“quince (that’s a fruit)”

The world’s quite a place, really. If you think about it.

We totter about on two appendages—that are crowned with five much smaller appendages apiece—and we mutter syllables that we’ve decided to interpret in a given way, and we almost never bat an eye about how strange the whole scenario is.

What am I talking about?

I have no idea.

In an entirely different vein, it’s Saturday night, even though I just briefly thought it to be Friday, and I’m sitting at home rather than mingling with my peers at the theatre Halloween party. I was really hoping that more people might ask me today what I was going as so that I could wittily respond with some variation of, “An introvert! Because introverts don’t do parties and neither am I tonight!”

But hey, please don’t make my personality type a costume. This is serious and a key part of my identity.

(This is when I wonder if you’re going to be highly offended by my insensitivity, and I kind of hope that you’ll either laugh or roll your eyes, and I vaguely suspect that this is where some of you hit the back button on your browser and we resume our separated and opinionated lives.)

It’s been a crazy couple of weeks for me, between school and work and auditioning a show for community theatre and picking up a murder mystery gig, and I’m really just enjoying my evening off.

In case you were wondering, one of the many reasons that I choose not to drink alcohol is that, when I’ve had a long exhausting day of doing practically nothing and I just need to drink something out of a wine glass, I can have that third glass of cran-apple juice with no consequences other than the knowledge that I’ve consumed a bit more sugar than I probably ought to have allowed myself. Juice is my favorite.

Also, exciting news: I think I’ve finally made peace with the concept of a mouse living in my room enough that I might actually sleep in here tonight! I crashed on my housemate’s bedroom floor last night because I was having a breakdown for the second night in a row and it was just easier to avoid the meltdown. The night before that I had a meltdown during the breakdown and ended up sleeping on the couch.

All that said, I don’t know exactly what I want to say, so instead of writing something deep, thought-provoking, or absolutely hilarious, I have decided that today I’m going to share 10 Facts (that you may or may not be one of the five or so people to already know) about me.

1. I’ve had the same favorite color—purple—for my entire life, but I developed a fondness for the color orange in junior high simply because Abbie and I were sharing a room, and the color scheme couldn’t be pink (her favorite color) and purple because that combination makes her nauseous. So we settled on pink and orange and I claimed orange as my almost-favorite color.

2. I hate lady bugs. Truly. I’m also borderline terrified of them. I know the hatred of them stems from the disgust of having the chrysalises of Abbie’s escaped lady bug larvae around the rim of the dinner table, and idly messing with the edge of the table at dinner just to discover that you’d mutilated a pupa. So disgusting. The terror comes with the fact that they are a six-legged creature.

3. I’m not actually afraid of the dark, even though my nervousness about what’s in the dark can make it seem that way. Night is one of my favorite times and I wish we lived in a safe enough world that I could become nocturnal without worrying about getting attacked as I wander trance-like through the darkness.

4. I keep a spare jug of cran-apple juice on the floor of my closet. I’ve run out of juice one (or seven) too many times, and cran-apple is (as you may have gleaned from me drinking three glasses tonight) one of my lowkey addictions. Someday I’ll have a pantry full of the stuff, but until then I’m using my closet.

5. I’ve had quite a few lucid dreams (maybe 10% of my dreams?) and apparently that’s not super common? I saw some gadget on facebook the other day that’s supposed to help you have lucid dreams and I got super confused because…why? It’s not that great. It’s cool, I guess, but not spectacularly so.

6. I cannot eat tomato soup. And no, I don’t mean that I really don’t like tomato soup. I cannot keep the stuff down because it is that repulsive. Truth be told, even the smell makes me pretty queasy.

7. I don’t particularly love driving and I’m a total homebody, but I love road trips. Yeah. Try figuring out the logic behind that one.

8. I have always slept with white noise, and I find it genuinely strange that people can sleep in “silence”, partly because silence never is. Maybe out in the country where the only sounds are the wind and the ambient insects the whispers of nature are as effective as a box-fan, but it never is silent where I have lived and yet people persist on sleeping without a fan on…!

9. I have never broken any bones, but I have gotten three stitches because of a crazy accident at church. …I think I’m not going to go into details because it sounds so much more intriguing when left as a giant question mark.

10. I’m a total overachiever and I thought I could easily come up with 10 or more interesting facts and here I am completely out of facts so I’m just going to type a bit more rambling nonsense in case you’re not actually reading what I’ve written and you’re just skimming the page to see if I actually went ahead and wrote down 10 interesting facts about myself even though I haven’t really.

All that said, Microsoft Word has decided to throw ugly blue squiggle lines under a lot of my really fun adverbs, and it is making me mad. Verbs are much less interesting without adverbs, and I understand if you’re miffed about me overusing the word ‘really’, Word, but there are some great adverbs in this blog post that you need to just leave alone.

The end.

Good night.

– Melissa

P.S. The title of this article comes from the most memorable line in Reader Rabbit…Math? Maybe? I can’t remember which Reader Rabbit game it was. But I think of the line often and it seemed to suit the unsuitably disheveled nature of this post.

Advertisements

a story of Melissa

I still don’t know what I’m doing with my life.

Even though I polished up my rest-of-my-college-career academic plan tonight and it looks great.

So instead of thinking about the people who make life hurt and the things that sometimes make my heart sing and the ways that I’ve failed others this week, I’m going to tell you a story.

Once upon a time (in a place a lot closer to you than you might think) there lived a little girl. She happens to have the same name as me, actually: Melissa. I don’t know her last name.

Melissa lived in a little town not too far from the US/Mexico border with her grandparents. I don’t know what happened to her parents. I didn’t get to hear that part of the story. I’m just telling you what I do know. What I did hear.

Melissa’s grandparents weren’t very well off. In fact, they were kind of the opposite of well off. And Melissa was seldom very clean. And Melissa didn’t go to school. (At least, that’s the tale I was told.)

So none of the neighborhood kids liked Melissa very much. Sometimes they wouldn’t even play with her.

But one day a bunch of vans full of crazy Americans showed up, and they swarmed everywhere and tried to talk to everyone in their broken Spanish and they started smoothing the ground and pouring concrete and putting walls together.

And they loved on Melissa.

They gave her piggyback rides and laughed with her and tried to tell her that she was worth so much more than any of the other kids could imagine and more than Melissa’s grandparents could imagine and more than Melissa could imagine.

And Melissa smiled. A little bit. She still had to keep up that tough kid vibe, because life is hard. But there were little smiles.

Then the day started to end and the concrete had been poured and the wall-shells had been stacked and all those crazy Americans got back into their big vans and started to leave.

And when one crazy American girl named Melissa looked out the back window, the only thing she noticed was a little Mexican girl named Melissa sitting off by herself. Crying.

I wish I had a photograph of that moment. Because that moment is one that breaks my heart. And it’s not one that words will ever do justice.

Because all of those crazy Americans who were so good at communicating poorly had forgotten to tell Melissa that they’d be back the next day.

They did come back the next day. And the next. And the next. And Melissa got to go to a VBS where she was told things like ‘Dios se ama’ and taught to say things like ‘Jesus te ama’ and got hugged and snuggled as much as she could stand.

And when they left at the end of the fourth day, everyone was crying because it was an actual goodbye, but maybe it wasn’t because Heaven is going to be one big reunion and maybe we’ll all get to party together forever.

But I don’t remember seeing Melissa. I kind of wonder if she was off by herself again, crying. Like me.

I don’t know where Melissa is now. I don’t know if she remembers that those Americans who showed up that one day had more to say than poorly pronounced, poorly grammaticized Spanish phrases that vaguely inquired after the location of the baño.

But I know that God still loves Melissa, so so much. I know that my heart breaks for a little girl who cried because she didn’t want to be alone again after one day of tasting love.

I don’t understand why this Melissa gets to go to school and get an education and wear clean clothes and go home to a family who is whole and who loves her.

It’s been a hard week in this Melissa’s life, and she is so tired right now. She feels kind of alone and kind of frightened by the future and kind of hopeless. But more than that, she feels incredibly grateful that her problems seem so small in the grand scheme of things.

I want to find my little Melissa, the one who couldn’t quite grasp the fact that we share a name, and wrap her in my arms. I want to tell her again how much she is loved and that nothing she is facing is too big for the God who holds us both.

I don’t know how little Melissa’s story ends.

Maybe I won’t ever.

But I really really hope that someday I’m gonna run into a not-so-little-anymore Melissa in heaven, and she’s gonna be like, ‘Wow, you were really dorky as a freshman; glad you grew out of that,’ and I’ll be like, ‘Well, you were a total punk as a kid; glad you grew out of that,’ and then we’ll hug and I’ll finally know how her story ends.

That’s how I want her story to end.

Please, God, let that be how our stories end.