing I’ve ever seen. An elderly woman is eyeing it too, but I quickly rush in front of her and heave myself down in the middle of it, my purse occupying the remaining space. She walks on.

I sit there.

Then I start to think. I think about my job. I think about the weird dream I had about Alan last night. I think, why am I sitting here? I am so lucky to have this job and I’m jeopardizing it by ditching out in the middle of the day to sit pointlessly on an empty bench.

I think about how 2005 started for me, and how much better it turned out in the end. It started out as the worst year of my life. It was almost a year ago today that I lost my job at The Gap, but the memory of the day they let me go is still fresh in my mind. I still maintain I was framed. I don’t know how that scarf got in my bag. Then I think about having to work the whole series of frustrating, meaningless deadend jobs and mooching off my roomates, and living off of credit cards (why do they give credit cards to unemployed people?), the desperate day I enrolled at John Casablanca’s. The day I had to move out of my cool trendy Back Bay apartment and into a blue collar neighborhood in South Boston. But then, like a miracle, I got another chance. I got a real job. A job I can be proud of. You know, I’m not so stupid as to not know the real reason why Alan hired me, but I really needed this job. I bet I needed it more than those other women. Maybe in some weird way he could sense how much I needed it. Maybe it was like a karma fate type thing that brought us together. And now, through this unexpected turn, everything has worked itself out. My debt is gone. I’m actually saving money. South Boston is slowly becoming a cool trendy neighborhood. Everything is working out!

So . . . if everything turned out so well in 2005, why am I so upset today? I just feel, I don’t know . . . conflicted. I’m not sure what I want. I keep thinking about what he did in my dream last night, and how I kind of wish that would really happen, but that would be unprofessional and I’m sure he does that to all of his secretaries and it wouldn’t mean anything to him. Maybe I’m just tired of every guy I date describing me as “frigid.” Whatever . .

Melissa, you’re being retarded. Go back to work.

The 3:20 bus for Southie approaches. I watch it stop and then continue on its way without me. I lean my head back, letting the large snowflakes hit my face, undoubtedly smearing my mascara, but for some reason I don’t even care. Before long my face, my hair, and my coat are completely soaked.

Melissa, you’re being retarded. Go back to work.

I get up from the bench and look back at the side walk where I just came from. My old footprints have already been hidden completely by a new, white, covering of fresh snow. At the end of the block I can see the shimmering post-modern skycraper which houses the law offices of Crane, Poole and Schmidt. I begin toward it, going back to work.

TM Challenge: What does Karma mean to you?

Tue, 20 Dec 2005 18:45:23 GMT

Karma. I think karma is like that weird hippie sh*t my parents used to talk about. I never really paid attention, but I think it means that if I’m like, super nice to someone, then they’re supposed to be super nice back to me. I don’t really believe in that though, because I’m always super nice, and yet bad things still happen. I mean, just the other day I got a speeding ticket. A speeding ticket! It’s so unfair. And I tried to be nice to the cop, but he didn’t even care; he just kept repeating the words “school zone” as if that’s somehow justification for doubling the fee. See? So, just when I think things are looking up, something stupid like this happens.

Maybe I should try this karma thing though. I mean, look at people like Denise. She’s not that much older than me and yet she gets to be a lawyer and have awesome hair. How much of that is due to karma? *crosses arms and raises eye brows* You just can’t know. But then I look at people like Denny. This weirdo shoots poor people with paint guns, sexually harasses everybody and sets a bad example of moral conduct by having alcohol at his desk, and yet he gets to be the senior partner and be on TV a lot. Things always turn out okay for Denny Crane. I bet he has no idea what it feels like to have his power shut off in the middle of winter. And what about Mr. Chase? With the sacrifices he must have made in Vietnam or wherever, he deserves to be the owner of the company. And what about Alan? He’s been so cool to me and gave all that money to the homeless guy, and yet he’s still single. *pauses and looks out the window for a while*

So whatever. It seems to me like everything in the world is just random. But okay, here’s the deal. As a test, I’ll give it a try. For the next little while I’m going to push myself and try even harder to be super nice. Like, I could make coffee for Mr. Chase tomorrow, or not hang up on Alan’s rude clients. I could even give Ms. Schmidt some advice on her wardrobe or try to have a conversation with Hands. There’s all kinds of things I could do. We’ll see about this karma thing. *narrows eyes* We’ll see.

TM Challenge: What are you happy about right now?

Thu, 15 Dec 2005 17:20:24 GMT

"What are you happy about right now?"

I’m so glad you asked! Right now I feel happier than I’ve felt in months. Partly because I smashed a window, which felt a lot better than I ever could have imagined, but mainly because my wonderful boss Alan has rescued me from the totally f**ked up credit card people and gotten my financial life back on track. Without these enormous monthly payments, I’ll actually be able to start shopping again, which is a relief because I needed a new pair of shoes to match my hair binder thingy.

That really was the lowest depths I’ve ever sunk to. I would seriously rather die than go to a jail cell again. That was the most disgusting degrading thing I’ve ever been subjected to. How could they have put me in there with those horrible women? Couldn’t they see I different from them? They should have special cells for people like me, who are being arrested for reasons which aren’t even their fault. Thank God Alan came, although I didn’t really appreciate his “I’ll take the blonde” comment, or his disturbingly familiar rapport with that other slut-chick he’s apparently friends with. What was that about?

Oh well, the point is, it’s over. And the other point is I love how Alan defended me in the meeting with the white-toothed Texas jerk. He did look sexy doing it. And I told him so. Watching him take that guy down kind of makes me wish I was still on Night Terror Duty. Maybe it was hypocritical for me to tell him I thought he was sexy, after I made up that elaborate contract preventing Alan from making any kind of comment about my appearance. Hmm. I didn’t think of that. Oh well, I say what I say. Now, where’s my Pottery Barrel catalog . . .

TM Challenge: What do you regret NOT saying

Tue, 06 Dec 2005 19:07:53 GMT

“Crossroads, seem to come and go,

No one hears his lonely sigh,
There are no blankets where he lies.
In all his deepest dreams the gypsy flies
With sweet melissa...

Crossroads, will you ever let him go?
Will you hide the dead man's ghost,
Or will his spirit roll away?

But I know that he won't stay without melissa.

Crossroads, seem to come and go . . . “

I'm almost asleep. Why does that annoying song keep going through my head? It never stops, but instead intrudes my thoughts when I least want it to. A reminder perhaps. I’m almost asleep, but the song keeps intruding, sleep eluding me, forcing me awake, taunting me with memories, reminding me of times and places and . . . someone. Someone who once sang it to me while I slept. We always joked that the song was written about us. It seemed so real. the gypsy. the crossroads. But the ending wasn’t right. No, it never ends right. The spirit rolled away and whatever it could have meant and whatever it could have been is gone. And lost now. All pointless. All for nothing. Even the music is gone. He took all his CD’s with him, including, of course, his favorite Allman brothers one, the one with that song. He could have at least left me that.

But I didn’t ask. I didn’t ask for anything so he most likely never knew what I wanted. A wandering soul. You can’t change those people, we kept telling ourselves. But maybe if I would have tried. Mmmm. I don’t like thinking. Why can’t I sleep? I could have at least said, I’ll miss you.

Testing Out Journal

Fri, 02 Dec 2005 22:29:47 GMT

This is a test. I guess I'm supposed to write in here. I just wish I could type faster.