Story of Us.

I wrote this thinking about some of the friends I've grown apart from over the years. When you're young, you think everything will stay the way it is forever, and then one day, you wake up, and that security blanket you had in them is gone.

My best friend
That's who you were back then
In the golden days of summer and red leaves of fall
Life threw us changes and now it feels like everything's rearranging
Wish I could go back to the good old days
When we were so small

You were standing by my side
I was telling you a secret 'cuz I knew you'd keep it
When I needed a reason, you helped me believe it
Those times the tears rolled down our cheeks from laughing, we knew we were catching on to something
You're such a big part of who I turned out to be
It all adds up
It all adds up
To the story of us

You feel so far away
I can tell by the look on your face
So I try to bridge this distance
But it doesn't seem to make any difference
I wonder if you miss me too

You were standing by my side
I was telling you a secret 'cuz I knew you'd keep it
When I needed a reason, you helped me believe it
Those times the tears rolled down our cheeks from laughing, we knew we were catching on to something
You're such a big part of who I turned out to be
It all adds up
It all adds up
To the story of us

No matter how hard I try, I can't remember a time when I didn't miss you or didn't wish you...

You were standing by my side
I was telling you a secret 'cuz I knew you'd keep it
When I needed a reason, you helped me believe it
Those times the tears rolled down our cheeks from laughing, we knew we were catching on to something
You're such a big part of who I turned out to be
It all adds up
It all adds up
To the story of us

You were standing by my side
I was telling you a secret 'cuz I knew you'd keep it
When I needed a reason, you helped me believe it
Those times the tears rolled down our cheeks from laughing, we knew we were catching on to something
You're such a big part of who I turned out to be
It all adds up
It all adds up
To the story of us

xoxo,


[Photo via We Heart It]

MEMO TO MEN: Rules Schmules.

MEMORANDUM
TO: Men all over the planet
FROM: Melissa
RE: Rules are made to be broken
DATE: August 31, 2009

A short little lesson for you today, boys. I know you tend to have short attention spans sometimes.



I've never liked rules. I've always hated them, in fact, unless I'm the one imposing them, of course. But what I despise most are those dumb, antiquated 'rules' we feel pressured to follow when it comes to dating. Is this 19th Century Victorian America?

I didn't think so. That's why I'm a rabble-rousing, red-headed, rule-breaker. Are you one too? What are the rules you just refuse to abide by?

If you like him, ignore him
Sorry, can't do this one either. If I like you, you're going to know about it. It might take me longer (OK, wayyyy longer sometimes) to work up the courage to tell you. But beware: I WILL TELL YOU. And you know what? I couldn't give a damn if it looks desperate, clingy or anti-feminist.

The three-day rule
Frankly, that is just the dumbest thing I've ever heard. If you have a good date with someone (OK, an exceptional date), why wouldn't you call them? That's just plain rude, and will probably make them feel like you're ignoring them on purpose or something. And why does calling have to be out of some needy, desperate, dependent void that you're trying desperately to fill? Here's a radical idea (maybe you've never even thought of it before now): You call them because you like them, had a great time and want to get to know them. It doesn't mean you're going too fast, breaking some cardinal rule or are in deep danger of scaring them away. Geez, just pick up the phone already - or send a flirty text if that's more your speed.

Eating out on a date
I've got an appetite....of the food variety, you dirty minds! I'm not ashamed about that. I'm a girl who likes her food, so please don't mind me when I confidently order the ribs or steak on our date. Maybe I'll share. Maybe I won't. You'll just have to ask me out to find out. Oh, and my drink of choice on said date is a root beer. Get used to it.

The end-of-the-date etiquette
I'm a prude, remember? That means the most action you'll get is a friendly handshake. But don't worry. If I really, really like you, it'll be a very, very firm handshake - my version of a passionate goodnight kiss on my front stoop. You know, where our fingers linger with each others for maybe a moment too long.

The quiet ones never flirt
This isn't so much a rule as it is a common myth. And you know I'm always the one to do the whole myth-busting thing. I may be quiet, but I'm turning into the biggest subtle flirt. EVER.

xoxo,


[Photo by ffffound]

My Break-Up Letter To Wannabe Hipsters.

Editor's Note: A fellow blogger recently took me to task on her blog for my supposed stereotyping of sorority girls. To that end, let's be clear that the following is meant to be humorous. Any stereotyping is merely coincidental.

Dear Avant-Garde Types:



I saw a member of your kind again the other day. He sat in what looked like a state of complete contemplation - probably contemplating the state of the universe, the demise of our civilzation, how people can live in these human shackles.

I don't know, and frankly, I don't care. OK, I didn't technically run away as fast as I could, but the whole experience did make my stomach hurt. Why? Because I don't like your types. You know who you are. You think you're a visionary. You think you're going to rock - and save - the world. You think everything has to be some grand, social statement.

In all actuality, you're none of those things. Here's what you are:

1. You're a faux hipster, desperately trying to act cool, with your pensive stares and insightful eyes.

2. You're about as exciting and intoxicating as a root canal, which you probably would refuse on the grounds that it's "giving in to the man" to have a nice set of pearly whites. You probably want your yellow teeth to make a statement, don't you?

My advice: The beatniks have had their day. You missed the boat, dude, seeing as the 1960s are OVER. Why not have a LIFE? Or at the very least, have some fun? Nothing is more of a turn-off than a guy who takes everything too damn seriously.

Besides, you don't really need this earthly realm, do you? After all, you've got your books and poetry to protect you. so stay shielded in your armor please.

UN-xoxo,

Man Candy Monday.

Did you all catch the Vh1 special The 40 Hottest Hotties of the '90s? Gosh, I miss that decade. I was in my prime then. Everything was perfect - scrunchies, trapper keepers, songs about runaway trains and princes who adore you and of course, the first Bromance. I loved this Bromance, which is why I'm giving each of them their own Man Candy Space; look for the other half of this power couple next week, but for now...

BEN AFFLECK!!!!!!!!!!!!!







xoxo,

SUNDAY Column: The Bitterness Of The End Of Summer.

Editor’s Note: This is the second in my two-part series examining the thrill of my decadent descent.

So where were we? Oh, yes, Dessert Time was almost upon me. The last of the evening dishes had been washed, the kitchen cleaned to my mother’s highest satisfaction. That’s when I’d hear that sound – the crumpling of wrappers or the faint scooping (yes, my ears were that attuned to the sweet world around me) of ice cream. By the time we had Frasier all queued up and our heavenly dessert sat in front of us, I’d have half of said dessert eaten by the time the opening jingle had ended.

“Wow,” I’d sigh practically every night as some of the frosting from our treats stuck to my hands or a river of ice cream rolled down my chin. I knew it had been an exceptional night when the two events occurred simultaneously.

What can I say? I’m a girl who likes her sweets. I thought my mother was one of us too. After all, she was the one who brought this addiction into our house in the first place. I was once the sort of girl who could easily get by on one small piece of candy as an after-lunch refreshment. I’d even reached the point where I no longer craved dessert after dinner.

“I could never give up dessert at night,” my mother always used to say.

And she was right. Well, that is, until she wasn’t. The woman who used to be my sweet-tooth in crime had somehow gone to the dark side; and I’m not just merely referring to preferring dark chocolate over milk chocolate. I’m talking about the dark side.

It was a few days after my birthday, and I had just finished an Oreo Blizzard from Dairy Queen (one of my favorite haunts of late).

“Hmm,” I mused. “This one seems smaller than the one I had on my birthday.”

“It is,” my mother said, matter-of-factly. “You had a medium on your birthday. That one is a small.

She then launched into some convoluted explanation about having a coupon for a medium and blah, blah, blah. I didn’t hear what else she said. I wasn’t listening.

If that wasn’t enough, the straw that broke this camel’s back (Ooooh, camel. That’s just one letter away from carmel – that scrumptious gooey goodness) came a few nights later, in the form of, get this, half a donut.

“Where’s the other half of this donut?” I demanded as if I were a CIA operative interrogating a suspect.

“It’s in the fridge for tomorrow,” the suspect (read: my mother) replied, barely glancing up from her newspaper and her half of a donut. “No one needs to eat a whole donut.

And that, my friends, is the exact moment the bitterness of the end of summer set in. My mother, the one person who once enjoyed living the sweet life, had forsaken me and everything this summer stood for, though ironically, by now, standing had become rather difficult.

Things swiftly went downhill from there: pieces of coffee cake the size of a Saltine cracker.

One spoonful of ice cream. Half a donut (who eats half a donut??).

So I put my foot down.

“I’m 28,” I proclaimed one evening as I sat in front of my half of a donut. “And gosh darn it, if I want to eat a whole donut, by golly, I’m going to eat a whole donut.”

My mother sat there speechless; she’s not used to me talking to her that way.

“OK,” was all she said to my Declaration of Independence.

The next night, I ate a whole donut. And smiled, frosting on my face and all.

xoxo,

Have A Fabulous Weekend.

W-h-e-w! Was your week lovely? Depressing? Just 'eh'? I made it through the first week of going back to work relatively unscathed -- you know it's good when only one student drops the class by week's end. Do you have big plans for the weekend? Besides resting, I have none. Aren't those the best? Cheers to a marvelous - hopefully sunny - weekend. Take a gander at these awesome blogs...

The Drifter And The Gypsy: In addition to an awesome blog re-design, this girl is one of the nicest bloggers I've met so far!

Chelsea Talks Smack: Because this girl's smack is the truth! Love it.

Le Love: This always puts me in a romantic, happy mood

OceanDreams: This girl always has something interesting to say

Oh Hello Friend: Her photos always make me smile

Also, enjoy these fetching finds from the Web...

Vintage typewriters

What are some fun things you've sent in the mail?

I feel like I'm the only one on the planet who doesn't get the allure of Project Runway

You got it, dude! It's Ashley Olsen on the September cover of Marie Claire!

Oh, Lordy, I want to marry Don Draper

A warning for teachers everywhere

Finally, I've found my male blogger counterpart

A sign the Recession might be over, or a sign men are just becoming more modest? Apparently, sales of men's underwear is on the rise

I want to print and frame these gorgeous summer photos to look at during the cold winter months, don't you?

Doesn't The Secret Lives of Grocery Shoppers look like such a fun read?

Did you catch the Anna Wintour interview on Letterman?

Can guys and girls really just be 'friends'?

Yay! A step in the right direction for women's magazines

I could literally eat desserts all day long. You?

What a great way to meet new people

Cool ways to say I Love You

Movie Listings getting cut in newspapers?

Cool clothes

My girl Katharine McPhee is back!

That's it. The next time I go to L.A., I'm going to spend all my time shopping

I really wish I lived in the 1930s

I can't believe this song still cracks me up, 18 years later!

How much do you withhold from your significant other?

Could you imagine this happening to you?

My favorite song at the moment

Mad Men heaven

A beautiful poem

Do you keep an inspiration journal?

I'm dying, dying to see The September Issue

Alright, I am officially jealous of this girl

Love, Love, Love

I'm in love with these vintage games, what about you?

Awww, this makes me want to get married right NOW!

Farewell, Reading Rainbow -- thanks for all the good times!

Oh, yes! Red is becoming one of my favorite colors!

Ahh, this is my problem exactly: lyrics without music

Does Wayne's World get any better than this?

Yay or nay: Guys with a deep voice?

Further proof that the brain is the sexiest organ

xoxo,


[Photo via Magchunk]

Freaky (Funny!) Friday

Previously on The Melissa Diaries: I was about to bid adieu to 2000 - the year that began with so much promise and ended on such a disappointing note. At least one thing was clear: I was thisclose to pulling a rabbit a la Fatal Attraction. The New Year wasn't looking very new so far...



xoxo,

Most of Me.

I wrote this one, again, in my bed a few nights ago; the words just seemed to flow when I started thinking about who I am, where I came from and where I'm going. It's good to take stock of your life every once and awhile, don't you think?

I'm the girl who likes to lay in bed on a Sunday morning
Just watching the sun dance across my bedroom wall
I'm the girl who doesn't think twice about going outside
Without any makeup on at all

I'm not that hard to figure out
And I'm not afraid of showing you what I'm all about

It's a twist of fate
It's a stroke of luck
It's those little moments that mean so damn much
Never backing down, never giving in
Getting knocked down and getting up again
It's bittersweet, it's memories
It's most of me

I'm the girl who puts on a brave face
Even if I don't believe it
I'm the girl who says she doesn't care what people think
And I mean it

It's a twist of fate
It's a stroke of luck
It's those little moments that mean so damn much
Never backing down, never giving in
Getting knocked down and getting up again
It's bittersweet, it's memories
It's most of me

'Cause in this life, it's easy to see
That I'd rather be who I am instead of someone's idea of who I'm supposed to be

It's a twist of fate
It's a stroke of luck
It's those little moments that mean so damn much
Never backing down, never giving in
Getting knocked down and getting up again
It's bittersweet, it's memories
It's most of me

It's a twist of fate
It's a stroke of luck
It's those little moments that mean so damn much
Never backing down, never giving in
Getting knocked down and getting up again
It's bittersweet, it's memories
It's most of me

Just look closely and you'll see
Most of me...

xoxo,


[Photo via Le Love]

My Life With A Disability: Viewer Discretion Advised.

It's come to my attention (though does that phrase apply if you yourself brought it to your own attention??) that while I espoused the hard, cold facts about my disability, Freeman-Sheldon Syndrome, I've never made a list of my greatest moments, so to speak.

I've been a bad writer. The first thing I learned in journalism school is that there is always a face and a life behind every statistic. So here's my attempt to "humanize" my own story. Hope you enjoy it.

The names have not been changed. No one is innocent. Ever.

1. I had my first surgery at 10 weeks old. I don't really remember that one.

2. I've had 27 surgeries, the most fun ones being the ones involving an Ilizarov. It was like a giant brace, only with pins inserted into the bone that you twisted every day to straighten my leg. I usually spent about 3 months in this thing. My parents were one of the first parents to be allowed to take me home; most kids had to stay 3 months in the hospital (oh, the glory days of health care).

3. Apparently, my orthopedic doctor thought I was a superhero because when it was time for said Ilizarov to come off, he just took it off in the office with me awake (most people go into surgery for this sort of procedure). Toward the end, my doctor also had so much faith in my family (read: I screamed one too many times) that the last time, he let my father remove the whole contraption. In the office, of course.

4. When I was 12, I suddenly became unable to swallow food. I endured six months of tests (advice: if you ever require an endoscopy, request to be heavily sedated), doctors discovered I was suffering from a Basilar Invagination. Translation: No, it's not an STD. The doctor "experts" who fused my spine two years prior only fused the bottom half. Hmmm, that's OK, right? Yes, if I was done growing. As I grew, my spine grew up into my brain stem and compressed it. It was my mother who ordered the MRI on the hunch that "it just might be something neurological." Smart woman, huh?

5. During those six months, my weight plummeted to 49 pounds. It was a quick way to learn that blended food is not necessarily good food. Tip: A McDonald's cheeseburger tastes exactly as it sounds.

6. The 13-hour surgery did cure me, but not before I had to be outfitted for a halo-frame (a sturdy contraption of pins screwed into the skull to hold the head still while my wounds healed) awake as the doctor kept telling me, "Don't open your eyes." Don't worry. I didn't.

7. Oh, and did I mention that my brain stem was under so much pressure that when the neurosurgeon decompressed it from the spine, the little thing vibrated for some 10 minutes. YOWZA! I should get in some book of World Records for that!

8. I tended to be an obstinant little thing in school, especially with my physical and occupational therapists. It wasn't my fault; they simply didn't know what they were doing. I need a stool under my desk so my feet wouldn't dangle? Nope. The second the therapist would leave, I'd kick that thing out of the way.

9. I once spent 31 days in the hospital as the result of a post-surgical infection. I was hot - 106-degree fever, to be exact. Still, I've developed a love for hospitals....oddly, they calm me. My dream vacation: A weekend in a hospital bed, a television and a free bag of I.V. fluid. I'm starting to relax now just thinking about it.

10. I'm a big fan of ventilators. As I told my mother the other night when we were watching House: "I love ventilators. They do the work of breathing for you." The fact that my orthopedic doctor always said I was a bit lazy doesn't have anything to do with it...I think.

BONUS! BONUS!
11. It's just about the hottest disability there is. It's like a high school's most popular clique. Everyone wants to join, but only a select, distinct few are chosen.

I know, I know. You're jealous, but at least try to contain it.

xoxo,


[Photo via Bliss]

MEMO TO MEN: Love Questions.

MEMORANDUM
TO: Men all over the planet
FROM: Melissa
RE: The Book of Love
DATE: August 27, 2009

Tell me, tell me, tell me/Oh, who wrote the Book Of Love/I've got to know the answer/Was it someone from above

When I was young, I used to listen to that '50s boppity song "Book of Love" with raptured attention. And like a child, I took it in literal terms. There really was a book out there that held all the questions about this crazy little thing called love, huh? A book of Frequently Asked Questions? That seemed like a handy, dandy little book. I just had to get my hands on it. Not that I was much interested in love then, but I figured it would be something I could at least show off to all the cool kids at recess.

Obviously, I never did find said book. As a result, I've amassed quite a long list of "love questions" over the years. Maybe a few more questions than I care to admit, but here are The Top 5...



Is there such a thing as The One?
I'll admit: I used to be a staunch believer in this one (although you probably already came to that conclusion by now). The whole idea that my soul mate was out there, somewhere in this big, wide world, and we were just waiting to meet each other (well, have fate bring us together, actually) sounded like the perfect fairy tale. EVER. Now I'm not so sure I believe that there's just ONE person meant for you. I still believe in fairy tales, but more of a modified, modern one - Princess Charming included.

How do you know you're in love?
Will it be the equivalent of the Big Bang Theory in my heart, with my blood pumping and pulsating and just all-around overflowing with joyousness? My mother knew she was in love when she found all my dad's quirks cute instead of annoying (trust me, those quirks were indeed annoying!). And my grandmother married my grandfather after dating for less than a year, right before he was shipped off during WWII. So maybe it's something you just have to dive into and access the terrain as you go - beware of prickly thorns, though!

Is a first kiss really that powerful?
I've never heard so many adjectives used to describe a single verb in my life: explosive, jaw-dropping, exquisite, magical, overpowering, gorgeous. Is it really fireworks and all that like everyone would lead you to believe? I love how they portray kisses in movies, usually under a street lamp at night or on a train platform. Such a dramatic lead up (a long, heartfelt speech, or, in other cases, an agrey screaming match) and then a passionate kiss. With my luck, those supposed fireworks would turn out to be misfired nuclear weapons. We're talking on a scale of mass destruction here.

Are you really allowed only one of Cupid's arrows?
If this is true, then I'd like a refund, Cupid. I think my arrow got stuck in the trees or something. Oh, and does that Love Potion #9 come with free refills? Also, is there some sort of punch card or savings club I could join? You know, buy 4 glasses of Love Potion and the 5th one is free. Could be a good marketing move, too, you never know.

Will I ever find love?
I'm attractive on the inside. I know that. So why, then, does that never feel like enough? And who's ever going to find me one ounce of beautiful?

So there you have it. Yet I'm not sure: Should I go searching for it, or let it come to me? I'm thinking my endless searching hasn't proved too effective in the past, so I'm figuring I should set up camp on my back porch, glass of apple juice in hand, put my feet up and wait for my qurky other half.

What about you? What questions have filled your "Book of Love"?

xoxo,


[Photos via Bliss and ffffound]

Flawed Is The New Beautiful.

Everything looks good from the outside. Perfect, even. The house on the end of the busy street, with its perfectly manicured lawn and its beautiful olive-green shutters. The majestic blue 1950s Corvette, its fresh coat of paint still soft to the touch.

The same logic applies to people, too. The super mom that never seems to break a sweat and always greets you with a smile and kind words. The colleague who never misses a day of work — or a deadline. And you wonder where on earth you can purchase her “happy” pills.

But if you dig a little deeper, scratching below the surface ever so slightly, things — and people — may not always come up roses. Somewhere along the way, we must have missed the memo that brought us the heartbreaking news that, no, life isn’t always perfect. No matter how much we wish it to be. No matter how much we try to make it so, or ignore all the things that make it not so perfect.


All too often, we’re so quick to say, “Wow, that’s perfect. Aren’t those people perfect?” But like the beauty on the outside, looks — and of course attitudes — can be deceiving, and I can’t help but question: Does a pretty outside serve to hide the not-so-pretty, ugly inside? And, why is it so hard to tell people how we really feel? Why do we feel like we have to hide? And, if we’re always putting on an act for people, doesn’t it become that much har der to truly know someone?

I’ll be the first to admit the last year of my life hasn’t exactly been my favorite — one catastrophe seemed to follow another like the domino effect. You wouldn’t know that from the outside, though. My cheery personality masked all those falling dominos. Whenever anyone asked the all-too-popular question, “How are you,” I’d reply like I usually do.

“Oh I’m fine.”

“I can’t complain.”

“I’m good. And you?”

I got really good at it too. I half felt like a talking puppet. Pull a string, and I’ll whip out one of many stock phrases programmed into me

Isn’t that what people want to hear, I thought? I certainly didn’t want to burden them with my problems, and frankly, if I told them how I really felt (those gut-wrenching, pounding-a-pillow thoughts we keep tucked deep in our hearts — they’d probably ask me if I got that info from some Lifetime movie of the week. I knew it wouldn’t be pretty.

Or maybe I’ve grown to like the cheery response because it’s safe. I could keep my guard up and keep my secrets to myself. I feared that if I said exactly how I felt (that my world felt like it was crumbling, that I missed my dad more and more every day and that, well, you know what, sometimes it IS hard to be physically handicapped), all the floodgates would open and I'd become unhinged — a bubbling mess right there in the middle of aisle four of the grocery store. My image would be shattered. Forever.

Come to think of it, it’s a little ironic that my dad was the only one who never seemed to expect those stock answers. My mom’s friend, Cheryl, who she’s known since high school, is the same way. You can let your guard down with her because she lets her guard down with you. She listens. No matter how whiny you are or no matter how grumpy you become. And she knows we’ll do the same for her. Any time. Any where.

Maybe in the end, that’s all any of us ever wants. A world and an ear without judgment. A safe haven for our weary heads and hearts.

But that’s not what people want to hear. They want to see how well we’re doing, so out of habit, we put on our “party face” wherever we go: the smiling, glowing, “I’m-in-control” face. Pretty soon, the face is blended with our true selves and we begin to wonder which is which. We’ve lost ourselves in the process of trying to “present” ourselves to the world.

It’s not anyone’s fault. No one is to blame, of course; it’s just that we’re a product of our culture, whether we like it or not. We expect people to “pull themselves up by their boot straps,” to be the strong, silent type. Any hint of emotion and we get scared.


Sadly, though, there has to be some point where we realize that’s not healthy. We can’t get to know someone, really know them, if we’re not willing to get to know all of them. Scars and flaws and problems included.

What would our world look like if, instead of soldiering our emotions, we laid them out. Not because we want sympathy (OK, maybe sometimes we do), but because we can’t go through life alone. We need people. No one is an island, contrary to that pesky rumor Simon and Garkfunkel started.

I challenge you this week to shred those stock answers you give — and get. Dig a little deeper. You just might realize you’re not so scared of what you find after all.

xoxo,


[Photos via Breakdown!]

Always You & Me.

This idea had been simmering in my mind for awhile. Little bits and pieces of the lyrics would come to me at the most random moments, usually as I was drifting off to sleep. Isn't it sad, though, when someone doesn't turn out to be who you thought they were? Sad, indeed

The nights we danced in the pouring rain
Take me back to where it all began
Sitting on those wooden swings in the backyard the day we said
Always you & me

I still remember the night you made me cry
Your eyes flickered under the street lamp
It was the night you said goodbye
In the damp, misty air, you left me standing there
And walked away with a piece of who I am

And even after all this, I can't believe I still miss

The nights we danced in the pouring rain
Take me back to where it all began
Sitting on those wooden swings in the backyard the day we said
Always you & me

Well, maybe I acted recklessly
Maybe I just didn't want to see
That somehow loving you, baby,
Would end up taking all of me

And even after all this time, I still wish I could find

The nights we danced in the pouring rain
Take me back to where it all began
Sitting on those wooden swings in the backyard the day we said
Always you & me

You stood there on the street corner
I caught one last glimpse of your beautiful eyes
But you didn't have to say a word
You just bowed your head and let me cry

The nights we danced in the pouring rain
Take me back to where it all began
Sitting on those wooden swings in the backyard the day we said
Always you & me

The nights we danced in the pouring rain
Take me back to where it all began
Sitting on those wooden swings in the backyard the day we said
Always you & me

The only problem with beginnings
They don't always have a happy ending...

xoxo,


[Photo via Le Love]

PVE Giveaway!

Today's giveaway is courtesy of PVE Design. What I love about founder Patricia van Essche's designs and illustrations is that they are hand-drawn and the epitome of original. She's offering one of you lucky readers 10 notes/envelopes. The notecards are printed on a lovely paper 5 x 7 with envelopes and features Central Park's Bethesda Fountain.

To enter, simply visit PVE Design and leave a comment, along with your email address, below. A lucky winner will be randomly selected tomorrow.

Update: Congrats to our winner Melissa (not me!). Thanks for playing!

xoxo,

Letters To My Future Husband: Letter #33

Dear Mr. Melissa Blake:


Marie Claire magazine's male blogger recently wrote about relationship deal sealers, and isn't just so refreshing to see a list like this instead of the list of dealbreakers I wrote about a few weeks ago?

To show you that I don't always have to be the glass-half-empty girl, here are some of my very own deal-sealers. You'd better take notes, sweetpea (awww, you love the name? Thank you) -- or better yet, why not print this and keep it in your wallet next to that photo of this year's "to die for" swimsuit model. What? You don't have such a blatantly disgusting photo in said wallet? You're a good boy.

A straight shooter
Those mind games, I admit, can be fun at first - even I play them (and damn well, I might add). It's almost like pre-relationship flirting...a subtle way of courting. But once we've moved past the pre-relationship stage (read: We're IN a relationship), a bucket load of cryptic messages and mixed signals just gets old and, frankly, childish. Really old and really childish. Really, really faaaaaaast. I need someone like me, someone who tells it like it is, and isn't afraid to say things. If you come with no decoding or assembly required, we're have a grand time. Even something as simple and obvious as asking me out (Let's review: Saying "we should probably hang out and see where it goes..." is not the way to ask me out; that's what you'd say to your biology lab partner about your experiment that's due on Monday. I need a formal invitation here....).

A laugh machine
It's no secret that I've been through a lot and seen even more than that in my 27 years, so someone I can have fun with is practically an automatic deal-sealer. Guys who make me laugh also have a cute way of making me feel very comfortable and at ease around them, instead of my awkward default setting. Plus, laughter is a sign that a guy enjoys life. How damn sexy is that? I think that's why I've leaned toward falling for younger guys lately. They just have a way of making me smile, of forgetting all the bad stuff. And they're just darn adorable.

A little damaged
I'll be the first to admit that I've got my own set of scars - both literally and figuratively. Still, I've noticed myself falling for the ones who are a bit emotionally damaged. Call me crazy, but I actually find it a bit sexy - the idea, however misguided it might be - of being that person who could turn a guy's life around and help him believe in love again. Why else would I continue searching for a real-life Chuck Bass or Dr. Gregory House?

A little bit country...or a little bit rock 'n roll
I know, it's a bit shameful and a huge cliche, but if I hear that a guy is in a band, he automatically moves up a notch or two on the hotness scale. And if he's the lead singer (with a guitar slung from his back and a notepad in his pocket for writing down all those introspective lyrics)? Well, I just might have to marry him right then and there. Plus, who hasn't heard of a musician who is at least a little bit emotionally damaged?

A family man
A guy who is close to his family is a guy who has a good head on his shoulders and an even bigger heart. He knows what really matters in life, and if you ask me, that's just plain and simple one of the sexiest traits in the entire world. Plus, his dad could give you a sneak peak into what he'll be like in a few decades.


What are your absolute deal sealers? Is there that one single thing a guy can do that will make you fall head over feet? Besides me, of course... Until we meet...

xoxo,


[Photo via We Heart It]

MEMO TO MEN: Awkward Is The New Cool.

MEMORANDUM
TO: Men all over the planet
FROM: Melissa
RE: Beware of my awesome strength
DATE: August 26, 2009


Apparently, I'm quite the intimidating creature...and apparently freakishly strong as well. Yesterday, I asked David (who by the way, is pretty cute and charming) of The Rest Is Still Unwritten (coincidentally, his blog is pretty cute and charming as well) why on Earth he never accepted my Facebook friend request. Was I not worthy? Was it me? He replied, and this is in his exact words:

Yes it’s you. You intimidated with me your freakishly strong arm wrestling skills & now I’m frighten I’ve met a girl that could kick my ass!

I just had to laugh, almost outloud, though I had to surpress the laugh seeing as I was sitting in the dead-silent computer lab and I have a (freakishly loud laugh; my sister says it's more of a cackle, but that's a blog subject for another time)

But, the man does have a point. Yes, sirs, you are damn right. I could kick your ass into next week. Maybe even into the next galaxy. What I love about my disability is that it's given me some serious upper-body strength. I can be anyone at an arm-wrestling match. Anyone. I've got muscle, which sometimes makes me a bit awkward (well, more than my standard awkwardness anyway...), but I'm figuring it could come in handy in qualifying for the US Olympic team if they ever create an arm-wrestling event.

So, boys, remember this: Don't let my small size fool you. Ever. I may be small, but the upper half of me can blow you away. What do you think of that? POW!

Be sure to look for David's guest-post on So about what I said... coming soon. Maybe he likes being intimidated by me? Who knows.

xoxo,


[Photo via We Heart It]

Would You Like To Advertise On So About What I Said...?

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Also, I would be open to doing some giveaways of your products on my blog at no extra charge.

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Have a great day!

xoxo,

Candie's Controversy: Smart Is The New Sexy.

Editor's Note: I thought I'd take a closer look at my blog's taglines this week. Check back tomorrow and Thursday as I explore the other two phrases. Enjoy!


Have you been following the controversy over the Candie's Foundation's Abstinence-theme T-shirt campaign? The Foundation, which works to prevent teen pregnancy, partnered with Seventeen magazine for a contest to come up with a new slogan. The winner, Sarina Adams, came up with this latest "Be Sexy" slogan.

The Foundation aims to "educate on the consequences of teen pregnancy [and challenge] America's youth to make healthy decisions about sex," according to a PR rep.

I applaud this T-shirt slogan 110 percent. Critics of the campaign say the Tee is sending teens mixed messages by encouraging them to be sexy, yet at the same time, refrain from having sex.

See, this is exactly what I have a problem with: The inherent intertwining of the terms sexy and sex. You apparently can't have one without the other, society beats into our heads. Since when does being a virgin mean you can't be sexy? The two, as I see it, aren't mutual exclusive. What ever happened to the idea that leaving some mystery and something to the imagination can be incredibly sexy? I'm a virgin, but you know what? That doesn't stop me from feeling like I'm sexy.

Oh, and don't even get me going on the whole idea that sexy can only apply to all things physical. Guess what? It doesn't. Haven't you ever met anyone (besides me, of course) whose personality was just the sexiest thing ever?

Something as simple as a feeling can be sexy - the way a guy makes you feel (not physically, people!), a guy who writes a song for you (I'm still waiting for that one, guys...hint, hint). For example, David of The Rest Is Still Unwritten recently told me he thought it was cute and hilarious when I said that guys should find it very hot that I've been featured in countless medical journals. I know he didn't mean sexy, but c'mon, even that is sexy, right?

Heck, I've found of late that even anticipation can be an extremely sexy thing thanks to a certain new guy, though I'm keeping that on the down-low for right now...

I don't know about you, but I'm scared of a society that chooses to define sexy in such narrow-minded terms. Good for Candie's to be a company to think outside the box for once. They have a unique opportunity here to show the world - and especially teens - that sexy isn't just about how you look, what you're wearing or what you're doing with who. There's so much more to you, and a guy who truly loves you will applaud and respect that.

And lest we not forget part of my slogan: SMART IS THE NEW SEXY.

Bottom line: Don't be surprised if you someday spot me sporting this exact shirt. I'll flaunt it proudly. The shirt, that is...

On a side note, I've always loved these other slogans:

"Be Sexy: It Doesn't Mean You Have to Have Sex"

"Be Smart: You Are Too Young to Start."

xoxo,

Letters To My Future Husband: Letter #32

Dear Mr. Melissa Blake:


It's come to my attention that, during the course of our whirlwind, sweeping romance, I may have let you off the hook a little too easily. I probably bit my tongue and let some things slide, didn't I? Dammit, love has forsaken me, hasn't it? Gosh, I hope it really hasn't turned me into a weeping sad sack. And I'm not talking about the pretty kind you like to cuddle and comfort either.

I'm talking about the walk-all-over-me, I'm-your-doormat sort of sap. Because FYI, Sweetpea (I think that's going to be my name for you; get used to it), there are just some things I refuse to tolerate.

So maybe you should have an emergency suitcase packed like a pregnant woman who's 3 weeks past her due date. Because like a baby, when I spot one of these dealbreakers, I'm charging head-first forward. Your tush will hit the lawn faster than a football hits the 50-yard line.


Now, lest you think I'm being harsh, rude or just genuinely and excessively mean, I have just four words for you: STOP PLAYING THE VICTIM. I know you have a huge list of dealbreakers of your own; maybe some of you even keep a running tally in a notebook hidden under your mattress next to your stack of vintage Playboys (don't think I haven't discovered those, either; I'm a journalist, remember? It's my job). Frankly, I don't really care. You're allowed to have yours and by golly, I'm allowed to have mine.

So grab a notebook and take notes, Sweetpea...

You can't handle my disability
This, my friends, marks the blatant immaturity of a man. If a man is uncomfortable, repulsed or in any way thinks my disability should resign me to a life indoors, undeserving of the same love and passion other women are free to go after, then you can be sure I'll leave him in the dust faster than his little rat brain can process. And to those who say that my disability is a valid dealbreaker, that some people just wouldn't be able to handle it, I ask this question: Where shall we draw the line then? Maybe a woman - or a man - with a birth mark should be lumped into the disabled category too?

You don't respect my V Club membership
Let me just say this: I made virgity, prudishness and chastity hip and cool long before those Disney kids "supposedly" did. If any guy thinks he can sweet-talk or finagle his way....well, you know...he's the double Ds: Disrespectful and Dumb. I don't think I could make it any clearer.
FYI: Virginity is hot. I don't care what anyone says.

You name your....car
What did you think I meant? I'm sorry, but any any guy who personifies his car (i.e. naming it Susie, and when said car breaks, feels the need to say "Awww, poor Susie isn't feeling well." We get it. You love your car. What we don't get, though, is if you know the difference between a car and an actual, living person with a pulse and a heartbeat.

You are just so darn in love....with yourself
Have I mentioned before how irritating it is to have an entire conversation with someone who, if he had the power, would annoint himself a Greek God? Yup, he thinks that highly of himself. And that's not very pretty, is it? Of course I want to learn all about you, but at least save a little something for after the appetizers. Or at least let me drown myself in another root beer before you begin another tale about the great moments in your life.

You are one of the 3 Ls
Liar, Loser or Lazy. There's just too much damage there that even I couldn't work with that. I am so in tune with people that I can spot a liar a million miles away, so there's no use trying to pull a fast one of me. You'd probably be too slow for that anyway.


So what are your dealbreakers? What are the things you simply won't compromise on? READ: NOT compromising is a good thing! Really! Until we meet...

xoxo,


[Photos via We Heart It]

Adorable Rubber Ducky.

I've been trying to get away from posts being too photo-dense, but I honestly couldn't resist posting these. Adorable, isn't he? I'm thinking that is the way I'll make my grand entrance when I get married (Note to Future Husband: Yes, you'll think it's cute (just nod and humor me, here!). But knowing how blatantly awkward I am, I'd probably fall of the thing into the water - did I mention that because of all the metal in me from all my surgeries, I sink like a rock? Seriously. It's that bad.

xoxo,


[Photos via LENORENEVERMORE]