Freaky (Funny!) Friday

Previously on The Melissa Diaries: Senior year was quickly becoming one gigantic let-down. Instead of ruling the school, I was letting my heart be ruled by something far more powerful and potent: LOVE. The leaves of autumn were beginning to fall and little did I know that my heart was falling even harder and faster for a certain Brown-Eyed guy...

xoxo,
Mel

Letters To My Future Husband: Letter #5

Dear Mr. Melissa Blake:

Last week, my cousin and his wife had a beautiful baby boy, Christopher David. It's exciting, as he's the first of the "new generation," and gosh, just typing that makes me sound - and feel - extremely old.

Don't worry, I'm not one of those people. I didn't grow up picking out names for my children (OK, except for the girls names, Madison and Mary Jane, if I ever have twins). I actually haven't given much thought to the idea of having kids. Do I want them or not? Do you? I wonder when we talk about this...don't worry, I don't think I'll bring it up on our first date, and if I did, well, I'm sorry.

I'm guessing our eventual talk though may have been a bit awkward, considering my disability has sort of done a number on my genes. All the geneticists say it's almost 100 percent chance that if I have children, they will also have Freeman-Sheldon Syndrome. Did this scare you when I told you? I somehow have this vision in my head of your eyes glazing over and you running out of the room screaming, "No, not the genes. Not the genes." Irrational, I know, but maybe I'm just getting ahead of myself here. Maybe you don't even want kids. Maybe you're the kind who is great with nieces and nephews, but isn't so hot with the whole 24/7 daddy duty.

I'm rambling. I guess I just don't want our lives to be too empty and lonely. Not that I won't be thrilled to spend the rest of my life with you, but I've known some couples who have never had kids and you can tell that sometimes, it seems like something is missing. Kids are great. Kids are adorable. They're literally and figuratively a part of you - something that you leave for the next generation, once you're long gone. I guess I'm just saying that we should keep our options open.

I look forward to hearing your thoughts on this. Until we meet....

xoxo,
Mel

Question of the Day: A Matter of Walking That Tight-Rope...

This has been on my mind for a few weeks now, so I'll just lay it down CSI-style again...

FACTS: I am a woman. I am physically disabled.

SITUATION: I downplay my disability so as to show everyone I'm a woman just like the millions of other women out there. In this case, I feel like I'm denying my disability. So...I speak about my disability, yet that only makes me feel like I'm letting it define me and separate me even more!

EMOTIONAL RESPONSE: GRRRRRRRR! ROOOOOOOARRRRR!!

QUESTION: How do you walk that tight-rope? How can I blend the two into one cohesive goodness??

xoxo,
Mel

Memo To Men: A Rule On Email Etiquette

MEMORANDUM
TO: Men all over the planet
FROM: A very annoyed girl
RE: Wait, New Year's in February?
DATE: February 25, 2009

A lesson to you all: if a girl sends you an email wishing you a Happy New Year, chances are it probably won't mean all that much to her if you wait until THE END of February to write her back. Actually, it'll probably mean, well, nothing.

I got this message from a "guy friend" yesterday...remember, I emailed wayyyyyy back when....


Hey Melissa,

Sorry it's taken so long to write you back, I've been crazy busy but I certainly always intend to get back to you.

He went on to make that sort of superficial small talk, but, oops, he hadn't pulled one over on me. That sweet-talking, asking me how life is, isn't going to work with me, Mr. I-like-you-but-not-enough-to-have-the-courtesy-to-respond-within-a-timely-manner. How busy could he possibly have been that he let my email sit in his inbox for 2 months? I've had faster service from Amazon. By the time I received said guy's reply, I had already forgotten I had sent him a message in the first place.

The point: If you "always intend" to respond, guys, that counts about as much as saying, "I didn't mean to kiss her, it's just this happened and then this happened and then I felt horribly guilty and this happened and this happened...."

BLAH. BLAH. BLAH. As a general rule, always do as you say.

xoxo,
Mel

Dating With Disabilities: The Scarlett Letter

Hey, guys and gals --

Here's the link for this week's column from Online Dating Magazine! Enjoy and have a great day!

xoxo,
Mel

Dating With Disabilities: The Scarlett Letter

If You Look To Your Right, You'll See...The Grand Canyon!

Well, OK, not really but I got your attention, didn't I? I just wanted to alert you to some cool blog updates. I've added a sidebar feature that will keep you abreast and informed of my other wanderings on the Web.

There is a link to my Dating With Disabilities column -- that's my new weekly column for Online Dating Magazine, where I'll chronicle how my disability and search for love have intersected and impacted my life.

Also, look for the link to my columns for The DeKalb Daily Chronicle. I've been their Sunday, slice-of-life columnist for two and a half years now (Oh, how young I once was... ).

Anyway, as always, let me know what you think! You all are awesome!

xoxo,
Mel

P.S. I REALLY AM STUPID, AREN'T I?? I FORGOT TO THANK ALL OF YOU BECAUSE....SO ABOUT WHAT I SAID... REACHED 5,000 HITS THIS MORNING!

THANKYOUTHANKYOUTHANKYOU!!!!!!!!

I REALLY LOVE AND APPRECIATATE ALL OF YOU WHO READ MY BLOG. IT'S NICE TO KNOW PEOPLE ACTUALLY CARE ABOUT MY LITTLE CORNER OF THE WORLD. HERE'S TO THE NEXT 5,000!!

Man Candy Monday

We go from last week's older man to this week's young boy toy. Remember when I dubbed myself my generation's Mrs. Robinson? I wasn't kidding. Really. There's something about younger guys (read: No, not that Mary K.-young, more like "he's-young-but-legal young").

This week's gorgeous goodness has more than his boyish good looks going for him too. He's geeky. He's Awkward. He's absolutely adorable. He's the male equivalent of me...analyze that however you like.

MICHAEL CERA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

xoxo,
Mel

SUNDAY Column: Build Your Own Honesty Puzzle

I have a confession to make: I’m a confessor. A compulsive truth teller, if you will. Maybe you’re one too. Honesty, as I see it, has received a lot of stoic criticism over the years. We’re taught to bite our tongues, to keep our thoughts to ourselves (though, that doesn’t apply to politicians, but that’s another Pandora’s box we can open up at a later date) and, as my mother used to say, “If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.” When I was a child, she’d say it so much that I actually thought she’d coined the term herself.

I used to heed her words, too. I know it may be hard to believe now, but at one time, I was a rather shy girl, the kind who used to slink in the shadows and keep to herself, as if any utterance whatsoever would shake the mountains and churn the high seas. And yet now, as I get older, I can’t help but wonder: In keeping our lips sealed, are we doing a disservice to our inner being? When does honesty become, well, too honest. And, if we do find ourselves letting our inner thoughts escape our lips, will the consequences really be as earth-shatteringly catastrophic as we anticipate?

MORE JUICE AFTER THE JUMP....

xoxo,
Mel


I suppose there are different types of honesty. There’s what I call inconsequential honesty, for example, when you tell someone “Maybe blue is more your color.” This sort of honesty probably won’t get you into too much hot water.

Then there’s the sort of honesty I experienced first-hand a few weeks ago. I accidentally (well, more like subconsciously, as I’ve relived the scenario over and over in my head like one of those suspense movies with a shocking ending you never expected) let certain insights into my feelings – feelings I’d worked so hard to hide for some 14 years – about a certain someone (read: a guy) come spilling out.

I expected the apocalypse. I expected fury. I expected rage. And of course, I expected myself to regret my admission. Oddly, though, barely a tiny ripple cascaded through the metaphorical pond. And even more surprising? I didn’t want to take back what I’d said; for the first time, I didn’t regret saying something that, probably, should have been uttered years ago. It was as if a weight had been swiftly lifted off my shoulders. The air was cleared. I had finally been honest after years of hiding something that really wasn’t even worth hiding. I had built it up in my head to be this big, never-to-tell-another-living-soul secret. It wasn’t. I suspect it never was in the first place.

Sometimes I get to thinking that people don’t expect little old me, a little redhead in a wheelchair to be such a red-hot firecracker. Maybe they expect me to be like one of those Disney princesses, waiting in the highest room of the castle for her Prince Charming to rescue her. They expect her to be soft-spoken, diminutive, that wallflower I used to be so long ago.

So when people meet me and quickly realize that I am the exact opposite of a fair-haired Disney princess – outspoken, feisty, strong-willed – it might scare them a bit at first. Maybe they don’t expect me to be as honest as I am, but I’m slowly learning to love living in my new honesty skin. It’s not that I’m going around purposely insulting people under the guise of honesty; it’s more that I’ve grown comfortable in my skin and am no longer afraid to tell the world what life is like from my perspective.

In the process, I’d figured out something else, too. There is a sort of deep-rooted, heart-pumping honesty you have with yourself. The kind of honesty – an inner dialogue of sorts – that should be your best friend. It helps you hold tight to who you are and has a built-in detector that lets you know when you begin to stray.

Because, really, in not being honest, you’re hiding a part of yourself. Don’t regret what you say. Never deny your true nature. Be who you are. And above all, don’t sacrifice yourself for anything or anyone.

Because in doing so, you’ll eventually run the risk of regretting who you are. It’s a slippery slope you don’t want to take. You’re invalidating a piece of your puzzle that makes you, well, you. And your puzzle deserves to be whole.

Dating With Disabilities: What Does It Mean To Love In Today's World

A quick note before I head off for the day -- my first column has been posted on Online Dating Magazine. My contract stipulates that I can't re-post the article here (YES! I'm finally getting to feel like a "real" writer, LOL!!), but I can post the link. Read it, enjoy it (hopefully) and let me know what you think?

How do you love in today's world?

Dating With Disabilities: What Does It Mean To Love In Today's World?

xoxo,
Mel

Freaky (Funny!) Friday

Previously on The Melissa Diaries: I had just begun my Senior year of high school. I'd expected things to change, but Brown-Eyed Editor seemed to have forgotten I ever existed. And I could already tell the new girl, Evil Gossip Girl, was trying to score more than a front-page story. It seemed my life was turning into a celebrity weekly scandal-worthy cover story. But the truth was....I wasn't going down without a fight.

xoxo,
Mel

Newsflash: A Hot Polar Bear On The Proooowwwl...

Alright, I admit it: I'm a sucker for a cute love story between animals (and no, I'm not talking about the human species here). I found this story thanks to AOL News about matchmakers who set up two polar bears. I love the paragraph in bold....a polar bear who's a polar bear's polar bear (sort of like a man's man, I'm guessing....)

Ready. Set. Awwwwww.



(Feb. 16) - Aided by some human matchmakers, Nanuq the aging polar bear from Wisconsin has a date in Buffalo with Anana.

"He will be there in Buffalo awhile," says Jim Hubing, director of the Henry Vilas Zoo in Madison, Wis. "They will know probably by late summer or early fall if she has conceived."

Polar bears were added last year to the list of threatened species under the federal Endangered Species Act, and scientists used careful genetic matching to pair the two bears to ensure genetic diversity.

Nanuq is considered a good catch as a mating partner, says Donna Fernandes, head of the Buffalo Zoo. He was captured in the wild as a cub in 1987 and thus, unlike polar bears born in captivity, brings a unique new genetic code to the party.

MORE JUICE AFTER THE JUMP...

xoxo,
Mel


Nanuq's name recalls Nanook of the North, the classic 1922 documentary by Robert Flaherty about an Eskimo hunter in the Canadian arctic. The black-and-white film became a classroom staple for generations of schoolchildren in the mid-20th century. Nanuq and Nanook are alternative spellings of the Inuit word for polar bear.

Nanuq is 22 and was rescued along with his brother Norton in Alaska in 1987 by the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service after their mother was shot by a hunter, Hubing said. He was flown to Henry Vilas Zoo the following year.

"He lives well," Hubing said. "He's happy."

He is awaiting transport to Buffalo this month in a specially outfitted truck. There he will be introduced to 8-year-old Anana, who was born in captivity. Neither bear has ever bred before.

"He's very old — that's our concern," says Fernandes, who adds that her zoo's doctors will give the old boy a cardiac test first to make sure his ticker can handle the excitement ahead of him.

"This is like an 80-year-old male with a 20-year-old female," Fernandes says. "We're hoping it works and certainly willing to give it a try."

Man Candy Monday

Is there a doctor in the house? Because I'm feeling a bit faint this morning. Our wonderful piece of man goodness today comes courtesy of one of my favorite shows of the moment, ABC's Private Practice. My doctor of choice to administer CPR and bring me back to life?

PAUL ADELSTEIN!!!!!!!

Hope this cures your case of The Mondays!

xoxo,
Mel

SUNDAY Column: Old Is The New Young

I’m being haunted. It’s not even of the friendly Casper variety either. It’s a small haunting, but it thunders through my brain. Three little phrases that have somehow plucked their way into my psyche and have settled in for a long winter – and spring and summer and fall, I’m assuming.

I feel so old.

I am so stiff; my body isn’t what it used to be.

How do these young people have so much energy, and how do they muster the courage and strength to go out after 6 p.m.?

I’m not even 30 yet. I figure at this rate, I’ll be fully homebound (a shut-in) by 35, in a senior citizen’s gated community by 45 and on complete bedrest by 60.

That’s it. My future, I decided, didn’t look too bright after all. I might as well just apply for the senior discount now and submit my application for said gated community while I still have my eyesight (well, mostly) to fill in those tiny boxes.

And just when I start thinking like this, I invariably feel a distinct sense of guilt wash over me. Guilt from beyond the grave, actually. Today marks seven years since my grandmother’s death, and whenever I start speaking of this feeling old business in a derogatory way, I can’t help but feel as if I’m betraying her and betraying the values she instilled in me so long ago.

Why does getting older have to be a bad thing? Can’t we age gracefully – and gratefully – without losing that sense of childhood wonder along the way?

MORE JUICE AFTER THE JUMP...

xoxo,
Mel


If historians traced the history of the Aging Gracefully Phenomenon, they’d find a smiling, jubilant picture of my grandmother as the founder. She looked at every stage of life – not just her twilight years – as a sort of adventure. Her late teenage years didn’t signal the end of her idyllic childhood life, but the beginning of her life in the big city – Chicago – with dreams of being a nurse.

Her 30s and 40s weren’t spent dreaming and missing her younger self, but instead forming memories with her husband and young children.

And those twilight years? If you’d ask her, she’d have said they were some of the best times in her life. She enjoyed more than 20 years of retirement with my grandfather – a time when they’d spend their days bike riding, shopping and exploring their new surroundings in the Deep South. Oh, and she also spoiled her seven grandchildren and smiled as she saw them grow up.

We – and of course, I include myself in this group – have a tendency to equate aging with such negative connotations. Old is bad. Old is outdated. Old is useless. But with “old” (and may I add that “old” is a rather subjective term in itself) comes a legacy, a sense of history.

For example, our house is older now than it was when we moved in six years ago. We used to marvel at how fresh and pristine it looked in its infancy, and admittedly, we tried as hard as we could to keep it looking like the model home down the street they used to lure prospective buyers. We wanted it to be young and new and fresh. Forever. But over time, our house became lived in. There were holes in the walls – sometimes large ones – from the times my mother got it in her head that she could hang pictures by herself. There were scuff marks on the hardwood floors from the times I drove my wheelchair over its freshly polished surface. And there were scratches on our kitchen table from the hours of rolling the dice during a furious game of Yahtzee.

That bad term “old” somehow takes on a different meaning when I looked at it through that memory mask. Something tells me that’s how my grandmother escaped the woe-is-me trap of aging. She saw each new age, each new stage of life, as a new beginning of sorts. She didn’t see getting older as a loss, as something indicating your life is slipping away, but as a new chapter just beginning. And instead of dwelling on what she could be losing, she reveled in what she stood to gain: those much-cherished memories.

So maybe I am being haunted after all, only in a good way, actually. Maybe my grandmother, with her comforting, soothing and optimistic demeanor, is trying to tell me something.

She chose to look forward instead of backward. I’d take that over a pristine house any day.

Freaky (Funny!) Friday

Previously on the Melissa Diaries: My summer was officially over and it was back to school for my Senior year. I thought it would be a breeze, but little did I know that a hurricane was about to storm through my life. I didn't know how to handle it, but I knew one thing: my last year of high school was going to be everything but easy.

xoxo,
Mel

The 5 Days of Valentine's Day (Day 5): Honestly, Who Really Needs A Man Anyway?

For some, tomorrow will be a days of love, of roses and sweet-talking and lots of hugs and kisses (and of course Kisses of the chocolate variety). For others, like myself, it will be, perhaps, the one day of the year where their single status could get them a little down.

WELL, STOP IT ALREADY!!! Seriously, I say those in a relationship could dread the day even more. Heck, they might even envy us singletons. Why? Because we have virtually NOTHING we absolutely have to do!

NEWSFLASH: NOW IS A GREAT TIME TO BE SINGLE!

Don't believe me? Take a look at The Top 10 Reasons It's Great To Be Single... Marie Claire inspired my list. Here's their top 10 (#4 is my favorite). their Top 10, and here's my own spin on Cupid's favorite day of the year!

10. A night of free therapy courtesy of the local karoake bar ("You Give Love A Bad Name," anyone?).

9. An excuse to use that only-good-once-a-year cheesy pick-up line at a single's bar: "Will you be my Valentine?" Watch his eyes glaze over at the thought!!

8. Silently pitying (for once) your attached friends as they bemoan all the things they feel like they're obligated to do on Valentine's Day.

7. You, on the other hand, are looking forward to a night on the couch. In your pajamas, of course!

6. NOT having to smile through clenched teeth as you open the same card Mr. Loverboy got you last year (and the year before and the year before). BONUS POINTS ALERT if the 'loving' prose he wrote inside the card sound eerily familiar too.

5. NOT feeling an ounce of guilt for Googling/Facebooking/Cyber-hunting your high school crush and still thinking he's hot.

4. NO awkward silences over a cliched first-date dinner with a man whose online profile said he worked in the home repair business (translation: he lives at home, but as he says, "I do my own laundry"). BONUS POINTS ALERT if he also generous enough to mow his mother's lawn when she asks. TRIPLE POINTS ALERT if said mother makes an in-person appearance on said date.

3. Two words: Ben & Jerry. All night long.

2. Throwing a fun '80s party with your gal pals. Richard Marx is STILL sexy, dammit!

1. You can buy yourself Valentines because you know you'll always be more special than any old Mr. Lover.

THE Julia Allison Said She Loves ME!

So anyone who's anyone in the world of blogging and social media is aware of and in awe of Julia Allison. She's part of the new generation of online media mavens making a name for themselves on the Web. She's a dating columnist for Time Out New York. She runs NonSociety with two of her friends.

Point: She's pretty darn awesome. So, in a bit of brazen bravery, I emailed her a few months ago and asked about freelancing for her site. I figured that she's a busy lady (who wouldn't want to go on dates and then write about them?!?!?), but I opened my email a few days ago to find this message:

Hi HI HI Hi Hi Melissa!!!

I love you! I always follow your tweets and I've seen you email me a few times and have meant to respond! I think you could definitely be an asset to us. Can you let me get my bearings after this whole travel thing and taping TMI tomorrow and then remind me to get back to you by the end of the week? Thank you so much!!

An email. From Julia Allison. For me. Suffice it to say that things could quite possibly be looking up for me on the writing front! Thanks for the email, Julia! YOU'RE AWESOME!!!

xoxo,
Mel

I Could Be The Next Carrie Bradshaw - With A Sexy Twist

Why is it that just when you think the well is dry, a hurrican sweeps through town and quenches your ever-growing thirst? I'd been having a rather dull period (OK, it was a full-on dry spell) on the writing front lately. It was the same sad cycle over and over: Send pitch. Bite nails for 2 weeks and checking email every 2 minutes. Send follow-up (kind, but persistent). Continue to bite nails and check email (sometimes, usually in times of panic mode, both acts took place simultaneously). Smile when I see response in my inbox. Frown when I open said response and it's another rejection.

But I opened my email Monday, and GUESS WHAT? NO REJECTION! In fact, it was an offer...for me! The email started like this:

I absolutely love your style of writing from the samples you posted and your blog. I think that your situation (disability), excellent communication skills, enthusiasm, and perspective on life/yourself/dating/social networking can contribute to our readers in ways that other writers can’t. What I like about your writing is that you’re not afraid to talk about the reality of your situation, the struggles you face, the humor you encounter, and the success you have. Your confidence and ability to project that to others can definitely benefit our readers.

And continued like this...

This is an official offer for you to become a freelance writer for Online Dating Magazine, through a weekly column.

And continued like this...

These are the column details:
Column Name: Dating with Disabilities
Description: The column tackles real life issue of dating when you have a physical disability, but also travels beyond that to tackle how people without physical disabilities still create their own “roadblocks” and how to overcome those. For the most part, the column takes a humorous approach.

Oh wow! I looks like Yours Truly can add the title of Relationship Columnist to her resume. My weekly column will debut next Tuesday on Online Dating Magazine.

And of course I could use ideas from you. What "roadblocks" do you encounter on your way to love? How have you overcome them?

I hope you'll embark on this new journey with me. Now excuse me while I jump around like a giddy school girl!!!!!

xoxo,
Mel

Letters To My Future Husband: Letter #4

I often wonder just how much my father's suicide has colored the very way I look at love. Has it made me shy away from it? Has it made me distrustful, not just of men, but of people in general? Has it made me want to form that tight human connection even more - and never let go?

I'm sure all those reasons have their place in my life now, and probably will for a very long time. Have we talked a lot about this? When I do meet you, I'm going to, most likely, tread very lightly at first. All suicide survivors wonder when they should "tell the story" to someone new in their life. I don't want to just spring it on you over appetizers on our first date, as in "These are great Buffalo wings; oh, and by the way, did you know my father killed himself and I was in the house when it happened?"

But at the same time, I don't want to keep it a secret for too long, either. Since his suicide, I've been fighting the societal stigma of suicide. People don't want to hear about it - they know it happens (to other people, of course), but they'd rather be spared the details. They'd just as soon assume you've "moved on" and not speak of it. Any of it. I've encountered people who, sadly, think I've just moved on with my life and am perfectly fine now, as if nothing ever happened. Granted, I don't go around projecting this image of a wounded daughter (because that's not what people want to see), but it would be nice if someone asked how I was doing with my dad's suicide, just every once in awhile.

I know, it's a hard topic to talk about it. So maybe we won't get too deep into it at first. Maybe my feelings and the events surrounding his death will come out slowly, over time, as we both get to know each other and are comfortable with sharing a very personal part of our lives with each other.

But I do want you to know that I'll always listen to you. I don't ever want you to hide your past, your life or any of your feelings. It's cliched, but I want us to have the sort of relationship like my parents had - one where everything is put on the table. I'll admit, I have put my guard up a lot more in the last 6 years than I ever have before; I don't talk about things to just anyone. I look forward to you being one of those people I can fully be myself with - tragic father's death and my own quirks and all.

As always, I look forward to meeting you.

xoxo,
Mel

The 5 Days of Valentine's Day (Day 4): Who Doesn't Love Heart-Shaped Messages?

I sat in my room this morning and realized I had 2 (YES, TWO!) boxes of candy hearts in my basket. I haven't had these little creatures in years -- I always used to love reading the messages on them, thinking which message would fit perfectly for all the people in my life.

So here's my thought put to action...a message for each of the guys I'm always babbling about on here!! Don't take this too seriously...it's just meant to be FUN!

xoxo,
Mel

LA Hot Shot: Notice the chipped piece in the corner? Yup, that metaphor is on purpose...


Cute Guy Friend


Brown-Eyed Editor


Crush Boy


Facebook Flirt


My Future Husband

Letters To My Future Husband: Letter #3

I wish you could have known my dad. I wonder if you'll be a lot like him (Freud would probably say yes to that one). But I suppose you can get to know him, through me (and yes, he did pass down some of his quirks to me, so brace yourself), through pictures and especially through this column I wrote about him a few years ago.

I can't wait to meet your father. And I can't wait to meet you.

My new self will be six years old next week. I like to think of her as Melissa 2.0. On the outside, it's still me - green eyes, dots of freckles running up and down my arms, the cute little smile. But the girl on the inside has morphed into a woman. She was born the day my father died in 2003. A few months ago, I mused about suicide, but I left the puzzle incomplete. I left out a vital piece. My life. My father. A man separate from suicide. How he died does not diminish how he lived. You see, it seems small - maybe even painfully obvious - but it's something I've struggled to accept. And now I have. This is the story of how he lived and how I became the person I am today - girl and woman, yet still his "Rosebud,” his affectionate moniker for my sister and me.

MORE JUICE AFTER THE JUMP...

xoxo,
Mel


Even before I could walk, I learned determination and persistence from my father. Growing up with Freeman-Sheldon Syndrome, a rare genetic bone and muscular disorder, I had more than 26 surgeries by the time I was 15. Hospitals and doctors' offices became a part of my family's life. My father saw to it that I never lost my spunk. He became my Superman. My legs. My window to the world. When I turned 3, I pressed my feet against the soft sand along the shores of the Gulf of Mexico for the first time, seeing my red hair sputter in the wind and letting the cool water rush over my little feet. It was my father who held me for hours just so I could giggle and splash. I can only imagine how sore this made him, but he never let on about the pain. Instead, he gave his classic chuckle as I splashed my hands and feet in the water.

My father's persistence came in other forms, too - even in his attitude toward his own homework. Because of my medical needs, it took him 20 years to get his college degree. And as he got older, it became harder and harder for him to stay awake and finish his homework. One of his hardest classes was calculus, and some nights I remember him sitting in the living room, the lamp on, his reading glasses perched on his nose and his books sprawled out in front of him. Then, after a bit, I'd start to hear snoring, and I'd hear my mom walk out to the living room. She'd find my father's head resting on his books, his eyes shut in blissful sleep. He must have been the proudest man when he walked down that aisle to accept his diploma on graduation day!

My father taught me about love and compassion whenever he was with my mom. They had a love like nothing I'd ever seen before, and I always knew it was something special. Every time my mother would step in the room, my father got this puppy-dog look of love in his eyes. He'd get almost as giddy as a teenager, and you could tell that my mom became the only woman in the room to him. As a child, I thought it was corny that my dad called my mom "Dear," but now I realize that simple word demonstrated just how much he cared for her. To this day, I can't remember them fighting over anything more than the thermostat; my mom was a stickler for saving money in the winter, while my father's constant refrain was "It's cold in here" as he walked around the house in two heavy sweatshirts, a blanket draped over his shoulders.

It sounds strange, but my father - not my mother - was the one who taught me the art of small talk. It started when I was quite young, during our "father-daughter walks." When he came home from work in the summer, he'd take me to the pool, which was within walking distance of our house. While swimming was fun, what stuck in my mind was the walk there and back. As his flip-flops squeaked water and the hot sun formed little beads of sweat on our backs, we'd talk about all sorts of things - what I did that day, what I liked about school and one of our favorite topics, the universe. I was filled with question after question. He always managed to answer every single one of them. Another one of our favorite places to talk was the hospital. He'd sit right by my bed, holding my hand, and just talk. Just holding his monstrous hand, feeling the smooth skin of his palm - somehow I instinctively felt an energy, like holding that hand would make everything right with the world. And it did.

My father taught me courage when he least expected it: the day he got cancer. In 2003, a marble-sized tumor was found in his nasal passage, and the doctors told us this type of cancer was extremely rare and extremely serious - most patients did not survive longer than 18 months. My father underwent a rigorous treatment of chemo and radiation over the next two months. I remember going with him and my mom for his treatments, and sometimes he'd get this scared look in his eyes. He'd sit in the hard hospital chair, sometimes unable to sit upright, his head resting on his hands. This time, it was my turn to talk and hold his hand. I'd tell him how proud I was of him and how much he meant to me. Even though he knew how serious the cancer was, he still pushed on. I wonder how he did it, but he showed courage even in the face of adversity.

Sometimes I want to gather my father's spirit in a bottle and share it with every child. But then the selfish girl in me thinks otherwise and wants to keep her daddy all to herself, like those father-daughter moments we shared so long ago. A little memory between the two of us. Because in the end, it's not the sweeping portrait of our lives we worry about forgetting. It's the smaller details - the colors that blend in the painting to make that final masterpiece. My father's laugh. The glimmer in his eyes. His soft, Santa-like tummy. The colors of my father will never fade, and somewhere, somehow, I hope this little Rosebud has made him proud

I SO Want This Sign In My Bedroom...

Not that I'd actually be so forward as to actually allow a guy in my bedroom, but I spotted this sign in a bookstore recently and just had to snap a pic. Wouldn't it be cool idea, though?

xoxo,
Mel

The 5 Days of Valentine's Day (Day 2): Totally Cheap And Unconventional Date Ideas

First, by the word cheap, I don't mean cheap, as in some sort of candy-necklace bikini or a whipped cream teddy. You all should know me better than that!

With such rough times in the economy - and no sign of things improving any time soon - I advise all of you lovebirds out there to take advantage of the money crunch by doing some unconventional and cheap in price for Valentine's Day. And lucky for you, I'm here to give you some ideas.

What are YOU doing for Valentine's Day? Shoot me a note -- I'd love to hear about it.

xoxo,
Mel

Tangled-Up Twister: The perks of this one should be rather obvious: lots of giggles and flirtatious moves! Or even create your own rules! A twist on Twister, perhaps!


Sweet (And A Little Sexy) Scrabble: Why not make up your own rules for the game. You can only make words that describe the other person (read: IN A NICE WAY!).


Love Notes Around The House: Each of you take Post-It notes and write reasons why you love the other person. Then, hide them all around the house and watch each other smile (and sigh!) as you find each one. You never know - you might not find some of those notes until well into the spring (or, conveniently, when you two are in the midst of a fight).


An Old-Fashioned Kids' Valentine's Celebration: Remember in elementary school when you used to make your fellow students Valentines and stick a piece of candy on it. If you 'liked' the person, you probably put a Hershey's Kiss on it or was even so bold as to write the word LOVE on said card.


Trade Candy Hearts: Who thought one little candy heart could say it all? BE MINE. I LOVE YOU. It could just be the best Valentine's Day gift you've ever received from your mute boyfriend.

Man Candy Monday

I think I have something this week that will surely cure your case of the Mondays. This guy's an individual, marching to the beat of his own drum, and frankly, not caring what anyone else thinks. Plus, it doesn't hurt that for some reason, he reminds me of Crush Boy - I think it's those intense eyes....

I so I give you.......

CHUCK BASS - Gossip Girl's resident mystery man.

xoxo,
Mel

SUNDAY column: Those Were The Days

Editor’s Note: This is the second of a two-part series taking one last glimpse at the beautiful items disappearing from our great nation, as originally described at www.walletpop.com. In light of this last installment, I think we can all agree on one thing: Something needs to be done. These items desperately need saving – and only we can save them.

No. 13: Cameras that use film
I gave up old-fashioned cameras years ago. I’ve even given up digital cameras and rely on my cell phone (the wave of the future, my friends). But, still, it was fun in the old days to drop off that roll of film and then walk around the store for an hour in heated anticipation. And I’ll miss my mother’s refrain of “I can’t even keep track of a disposable camera.” That explains our lack of vacation pictures for an entire decade.

No. 12: Incandescent light bulbs
Leave it to the old environment-lovers to advocate us living in the dark. Apparently, the fact that I’m a huge fan of a 60-watt because I like big, bright rooms makes me Public Enemy No. 1 to the tree-hugging, alternative-light-source bunch. I can’t help it if I have poor vision and want to still honor the hard work of a man named Thomas Edison.

No. 11: Stand-alone bowling alleys
Next to baseball, I thought bowling was one of America’s greatest pastimes. Who doesn’t love hurling the ball down the alley in those hideous-looking shoes? Sadly, though, the shoes aren’t enough to keep people coming: Only 60 million Americans bowl at least once a year. What’s sadder is the fact that bowling alleys themselves are even selling out, opting to become part of a facility for all types of recreation, including video games and laser tag. Score one for corporate America, I sadly suspect, though I always thought bowling had more dignity than to be a sell-out like that.

MORE JUICE AFTER THE JUMP...

xoxo,
Mel


No. 10: The milkman
For once, my age doesn’t make me feel like an old lady. I don’t even remember the days of milkmen – those lazy days of yore when they’d stroll through the neighborhood, leaving little gifts of calcium on your doorstep. Like a happy surprise from the dairy fairy. I actually wish this once could last a little longer.

No. 9: Handwritten letters
As a writer, I’m sure you already know my stance on this. There is nothing more personal, more thoughtful and more intimate than writing a letter to someone; e-mail just doesn’t do it for me. I like to see the person’s handwriting, feel the crisp paper between my fingers and even save the letter.

No. 8: Wild horses
This one is new to me: 100 years ago, roughly 2 million horses roamed and trotted across this great land; now, the National Wild Horse and Burro Advisory Board estimates that number dropped to 32,000 in 10 Western states. Horses seem to have an old soul; maybe that’s why I’ve always felt a special attachment to them every time I visited a farm. They’re beautiful, majestic creatures, and it scares me that they could one day be front-and-center on the endangered species list. I hope Zorro was able to save his horse.

No. 7: Personal checks
Finally, the rest of America is JUST NOW catching up with me. I rarely write personal checks anymore, much to the chagrin of my mother, who always asks, “Where are your checks?” I figure it’s my way of saving the environment (you’re welcome, tree-huggers!). My mother thinks I’m just lazy and forgetful. If I already have a plastic card, why clutter my wheelchair basket with those pesky little checks?

No. 6: Drive-in theaters
I actually feel sort of un-American, seeing as I’ve never been to one. Apparently, they had hit their peak in 1958. It was the hot spot for dating back then; couples would pretend to be watching “Rebel Without A Cause” and snacking on popcorn (we all know they really wanted to be snacking on each other’s lips). Maybe the lack of modern-day drive-ins will keep teens in line. Finally.

No. 5: Mumps & measles
Score one for the advancements in medicine. In 1964, 212,000 cases of mumps were reported in the United State; in 2005, only 66 cases were recorded. Whew. That’s one ailment I can cross off my hypochondria list. But I’m left wondering: Did Rubella make a break for it? Is rubella still out to get us? Maybe it’s outsmarted even the nation’s top doctors.

No. 4: Honey bees
I’ll say it: Good riddance, you evil honey bees. They’re at the top of my hypochondria list, mainly because I’ve never been stung, so naturally, I assume this puts me at a higher risk for being allergic. Besides, what do we need bee colonies for anyway? If we can make artificial cheese like Cheese Whiz, I’m sure we can make our own honey. Ironically, my name means bee, but I think that’s just because I’m so sweet.

No. 3: News magazines and TV news
Score another win for US Weekly and Access Hollywood. Sorry, Time and Newsweek and Katie Couric, but it looks like you just don’t have the gumption to run with the big boys. As it looks right now, your only saving grace is a man by the name of Barack Obama. FYI, The New York Times: You’d better step it up, or USA Today is going to kick you to the curb.

No. 2: Analog TV
Now, I’m not exactly sure what this is, but the blurb was accompanied by an ’80s-looking TV and remote control, so I’m assuming that means TVs with those rabbit ears. Not to sound snobbish, but doesn’t everyone have satellite, or at least cable by now? This isn’t the Dark Ages of Television.

No. 1: The family farm
Living in the Heartland, this one tearfully hits home. I’ve never lived on a farm, but they’re a hallmark of this great nation – people truly living and working off the land, from dawn until dusk, in the heat of summer and in the crisp afternoons of fall. Might I suggest that if we insist on building houses and shopping malls on people’s livelihood, can the government at least build a Farm Museum, so we can have something for the next generation to marvel at?

So what’s your verdict: Shall we save them together or not?

Insomnia: Like A Really, Really, Never-Ending Bad Date

I toss. I turn. I toss and turn. I ruffle the sheets, taking them off because I’m hot, then draping them back over me as I shiver. I lie on my back, my side, my stomach. I close my eyes tight. I just lie there, eyes wide open, and stare at the darkness.

Sometimes I even pound the pillow in fits of frustration.

It’s no use and it’s hopeless. And now, it’s all making me feel hopeless.

I. Can’t. Sleep.

It was really true. My life had come to this — lying in bed night after night and praying for the sweet morning light. This was never supposed to be me. Insomnia is something that happens to other people; you never suspect it’ll strike your own home, let alone you. But it had, and during all my recent late nights (or early mornings, depending on your perspective), I wondered: Had my George H.W. Bush bed forsaken me? Are the darkest hours truly just before dawn?

MORE JUICE AFTER THE JUMP...

xoxo,
Mel


Insomnia is not a very good friend. It tries to be your best friend and play nice, but I could tell it was an act. Well, that was two months ago, and the little creep is still hanging around. It’s not like I haven’t tried to get rid of it either. I have. I’ve tried easing into my slumber by reading for a while; I’ve tried sipping some hot chocolate to settle me; I’ve tried going to bed at different times in an attempt — a futile one, obviously — to get my biorhythms straightened o ut; I’ve tried counting sheep.

I’ve even had my mother wash my sheets so I could be all comfy cozy come the big sleep, that long stretch of 12-hour, uninterrupted, restorative, Folgers-coffee commercial sleep that I knew was coming any day — err, night — now.

And yet as I sit here at 10 a.m. (I tossed and turned since 3 a.m., in case you were wondering), my eyes are heavy and droopy. Not exactly the picture of “Good Morning,” is it?

It’s actually amazing what you’ll do in those wee hours of darkness. Some people listen to music or watch TV to pass the time. Good for them; I’m sure they get to sleep faster than I do. I’ve taken to thinking in the dark of late, a bad habit for me, I know. My mind seems to naturally flood with questions: Why can’t I sleep? What’s the meaning of life? Why can’t I sleep? What’s going to happen to Chuck and Blair on Gossip Girl? Why can’t I sleep? Why does my foot hurt? Why can’t I sleep?

Oh, and I even wrote half this column in my head. I finished that by 4:30 a.m.

I suspect this all has to do with a little thing called karma. You see, I used to be one of those people who slept like a baby and waved my sleep triumph in the faces of the sleepless, those poor unfortunate souls who looked at me with heavy eyes. I questioned how in the heck anyone could ever have trouble in the sleep department.
“You lay your head on the soft pillow,” I instructed like those tone people in workout video, “and think happy thoughts. You then drift off to sleep land as if floating on a white, fluffy cloud. It’s really no problem.”

Oh, I know better now. It — elusive sleep — is a pretty big problem. You never know the pleasure of sleep until you lose it, and you find yourself praying for those moments when a sleep-induced nightmare would seem like a fairy tale compared to your real-time nightmare. If you’re anything like me, you may even start to fear your bed, a place you once called your haven, and begin to quiver at the mere sit of the pillow-blanket combo.

At this point, I’m not sure; for once, I don’t have the almighty answer.

In the end, I suppose, sleeping is a bit like dating. A slow tango between you and your partner on a beautiful evening, the moon full and the stars bright. Not that I have much experience in the dating realm either. I guess I’ll add it to the list of things to ask those sheep. I’m sure we’ll be hanging out again tonight.

Freaky (Funny!) Friday

Previously on the Melissa Diaries: The summer before my Senior year was quickly drawing to a close. I didn't want to admit to myself that after this year, things would change in ways I couldn't even imagine. But little did I know that I was about to reveal something far more important -- something I'd never told anyone before.

xoxo,
Mel

Missed Connections: An Open Letter To The Cute Police Officer

Spotted: A cute bespectacled (uniformed!) office patrolling the halls of Kishwaukee College. Is he just keeping us safe, or is he really stealing our hearts in the process? Who knew the vegetable fields of Illinois could produce such appetizing man meat?

Nice Mr. Policeman, I wasn't close enough to see if you were wearing a wedding ring, but chances are, you've already been snatched up by a lucky lady. A man in uniform is hot enough, but a SMART man in a uniform? That's just downright diabolical. It's like fusing the strength of Vin Diesel with the brains of McDreamy.

What's sexier than both physical and mental attractiveness?

My verdict: Well, myself, of course. But rest assured, Mr. Policeman, you came in a close second. Do you always carry around handcuffs?

Now if only I could find an equally attractive firefighter. Any takers?

xoxo,
Mel

Damn, That Jelly Belly Wheel Is H-O-T

Before I dash off for work and try to get to work on a new piece of writing (my take on the Modern Feminist -- look for it in the coming weeks!), I just wanted to let everyone and their brother and their sister and their bestie that today is my Half Birthday!

WOOOOOOO!!

Half Birthdays are the greatest thing since sliced bread. What better excuse to buy yourself a present (I'm going to shop on ebay later), drink a nice cocktail (I'm going to pour me a tall one (of cranberry juice, that is) and laugh hysterically with a man (I will tonight with Dr. Frasier Crane)?

And of course, no birthday (half or quarter or otherwise) would be complete without a little cute photo. Here's a photo of me (dork? OF COURSE!) a few years ago. I was vacationing in Memphis, eating BBQ, when I spotted this insanely gorgeous Jelly Bell Wheel across the street. I knew I had to see it, touch it, spin it. Sadly, I didn't win anything, but at least I got up close and semi-personal with it.

xoxo,
Mel

When It's Time To Change....??

Editor's Note: I debated posting this - it's one of my newspaper columns from a couple years ago. And then I thought, "No, Melissa, you have to post this. It's you, good and bad, in all your dorky and awkward glory. Enjoy!

During one of my three-hour lunches last year (hey, I'm a freelance writer and get the most out of my DVR), I sat in my mother's cozy room. The ceiling fan swirled cool air, and outside the window, I could see a tall green tree reflected against a classic early autumn sky.

I sat in my own private cocoon. It may have been the tail end of summer, yes, but I felt myself sinking into a mini-hibernation. A place of deep contemplation. A place where the streets are lined, not with gold, but with an endless row of question marks, topped off with a few “whys” and “hows” for good measure. But the scenery never changed. The long stretch of highway sported pretty flowers - flowers of the same shape, color, even texture. I knew what to expect at every turn.

I was safe.

Then I came to a fork in the road. To the right lay that consistent, even, steady path. To the left? A dark, damp cave. Where should I go?

I had no idea.

And then I heard a booming, energetic voice holler from the television. The man on the screen sat in a comfy chair, his hands moving as fast as his lips rattled off facts, figures and, of course, advice.

“How's that working for you?” he asked one of his guests in his Southern drawl. The issue was addiction or adultery or some other affliction, but in the moment - for those five words - I somehow felt that the Good Doctor was reaching out of that TV and speaking directly to me.

Dr. Phil McGraw. My eyes filled with hope. He's my s avior, I thought. He can surely help me. I'm not a hopeless case.

But what was my case? What was my inner demon? During one of my first counseling sessions last year (this was after I completed nearly 90 sessions with my previous therapist, just to give you some perspective; and no, I am NOT ashamed to admit that), my official-looking therapist wasted no time in getting down to business.

“Where would you like to start?” he asked, a large pen poised over what looked like 20 sheets of paper.

Am I really that far gone, I wondered?

I sat there for a moment. Stunned. In the silence, I pondered that blunt question. I pictured my little universe. My fears, my anxiety, my quirks - they all spun and revolved around a glowing core - the magnet that repels and resists every ounce of change. Why do we try so hard to make our lives fit into that box we've neatly tied with a fluffy bow? Why are we so scared to turn with the tide of change?


MORE JUICE AFTER THE JUMP...

xoxo,
Mel


This week, I'll be celebrating my one-year anniversary as a columnist - a time that's ripe for pondering and contemplation. I've circled - sometimes doing a little jig - around the big umbrella of change and alluded to my fear in quite a few columns of yesteryear.

Last October, I told you to keep an eye out for me at the NIU Homecoming Parade. I said I'd be sporting my stylish, large '80s specks I've donned since, well, the '80s.

I donned with the best of 'em.

A few weeks later, I confessed that the shift from tapes to CDs threw my whole existence out of whack and how I'll be forced to swallow a Xanax when I have to buy a new - and differently designed - CD player.

I still have my original CD player. But the Xanax is always nearby, should the need arise.

In April, I let the world know that my lovely bed was as old as Bush senior's administration.

I can now fall asleep within 10 minutes of jumping into that 20-year-old cushion of goodness.

And what I neglected to tell you? Most of my room has remained the same for nearly four years. The bed. In the same spot. The blue dresser? In the same spot, implanting a permanent impression on the gray carpet. And my CD shelf? Against the same wall, the CDs neatly arranged in alphabetical order.

It's the only logical way.

The closest diagnosis I can muster is a touch of obsessive-compulsive disorder. I do things in a certain order - I eat every morsel of my lunch in a certain order, with the crackers always coming first. I do things a certain way - four squirts of soap each time I wash my hands.

I simply like my universe to be ordered and predictable.

Apparently, this worried said therapist. He looked me squarely in the eyes and asked, “What does this fear of change look like?”

Another blunt question. Does this man know Dr. Phil?

Again, I thought for a moment - or two or three. Then the image flashed crystal clear across my mind. It was that cave I envisioned before. A large cave. A dark cave. I stood in front of it, unable to get my footing. I feared entering its hollow walls, thinking I'd be forever lost in its damp maze. And it was a deep cave. You can't see ahead, and you didn't have a flashlight. Not even a candle to guide your way.

So I resigned myself to standing outside the cave. Maybe I was standing guard, darting my eyes in every direction to make sure everything stayed exactly the same. Forever.

See, I could explain what I was doing, but I hadn't a clue why, even though I know that it's quite idiotic to think life, your career, even your hairstyle (oh yeah, I've had the same hairstyle since Bush senior's administration as well) will be constants in your life.

But that cave. What is there to be afraid of? Maybe that cave represents my new life, post my father's death. I don't want to say hello to this cave because that would mean saying goodbye to that other flowery path - my old life. As I tightly grip the past, I'm desperately trying to keep my old life alive. The flame's going out, but I keep relighting it as if carrying the candle into the cave with me will seemingly blend my two “lives.”

Life doesn't promise stability. It falsely advertises it, but in the end, it never delivers. The only certainty is uncertainty.

Sometimes you need a rainy day, said my cousin over lunch one day. She's 17. What a smart girl.

Maybe I need to step outside and get a little wet.

I don't want to sink in the rip tide anymore. I want to stand on the shore, letting the water rush across the tips of my toes, and welcome the incoming waves, no two waves ever exactly alike.

My Quarter-Life Crisis + Two Years

The weather was perfect for my college graduation in 2005. The May heat rolled past and brushed my cheeks from the nearby Midwestern cornfields. Streaks of blue sky tangled and danced with puffy, full white clouds.

The day matched my sheer optimism. I could almost taste the anticipation in the air. As I walked across that long stage in the auditorium, my black gown hanging loosely at my side and my bright orange tassel dangling with every movement, I saw my Golden Ticket. It shown like a beacon of light in the distance. My VIP pass into adulthood.

My diploma.

After five years of living with my nose in a book and typing until my fingers became numb and sore, I instinctively felt like my life was just about to begin.

MORE JUICE AFTER THE JUMP...

xoxo,
Mel


That morning, as I held my diploma, I ran my hand over the smooth beige paper. It fe lt so light, yet carried so much weight and power for me. That afternoon, as my family and I feasted on salads and steaks and sipped on colas, I even felt older than I had a mere two hours ago, as if some carnal knowledge radiated off that diploma and coursed through my veins.

“Happy graduation,” my mother toasted me. “I'm so proud of you!”
Over the summer, well-meaning friends and family asked the inevitable questions.

“So, what are you going to do with your life?”

“Do you have a job yet?”

“Are you going to graduate school?”

And yet I couldn't answer them. I was speechless. But I had that diploma, that piece of paper that says I'm a college graduate. Shouldn't I have the rest of my life all planned? Shouldn't that diploma do its magic and draw a road map for me?

I soon realized no matter how long I looked at the diploma, I wasn't going to find the answers among the beautiful, artistic calligraphy.

Being a very practical and methodical person, college life suited me very well. I made neat lists. I always kept my syllabus on hand. And I made sure I satisfied each of my graduation requirements. Journalism law. Check. The history of journalism. Check. Advanced news reporting. Check.

So that's why I naturally thought my post-college life would be set in stone. The Muses would work their magic, and my destiny would be all ready for me. Waiting for me at the end of that graduation walk. The perfect job. My soulmate. The perfect life. It would all magically fall into place. Just as if it were fate.

That next fall, I found myself staring at a white canvas. It was bare, without even the slightest scuffs or markings. Where were the lists?

Where was the road map? I looked ahead and all I saw was a gravel road. No sign. No directions. Not even an oasis in the distance.
College prepares you for a career; maybe it even gives you a newfound sense of maturity. But the one class they don't offer in college is Life 101.

Here I am at 27, at the exact moment I thought the rest of my life would be beginning, and I was experiencing a midlife crisis of sorts. I was sure I wasn't alone. Other graduates must have had the same preconceived notions I did. College diploma equals instant job and future security. You go from point A to point B in one fell swoop.

Thanks to a new trend dubbed the Quarter-life Crisis, I know I'm not alone. Experts are recognizing it as a developmental stage in which twentysomethings are faced with so many opportunities that they become easily overwhelmed, incapable of choosing among them.

Apparently, we as twentysomethings have high expectations for life. Is it these high expectations that leave us with a void, asking the profound questions over and over?

What do I want to do with my life?

Where is my place in the world?

Will I ever meet The One?

If only adulthood - and life for that matter - came with a handy syllabus. But there's no instruction manual. There's no connecting the dots like those coloring books of youth. There's no road map, but you're thrust into the position of navigator, forced to wrestle with uncharted waters and sometimes unfriendly skies.

Graduating college is like being thrust into the wild without a safety net. The savage wolves stare at you like prey, and while you try to run, to find something to grab onto, your feet are stuck in place and glued to the ground.

But eventually, as I'm slowly doing, you learn the ropes. You no longer need that syllabus. You can cut the chord knowing you'll make it on your own.

Because adulthood, unlike college, isn't necessarily about the destination. You're not aiming to graduate and be handed a diploma for your completion of “life.” Instead, it's about the journey. Sometimes you'll lose your way, maybe even take a wrong turn down a dimly lit alley, but you soon realize you're in charge of drawing the map. No one can do it for you. Visions of what you thought your life would be may not always reflect back perfectly with the reality.

And that's OK.

I've since found my niche as a freelance writer, and I'm learning to live in the moment. My map is still unfinished, a few roads drawn without ends, but that's the way it should be. I'm excited to write - and draw - the next chapter. Whatever that may be.

Looking Back At My High-School Self

Thousands of people each year spend thousands of dollars for thousands of hours of deep psychological analysis to exorcise demons from their past. No price is too high to cleanse their systems of those high school hall of shame moments. Awkward first kisses. SAT nightmares. Embarrassingly puffy prom dresses.

It's all there, in the back of our minds, like a hauntingly beautiful oxymoron. We somehow think we've moved beyond high school, that we're adults in this big real world. Even I thought that, but then I stepped back inside my high school last year. For the first time since I threw my cap in the air at graduation some nine years ago.

Aren't our adult selves mere outgrowths of our 17-year-old innocence? Aren't we still our high school selves, only a bit older and, admittedly, wider?

MORE JUICE AFTER THE JUMP...

xoxo,
Mel


High school is the ultimate encapsulated time capsule. You check your adulthood at the front door. You're that 17-year-old once again even if you're really 26, 56 or even 86. The smells - the gym, the freshly mopped linoleum floors, the cafeteria. The sights - Barb athletes sporting their oranges and blacks proudly, my old classrooms, my old locker. The sounds - the frenzied hustle of the teenage crowd, the basketballs bouncing in the gym, the whispers of gossip.

It all takes you back because whether we like it or not, we were all someone in high school.

So who was I? Well, I had to dust off my old yearbooks for inspiration. I wasn't on Student Council like the popular girls. I wasn't the introspective poet like the theater dudes and dudettes. And I certainly wasn't the star athlete like the football quarterback. No, I was the wallflower. That girl daydreaming in the corner, her head and nose always in a book or a pen in her hand.

The girl always thinking and quiet but never talking, and never, ever showing her true colors. Not that I'm old, but in my day, we didn't have MySpace or Facebook, so I was forced to record my thoughts not in a blog, but in a journal, and spy on Crush Boy in study hall in, well, real time.

The shy brainiac.

And somewhere along the way, we hang on to those boxes we lived in for four years. We almost cling to them as if that really and truly is who we are meant to be.

So when you come back, it's almost as if you'd never left. I got those same insecurities and fears the second I set foot in the building. Apparently, that box was still right behind me, so I might as well have put the costume on and wear it around my old haunt.

But the truth is, we - you - had left. You'd grown up, gone out and explored the world beyond the halls of social studies, and you realize you've finally outgrown that box which now seems ever-so tiny and cramped.

But really, no amount of money - or talking - can ever truly rid us of our past selves. Because they're a part of us, who we were and who we are. Whether we hated high school or cheered at the Friday night football games, we can honestly say we wouldn't be the same person had we not trekked through those hallowed halls.

That's a good thing. Really.

I, too, came back last weekend a bit wiser; it was sort of homecoming of sorts. I didn't check my adulthood at the door in favor of the box, but instead carried them both around with me. One on each shoulder.

I could console myself with the fact that I still had the same specs and hairdo as I did 10 years ago. And it still looks good.

Isn't that the best revenge of all?

I'm On My Way To The Publishing World

I just have to be a geek and post this email I just received...it looks like things are looking up!!!

xoxo,
Mel

Dear Melissa,
Congratulations! Your story, Re-Thinking Children, has been selected to appear in Chicken Soup for the Soul: Twins and More. We appreciate both the opportunity to publish your story as well as the special message you have chosen to share with the world through our book series.

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Twins and More is scheduled to be available in bookstores March 10th, 2009. You will receive payment and ten complimentary copy of the book within 30 days of the publication date.

With you in our family and on our team, we can have an even bigger impact in inspiring our readers, uplifting spirits, opening hearts and helping to make our world a better place for all of us. Thank you!

Warm regards,
Chicken Soup for the Soul: Publishing, LLC

If You'll Follow Me, Please...

Happy Monday, everyone! If you're just logging on for the first time in a few days, you'll notice I spiffed up So About What I Said... I'm trying to make it more user-friendly and more like me: simple, yet classy, with a dash of sass. So here's the grand tour:

A word about the new logo: Beyond the fact that I just really, really love '60s style skirts, I picked this picture not because I have a leg fetish. What do you notice? There isn't a face in the picture. If you don't see a face, this blog, myself - could be anyone. The same works for people in real life. If you didn't get so hung up on what they look like, maybe you'd actually dig a little deeper to find out who the person is....just a little food for thought.

Subscriptions: You now have two ways to subscribe to my blog: by email or an RSS reader. See the cute pink icon (I know, it looks like a yummy Starburst, doesn't it?)? That's for the RSS reader. Right below that, if viewing my blog in a reader isn't your style, enter your email and my posts will be delievered right to you. No delivery charge, either!

About Me: I settled on an About Me that, I think, more closely and clearly describes the intent of my blog. Let me know what you think, though the part about writing about boys in non-negotiable.

Email Me: If you are just brimming with something that you need to say, rant, get off your chest (or, of course, praise me about!), click on the envelope to email me directly. No date solicitations, please.

My Digital Footprint: Toward the bottom of the page, you'll find links to my Facebook and Twitter pages, among other sites. Let's connect!

So what do you think of the new look? Is she a keeper?

xoxo,
Mel

Man Candy Monday

I don't know about you, but my blood sugar is low. I need some brain candy this week. I know I say it all the time (OK, probably more than I should), but the brain is by far, without a doubt, the sexiest organ of the human body!

This week's brain thrill is smart, dapper, a bit conservative and always has a way with the ladies.......

ALEX P. KEATON (Who DOESN'T love Family Ties?)

xoxo,
Mel

My Glorious Redbook Article...

I was puttering around in the kitchen this morning, singing Carrie Underwood songs to myself as usual, when I remembered that I never posted my article that appeared in Redbook magazine in the August 2007 issue. It meant a lot to me, not just because I was able to tell my story about my disability, but also because as a freelance writer, it was MY FIRST MAJOR PUBLICATION IN A BIG, NEW YORK GLOSSY!!!!!!

Needless to say, it was exciting all around. Here it is...enjoy it. And Happy Superbowl to those who watch football (I don't).

xoxo,
Mel

SUNDAY Column: Going...Going...Gone?

Editor’s Note: This is the first of a two-part series taking one last glimpse at the beautiful items disappearing from our great nation, as described at www.walletpop.com. We will all mourn together.

They say nothing lasts forever. Something could be here today and swiftly gone tomorrow, leaving us with only a hint of its greatness and a nagging void that the happy memories can’t fill.

What’s even sadder is that, apparently, this is happening to our great nation. Everything is shifting, “from honey bees to checks to bowling alleys to incandescent light bulbs,” according to the blog, WalletPop. And, as the list would lead us to believe, the countdown to nothingness is like an auction: things are going ... going ... going ... gone. Forever.

Like sand through the hourglass, these are the touchstones of our lives. Better live ’em up while you can because once these babies hit eBay, the mark-up price (because they’ll be collectibles, of course) will be outrageous.

It is indeed a sad day for America. Well, regarding most items on the list. I’ll let you be the ultimate judge.

MORE JUICE AFTER THE JUMP...

xoxo,
Mel


No. 25: Pit Toilets
By 2000, we’d come a long way: The number of people who still relied on this form of disposal was down to 0.6 percent. I’m actually not sad to see this one go, though I do like to laugh at the large lines waiting to use such a contraption at fairs and carnivals. Just think, this could impact the carnival industry, putting our much-needed clowns out of work.

No. 24: The Yellow Pages
I actually feel sort of bad for the Yellow Pages. It wasn’t bad enough when the big, bad Internet came along and stole their thunder, but I thought there would always be a core group of people who flipped through the Yellow Pages faithfully. At least now I won’t have to mentally recite the alphabet to find what I’m looking for the next time I order a pizza.

No. 23: Classified Ads
No! For the love of everything that is holy about America, how will I find the perfect oversized used bed – sheets included – for such a low price? Even worse, how will people find jobs? I assume this will also coincide with a decline in the demand and purchase of red Sharpie markers. It’s a very, very slippery slope here, isn’t it?

No. 22: Movie Rental Stores
Apparently, Blockbusters are closing by the hundreds; there are only about 6,000 left worldwide. OK, I confess. I’m a big fan of Netflix, so I don’t technically remember the last time I stepped foot in a video store. But it makes me sad nonetheless. As a youngster, it was a big family tradition to walk to the video store in the summer and get a Slurpee on the way home.

No. 21: Dial-up Internet Access
One word: Amen. In the old days, it used to be that I could sort the laundry, clean the kitchen, make my lunch and still have time to paint my nails by the time the page loaded for that eBay auction. Half the time, I just lost the auction. I suspect a faster Internet will result in an even faster clearing out of my bank account.

No. 20: Phone Landlines
Nearly one in six homes is cell phone only. This is one I’ll never understand. I actually have a sort of unprovoked hatred toward people who rely solely on their cell phones. Are they too good to play the Get-Tangled-Up-In-The-Phone-Cord Game?

No. 19: Chesapeake Bay Blue Crabs
These little fighters have been fading away rapidly; in 2007, Maryland saw the lowest harvest (22 million pounds) since 1945. Now, I’ve never tried crabs, but just thinking of Sebastian from The Little Mermaid brings a tear to my eye.

No. 18: VCRs
Being averse to new technology, I’m proud to say I’ve smoothly made the transition, quite painlessly, actually, to DVR. It’s opened my world. The only downside to the disappearance of VCRs? We’ll now need to apply the slogan “Be kind, please rewind” to something else. Life, perhaps?

No. 17: Ash Trees
I first read that as ash trays and thought “Yeah, it took 40 years, but people are finally catching on to the whole “smoking can kill” bandwagon. Then I realized it actually was ash trees and I was a bit perplexed. Apparently, the evil bug – yes, the beetle – got a free ride to America from Eastern Asia by way of this beautiful tree. And now these little bugs are destroying the trees, which are disappearing all along the skyline of the Midwest. By my logic, that makes them immigrants; what will the government do?

No. 16: Ham radios
I’ve never owned one nor have I ever known anyone who tried to make personal connections or find aliens in the galaxy by using one. Looks like e-mail and Match.com killed another one.

No. 15: Swimming Hole
Ahh, who doesn’t remember the summer days of swimming in the nearby lake or lagoon? Now, thanks to “Keep Out” signs, those who operate said lakes are looking out for themselves (something frivolous about them fearing injuries and lawsuits) and are forcing us to seek pleasure elsewhere. But I ask: How can you keep us away from the beauty of America? That’s like telling a child he can’t sing the National Anthem on the Fourth of July because he might hurt his throat on the high notes. It’s completely un-American.

No. 14: Answering Machines
I suppose this coincides with the decline of landline phones. It’s sad that the next generation won’t be able to experience the frustration of trying desperately to think of a witty message AND be able to get it just right so they’re not interrupted by the BEEEEP.

What’s next ... you’ll find out next week.