The More Things Change...The More They Stay The Same.

While doing some cleaning last week and trying in a mad dash to get ready for leaving for Dixie Land, I came across these photos. Do you think they were taken around the same time period?

GROUP 1

GROUP 2

Yes, I'd think they were the same, too. But guess what? They were taken nearly nine years apart. I worked as editor-in-chief of my college newspaper way back in 2001 (with the wonderfully talented Viewtiful Justin, actually; I like to think I taught him all he knows), went on to get my bachelors degree in journalism and then

Isn't that weird? A sort-of real-life deja vu or something? It's weird being back there, in the same building, in the same office, some of the same posters still hanging from the wall.

It was almost like I'd never left, yet I know I came back a different person. Have you ever had an experience like that? I'd love to hear about it!

xoxo,

The Vacation Series: How I Found Myself While Lost In The Woods.

Growing up in the Midwest, nature marked the passage of my childhood at every turn like the changing of the seasons. My family and I took long walks in the nearby park in the fall and watched the red and orange leaves glide to the ground, then heard them crackle and crunch beneath our feet. We built elaborate snowmen as the winter blizzards dropped sheets of thick snow over our heads. We even strolled around the lagoon and tossed bread crumbs to the hungry ducks in the spring. But thoughts of the lingering summer sunshine continue to warm my heart and give me peace even in the cold darkness of winter, which seems to stretch on for miles in DeKalb. Illinois seems to come alive during those short summer months.



In June, the first blades of corn begin to peek through the maze of fields that dot the landscape. By August, the sun is high in the sky, and the nights are still clear enough to catch a group of lightning bugs coming out to play and sparkle across the horizon. My mother officially labeled these months “family time.” As a special education assistant at Clinton Rosette Middle School, she was lucky to have summers off. She made each summer a marvelous adventure for my sister and me, and one summer, my father found out that he had every Friday off. I saw my mother's mind spinning when she heard the glorious news, making a mental list of activities we could do as a family. Swimming. Zoo visits. Barbecuing. Museum visits to cultivate a bit of culture in us. And plenty of trips to Sam's Club to teach us the art of bulk shopping.

Like a mad scientist, her hair sprang up in a frenzied mess and she rubbed her hands together violently, her eyes bulging with that same frenzied excitement. "They're mine! They're all mine!” she howled. "Bonding” quickly became the key word that summer. It started off innocently enough. Every few weeks, we'd take an afternoon picnic. It was nothing too fancy, just sandwiches and a few cans of Coca-Cola neatly arranged in brown lunch bags and enjoyed on a park bench. It was a nice little diversion on a hot summer day - sweet and simple like the soda.



And then it happened one sweltering day in July. I sat in the kitchen trying unsuccessfully to cool my overheated body when my mother came barreling through the front door. In came a rush of hot air and my mother smiling ear to ear. At that point, I couldn't tell if the hot air came from my mother or was just the summer heat. “I've found the perfect picnic spot,” she declared, halfway screeching. “That's great, dear,” my father replied. "We can go this Friday.” This Friday came before I knew it. And the Friday after that. And the Friday after that. Before long, our occasional picnics had turned into weekly rituals. We'd pile into our gray Ford Focus, turn up the air conditioning and stop at Subway for sandwiches. I knew the uniform-clad Subway staff would be the last bit of civilization I'd see for at least three hours. As we drove down the country roads - feeling as if we were barreling up a steep mountain, thanks to my mother's treacherous driving - our car turned into an Italian eatery as the smell from my father's meatball sub wafted through our tight quarters. We breezed past farm houses and rows of cows, my mother's hands tightly gripping the wheel, occasionally jerking it from side to side while a devilish smile formed across her face. We were her prisoners, I thought, when we came to the opening of Afton Preserve, a little-known forest nestled in the middle of nowhere about seven miles out of town. As we settled into the picnic tables and spread out our feast, I could feel the sun's rays form sweat beads on my forehead. It had to have been the hottest day of the year, and even the patches of clouds couldn't shield the brightness.

"I'm too hot,” I complained. "And does anyone notice these bugs swirling overhead? Can we please go home now?”

My wishes went unnoticed, I soon learned, as we ate lunch under a shady tree and my mother talked a mile a minute. Then she slung a pair of binoculars around her neck and motioned for us all to hurry up. Like a pack of lions following its leader, we followed her on the paved trail through the forest. The path wound and zigzagged around a shallow lake and through the maze of trees, wildflowers and the occasional blade of grass. I wanted to complain, but there was nowhere to hide. I was surrounded on all sides by the sights and sounds of nature. So instead of trying desperately to drown them out, I found myself listening to their melodious rhythm. As we hiked to the lookout tower, I woke to the backdrop of an Illinois summer. The light breeze rustled the trees and refreshed my cheeks. Under the bridge, small fish swam and produced little ripples atop the water. And as we rounded the corners, I inhaled the overpowering smells of that classic country air. The quiet and stillness seemed to naturally induce quiet reflection.



Just like each new step completed a piece of the nature puzzle, I slowly pieced together my mother's master plan. Getting out and seeing nature was a fine idea, but my mother had other motives up her sneaky sleeve. I saw that this was my mother's idea of peace. We filled the eerie silence with the occasional chatter and laughs. We were together. We had no blaring televisions or loud music to distract us, and we could truly focus on each other. I even had some of the best conversations with my father, and he listened intently as I asked science question after science question. He was the only man I knew who could answer them all.

Those hot and humid summer days eventually turned into crisp and cool fall ones, and we were forced to say goodbye to our ritual until the next year. And even though many years have passed, the memories made atop those hills at the forest preserve are still fresh in my mind - and still thump with every heartbeat. They were so important to my mother. And they'll forever be important to me.

xoxo,


[Photos via flickr]

Letters To My Future Husband: Letter #18

Dear Mr. Melissa Blake:

Where am I living now? I know that sounds like a strange question, but it's 2009, remember, and who knows the year in which you're reading this? We could be in a tiny apartment. Or in a sprawling farm house (wouldn't that be quaint?). Or we could be living in a New York City penthouse, me working as a high-powered, high-octane magazine editor, and you...well, you can do whatever you want. I signed a prenup, didn't I?

Anyway, I may be forward thinking about the whole prenup thing, but I've always fancied living in a classic 1950s-style house. The small kitchen with the colored tiles, the carpeted living room with those awesome vintage lamps and the little knickknacks laying about.

What do you think of this house? Isn't it beautiful. Can't you just see our children's art on the fridge, or us sipping lemonade on the porch on a warm summer's evening? Or, how about sipping Barq's Root Beer from the bar stools? I can.

One caveat, though: Don't expect me to be Betty Draper incarnate a la Mad Men. The house may be vintage, but this girl (read: me) is so modern, I'm almost into the next century by now. Think you can handle that?

Oh, and of course you'll be responsible for all the yard work on said house. Who says you can't at least a little something old-fashioned for yourself?










Until we meet...

Oh, and if you're good, I might consider pushing those beds together...someday.

xoxo,


[Photos via The Cottage Cheese]

The Vacation Series: A Real Look At The Family Vacation.

Remember the classic '80's movie National Lampoon's Vacation? That classic where Chevy Chase takes his family on a cross-country roadtrip, they get lost in a bad town, the grandmother dies in the desert and by the time they get to Wally World it's closed?




Yeah, that movie.

My family actually makes that movie look tame. Seriously. We've had our fair share of classic vacation moments. Though they didn't seem funny at the time, looking back, they're hilarious! Our first tale from 2006 is told 24-style, but without the fate of the world on my shoulders....

In a mere 10 days, I'll be descending upon the happiest place on earth. No, not Disneyland, although I'm sure those larger-than-life Seven Dwarfs never fail to bring smiles to millions of faces every day. Get out your trusty old map and find DeKalb. Now trace your finger along Interstate 65 from the top of Indiana all the way down, down, down. My family's biannual vacation to good old Dixie is upon us. One glorious week of fun in the sun with Gramps and his lovable big, black dog, Cowboy. A family's vacation style says a lot about who they are, and I often think it would make a good subject for a psychological experiment. How do families interact? When's the breaking point? Where in the heck do those inner demons come from? In the hopes of advancing science for all mankind, I'd like to offer my family as a solid case study. I must preface this, though, by saying we are in no way a "typical” family. Frankly, we're all a bit kooky. In fact, it's getting worse by the day, expanding like a helium balloon. And when we're all together, each person's individual wackiness has this nasty habit of feeding off the others.

My mother's neuroses emerge like a tidal wave a week before we depart. She ceremoniously sits down at the kitchen table with her pad and pen, her hand shooting across the page like an old-time movie in which the film suddenly speeds up. Stop the mail. Stop the newspapers. Stock our medication. Suddenly, a deep paralysis washes over us, and we are incapable of scaling the mountain of tasks before us. The list sits in the center of the table, turning yellow with age and crinkling with creases. It's around 7 p.m. on the dark winter's night before "V-Day” (the V stands for vacation) when the list begins to emit a glow to get our attention. The clock ticks, and we begin the race like marathon runners. Psychologists, take note that this is the scene of the first scuffle. I hear the faint sounds of my mother and sister arguing vigorously about just how many outfits to pack.

My sister the fashionista insists she needs at least five outfits and two nightgowns. My mother, the minimalist, retorts, "We're taking one suitcase and that's all there is to it.”

Day 1: I'm swiftly jostled from sleep by my mother's pounding as she loads up the car and shouts every five minutes, "Come on! We should be on the road right now!” It's 6 a.m. At 8:30, my sister is just stepping out of the shower, and my mother is making her third lap around the house, checking every light and faucet like they were holy shrines. We peel out of the driveway at 9 a.m. I can't help but feel a bit claustrophobic when I see a mammoth cooler, two pillows, jackets, my walker and my sister's suitcase next to me. I guess my mother lost that battle. And she loses another as the raspy voice of Bob Dylan comes blasting through the car speakers. All I can do is pop some Christina Aguilera in my Discman to drown out that harmonica. "Look at this. We're making excellent time,” my mother gleefully chirps. We're parked at the Indiana Welcome Center, only two hours into the trip. But that's the beauty of the first day. There's so much promise, and we have a long stretch of open highway before us. We're just happy to be together and enjoying each other's company. Cue sarcasm. "Idaho!” she hollers an hour later. Oh, how much I dread the mention of the 50 states. It means I'll have to open that pesky purple folder, filled to the brim with directions and hotel reservations, search for those darn stickers, peel off the appropriate one without ripping it and place it in the proper geographic spot in the license plate book. "Minnesota.” Got it. "Ohio.” Got it. "South Carolina.” Got it. "Ohhh, Alaska.” I'll do it later. By the time we get to the hotel, we're too tired to do much of anything. Sitting on those big hotel beds, we feel like we're still moving after eight hours in the car. The atlas we brought lists every Wal-Mart in North America. I know if there's one within a 50-mile radius; I can smell it like a dog smells fresh meat. We enjoy deli meat and cheese as we sprawl on the bed and watch a cheap medical special on Discovery Health.

Day 2: We rise again at 6 a.m., but ever the consistent family, leave the hotel at 9 a.m. following our free hotel continental breakfast. To get in the festive spirit, my mother smiles as she listens to Burl Ives' "Holly Jolly Christmas.” After four Holly Jolly Christmases, my mother and sister launch into song, singing everything from holiday tunes to my personal favorite, my mother's solo rendition of “On The Street Where You Live.” By the time the afternoon sun hangs heavy in the sky, we break out the M&M's and play a few rounds of the travel version of "Jeopardy!” (Over the years, my sister and I have learned to keep my mother well fed, well hydrated and well occupied.) We pull into the next hotel tired but anxiously anticipating sunny Gulf Shores the next day.

Days 3, 4, 5, 6: We give new meaning to the word "relaxing” while at my grandfather's retirement community. Most days, we sit around the little apartment, me surfing the Web, my sister reading and Gramps watching "Matlock.” Occasionally, we'll go shopping or to a nice restaurant, such as the Golden Corral, but we're just as content to stay home and watch Cowboy run around licking each of us excitedly.

Days 7, 8, 9: We hug Gramps goodbye and say hello to the family car seats. Whereas everything was in its proper place on the way down, the oversize atlas has been angrily thrown in the trunk, and I haven't touched the license plate book since we spotted a Michigan license plate. The bickering culminates at around LaSalle-Peru: "Turn the music down.” "I'm squished back here.” "I'm hungry.” Like the Berenstain Bears, we've had too much vacation. We vow that we never, ever want to go on vacation again. So what's my family's vacation style? I'm not quite sure, but I know it's mixed with a dash of sass and plenty of good times. Just last week, my mother started the list and it's now sitting on our counter. She and my sister have even started bickering about the suitcase. Ahh, it's going to be a good vacation.

Check back all week and laugh at my family's vacation history rap sheet. Can you identify with any of them? Share your story!

xoxo,

My Heart Belongs To Dixie.

Editor's Note: Seeing as how I'll be gone this week to the Deep South, thought you might like to see why I think the entire place is just pure magic.

I was a mere four months old when I embarked on my first vacation. Granted, I don't have any recollection of it, but from what I hear, I enjoyed myself. My parents instilled the "travel bug” in me at that very tender age. From that moment, I fell in love with the allure of the open road and big sky. I saw each new family trip as an adventure, an escape to an exotic land. We've zoomed all over the good ol' USA, from the sunny beaches of California to the hustle and bustle of the Big Apple. Each spot offered its own brand of culture and did its best to leave its stamp on me.

Now I find myself utterly torn. I've always been a Yankee, but lately, the tunes of Dixieland have been ringing in my ears. The two are competing in a fierce battle, pulling at my heartstrings, and I find myself thinking: There is something so magical about the South that just gets you hooked right away. Although my mother loved to take us all over creation on those family trips (I sometimes thought she had a quota of how many brown historical markers we visited), our big trips were always to one place: Fairhope, Ala., a sleepy little town draped in Spanish moss and nestled against Mobile Bay. During Christmas and summer, we made the 1,000-mile journey to visit my grandparents.

After my grandfather worked for Jewel headquarters for more than 20 years, he and my grandmother picked the quaint little spot to enjoy their retirement together. That was in 1978, so I've been immersed in Southern charm and elegance my whole life. As a child, I stared out the car window, eyes wide open, waiting to cross the Mason-Dixon Line. I knew the moment the car rolled into Dixie that we were all in for a change. You see, life there moves at its own pace, a pace I grew to cherish. The South is like a duck that just sits lazily under a shady tree all day. People don't see a need to move fast, but instead choose to fully live in the moment.

This ease allowed my family and me to experience everything the South had to offer. Every morning, even in the midst of the hot and humid summer, we walked to the bay. The walk was so peaceful, and even though we had sweat beads cascading down our faces by the time we reached the water, we still enjoyed sipping a cold soda on the dock. We didn't say much. Instead, we simply enjoyed the bright sun, cool breeze and occasional pelican that swooped overhead. We could take this moment to truly relax and shut out all our worries, fears or annoyances. It was Southern comfort at its best. On the way home, we'd encounter at least five other walkers. And in typical Southern fashion, these strangers wouldn't hesitate to be the first to give a friendly "hi, y'all” as we crossed paths. Even their Southern drawl came out slow and steady. As a youngster, it took me awhile to get used to this. But I realized that this was the Southern way of making you feel like family; it was their way of making you feel at home.

Other times, we experienced this friendliness in one of my favorite spots: the supermarket. I'm talking about a quintessential, original grocery store, such as Winn-Dixie, or my personal favorite, the Piggly Wiggly (Are there any other words more fun to say?). These stores are small and quaint, and there's a certain charm to them that radiates warmth. For example, you can take a stroll down the cereal aisle, and amidst the Frosted Flakes, hear a conversation between two women about their children's first day of kindergarten. I've always loved immersing myself in these environments, and they never failed to put a smile on my face. If you ever get a chance, I recommend you pick up a bag of Golden Flake, The South's Original Potato Chip, from one of these fine establishments. Tell them Melissa sent you. They'll hook you up with the goods.

Now, the last thing I want to do is knock Northern life, but my years in Alabama have shown me just how different the two cultures are. Yankee life moves at the speed of light. People are always rushing to their next appointment. They have to pick up their clothes at the dry cleaners. They have to run to the post office to mail bills. They have to go grocery shopping. They have to do 12 loads of laundry. They have to pick up their kids from school and put dinner on the table by 6 p.m. And everything has to be done right now.

Have you ever wondered why people keep going, going, going? It's like they're running a marathon that has no end in sight. What would happen if we all just stopped, sat down and - gasp! - relaxed? Would the world crumble to pieces? I hate to break the news, but none of us is Superman, and the fate of the world does not rest on us working all day. We can learn a thing or two from our Southern neighbors. They live at their pace and are artfully able to shut out the hustle and bustle of life. I encourage you, even if it's only for an hour, to put away whatever project you're working on and treat yourself to some good old fashioned R&R. Or, the next time you're walking around the lagoon or shopping in Wal-Mart, give someone a friendly greeting. You just might make their day.

Oh, and if you find yourself whistling "Dixie,” don't be alarmed. It's one of the expected side effects.

xoxo,

Man Candy Monday

Happy Monday, Lovelies! By now, I'm probably speeding along the highway on my way to Alabama. I miss you all already, but you didn't think I'd leave you empty-handed, did you? Man Candy Monday must go on!

This week's pick comes from one of my many favorite cancelled-too-soon shows (seems I have lots of those...hmmm!), Big Shots. His smile makes me melt.....

MICHAEL VARTAN!!!!!!!!!!







xoxo,

Travel Must-Haves.

I'm leaving on our little getaway tomorrow to help my lovely grandfather move. I'll be going from the hot Midwest to the hotter South. But of course I've packed (or shall I say, WILL pack...) these must-have essentials:

I know...I'm probably the last one to board the Twilight Train...

In these tough economic times, I am NOT ashamed of my Sharpay Evans journal...

I'm sure I'll write a few more "somethings" (I don't know what else to call them) to further my lyrical gangster status...

I couldn't help but bring some work along for the ride. Did I tell you I've been offically assigned a feature for SELF magazine?

And of course, some tunes for the road...

I'll be back soon. Please try not to have too much fun while I'm gone!

xoxo,

Check This Out.

I checked out my piece on TheFrisky this morning and was pleasantly surprised to see it was one of the most viewed articles.

Pretty neat, huh?

xoxo,

SUNDAY Column: An Open Letter To The Class of 2009.

You know you’re old (or at least not young anymore) when the cousins you still picture as bouncy babies graduate, not the eighth grade, but high school. It’s sadly happened to me twice now: My cousin, Alex, threw off his cap last year, and I was decked out in my Hawaiian best (at the request of the graduate) last weekend for my cousin, Lindsay’s, big send-off into the big wide world.

And she was just as I expected her to be: brimming with bubbly excitement, her eyes sparkling with the sort of wild and carefree ambition (and abandon) that is reserved for the under-20 set. And maybe amidst that mound of gifts, she’ll find that book by the good doctor, Oh, The Places You’ll Go. Dr. Seuss struck pure gold with that little book about the ups and downs, told in classic Seuss style, offering some great life advice for you on your path to greatness. The times you’ll fail, the times you’ll question whether you can scale that mountain, the times you just want to sit down and cry with a box of Kleenex.

But there are some smaller moments that Dr. Seuss forgot to mention. Some may say they are rather insignificant moments, but they’re wrong. So to Lindsay and the Class of 2009 everywhere, I offer these words (my apologies for not writing them in Seuss style)…

You’ll of course think you’re independent, and maybe you are. Yet don’t be surprised if you’re secretly glad that home is still a phone call or even a drive away. Your family doesn’t come with an expiration date, remember. They may come in heavy doses sometimes (both sour and sweet), but they’ll never go stale. Be glad for that.

And you will go home, even though you once swore you never would. You’ll probably bring a load of laundry home, too, and take some of your mom’s yummy cookies back to the dorms with you. You won’t admit it, but you’ll want to take a little piece of home with you.

You’ll go to classes – lots of them, actually. Some of them you’ll like. Some of them you won’t. And in some, you’ll think you know more than the professor (well, at least I did). But I guarantee that you’ll learn something in every classroom – and even more outside the classroom.

You’ll get your first glimpse of the “real world” on your own. You might even find it a bit scary; heck, even I still find it scary a lot of the time. But if you keep your eyes straight and your head firmly affixed to your shoulders, you shouldn’t find yourself getting into too much trouble.

You’ll make friends and find some romance along the way. Some will break your heart and some will turn into lifelong friends. Cherish them because they’ll cherish you.

But the biggest lesson you’ll learn? You never stop learning. Not even after you throw your next cap in the air four years later at your college graduation. You’ll think you’re “done,” but remember that the journey is really just beginning.

And on this journey, you’ll inevitably stop by your trusty ATM machine. You’ll panic, and then call or go home. Again.

xoxo,

My Sister's Keeper.

My mom, sister and I went to see My Sister's Keeper yesterday. My mom had already read the book, so I knew the entire plot, and yet by the end of the movie, the tears were streaming down my face with Niagara Falls.

Have you seen it? It's a must-see...just bring some tissues.

xoxo,

Have A Gorgeous Weekend.

So what are your plans for the weekend, my dears? I'll be furiously packing and getting ready to leave Sunday or Monday morning for my grandfather's place in Alabama. It's a bittersweet trip as we're helping him move from his cozy little apartment into more of an assisted-living community. He's 92 - a truly inspiring man! Enjoy the summer weather (hopefully you'll have some in your neck of the woods) this weekend!

xoxo,


[Photos via Abby]

Dating With Disabilities: Is It Possible To Find The One At 15?

"When all you wanted was to be wanted/Wish you could go back and tell yourself what you know now/Back then I swore I was gonna marry him someday/But I realized some bigger dreams of mine...And when you're fifteen, don't forget to look before you fall"

Teaser: Gosh, that Taylor Swift is a bright girl. I thought I'd found The One when I was just 15 too.



Dating With Disabilities: Finding The One

xoxo,

Freaky (Funny!) Friday

Previously on The Melissa Diaries: I was wasting my summer on a boy I knew in the back of my head I'd never see again. Apparently, I didn't care.




xoxo,

A Fond Tribute To Farrah Fawcett.

I was very saddened this morning to hear of Farrah Fawcett's death this morning after her long and inspirational battle with anal cancer. She was a wonderful actress, a fashion icon and forever a woman of bravery. Did you watch her ABC special last month? It was brilliantly moving, real and honest. It looks like ABC is airing a special 20/20 with Barbara Walters tonight.

Here's to you, Farrah...






xoxo,


[Photos via PEOPLE]