LIKE POISON TO MY EARS--

Alright, so get this: It’s Thursday night, and I’m about ready to go for my nightly (well kind of, sometimes, nightly run) when I hear it—“Are you ready to rock boys,” then bang, ba, ba, bang, and a raspy voice of what I could only safely predict came from a sixty-five year old chain smoker starts busting out the infamous classic rock jam, “Johnny Be Good.” It’s like death to my ears, rising up over the mountain…the shear tone, the very essence, ugh, the sound! Where is it coming from?
We have a very “trendy” restaurant in town. Now when I say trendy, I am referring to the mid-forties and early fifty-year-old’s dating hotspot. It is a rather quant restaurant on the corner of my ridiculously small town, and the middle aged folk flock like cattle herding toward their lunch. The women put on their racy tops, that probably should have been traded in for something a bit more modest for a mom, and the men put on their coolest belt buckles to try and hide their rapidly increasing stomachs, and they all march down to this semi-classy joint to drink way too much, eat way to little in relationship to the inflated price, and look as smashing as they can possibly pull off--and tonight happened to be band night.
Seeing that I live on a hill about 3 minutes from this night club for the middle-age, the summer winds grace me with the opportunity to hear the glorious ballads, sung by who knows who. After hearing the fragmented “Johnny Be Good” and a very sad rendition of “La Bamba” I became thoroughly convinced that the band was not even required to audition prior to playing there, and they quite possibly were doing this horrendous act of singing entirely for free; because I have no idea who would fund such a noise, but could rather see the tables turned, and the band paying the restaurant to become exposed. And let me inform you—they were exposed, to almost an extent of exploitation as that noise found its way unexplainably loud infesting my home and the residences of surrounding neighbors. There was nowhere to hide, just THAT sound, and the faint remembrance of the crickets that, in truth, should be all I was hearing on this breezy summer evening.
In closing, let me put it this way, if I was paying the electric bill, the windows would be shut an extra two hours, the air would be on, and the sound of Leroy McGee, or whoever the heck is singing his lungs out down there, would drown away. And if anyone complained to me about the effects of using the air-conditioning for so long during an energy crisis, I would simply play them a sample of that noise, and let me tell you, they would understand.

Fairly odd Family: A Melissa version of Chelle's family blog...
Mom:
-Mops our floors at lest twice a day.
-Has conversations with the cat.
-Frequently comes into my bedroom at 6:30a.m to wake me up to see if her outfit looks ok.
-Rarely ever reads the back of movies when she rents them, therefore has a history of bringing home “interesting” movie choices.
-Always refers to a food item as “nice” if she wants you to eat it, i.e., I made a “nice” soup.
-Never runs out of questions, even if you ask her to.
-Bribes you to massage her feet.
-Always buys sale items from the Gap on the internet.
-Infomercials were made for people like her.
-Always sleeps with a pillow for her knees.
-Is known to add an “S” to ever store name, i.e., “Abercrombies, Victoria’s Secrets.”
-Fears: Family being unhappy, people who chew ice, and dirt.
-Dream day: Being at home with her family, with a refrigerator full of groceries and a spotless house (including clean pets.)
Dad:
-Refuses to invest in doctor prescribed glasses, so wears awkward spectacles when he reads that look like their from the 1940’s.
-Is constantly building and inventing things.
-Is known to do yard work at 2:30p.m in 100 degree weather.
-Favorite gifts: Anything regarding tools or Biola paraphernalia that also has the word dad somewhere on it.
-Idea of dress shoes=black tennis shoes.
-Whenever I dress up always goes … “fancy.”
-When he gets full shakes his head back and forth, yet keeps eating.
-If he could, would put Tabasco on everything.
-Always gives very detailed instructions.
-Finds immense joy in milkshakes.
-Fears: Me parking in his spot and if his family stopped liking the Giants.
-Dream day: Something involving golf or pool and the family.
Me:
-Would rather pass out because of pain then take medicine.
-Never can finish a meal without spilling at least some of it on my shirt.
-Love pj’s to such an extent, that if I have nowhere to go I will take a shower, then put on clean pj’s.
-Finds entertainment in movies to an abnormal level.
-Could amuse myself for months and never get bored.
-When I sleep in, eats lunch about an hour after breakfast.
-Has to force self to be awake beyond 12p.m. (if I can make it even there.)
-Always subconsciously hums the same tune when I’m nervous.
-Can tan two shades in about 15 min.
-Frequently call my mom Carmelita, Carmen, Carms, ect.
-Am also known to call animals by different names then their own just to see their reactions.
-Always working on projects, i.e., scrap booking, finishing a book, writing, collaging, yes, once even paint by numbers.
-Fears: Not having a project to work on, having to take cough syrup.
-Dream Day: Dressing up, going to Italy, and dancing in the rain with Mr. Darcy….

Unleashing "the beast" (my car)--
Living nine hours away has its perks. Momentarily I cannot think of many, but I suppose the main perk is worth thousands—you get to be somewhere new, entirely new, and you are embarked with a new kind of independence, but when it comes to driving by yourself for nine hours in order to get home one begins to wish that home was a bit closer.
Summer school=being at school for six extra weeks. Now as daunting as it sounds, it wasn’t all that bad considering I got two classes out of the way and I was able to go on a lot of trips during the weekends to visit friends and family that live around the area. But after being in school for a total of ten and a half months I cannot fully explain to you the utter excitement that encompassed me when I was at last able to go home.
I left a day early, in hopes of surprising my mom. I literally shoved everything into my car, that is, after stuffing it all in garbage bags, and dragging it down the stairs and along the black pavement. It was nearly a hundred degrees, and I kept stuffing things into the backseat of my car. I can’t even fathom exactly how ridiculous I looked rolling down the freeway with big fluffy orange and yellow pillows peeking out the windows, and a stripped comforter as my passenger in the front seat.
After nearly two hours of labor, I left:
2:03p.m: Left campus listening to the new Red Hot Chili Peppers CD—all was good.
2:13p.m: Merge onto the 5 North.
2:17p.m: .0002 miles further down the 5, there was, er, traffic.
3:41p.m: Start over the grapevine listening to “I Heard it Through the Grapevine,” singing to myself like a crazy person.
4:02p.m: Stopping to get gas, and Starbucks, the Starbucks was a, um, mistake.
4:33p.m: Realizing my decaffeinated coffee was in fact caffeinated, and if you know me this is not good…..dancing to a strange oldies song.
4:44: Call someone and leave a 4 min message.
4:48: Call someone else
4:49: Call someone else
4:51: Is anyone home because the 5 is really boring.
5:33: Ok, I have to use the restroom, too much coffee.
5:44: Where is a bathroom?? Do people on the 5 not use bathrooms??? Can I use the outhouse for road workers on the side of the freeway.
5:59: I see an exit!
6:01: I missed the exit.
6:03: In chronic pain, has anyone ever died from having to pee so bad.
6:15: Can I just use the road? Do people on the 5 not pee?
6:17: I see an exit, I cut off two cars, nearly get killed, and take it. Sign says penitentiary 4 miles, food 9. Ok, not working.
6:19: Back on the 5, I can read my obituary now. “New meaning is brought to the saying when you gotta go, you gotta go, when a 19 year old girl literally has a fatal bladder accident.” (ok, so corny.)
6:21: I see a rest stop. Have I ever expressed how much I now love rest stops? At last the bathroom.
6:26: Back on the 5.
6:40: Undergo early signs or road rage. Why do people who are so freaken slow drive in the fast lane…I cannot handle this.
7:05: Stop for food and get hit on by locals.
8:00: Contemplate the many wonders of life…..needless to say, get know where.
8:33: Get gas at the sketchiest gas place I’ve ever seen. Lock doors twice.
9:03: Call Mom, and tell her I’m in Sacramento, and two hours from home, (this was the highlight of the trip.)
10:00: Suffer from the later stages of road rage, as trucks form in what I like to call a road barricade, taking both lanes at snail like paces, as if they are heading a parade.
10:33: Thirsty, but refuse to stop in fear of experience “can’t find a bathroom” happening again.
10:35: OFF the 5!
11:00: Road work in the middle of a county road, a sign says 30 min waits. My patience is diminishing—fast.
11:05: Open windows to try to wake up.
11:10: Road work let’s up quicker then it said, I speed home.
11:30: HomeJ
Nine hours in the car is very amusing, can’t you tell?