On Day 3

19

Day 19 was a doosie of a day.  A better day, but rough.  I have made plans to keep creating.  I miss creating, I wasn’t creating enough.  I have mucho lined up, and we have a huge deadline at work.  I am on top of it and will be up early tomorrow morning! I will be up, I will be up!  For anyone who would like to deliver a double espresso mocha to a little firm on Columbia street, I will not complain.  I will need it.  The gallon coke may not be enough.

Day 3 of the 21 days ended with a blast from the past.  I asked my friend who is a brilliant writer to send me the quip he wrote about me way back in college.  In his story, I was Melanie Broussard.  I read it.  I still laughed just as hard and then printed out and highlighted everything I wanted to change about myself.  The final result, was well very highlighted.  I read it aloud and I realized that this little writing was probably the most honest and humorous description of me and much-needed right now.  So please dear friend do not think that my tearing it apart with my highlighter is me taking offense.  One of the things I love about who I am is my story.  It is a good one, a very embarrassing one, but a good one. Without further ado

A mere four doors down from Johnny (and Socks) and I was Melanie Broussard, a senior in interior design who had worked with Johnny at Spicy’s until the fateful night that she became so infuriated that she informed an assistant manager that he was, in fact, the sorriest, most incompetent bastard who had ever worked in the food service industry, and that everyone thought that he looked like a duck.  Before the man-duck could wrap his beak around the words, “You’re fired,” Melanie threw her apron at him and stormed out amid the applause of the wait staff and several patrons, giving the hostess a high five on her way out the door.  When she called me to tell me this on her way home from the restaurant, I dubbed her a champion of the workingman and called her, “Girl Lenin,” for a week afterwards.  Now she worked for the School of Architecture and Design, answering the phone, printing building plans, and informing freshmen that the admissions office was on the other side of the building.

Melanie was scatterbrained.  Socks maintained that she had adult ADD, but I think he was being sarcastic.  Melanie had brief spurts of organization, but the rest of time she was surrounded by clutter and chaos.  She enjoyed exercise, but, like the rest of us, she did not have the time to do it regularly, nor to eat decent and nutritious food.  She was curvaceous, but she did not really care.  Nor did anyone really notice it, because the force of her personality was what immediately caught your attention.  To put it simply, Melanie was a conversational puma…a conversational puma with a desire to win an Oscar for best actress in the drama category.  Melanie was the most histrionic of us, but her dramatic paroxysms kept us amused.  We all had problems, but Melanie’s problems always seemed to twist in the most improbable directions, ending up as something that a team of soap opera writers would have given their right feet to dream up.  She was always getting into, getting out of, or trying to repair one relationship or another.  

Despite her disorganization, or maybe as party to it, Melanie was very artistic, and her designs showed her talent.  She would always try to explain her motivations and interpretations to us, but, being only superficially acquainted with artistic theory, I understood only a little of what she said.  Socks and Johnny did not understand at all; Socks, in fact, kept confusing interior design with interior decorating, which, I am told, is a cardinal sin in he world of interior design.

Melanie hosted all of our parties.  Johnny and I did the physical work, like raising canopies, getting the ice, and rounding up enough charcoal to cook burgers for twenty to thirty people.  Socks made sure whatever party beer we had in the fridge did not disappear by drinking it, himself.  I also served as the party organizer representative to our landlord, who was not all that fond of parties.  Two days before any scheduled event, I would call him, let him know, and assure him that I would keep everyone in line and supervise the clean up so that no one would ever know it had happened.  He trusted me because I was older than Melanie, and, for some unknown reason, he believed I was more levelheaded.

Melanie’s philosophy of life was enjoyment before advancement.  She was fashionable, but not a fashionista.  She loved New Orleans.  She loved boxed wine.  And she loved weenie…dogs.  She told everyone she was French because she was born on Bastille Day, and tried as best she could to lead the sort of laidback life that she thought would convince us that she really was French.  She had ambition, but not so much that she spent every waking moment planning her career.  Her relationships with other people took precedence over professional development.

Thank you Snarky for sending it to me, it had been way too long since I read this.  My highlighted version is now up on the mirror and I hopefully you will need to correct a few things before my final story is written.  I will be glad when I can say, ” this is the way that I used to be.” {john mayer “split screen sadness”}

Now to bed I go for an early morning.  A day of creating railings and correcting elevations at work and all in all just getting through another day.

lifetimes of paper rainbows…W aka Melanie “the artichoke” Broussard

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One response to “On Day 3

  1. No matter how many times I proofread my writing, I always a.) find a typo, and b.) yearn to destroy it with fire. But I’m glad you enjoy it, though. I do offend, to make offense a skill, so if you can make some use of this, then I’ve at least accomplished something. Though it was never actually intended to be a self-help tool. 😉

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