I Write A Lot!

She doesn't stop me and I am able to start up my CD player before breaking into hysterics. Messing with her is like teasing a kitten. She gets all mad and then never does anything about it.

Twenty minutes later I've turned the music down and covered up all traces of my hysterical laughter induced crying with eye liner, mascara and gratuitous amounts of blush. I turn off the music completely and check out my outfit. I switch from my t-shirt to a long-sleeve white shirt with little black skulls on it, and my jeans for my favorite pair of cargo pants.

My plan for the evening is to meet Jules and Lani at the movie theater in twenty minutes. We'd all been wanting to see Survivor: Big Screen. The people behind the Survivor show were taking a page out of Joss Whedon's book and making a movie after being cancelled. None of us had actually watched much Survivor, but we were interested in finding out how they would work a process that usually took an entire season, approximately 16 hours of screen time, into a two and a half hour movie. After the movie we were going to head over to "Hannah's House of Pizza" for dinner and an informal discussion of the movie. Informal, of course, meaning things like along the lines of "that sucked" or "that guy was so hot".

After deciding that I was finally dressed and ready I grabbed thirty bucks from my "bank," a piece of metal Lani had banged into a slight curve and in our seventh grade shop class, and walked out into the living room.

"Mom, would you give me a ride to the theater?" I'd learned long ago that asked my parents if they could drive me somewhere or do something usually earned me a response like "yeah, I could, but I don't know if I want to."

"Sure Lisa." I rolled my eyes, not bothering to correct her for a second time. My Mom paused and then tried to break the silence. "So..." She dragged the word out to an unreasonable length. "What movie are you going to see?" She gathered up her keys and purse as we spoke.

Survivor: Big Screen, and then we're going over to Hannah's. Is that okay?" I force myself into my Mom's minivan. It's such a Mom mobile. I'm sure it's very safe, but I have to say that my Dad's black '67 Mustang convertible is way better for my "I hate society" image.

"That's fine, dear. As long as you're home by eleven, remember."

"I will. I'll call you on my...I left my cell at home." I sit thinking, my sentence unfinished. My Mom reaches, without looking away from the road, into a slot just below the CD player/radio and pulls out her cell phone. She disconnects it from the charger and deposits it in my lap.

"Call if you need a ride." I look between my Mom and the cell a few times before slipping the phone into my pocket. It amazes me sometimes the things my Mom is able to do without looking, like catching me sneaking ice cream, and the aforementioned cell phone stunt.

More Writing

I've added more to the Melodie Winters story. It's untitled, but for now it's saved as winters.rtf on my computer.

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“Thanks Mom. I'll be home by eleven.” Exit well-adjusted daughter to her bedroom.

I open my bedroom door, pausing to note that I should change the "Do not enter or else" sign on my door to something a little more creative. I marvel at the organized chaos that I lovingly accept as my living space. My room's not messy you see, it's just not clean. Viewed by an outsider the clothes strewn across the haphazard stacks of paper, books, notebooks and more clothes is what constitutes a danger zone. Something akin to the debris left in the wake of a tornado. But it's not, really. I've used many excuses to get out of cleaning my room. Feigned illness is a good one, a classic actually. "If it ain't broke don't fix it." I read that somewhere. Feigned illness was great until my Dad realized that I was getting "sick" everytime I was told to clean my room. He took me to the Doctor's office for a check-up and full physical as payback. That was the official breaking point of the feigned illness excuse. My new favorite: hide everything. It works so well. I go in with a whole box of trash bags and pull out two. Into one I put actual trash, stuff that missed the trash can because it's been full since the last time I "cleaned". Into the other bag goes everything else. Once that's full I tie it up and hide it somewhere, and then start a new bag. Then I continue filling and hiding bags until there's no where to hide them. Use the words "work in progress" and throw in a few "I like it so much better like this" type statements and I don't get bothered again until dirty laundry starts trying to crawl under the door. But like I said, my room's not a dangeer zone. It's just not perfectly clean like Melodie's. And oh, how I have heard about the cleanliness of Melodie's room. "Melodie keeps her room clean, get's straight A's and plays sports. Why can't you do the same?" My mother asks frequently. Well, because I'm not Melodie. My Mom blames my "horrid lack of cleanliness," as she says, on laziness. I'm not lazy. Keeping my room less than tidy is a strategic move on my part. If my family is afraid that the contents of my room could eat a person whole then they'll never feel the need to come in here. It also makes it easier to hide my diary from my parents...and myself. It's not lost, I'm hiding it.

I have a plan for this packing thing. Step one: Put all clothes (and other washable objects) in the laundry. Step two: Pack everything else before laundry is finished. Step three: Pack laundry.

I quickly put my plan into action by hauling loads of dirty laundry into the laundry room. With every load I bring I deny myslef the pleasure of starting with step two just for the sake of being different.

With all the clothing that had been in sight now clogging up the overly small laundry room I start sorting out books, notebooks, loose paper and CDs from my belongings.

The boxes that have been in the garage since the invention of cardboard suddenly become very useful and I am able to fill one with the stuff I had sorted out. I leave the box open in another display of winning strategy. I'll add more as I fill boxes with other things.

After two and a half hours of using my packing method all that I have left in my room are the scattered items that didn't fit in with the things I'd packed away in the other boxes., and the big things like my bed, bureau and computer (with desk and chair). I'll get my Mom and Dad to help me take those apart closer to when we're moving.

I sit on the corner of my bed and survey the product of my labor with disdain. It no longer looks or feels like my room. The posters and other assorted pieces of art that had adorned my walls had gone into a box as soon as I'd cleared enough stuff on my floor to be able to reach my walls. This is not my personalized living space anymore. Now it's just a room that I'll be sleeping in and that would make me sad if I were a drama queen like Melodie. But I'm not, so I deal and move on. I remember packing up and leaving California. Melodie complains, but I loved it there too, ans I also had to move away. It's not all about her after all.

I pick up my phone with the hopes that the time I spent packing was long enough for Melodie to call every person she's ever met or talked to and complain about the move to Maine. She's on the phone when I pick up and I quickly make up a story so that I can have the phone. I don't want to use my cell phone, when I can easily use the home phone.

"'Scuse me. Melodie, the cops are at the door. They want to talk to you about your driving." I hear Melodie gasp and excuse herself from the call, and then the line dies as her friend hangs up as well. I smile in satisfaction and give myself a mental pat on the back before hanging up and calling one of my friends.

My conversation is short as I invite Jules, and Lani who is hanging out with her, to see a movie with me.

I hang up the phone and at the exact moment I hear my name screamed from the living room. It's my sister.

I've only taken one step into the room before she starts her accusations: "You lied. The police aren't here to talk to me."

"Really?" I sound so innocent and sincere. Go me! "It must have been my imagination. I thought I saw the blue and red lights. Sorry to interrupt your call then. You can have the phone back." Turn, walk away calmly. Don't look back, and above all don't start laughing until the music is playing loud enough to cover it up.

She doesn't stop me and I am able to start up my CD player before breaking into hysterics. Messing with her is like teasing a kitten. She gets all mad and then never does anything about it.

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That's all for now. A little over a thousand words (just like the first part).

Writing is a Release

I just read the book No Plot, No Problem by Chris Baty. The man who founded NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month). It inspired me to write. So I sat down at the computer and I wrote for about an hour. And I ended up with the start of a story that I'd like to continue. For now I'm going to take a shower and then I have the odd desire to clean my room (don't tell my parents). Here's what I wrote in the last hour.

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Melodie Winters. The cliched popular girl. Cheerleading, Pep Squad, dating the quarterback of the football team and all-around bitch. She was girl all the other popular kids loved and everyone else hated. Except she was smart too. Most of the popular girls were easy to get away from. Just take an advanced class. But not Melodie. Next to her cheerleading trophies she lined up her spelling bee trophies and Science Olympiad awards. It seems that you don't need a winning personality if you're the head cheerleader and have one of the top ten class rankings. Fourth actually. But she'd find a way to move up. She didn't cheat, but she wasn't opposed to blackmailing or threatening other members of the top ten. But all good things come to an end, even for Melodie Winters. And before we knew it, or had any hand in making it happen, Melodie's days at the high class New York high school came to an end.

“We're WHAT?!” Melodie's scream resonated through our house and I could almost see the smoke pouring out of her ears. I had to keep from laughing when she got mad. Her eyebrows skyrocketed up her forehead and then settled into a crease, and her hair looked like it was about to turn red.

“We're moving, Melodie.” Mrs. Heather Winters, always kind and well-groomed. Her voice was calm as if trying to explain the situation to a five year old. “To Maine.”

“WHY?” The Winters' fine china rattled in the china cupboard, small tea cups threatening to take the fatal leap off of their shelf.

“Melodie Anastasia Winters! You will NOT speak to your mother like that! Calm down this moment.” This was the powerful voice of Mr. Cale Winters. His comments meant to put Melodie in her place worked in the opposite way and enraged Melodie even more.

“Why Maine?” Melodie still fumed, but yelling further would not get her the answers she needed to sort out this error in her perfect life.

“New York is not the place to be raising children.” Melodie's face contorted.

“I'm seventeen.” She glared at her parents. “I only have one year of high school left.” She made the sentences short; every word staccato. “How much more raising do you have to do?”

“You sister is just going into high school. She has four more years left. And we want her in a place free of social pressures.” Melodie looked away from my father to me.

Didn't I tell you? Melodie might be moving, but I'll never get away from her. She's my big sister.

“This is your fault!” The screaming bitch was back, and now she was aimed directly at me. Thanks Dad.

“I didn't ask them to move us to Maine.” I defend. “You think I want to move away from all my friends?” I'm not thrilled about this either, I just know when to scream and when to stay quiet. Our parents have their minds made up and throwing a tantrum isn't going to change it.

“Melodie this was not your sister's decision. She --”

“I have friends here. I have a boyfriend! And I'm practically the first in class rankings. I can't move it'll screw up everything.” Step one: point out reasons why here is good. “Who will lead the cheer leaders? Or head the Pep Squad? They can't get by without me.” Step two: ask questions that would make you stay, but that our parents don't care about. “Please Daddy.” She pushed her bottom lip out and threw in the lost puppy eyes. “Mom. I can leave. I just can't.” Step three: the begging.

“Melodie you said all these things when we moved from California. Now, you managed to find a place here and meet new friends. You'll be able to do it again in Maine” My Dad tries so hard, but logic doesn't work on traumatized teen girls. And for a drama queen like my sister, moving is almost as bad as being murdered. She doesn't want logic, she wants them to change their minds.

“This is non-negotiable Mel.” My Mom starts. The use of the nickname Melodie hates probably wasn't a good move. “I found a great job in Maine, and so has your father. They are both close to the house we found. Which is just gorgeous.” My Mom's voice switches to an airy, dream-like voice over. Like she picturing the new house and her new job in her mind. “The high school we found is very highly recommended and they have an excellent athletics department, so I'm sure you'll be able to do cheer leading and dance there.”

“I really wish you wouldn't call me Mel, mother.” My sister's plan to stop Mom from calling her Mel is to call her mother every time she uses the despised nickname. So far it's working because every time Melodie calls Mom mother there's usually a month or more before Mom slips up again and calls her Mel accidentally.

Nobody speaks, my parents and I focused on Melodie, waiting for a reaction. Wait for it...almost. There. Melodie stands and walks to her room.

“Where are you going honey?” My Mom asks. Like she doesn't know. Melodie always does this emo, moping thing. Every time she gets dumped, or grounded, or gets an A- on a test. This is not a new thing.

“I'm just going to go call my friends.” Melodie turns to face us, tears in her eyes and streaming down her cheeks. “When are we leaving?”

“Next week. Your mother and I wanted to give you two enough time to say goodbye and pack up properly.”

“Okay.” Melodie wipes at her cheeks. It's like a soap opera. Any second we're going to realize that a dead relative left us millions and then an ex-boyfriend is going to come apologize to Melodie for cheating on her with another man.

“Lisa, how are you handling this?” My mother interrupts my thoughts. I probably could have written that up and become a Hollywood script writer.

“It's Li, and I'm good. I'm going to start packing.” Enter well-adjusted daughter. “Do you mind if I go out with some friends tonight? See a movie, get some pizza.”

“No, that's fine. As long as you're back by eleven.” The eleven o'clock curfew still stands apparently. Even though school is out and we're moving out of state. It's usually pushed back to midnight or one during the summer.

“Thanks Mom. I'll be home by eleven.” Exit well-adjusted daughter to her bedroom.

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More to come. Got Nothin' is going to be my back-up in case I lose the version saved to the computer.