My Autobiography In Photo Form.

I'm a lover of words, but when it comes to my life, a picture is worth one million words (everything really is bigger and better with me!). If I needed a picture to capture my life, the thought-provoking (or maybe painfully obvious in my case) photograph explains it all.

Who says you need to write 500-page books on your life? Isn't that just plain old boring?

What photograph would you choose for your autobiographical photo?

xoxo,

If Only Life Were Purr-fect.

Hey guys -- sorry about the lack of updates this week. I'm slowly but surely dragging myself through the end of the semester. Barely. I feel like this adorable little kitty. I know it's bad because I'm thisclose to tell these annoying, young sorority-wannabes across the computers from me to "SHUT UP. Some people are actually trying to work here. Might I suggest you take your giggles and screams back to The Valley?"

xoxo,

i love you more than...

Thanks to the lovely Joanna Goddard for the inspiration for this.




What are some of your fill-in-the-blanks?

Mine:

I love you more than a colored polo shirt
I love you more than a summer thunderstorm
I love you more than a double fudge sundae
I love you more than a cozy blanket in front on a roaring fire
I love you more than a fully charged wheelchair
I love you more than sticky cotton candy

xoxo,

The One In Which I Tell He Gives Me Fever

**Note: In my defense, Facebook Flirt is the one who started this new round of footsie. I just enjoyed playing along...check out our recent chat for yourself.



xoxo,

FF: FIRE!!!

Melissa: WHERE??

FF: everywhere

**two days later...

Melissa: FIRE. Is that fire out yet?

FF: It doesn't go out

Melissa: Well then why did you message me FIRE a few days ago?

FF: mmmmmmmmmmm
why not?

Melissa: Because you sent it to me out of nowhere...are you trying to tell me something, springsteen? is it ok to call you springsteen?

FF: If it makes you happy

Melissa: it can't be that baaaaad

FF: Lance Armstrong

Melissa: You love word association, don't you?
i think the name springsteen suits you...you're hotter than he is, though.

FF: Like fire

99.6 on the reg

Melissa: I'm sorry you can't get to 100....

FF: 100 on the reg would kill a man

Melissa: oh, i've known some men who hit 100

FF: were they in the hospital?

Melissa: oh no, they were healthy, let me tell you. ;) you know, you make me type the weirdest things...

FF: thats quite the fever

FF: hAPPP bIRTHDAY sCOTT

Melissa: it's not your birthday....

FF: how do you know?

Melissa: because you have the same bday as my grandfather....
hey, i've got to get going, but i do hope you can raise that fever of yours....
it couldn't hurt... ;)
have a good weekend, springsteen!
oh, and my wheelchair broke today, so feel free to send me facebook presents! ;)

FF: WERDS

Melissa: ...to your mother!
god, that was a horrible '90s reference.

Time For Fun: Polos On Parade Season Has Begun!

You may have read awhile back about my obsessive love for beautiful polo shirts, and how sad I am when it is not polo season; those are typically the cold winter months when I pray for the first warm spring day, so I can strut my stuff in a polo shirt that is just like me: fashionable, yet quaintly understated.

Well, that day came last week, folks! Ironically, it was the same day of my wheelchair debacle (maybe it was my polo shirt that saved me from crossing the border into certifiable-rage territory). Check out these photos of my newest polo shirt. Don't you love the combination of pink, orange and white? Think this will have all the boys chasing after me? :)

xoxo,

Follow Your Bliss.

Wherever it may take you...

I love this photo from Irene Suchocki's Etsy shop. It reminds me of myself as a child. Seems I was always outside, chasing something. It's funny you go from chasing pretty concrete things as a child - a ball, the birds, a kite - and then as you grow and mature, those things you chase become a bit more, well, abstract - happiness, contentment, love, peace.

We're all chasing something in life; it's a heck of a lot healthier than running from something. So what are you chasing? Go for it - I know you can!

xoxo,

The Day My Wheelchair And I Broke Down.

I don't even know where to start, but I do know one thing: Our economy may be in deep recession, but there is still a steady surplus of stupidity to go around. Stupidity, frankly, from people in a profession where said use of stupidity is the LEAST effective means of communicating and "servicing" its clients.

Last week, I was walking home (well, rolling, you know....). It was a nice day - a beautiful day, actually. The sun was shining, the grass was a vibrant shade of green and I was actually smiling to myself as I went down the street.

And then I stopped. Well, actually my wheelchair stopped. In the middle of the sidewalk. I did the usual routine: take the key out, put it back in, tap the motor lightly (and more aggressively as I got more frustrated) with my foot.

Nothing.

Photo courtesty of Rodney Smith

My lovely mother and sister came to my rescue. Here they were, lugging a heavy wheelchair into the car, and then lugging my sturdy (and surgically fused body) into the car. It was quite a sight, actually.

Oh, but the real fun didn't begin until I (finally!) got home and called the "wonderful" people at Amigo Mobility in Oak Brook.

I suppose now would be the appropiate time to give you a little back story on my relationship with these supposed friendly folks. I purchased my (now-broken) wheelchair about 5 years ago. I've got to hand it to these people; they were slicker than used car salesmen. They brought out models of wheelchairs to my house, assured me that they could modify it to my specifications and would COME TO ME for services and repairs.

Wow, I thought (by that time, they'd managed to put those rose-colored glasses on me). These people truly, deeply understand the needs of people with disabilities. It was as if the disability fairies sent them right to my doorstep. Literally.

Flash-forward two years. My lovely little RT Express - a little machine of beautiful brilliance - seems to be under the weather. No, worries, I'll just give my Amigo friends a call.

And call I did, when I was promptly (and rudely) informed that due to a policy change, they "no longer service" the DeKalb area. Translation: They wouldn't be coming to my house anymore. No, no. I would now have to come to them (ooops, if only my wheelchair wasn't BROKEN!), but I guess the reasoning and blatantly obvious was lost on them. I'm a pretty feisty girl when I need to be, so naturally, I asked to speak with the manager. He told me that they "no longer service" the DeKalb area. Duh. I already knew that. I told him that no one had even sent me something in the mail or called to alert me of this beaureucratic mumbo jumbo. I may be feisty, but I am also reasonable: Had they told me BEFORE my little baby needed repairs, I would have been at least a bit more amiable to the idea of traveling 40 miles for service.

But not in this case. So I took charge.

"Look," I said. "I bought this wheelchair under the agreement that if I needed repairs, technicians would come to me. All I'm asking is that you honor your original agreement."

Now, to their credit, they did come out and service the chair, but told me that from now on, I'd have to come to them.

Can we say shady operation?

So now when I called them yesterday, the war continued. I thought all hell was going to break loose. The conversation went something like this....

Me: Hello (I started off nice and friendly). My wheelchair broke today and I was wondering how long you are open today.

Rude Receptionist (she didn't even start off friendly): We're open until 5 p.m.

Me: Are you open on Saturdays?

RR: No.

She was going to make this very difficult, wasn't she? I don't think she had a very extensive vocabulary.

RR: Can you hold, please?

*on hold*

RR: Our technicians are already gone for the day, so if you came to drop it off, there would be no one to carry it in for you.

Me: My mother and sister could bring it in. Do you have a loaner I could take home?

*I don't think she understood that I don't just use this wheelchair for fun*

RR: Hold on [Wow, she got tired of the word please really fast, didn't she?]

*on hold*

RR: We don't have any loaners, so you'll have to rent one. Also, our technician is booked Monday and Tuesday, so the soonest he'd even be able to look at your wheelchair is Wednesday.

Me [quickly losing my niceness]: So what you're telling me is that I'd have to be pay for a rental and pay for my wheelchair repairs, repairs that won't happen until at least the middle of next week.

RR: We're not an emergency service.

Me: Well, that's pretty clear if it's going to take at least 5 days for someone to even look at the wheelchair.

RR: You did call at 4.

Me: I'm sorry. It's not like I can plan for these things.

*silence*

Me: Can you sense my frustration? I'd appreciate a bit more respect for my situation.

*silence*

I told her I'd look into other options. But you know what? This whole situation spoke volumes, and a sad one at that. All too often, companies who are supposed to be advocates and champions for the disabled, frankly, have no clue as to their needs and struggles. I'm not trying to complain here, but when a company claims this (and this is directly from their Web site):

Your business is appreciated and we strive for 100% customer satisfaction. Our highly trained staff can help you make the best choices for your needs, while providing you with friendly service and expert advice.

We offer affordable solutions to all of your home health care needs. Drop by or give us a call soon; our business is your good health!...

...it shouldn't be a stretch to expect them to live up to it.

Ooops. I'm sorry. I didn't know my people (people with disabilities) shouldn't have a job, have a life, have a life that exists outside the house. I'm sorry to inconvenience YOU. Because that's exactly how you, AMIGO, made me feel - like I was some sort of burden inconvenience that you just couldn't be bothered to deal with. Perhaps you'd be happier if I sat in my house all day and played the "poor little handicapped" card.

Photo courtesty of Rodney Smith

Well, sorry, folks, but I've never done that. I'm sure as hell not going to start now.

See, that's the thing about me. I may seem small and meek, but when I need to be, watch out because I can be fiercer and feistier than a lion in the wild defending her cubs. And nothing gets me more riled than when people make that assumption that people with disabilities don't live normal lives. Yes, our lives may be different from the "average" person, but please don't assume our lives are any less valuable or any less fulfilling. And dammit, at least treat us with even an ounce of dignity and respect.

Isn't it sad when a company, especially one serving those with special needs, fails to live up to its promise?

Moral of the story: Don't go to Amigo for your wheelchair needs. Their name is a misnomer; they are most definitely, surely NOT your friends.

UN-xoxo,


P.S. Don't think you've heard the last from me, Amigo. Don't be surprised if you get a call from my insurance company or the Better Business Bureau. I'll be damned if I'm not going to stand up and fight for my people and our needs.

P.P.S. FYI, Amigo, I found a spelling error on your site, but I'm not telling you. I'm not a grammar emergency service. Sorry.

Man Candy Monday

This week's dose of dazzling beauty is another one of my favorite guys from Private Practice, Chris Lowell. He plays Dell on the show and is just so empathetic and sweet and cute and just all-around adorable. Take a look...I think you'll agree!

Hope everyone has a good week!

xoxo,

SUNDAY Column: Give That Used Lightbulb Its Due Respect

Editor’s Note: This is the second in a two-part series examining the most disappointing invention since The Clapper that promises to make our lives easier, but instead ends up stealing our lives right out from under us: Spring Cleaning.

Spring cleaning has always seemed like an oxymoron to me. The weather warms up, and people (read: The Association of Professional Organizers) get this sudden urge to purge. But, honestly, why are we so eager to get rid of everything that once had such a large place in our lives – and our hearts?

MORE JUICE AFTER THE JUMP...

xoxo,




It’s a good thing that my father never knew about this group. He would have been one of their first targets for “conversion.” He was the original pack rat and quite proud of it. He saved everything. Scratched records. Old lightbulbs. Foreign coins from his international adventures in the army. Bottle caps. College textbooks (he had a whole shelf of them in his office). T-shirts from old concerts. Old parts from my wheelchair that “might” be usable later.

He could probably have fit his entire life on display at the Smithsonian.

And whenever my mother went on one of her cleaning sprees (in my family, spring cleaning was a year-round, usually weekly event), I’d inevitably hear my father rustling through the two or three garbage bags my mother had designated as trash. Now, there wasn’t any sound basis for said labeling of trash. My mother said it was trash, so we all accepted it as the gospel. If she said it was trash, you just didn’t question it. End of story.

Eventually, he’d emptied the bag of half its contents, proclaiming, “You can’t throw this out.”

I knew a story would soon follow. Every time, I was right. And of course, he could recall, with alarming clarity, the vivid story behind each treasured item. This wasn’t just stuff. It was stuff. It was people, dates, events – the markers of his (and, as I’d realized later, our) life.

Yet it was still considered trash to my mother, and an argument, albeit a comical one, would ensue. Sometimes the event could last up to an hour (the larger the item, the longer the battle of words lasted), in a haze of the same old, rehashed argument I’d heard since I was four years old.

All through elementary school, I half thought this was the sort of arguments my classmates’ parents had when my classmates would talk about their parents fighting or getting divorced. Those lightbulbs must have been a hot-button issue for many families, apparently.

“What are you doing,” my mother would yell from the kitchen. She could hear the sound of rustling garbage bags like dogs can hear the sound of a can opener.

“Oh, nothing,” my father would casually reply, as his head dropped deeper and deeper into the black hole of the black garbage bag.

“What are you doing now,” my mother would say – a bit louder this time – after 10 more minutes had passed and the sounds had increased from a rustle to a sound resembling a thunderstorm as my father wrestled with the oversized bag.

And that’s when my mother just couldn’t take it anymore. She’d march over to my father and begin scolding him like Supernanny. Eventually, she’d persuade my father that we really didn’t need that book from 1975 or a used lightbulb.

Or so she thought.

When we cleaned out his office one May morning after he died, we found years’ worth of supposed “garbage” my mother thought he’d thrown out. We just had to chuckle.

They say it’s only a matter of time before we become our parents. I’ve always known this and have tried to prepare myself accordingly. Yet I still found myself in a state of complete and utter shock when, not too long ago, I uttered almost the exact phrase my father could have (and probably should have) patented as his mantra – his very own catch-phrase. I could just see it plastered on backpacks and lunch boxes all across the nation.

My mother and I were in the heated competition of our nightly Yahtzee game. She shook the dice, and out of nowhere, declared: “We need to get this table refinished. Just look at all the scratches the dice have made.”

“No, you can’t do that,” I protested.

Those scratches weren’t just from a jolly game. They were a symbol of our healing journey, the journey we took separately and together. Yahtzee played a big part in that journey and in our healing after my father died. I wanted those scratches there forever. I wanted them to serve as a visible reminder to us – a reminder of where we have been and how far we’ve come. I wanted to run my fingers ever-so-delicately and gently over those scratches, following the zigzag patterns they make on the table top, and commit all those feelings, all those emotion and yes, all those allegations of cheating (those rumors just won’t die for some reason) to memory. Something tells me that my dad would never, ever throw out such a table.

In those spurts and sprints of Spring Cleaning, don’t let you need for clean take precious items that mark your life to the roadside dumpster or even Good Will.

Think of that lightbulb in the landfill. Don’t let it die in vain. It – and the objects that tell the stories of our lives – doesn’t deserve that end.

Take that, Spring Cleaning.

Have A Spring-y Weekend.

Photo courtesy of La Mia Vita

Hello, beautifuls. It's shaping up to be a gorgeous weekend on my end. How are you going to spend it?

xoxo,

A Cute Way To Say I Love You.

I love the feel of this photo from the Frances May Gallery - so refined and elegent. It makes me think "Yes, that's the way I want someone to propose to me...." Why do I think about this so much?

What do you think (not about my thinking too much, about the photo...)

xoxo,

Freaky (Funny!) Friday

Previously on The Melissa Diaries: I survived (barely) a solo Valentine's Day, all the while wishing Brown-Eyed Editor would somehow wake up from his trance and realize we're meant to be together. Forever. But, as I began filling out college applications, I began to realize that sometimes forever doesn't exist beyond the hallways of high school.

xoxo,

Dating With Disabilities: When You're His Girl Friend

Teaser: Think the difference between boy friend and boyfriend is largely arbitrary? Think again.

xoxo,


Dating With Disabilities: Hello, I'm His Girl Friend

What A Beautiful Bride.

This story deserves to be told. It's a beautiful portait of the power of love and commitment. Thanks to Joanna Goddard for alerting me to this inspirational tale. The tale is told in a breathtaking photo essay by photographer Romain Blanquart. He says:

"Katie Kirkpatrick, 21, held off cancer to celebrate the happiest day of her life. Breathing was difficult now; she had to use oxygen. The pain in her back was so intense it broke through the morphine. Her organs were shutting down but it would not stop her from marrying Nick Godwin, 23, who had been in love with Katie since 11th grade. Five days later, Katie died."

Let these photos of the lovely couple be an inspiration to us all.

xoxo,

I'm Like A Tiffany & Co. Box.

I'm like one of those pretty, blue Tiffany boxes: Good things come in small packages.

What young girl (and yes, I still do consider myself young) doesn't dream of a pretty, sparkly engagement ring? I've been dreaming of mine since, well, probably since I was in kindergarten. Check out some of the rings that made my list from Doe-San Fransisco...





And of course, some good-old classics from Tiffany & Co...







So if you ever have some extra cash stashed away, feel free to FedEx me some beautiful bling!

What are your favorite styles?

xoxo,

Happy Earth Day.

The sun is shining. The sky is blue. It is indeed a VERY happy Earth Day. Hope you all can get outside and enjoy it. If not, you can thank me for bringing the wonders of nature to you, courtesy of Joe Decker's beautiful photography.

xoxo,
Mel

Wednesday Word of Wisdom

This happens to be one of my favorite words - and this graphic captures it perfectly. What does PIZZAZZ mean to you?

Letters To My Future Husband: Letter #8

Dear Mr. Melissa Blake:

Photo courtesy of Rodney Smith

I'm honest. We've already established that. I can be brutally honest. We already established that too That's why, I've come to the conclusion, that there are a few things in life I'm not afraid to admit. At one time, I was afraid to admit them. I kept them on the lowdown, tight, in lock-and-key fashion in my soul, fearing that if anyone found out that I'd be labeled even more of a freak than I felt my disability had already made me.

But that was a long time ago, when I was younger and far too impressionable. I recently asked myself, "What the heck is the big deal?" If I'm afraid of admitting these things, does that mean I'm somehow ashamed of myself or even afraid to admit things to myself?

I can't stand for that. SO...here I go. Here are some things I've never experienced. And, no I don't think I'm pathetic. Have you ever thought that maybe, just maybe, something great IS going to come my way? It just hasn't happened yet. But I know it will. Someday.

I've never had a boyfriend: Trust me, I've met plenty of guys I wish would have turned into boyfriends, but nothing ever materialized. I often wondered: Is it my disability? Maybe they just don't want to be with someone like me, and why would they when they could have their pick of beautiful women? Women who could probably do a lot more than I could. I've also thought about the day when I do end up with someone. What's the protocal for telling someone they're your first? If I say "first," the guy is probably going to think sex (which, if you know me, won't be happening until we've got that marriage license in our hands!), which would be awkward enough in itself. But how do you tell a guy that he's your first boyfriend (and leave out the phrase "well, my first boyfriend who reciprocated my feelings?) without completely scaring him -- and perhaps scarring him for life? The guy might feel some sort of high expectation, or at the very least, wonder what the heck is wrong with me. I won't have an answer to that second question, I don't think. But it would be sort of sexy if he were completely unfazed by the whole thing. Hint, hint.

I've never had my first kiss: I can't help but think this too has something, even if it's only a little something, to do with my disability. I'll admit that my face is, well, a bit different than most. But really, is it that unkissable? Inside scoop: I do have very, very soft lips. Really soft. But you should know that they're not open for business to just anyone; there's an extensive screening process. Samples will be taken. :)

I've never had my first date: See, I figure this is my problem: I've always waited for the guy to do the asking. Being an old-fashioned gal (I would have been a perfect 1950s poodle-skirt girl), I somehow thought it would seem desperate, needy and uncooth to take the bold first step. So I waited. And waited. And while I waited, I couldn't help but wonder: Is it that guys just don't want to ask me out because I'm so ugly, or is it that they want to but are nervous and intimidated? Seriously, I am the LEAST intimidating person that you'll ever meet. I'm one of those girls who loves to just shoot the breeze and chat; I could literally do it for hours. Anyway, I've always wondered what my first date would be like - I mostly wondered this as my school chums were actually experiencing their first dates while I was hooked up to an IV on the hospital - thank goodness for those hot med students! So maybe it's time I started doing the asking, huh? If nothing more than to see the look on their face - priceless, I'm sure. And FYI to potential lucky guy who DOES end up asking me on my first date: I'm not one of those girls. The date doesn't have to be some fancy, extravagent thing. Really. I'm pretty easy to please (NO, not in that way. Geez.).

Oh gosh, this is beginning to make me look absolutely pathetic, isn't it? That, or I'm incredibly attractive for my brutal honesty. Yes, that's it. I'm going to go with the second option.

What are some things you've never done that you've always kept secret? It's time to let those secrets OUT!

xoxo,
Mel

I Love You, Jason Segel.

After a long and exhaustive search, I've found the male equivalent of myself. Finally, I can stop the search party and start the matchmaking party. In this month's ELLE, Jason Segel gave a strikingly honest interview. My favorite quote:

I watched Terms of Endearment with a girl in a hotel room, and after the film ended, I wasn't able to stop crying for an hour and a half. i'd stop, but then I'd think about it and start weeping again. And this girl was really hot, too, and probably the plan would have been that we'd watch the movie and have sex. Instead, it ended up with her laughing at me while I was huddled under the covers weeping like an infant.

THAT IS SOOOO ME! I can guarantee you that is exactly what I would have done (what Jason did, not what the hot-but-rude girl did)

Anyone know how I can get in touch with him and wave my wooing wand?

xoxo,
Mel