tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-84748569094527180792024-03-14T02:31:24.545-05:00The Backup PlanMelissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03998397530309269321noreply@blogger.comBlogger179125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8474856909452718079.post-67053111372334164652011-10-10T19:11:00.002-05:002011-10-10T19:21:06.742-05:00MelanomaSaturday 6:45 a.m.: Car broke down seconds before pulling in to the parking lot at work. Not broke-down-wouldn't-move, broke-down-probably-shouldn't-drive-it-home. That's kind of what you get when you drive a 20 year old car and the only thing classic about it is how old it is.</br></br>
Saturday 12:15 p.m.: Decide 2 minutes into drive home that it's not probably-shouldn't-drive-home, but definitely-shouldn't-drive-home. Since this particular part-time job is 35 minutes from home, I call my in-laws who live nearby to come get me and take me home. My daughter's birthday party was to commence less than 5 hours hence and they were coming anyway. I'll pick up my car the following day, when we come back for a birthday party of their own.</br></br>
Saturday 9:30 p.m.: Party went well. Food was good, house somehow got clean. I hear Scott outside playing hide-and-seek with the girls in the dark. They have faux but sometimes real screams. It would make me smile if I weren't so tired.</br></br>
Saturday 11:00 p.m.: Bed is beckoning. In spite of the happiness, it's been a long and tiring day. Husband and I still manage to roll around together. We're newlyweds, after all. I sleep well, in spite of the giggling girls.</br></br>
Sunday 9:00 a.m.: Making waffles and bacon for the girls and husband. Turn phone on. Text from my mom that my cousin died sometime while I slept soundly. Call her.</br></br>
I call. And she tells me all.</br></br>
Such a sad, sad story all by itself.</br></br>
But sadder when she tells me that she can't come home because she had surgery two days prior to remove melanoma spots on her back. Spots I didn't know she had. Spots she probably wouldn't have told me about if she didn't feel like she'd better have a good excuse for not coming home at a time like this. Spots I shouldn't tell anyone else about.</br></br>
She probably didn't think it was a big deal. Or she didn't want us to think it was until it was a big deal. Two things about that:</br></br>
1) When you keep a secret, it's pretty hard to come clean, because then you have to be honest about the secret in the first place.</br></br>
2) It is a big deal because two years ago, there were spots on her face. And there was chemotherapy. A topical chemotherapy that hurt to look at. </br></br>
And so there's a history.</br></br>
And she wasn't going to tell anyone. And I can't tell anyone.</br></br>
Only I'm angry. And I did tell someone. I told two someones. I told my brother and I told my sister. I told them because, no matter what my mother, my beautiful, smart, wise, hard-working mother thinks, it isn't only her business to tell or not tell. It's our business, too. Even if we didn't love her as much as we do, it's our business. But we do love her as much as we do. </br><?br>
So, I told them.</br><?br>
That's what I want to say tonight.</br><?br>
Tonight</br><?br>
Monday 8:09 p.m. The Tigers are on. The Lions are on. Both are big deals. But the biggest deal is for me to say to my mom that it is my business and it is my brother's business and it is my sister's business. It belongs to us and all of her friends and to everyone who loves her just as much as it belongs to her. She doesn't get to pick. And honesty hurts so much less in the long run than secrets. That's what I want to say tonight.Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03998397530309269321noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8474856909452718079.post-11739525568346779672011-10-07T18:48:00.001-05:002011-10-07T19:00:00.202-05:00Grown UpThis year, my son started 3rd grade. He's going to take the MEAP for the first time (a test in which, contrary to what I'll ever admit to publicly, I do believe in). He is halfway to middle school. He has 100% on all of his spelling tests thus far. He gets himself ready in the morning for the first time.</br></br>
At 6:45, before I leave to drop my daughter off at her grandma's on my way to work, I wake him up. I make him wake up enough for him to to kiss me goodbye. I'm not sure what happens after that but, based upon what my husband says, my son goes back to sleep.</br></br>
He forgets what I told him about making sure he puts his homework in his backpack. He forgets that his light is on and he has to get up. He forgets that I squeezed him and told him I love him the most. He goes back to sleep.</br></br>
And then my husband walks by and wakes him again. He gets up. He gets dressed. He eats breakfast and watches cartoons.</br></br>
His step-father leaves for work. He puts his bowl by the sink. He watches cartoons some more until his alarm goes off.</br></br>
He puts his phone in his back pack. He goes to the bus stop. He kicks around at the storm drain until the bus comes.</br></br></br></br>
That little boy is the love of my life.</br></br></br></br>
And I don't have to do everything for him anymore because he can do it and when I get home he doesn't run to hug me because he's too busy getting ready to go outside and play with his friends and he doesn't want to come in until dinner and then he wants to go back out until all his friends are beckoned by their parents who love them the most and then he wants to bathe and watch Disney.</br></br>
Last and maybe least, he wants to cuddle just 5 minutes before bedtime.</br></br>
And I miss the time when the first thing he did when he saw me was jump on me like I was the best thing he ever saw.</br></br>
Ever.Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03998397530309269321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8474856909452718079.post-33539934418504075582011-08-15T12:14:00.000-05:002011-08-15T12:14:43.047-05:00I Love YouHe had to tell me to my face. We were so young, it was so early, so scary. We must have looked so small to passerby. After the struggle of our lives thus far to be together, he looked at me with very serious, sincere eyes and told me that he loved me. So many things happened inside my body in that moment that I could never re-tell it, even if I had gone home and documented it right then. <br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
We were sitting on his couch kissing. I said it first, "I love you." He told me not to say it if I didn't mean it. I didn't. But I lied and told him I did. He was very happy and from that day on for the time it lasted, he said "I love you, babe" like he was the happiest guy alive.<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
On the phone. We weren't even dating yet, just friends. I was crying and relaying a conflict I was having. He had this inspired we-can-get-through-this speech. When I thanked him and began cheering up, he told me he loved me. I said it back, not even knowing everything it would mean. And we began dating.<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
Again, on the phone. I just explained something to him he previously did not understand and never would again even though he acted like the sky had opened up. He gave me a seal of approval by telling me he loved me. It was the second happiest I ever was to hear those words.<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
It was a perfect summer night and we were lying in bed, naked. He was on top of me, I thought he might be slipping into sleep as I ran my nails over his back. Instead, his face still buried in my neck, he said, "I've been thinking and I want to tell you that I love you." There was something so very special and distinctive about the intimacy we shared while maintaining an odd sense of responsibility. I will always remember the ways that man showed me and told me he loved me. And still does.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I'm reading, for the first time:<br />
<br />
<iframe src="http://rcm.amazon.com/e/cm?t=theb020-20&o=1&p=8&l=bpl&asins=0679751521&fc1=000000&IS2=1<1=_blank&m=amazon&lc1=0000FF&bc1=000000&bg1=FFFFFF&f=ifr" style="align:left;padding-top:5px;width:131px;height:245px;padding-right:10px;"align="left" scrolling="no" marginwidth="0" marginheight="0" frameborder="0"></iframe>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03998397530309269321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8474856909452718079.post-78484053241326251602010-11-29T17:32:00.000-05:002010-11-29T17:32:10.479-05:00AirportsThis morning, I was "alerted" on the news that Zagat had released it's compiled list of airline winners. You can find it <a href=http://www.zagat.com/promo.aspx?pn=132#topRated target=blank>here</a>. Somewhere on that page, you can download all survey statistics, which is sort of what caused me to think and sort of what launched me to write today. <br />
<br />
Also, there may be vodka involved. *shrugs*<br />
<br />
So, pre-vodka (as I am very conscious of early morning limits), I was watching about this list of top airlines and this list of top airports. You can only find the latter if you download the stats.<br />
<br />
My favorite airline, Frontier, didn't make the cut any where.<br />
<br />
My favorite, airport, Vegas, didn't either.<br />
<br />
I have found Frontier (a regional line, thus the non-mention, I'm sure) to have the best value and experience. McCarren was mentioned, but only after other, less drool-worthy airports, like Midway.<br />
<br />
<br />
As much as I don't like to admit it to people I've met over the last two years, I was once in a long distance relationship. Only once.<br />
<br />
Prior to that, I traveled via airplane exactly once in my life- during a family vacation in which we embarked upon a cruise ship to the Carribean Islands. The popular ones.<br />
<br />
When I began the LDR, things changed. I boarded many an airplane in 18 months and became quite the novice airline reviewer.<br />
<br />
The thing is, I don't always remember much about the airports, only that I only noticed what was happening in them relative to my LDR.<br />
<br />
I remember which cities I've boarded airplanes from:<br />
<br />
Detroit<br />
Denver<br />
Las Vegas<br />
Chicago<br />
Salt Lake City<br />
Austin<br />
<br />
I can't recall how many times I flew or how many times I picked him up. I remember that the arrivals were magical and the departures cursed. <br />
<br />
I remember how every time I heard "Welcome to Detroit" I held back the tears of someone who was FINALLY home. Unrelated: in an interview, Sarah Silverman told her interviewer that depression feels like being homesick- even when you're at home. But, when I heard the words "Welcome to Detroit," I was HOME.<br />
<br />
I remember the joys of seeing him come down the escalator in Vegas and kissing passionately and how I tried to steal away on departure day while he was sleeping so he wouldn't come with me to the airport. It had been that miserable of a trip.<br />
<br />
I remember being so afraid I would miss my departure in Salt Lake City because of traffic and how I had to get home, how I couldn't wait another second. I remember losing my favorite cashmere cardigan at the gate. I remember texting one of my best friends at the time and her offering to procure me some weed and laughing out loud. Still I cried the whole way to Austin, then to Denver, then to Detroit, then for days, all for some idealized version of a person that didn't exist. For a poseur.<br />
<br />
There are so many things about what held me to him that I don't understand and don't want to. <br />
<br />
I told myself I would never again enter a LDR, but I think I was wrong. Were I to find myself a single gal again, I just might remember all of the good things about it. I might remember that I never had to change the way I lived for another person. I might remember how it felt to always long for someone and never long to go away from them. I might remember how it felt to be with a perfect human being because you didn't have day-to-day evidence that he wasn't. I might remember that I could still be alone every single time that I wanted to, I could be a slob if I wanted, my life was still about me and no one else.<br />
<br />
Best of all, I could be driving with the Detroit skyline ahead of me, and then behind, and know I was home. Even if it wasn't a physical structure that contained me.Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03998397530309269321noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8474856909452718079.post-25599447062743119122010-10-11T08:39:00.002-05:002010-10-11T08:43:30.825-05:00"We're standing still, JENNY!"I could actually get in trouble for posting this and I may have signed something somewhere along the way promising to never do so. Legalities.<br />
<br />
One of our country's major retailers trains its employees by using a fictitious family headed by Jennie and Mike. Naturally, they have two children (a boy and a girl as their good luck would have it) and a dog. I don't recall the names of the children or the dog.<br />
<br />
Since we all know that the moms do most of the family shopping, our major retailer focuses on Mom. Jennie.<br />
<br />
It is taboo to say "We have to get this stock out to the floor so the customer can buy these sweaters at the sale price." Instead it's, "Jennie's sure going to be mad if she comes in to buy this sweater and it's not on the sales floor!"<br />
<br />
Everything is about Jennie and the employees at every level talk about her like she's a real person.<br />
<br />
But she's not and why doesn't this hypothetical talk sound ridiculous to anyone else but me?<br />
<br />
What kind of people have conversations at work naming Jennie as if they've met her and competing for the best hypothetical situation to drop Jennie's name?<br />
<br />
"We need Jennie to open a credit card today!"<br />
"Jennie's average sale is going to be $92.04!"<br />
"The out of stock report was done Sunday so we have those jeans in Jennie's size and she's not going to have to go somewhere else!"<br />
"Jennie is going to love this jacket!"<br />
<br />
O.M.F.W.<br />
<br />
One time, upon trying to convince a customer that the sweater in her hand was the exact shade of red she was looking for, the salesperson was unsuccessful and the customer walked away unconvinced and deposited the sweater on the nearest table.<br />
<br />
The salesperson turned to the closest stockperson and said, "Jennie's so fussy!"<br />
<br />
The stockperson waited with a baffled look on her face to see if the salesperson was making some sort of humorous quip about this ridiculous Jennie business. Alas, the salesperson was completely serious.<br />
<br />
The stockperson is more determined than ever to never use the name "Jennie" in a sentence and to never, ever make friends with someone named "Jennie." Particularly if her name is spelled with an "i-e" at the end.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I'm reading:<iframe src="http://rcm.amazon.com/e/cm?t=theb020-20&o=1&p=8&l=bpl&asins=0393978893&fc1=000000&IS2=1<1=_blank&m=amazon&lc1=0000FF&bc1=000000&bg1=FFFFFF&f=ifr" style="align:left;padding-top:5px;width:131px;height:245px;padding-right:10px;"align="left" scrolling="no" marginwidth="0" marginheight="0" frameborder="0"></iframe><br />
<br />
I'd like it better if it wasn't cutting into my Harry Potter series re-read. 39 days until the new movie!!!Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03998397530309269321noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8474856909452718079.post-26353591264976101742010-08-13T19:05:00.000-05:002010-08-13T19:05:27.419-05:00Minimal Units of MeaningA few years ago I had a rather big crush on a gentleman who was in my grammar class on Wednesday nights. It being that I had a boyfriend at the time and this classmate was eight years younger than me, it was a rather harmless little thing.<br />
<br />
The grammar class was strictly for students in the education program, so we all had in common that we were future teachers. In spite of the fact that he was rather clean cut for my usual taste in men, I became quite aware of him right off the bat. One gets a good grip on the folks in a class when said class is five hours long and the instructor is one of those there's-no-way-you're-getting-out-early types.<br />
<br />
By the second week, my sister-in-law could already tell that I had hit it off with the poor young kid as we had an identical sense of humor. For the first time in all the classes we had together, SIL sat away from me in week three so I could sit next to the cute, clean-cut object of my affection. On this third week of class, I was discussing with my crush our homework and assigned readings and he said (in a most matter-of-fact and proud manner), "I fell asleep dreaming of morphemes." Up until that point, I had never wanted to make out with someone so bad in my life.<br />
<br />
Oddly and awesomely, the instructor decided to separate the elementary education students from the secondary education students in week four. She could see that we didn't jive. There are always more elemantary students in an education program and they're constantly relaying stories about how inspiring it is to work with little kids who wipe snot on their sleeves and can't even read yet. Secondary students aren't like that, we always liked to talk about how best to mess with our kids' minds.<br />
<br />
So, on this fourth week of class, as our instructor began to notice how hard the secondary students judged the elementary students (as explained in this accusation by my crush, "They put glitter on <i>everything</i>!"), my crush and I found ourselves on the west side of the classroom with the other ten secondary students impolitely feeling superior to the 24 elementaries on the other side of the aisle.<br />
<br />
A secondary teacher herself, our teacher decided to "bridge the divide" with some friendly competition by having us play a game that she plays with her high schoolers. Giving the elementary side a ball, she told them "soft." The classmate on the elementary side with the ball had to throw the ball to our side and whomever caught it had to come up with a simile for "soft" and the ball goes back and forth until no one has a simile. If someone catches the ball and can't come up with a simile, they're out and the other side gets the ball back and picks a new word.<br />
<br />
Soft.<br />
Pliable.<br />
Mushy.<br />
Supple.<br />
<br />
And the game went on. Predictably (kidding), the elementary team thinned rapidly until there was one strong player left against me and my crush. She played hard and I was so grateful to her because every time she threw the ball back to me and him, our words were so impressive and unfaltering that it was nothing short of foreplay. Is there really anything hotter than a varied vocabulary inventory that can be accessed with ease?<br />
<br />
No. <br />
<br />
It's funny when I think about the qualities that I spent a lot of time thinking I couldn't live without in the people I chose to surround myself with. There aren't as many non-negotiables as I once thought. Really, when you find a bunch of friends or a mate that make you feel good, the only non-negotiable is that they appreciate you, in the exact package you come in, whether the ingrediants are listed or not.<br />
<br />
At that time in my life, it wasn't enough to have a lot of words in my brain. People weren't good enough if they didn't have more than me. I've come a long way, but I still smile when I think of the night I played the simile game.<br />
<br />
That night, I went to bed dreaming of morphemes. <br />
<br />
Sometimes, I still do.<br />
<br />
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Right now I'm reading AND immensely enjoying:<br />
<iframe src="http://rcm.amazon.com/e/cm?t=theb020-20&o=1&p=8&l=bpl&asins=0140449124&fc1=000000&IS2=1<1=_blank&m=amazon&lc1=0000FF&bc1=000000&bg1=FFFFFF&f=ifr" style="align:left;padding-top:5px;width:131px;height:245px;padding-right:10px;"align="left" scrolling="no" marginwidth="0" marginheight="0" frameborder="0"></iframe>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03998397530309269321noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8474856909452718079.post-80983202840081410612010-07-23T08:38:00.004-05:002010-07-23T08:43:22.766-05:00SkinA good old-fashioned 3-for-1 special:<br />
<br />
<img src=http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_5kMB-PwNNHQ/Srus5GGCZWI/AAAAAAAAFFY/FzwxqSHzhJc/s400/cottage+cheese+pears+IMG_2575.JPG><br />
<br />
I used to be a heavy girl, weighing in at 195 pounds. I've always been pear-shaped, this was extremely exaggerated in my fat days. Now, at 135, I'm about five pounds heavier than I was at my lowest weight but I haven't much issue with it. I'm proud that I've kept the weight off for well over three years. <br />
<br />
There's something about planning a wedding that sparks some biological need to lose weight in women. This is not entirely true for me. I'm pretty sure that if I put on my dress (yet to be selected, mind you) in its final alteration form, I'd be smokin' hott. Yes, with two "t's."<br />
<br />
The thing is, the fiance has his sights set on Hawaii for the honeymoon. The last thing a girl wants is to frolick about in Hawaii for the first time sporting a tankini. Nope. What she wants is a smokin' hott bikini bod.<br />
<br />
In spite of the fact that it simply is not going to happen, I find myself prepping for dieting again, trying to find the exercises that will turn my pear into an hourglass, and searching for the most effective combination of jumping rope and skin creams that will minimize the dimpling on my ass. Good luck with that.<br />
<br />
<br />
<img src=http://www.sierraexpressmedia.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/10/diamonds.jpg><br />
<br />
I know that there are so many levels of ridiculous to the <i>Twilight</i> saga. Vegetarian vampires, teenage werewolves, and Edward's goddam diamond skin. I know that the books are an assault on all that is beautiful in literature. I know that all of my intelligent friends put me in a narrow minded category created especially for the idiots who like those dumb vampire movies.<br />
<br />
Sue me. I <i>like</i> the <i>Twilight</i> movies. I stand in line an hour before midnight, having secured my tickets weeks earlier, on release night waiting to see what happens next. And, I'm going to be quite frank, here. I'm excited that my preteen daughter's dad didn't take her to see it during his summer visitation. I am thereby obligated by my parenting contract to ensure that she sees the movie and will be doing so in approximately 100 minutes, along with all the friends who saw the movie at midnight with me.<br />
<br />
We're excited to see <i>Eclipse</i> again and we refuse to hide it. We are allowing ourselves to be entertained by the movies even though they are not true to the historical <i>fictitious</i> depiction of vampires. Movies don't always have to be earth-shattering relevations of mind-blowing proportions. They can be a simple, mindless reminder of the fact that some of us are moved by a good eternal love story. <br />
<br />
And guess what? I'm still a smart girl.<br />
<br />
<br />
<img src=http://acnevulgaris.net/wp-content/uploads/image/iStock_000000329487XSmall.jpg><br />
<br />
I have sensitive skin. When I scratch an itch, run into something (I'm a klutz), or play volleyball, whichever part of my skin that is contacted reminds me of its disdain with a nice red welt that goes away within an hour. My face is a study in adult acne. I know which products keep it under control. Unfortunately, these products conflict with my urgent desire to STOP the aging process on my face.<br />
<br />
It would seem that anti-aging products forget about the little guys with adult acne because whenever I use them, I break out.<br />
<br />
My favorite anti-aging product is rather pricey. But it does not make me break out. Sadly, if I don't break it up every few months, it seems less effective. So, I like to use it for a couple of months and then use something else for a month before going back. I look at the month break as a chance to nurse my budget. But the skin care section at my local Target doesn't seem to carry anything budget friendly that doesn't make me break out. Bitches.<br />
<br />
Oddly, I don't want to get old AND I don't want to look like a teenager. Sigh.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I'm currently reading:<br />
<iframe src="http://rcm.amazon.com/e/cm?t=theb020-20&o=1&p=8&l=bpl&asins=0140449124&fc1=000000&IS2=1<1=_blank&m=amazon&lc1=0000FF&bc1=000000&bg1=FFFFFF&f=ifr" style="align:left;padding-top:5px;width:131px;height:245px;padding-right:10px;"align="left" scrolling="no" marginwidth="0" marginheight="0" frameborder="0"></iframe>This is part of my effort to tackle a good classic a few times a year. I love Flaubert's writing style thus far and do not think this book is going to be a labor at all.Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03998397530309269321noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8474856909452718079.post-63008278415197804882010-07-07T14:04:00.003-05:002010-07-07T14:07:13.599-05:00The Irony of Independence"Where are we going?" I was mildly curious as to why we were turning around, I was in no hurry to get home.<br />
<br />
"I want to check that park out back there."<br />
<br />
We had been on the motorcycle for a total of about an hour and had stopped about twenty minutes back for fountain pop, it being a ridiculously hot day. I had been ribbing him to take me on a long bike ride for a while as I hadn't been on the back of the bike nearly as much as I would like this season. In spite of the heat coming from mechanical parts I don't begin to understand, I was happy to be sitting behind him with the wind whipping at us at 55 miles per hour. <br />
<br />
Even when I'm tired of sitting back there after a trip, it's always a bittersweet end.<br />
<br />
He pulled into Lexington Park, one I had heard of but never been to. I hopped off the back, took off my helmet, removed my earplugs, and stretched. We headed in the direction of the lake and found some steps down to the beach.<br />
<br />
There were about twenty-five people in the water, not too many. The shore was small and littered with driftwood, not a great place for sunbathing. However, the depth was shallow for quite a way out with no current, making it an excellent place to take children. In fact, half of the beach's occupants were waist-high, climbing on large rocks in the water, pretending they were private islands.<br />
<br />
When I had seen all I thought I needed to see, I looked at him and saw him still studying the beach goers. So I waited.<br />
<br />
I could hear nervousness in his voice when he looked at me and said, "I brought you down here for a reason."<br />
<br />
I stopped breathing.<br />
<br />
"I have something for you in my pocket."<br />
<br />
With that, he fished for a little gray velvet box in his pocket and dropped to one knee and asked me to marry him.<br />
<br />
And even though it had been a couple of months since he took me to the jewelry store to pick out a ring, he surprised me. I had no clue and my body felt the physical symptoms of minor shock. I began shaking, fighting back tears, and generally feeling like I couldn't stand up by myself. I nodded my head, I maybe said the word "yes," and I threw my arms around his neck while he was still on the ground and kissed him.<br />
<br />
When he got up, I told him I loved him and I put the ring on my finger. He was as shaky as I was and we were both laughing and saying little nervous things that I already can't remember three days later.<br />
<br />
I do remember one important thing he said, "Yep, you're just different."<br />
<br />
Then, to lighten it up, "you're the only one who I wanted to marry." Or something like that. It was one of those silly, nervous things.<br />
<br />
In the end, he did everything right. I will remember Independence Day of 2010 for the rest of my life. He didn't say anything contrived to be magical. He didn't take me to a fancy dinner. Instead, he took me out for one of my favorite ways to spend a day, something that wouldn't tip me off as to just how wonderful this day would end up. His tiny bit of anxiety, so uncharacteristic of him, said more than his words ever could. So, maybe just this one time, I will acknowledge that language is arbitrary. In very little speech, everything I could ever want to have spoken was, indeed, said.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I just finished reading:<br />
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The afterword was dry but the narrative and addition of supplemental documents was terrific.Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03998397530309269321noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8474856909452718079.post-77057318657232107822010-06-29T14:35:00.010-05:002010-06-30T10:23:47.889-05:00The Fine Art of Decision MakingNot typically one to watch a chick flick unless somehow forced, I do have a handful of favorites. One of these is <span style="font-style:italic;">Beautiful Girls</span>. It follows the lives of a handful of late-20s gentlemen as they try to figure out women and what it is they want with them exactly.<br />
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One of the gentlemen has been recently shit-canned by his girlfriend of seven years because he doesn't want to get married. After a few weeks, he finds out she, a vegetarian, is dating a meat-cutter. Clearly, this is just the kick in the ass he needs and he runs out and buys her an engagement ring. <br />
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He shows up at the diner she works at with the ring in an attempt to sweep her off her feet. When this is proving unsuccessful, things begin to get heated. Ultimately he is confronted with what some women simply have to say sometimes: he only wants to marry her after faced with losing her. His response is that he didn't like the alternative and is that not how one typically arrives at a decision?<br />
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"No, Paul. One arrives at a decision based on what one wants, not based upon what one doesn't. Get it?"<br />
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And the lady walks away. For good.<br />
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That's always spoken to me, it seemed the most logical thing ever. Him not wanting to live without her IS NOT the same as wanting to marry her. Clearly, while this has the obvious literal translation in terms of relationships (Does any woman really WANT to get married as a result of an ultimatum? I know I don't, someone either wants to marry me or he doesn't. I'm sure as hell not going to make someone marry me.), I really think it applies to everything.<br />
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For example, my focus on job hunting. I've just been applying for shit. I've been putting in applications for every job I see whether qualified, over-qualified, or under-qualified. I've been individualizing every cover letter, every resume and it's making me miserable. I've been doing this because I don't want to be unemployed. What I haven't been doing is focusing on what I want.<br />
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There are the obvious things: insurance, stability. But there are other things. I have a diverse educational and work background and I want to work in something that incorporates those things. I want to work for a non-profit so I have a feeling at the end of the day as though I've done something for my community. I want to have a job for which I have spent time becoming qualified and am valued for my qualifications.<br />
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I've made a decision to narrow down only 3-5 types of jobs I want to work in and, consequently, work really hard on only 2-3 resumes/cover letters that fit what I want to do. That way I don't have the stress of changing them for all of these different jobs that I don't really want and then spending time feeling dejected because I can't even get an interview for one of them (c'mon, Michigan, get it together already!).<br />
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Another recent source of stress is the increasing sadness I feel every summer when my kids go away to their dad's for the summer. As much as parents always say "I can't imagine what my life would be like without my children," I CAN imagine, I live it and it's horrible. I get so depressed over what it will be like when my daughter is a few years older. What if she's a typical rebellious teen? What if she hates me every time I say "no." The words "I want to go live with my dad!" are so dreaded that I'm spending every day of my time away from them terrified of it.<br />
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Truth is, that's no way to live. Because that's all about what I don't want. What I really do want is to be able to look back and say, "I was a good mother. All parents make mistakes and I made plenty, but I was a good mother." On that note, I'm making a decision to call my kids every couple of days and ask them what they did that was fun since the last time we talked. I'm thinking of the things we can do to make memories when they get back. Mostly, I'm thinking of how much I can't wait to hug them again and plant dozens of tiny kisses all over their faces when I pick them up in 19 days. And that is exactly what I'm going to do.<br />
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Of course, given what I've shared about one of my favorite chick flicks, I would be remiss not to discuss my relationship. It's been a year and a half now and we aren't always on our best behavior anymore. Sometimes I think we're in a rut. I'm finding that whenever I have "I don't want it to be like this" thoughts, my actions and thoughts become even more negative. Then, I have even more of those thoughts.<br />
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What I do want is to maintain the physical intimacy that has characterized this relationship as different from others. What I do want is to look across the table at a man who has been more patient than others, a man who seems to sense that I'm throwing things out of proportion and says things like "it was an accident" when my daughter doesn't hear the timer go off and the cookies burn. I want to rub my face on his prickly whiskers for years to come. <br />
<br />
So, instead of allowing my feelings of injury dictate my actions when he insults me one too many times in jest, I'm going to trust that he'll remember that I told him it's not funny after the first couple of jokes. When he doesn't want to have sex one night because we just did it last night and the night before and the night before, I'm going to remember that as quickly as I can turn him on when I want to, his request to go to sleep is probably related to him being tired and not related to my lumpy ass.<br />
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Because, what I really want is to greet him at the door with a hug and tell him I'm glad he's home. So that is precisely what I will do.<br />
<br />
<br />
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In the end, making decision based upon what I don't want does nothing but breed negativity.<br />
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<br />
Currently reading (upon the suggestion of my sister):<br />
<iframe src="http://rcm.amazon.com/e/cm?t=theb020-20&o=1&p=8&l=bpl&asins=0439023483&fc1=000000&IS2=1<1=_blank&m=amazon&lc1=0000FF&bc1=000000&bg1=FFFFFF&f=ifr" style="align:left;padding-top:5px;width:131px;height:245px;padding-right:10px;"align="left" scrolling="no" marginwidth="0" marginheight="0" frameborder="0"></iframe>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03998397530309269321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8474856909452718079.post-25664787596378382132010-06-27T15:15:00.002-05:002010-06-27T15:18:36.805-05:00Conflict ResolutionThis is the first of many blogs I intend to post documenting my job search in Michigan. The following is my answer to a conflict resolution question that I must submit along with a job application which I won't submit for a few days yet so I can critique both this and my cover letter. Please criticize!<br /><br />"Describe a time when you had to resolve a complex problem for a difficult customer. How did you approach the problem, what types of actions and resources did you utilize to resolve the problem and was the customer satisfied with the resolution."<br /><br />When I was employed as an Assembly Line Supervisor, my line was selected to go through a process we called “Kaizen.” Kaizen is a Japanese word that refers to change leading to an improvement in manufacturing processes. Consequently, I was able to serve on a team of individuals with varying job titles to increase the efficiency of my assembly line while improving quality. It was an extensive process, taking about six months to finish. At its completion, I was excited to have a new, re-vamped assembly line that I had the opportunity to help build.<br /><br />As part of the process, we invited our customer, Chrysler, to come and see what we had done as our old assembly line had not been without problem and we were eager to show our customer the steps we had taken to remedy those problems in the interest of maintaining our business relationship. <br /><br />Three representatives from Chrysler were to evaluate our new assembly line and, as the supervisor and a participant in the process used to build the new line, I was assigned to perform the walk through. <br /><br />I performed all of the necessary steps one performs when a visit of this kind is to occur. I scrubbed the assembly line from top to bottom. I taped new lines on the floor. I added new, bright colors to the hourly production board meant to stimulate the senses of my employees and show my customer we cared about what we were doing. I coached my employees on how they should act and what they should do.<br /><br />My boss was there to watch my performance and I sparkled in providing my tour, right up until the last station. Our plant built side view mirrors for automobiles, both electric and manual. My line was running electric for this visit, meaning that the mirrors had a wire harness that would hook up to the car allowing the driver to press a button to move the mirror around. <br /><br />The last station on the line was meant to check the integrity of the wiring. If the harness was told to move the mirror left and it moved right, an alarm would sound and red paint would be sprayed on the glass to alert the packaging station not to pack that part for delivery- it had been wired wrong.<br /><br />I had asked one of my operators to mis-wire a mirror, in the presence of the Chrysler engineers, so I could show them this great, new feature on my line. The operator made a slow and careful show of mis-wiring the mirror, but when it got to the last station, the testing station, it passed with flying colors. It was as though it had announced in its most proper, British voice, “I am positively wired correctly. Please pack me up and send me to your customer!” Based on the three sets of eyes now fixed on my face, not to mention, the very red face of my boss, who was clearly blaming me for this mishap, the customer was not pleased.<br />I was put in a position where my boss was speechless and my customer wanted an answer. I promptly apologized and turned to my assistant, requesting that he called maintenance. I steered my customer away from my employees and over to my makeshift desk. I told them that until maintenance arrived, I couldn't tell them what had gone wrong, but that I could assure them that this was the first time this error had occurred. I opened a binder that contained all of my notes and data regarding the Kaizen process and showed them the results of all the tests we had done on my line. It became apparent that this data did not solve their concerns and that they were very upset. <br /><br />Ultimately, I told them that we would not leave them without support on this issue. We would get a team together to manually re-test the parts before they left the facility for delivery and I offered to lend my support by driving to the Chrysler plant fifty minutes away and stand on the door line to take care of re-working any mirrors that had already been shipped. I did this for three days until the re-tested parts came through. Gladly, none of the mirrors were wired incorrectly and I was able to turn in a data chart that showed that every mirror I tested was error free.<br /><br />In manufacturing, there will always be something that goes wrong and responding becomes nothing short of procedural. However, building relationships in business will always be important. Customers feel assured when a face they recognize and trust shows up at the door to solve a problem.Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12697316292339073713noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8474856909452718079.post-2053338958119922212009-09-23T12:47:00.001-05:002009-09-23T12:47:46.878-05:00A Christmas Carol Train TourTo the delight of lit fans and mothers alike, Disney is releasing a very advanced (think <I>Polar Express</I>, only better) animated version of my favorite Dickens' classic <A href="http://www.msplinks.com/MDFodHRwOi8vZGlzbmV5LmdvLmNvbS9kaXNuZXlwaWN0dXJlcy9hY2hyaXN0bWFzY2Fyb2wv"><I>A Christmas Carol </I></A>on November 6.<BR/><BR/>Okay, one of my favorite Dickens' classics. There are so many to choose from!<BR/><BR/>While in Kansas City last month, I happened upon a flyer advertising a train tour to promote the movie. Luckily it hadn't hit Detroit yet and I could take my children. I don't watch much TV and I don't have the attention span for movies that I once had so, until the flyer came along, I didn't even know there was a movie being released. Crazy since I've devoted the last 3 Decembers to forcing <I>A Christmas Carol</I> down my daughter's throat in the form of reading and plays. Now, with a 3D animated movie, I can force it down my son's throat as well! Yay!<BR/><BR/>Anyhow, here are a few photos from the <A href="http://www.msplinks.com/MDFodHRwOi8vZGlzbmV5LmdvLmNvbS9kaXNuZXlwaWN0dXJlcy9jaHJpc3RtYXNjYXJvbHRyYWludG91ci8=">train tour</A>. If it hasn't already passed through your city, go! It's free!<BR/><BR/><BR/><A href="http://viewmorepics.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=viewImage&friendID=184160597&albumID=0&imageID=43451575"><IMG border="0" width="325" src="http://c3.ac-images.myspacecdn.com/images02/94/l_abf9019d5c7f4cf496fdc218ee242126.jpg"/></A> <BR/><BR/><BR/>The first car had stuff from the movie and no photos allowed. The next couple had various pieces from the Charles Dickens museum in London and was AMAZING! I got to see original manuscripts, first editions, letters, and more. Just like heaven.<BR/><BR/>A few photos from the museum:<BR/><BR/><BR/><A href="http://viewmorepics.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=viewImage&friendID=184160597&albumID=0&imageID=43451589"><IMG border="0" width="325" src="http://c4.ac-images.myspacecdn.com/images02/107/l_354d5411a43c4270bf23d35f9e839fc7.jpg"/></A> <BR/>A first edition!<BR/><BR/><BR/><A href="http://viewmorepics.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=viewImage&friendID=184160597&albumID=0&imageID=43451585"><IMG border="0" width="325" src="http://c3.ac-images.myspacecdn.com/images02/79/l_a1124ce39cc540df912fc73fcf790466.jpg"/></A> <BR/><BR/><BR/><BR/><A href="http://viewmorepics.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=viewImage&friendID=184160597&albumID=0&imageID=43451581"><IMG border="0" width="325" src="http://c2.ac-images.myspacecdn.com/images02/16/l_16335fc7a82d4435bd45b79eee047f71.jpg"/></A> <BR/><BR/><BR/><BR/><A href="http://viewmorepics.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=viewImage&friendID=184160597&albumID=0&imageID=43451587"><IMG border="0" width="325" src="http://c1.ac-images.myspacecdn.com/images02/67/l_e12597b191d8413aba114cc527ee8240.jpg"/></A> <BR/>The original Pickwick Papers<BR/><BR/><BR/><BR/><A href="http://viewmorepics.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=viewImage&friendID=184160597&albumID=0&imageID=43451583"><IMG border="0" width="325" src="http://c3.ac-images.myspacecdn.com/images02/43/l_8105a5be02134d4ca28d9731d7a7499e.jpg"/></A> <BR/><BR/><BR/>The next couple of cars had models that were used to create the animation for the movies. I didn't take quite as many pictures there.<BR/><BR/><BR/><BR/><A href="http://viewmorepics.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=viewImage&friendID=184160597&albumID=0&imageID=43451578"><IMG border="0" width="325" src="http://c3.ac-images.myspacecdn.com/images02/97/l_8df7bd42cef94a1c977a2b452c04d1be.jpg"/></A> <BR/>Model of Scrooge & Marley's<BR/><BR/><BR/>The last car was cool, the whole family steps into a photo booth and each member gets a photo of their face which is then morphed into the face of a movie character. All of ours kinda sucked but it was fun. <BR/><BR/><BR/><A href="http://viewmorepics.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=viewImage&friendID=184160597&albumID=0&imageID=43451699"><IMG border="0" width="325" src="http://c2.ac-images.myspacecdn.com/images02/36/l_123ee2698fa843f39a2921ff281a79a5.jpg"/></A> <BR/>Alex as Tiny Tim<BR/><BR/><BR/>We also got to see an "exclusive" trailer of the film and not only am I super excited, but happy to report that the story doesn't appear to be overshadowed by Jim Carrey's particular brand of overacting as in <I>The Grinch</I>.<BR/><BR/>Is it November 6th yet?<BR/><BR/><BR/><BR/><A href="http://viewmorepics.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=viewImage&friendID=184160597&albumID=0&imageID=43451577"><IMG border="0" width="325" src="http://c1.ac-images.myspacecdn.com/images02/68/l_8ec8a23e10f346a68f84f0a60f68b3d8.jpg"/></A> <BR/><BR/><BR/><BR/><BR/><BR/><BR/>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03998397530309269321noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8474856909452718079.post-50139099954170283142009-09-20T08:54:00.003-05:002009-09-20T09:41:49.863-05:00Leaving the VintageSarajane was on my left, he was on my right. We reached the top of the stairs, heading out into the cold night. I don't remember it being January. I remember him putting his hand on my waist at the top of the stairs as we were putting an end to our first meeting. We were all laughing and it was bright outside, in spite of the hour. The parking lot was glowing as the light from the street lamps bounced off of the snow. I hugged him goodbye and told him to call.<br /><br />It was a Saturday night.<br /><br />We were on our fourth date and were walking down the stairs again for our third kiss goodnight. He walked me to my car and my hands found his and held them around me. He didn't give an inch of space between us as he tried to persuade me to go home with him. I wanted to, of course, but it wasn't time yet. Instead, I kissed him, barely noticing the way the street lamps made the snow look like we were standing on the moon. <br /><br />It was a Thursday night.<br /><br />The party went by in a blur as I played with my friends and he walked about, finding conversation with people he knew and starting conversation with people he didn't. I always had some awareness of his presence so I could find him when I wanted to leave. Even though the party was far from over, there came a moment when I couldn't wait anymore and I walked over to him and told him I was ready to go. He had to finish his beer and I waited, hiding my impatience by talking to friends. At some point I noticed he had finished and was still in animated conversation with people whose faces I did not recognized. Not caring about the rules, I went to him, leaned in as close as I could and said, "Let's <span style="font-style:italic;">go</span>." That night when we walked down the stairs, it was the last as two people dating. <br /><br />It was a Saturday night.<br /><br />Thereafter, any time I've spent at the Vintage, with or without him, has been as a person who has someone. My trips to the Vintage have waned in frequency and I'm not sure if it's because I'd rather be with my someone outside of all of that or if it's because of an increased awareness of the time and space between me and my friends. I do know that there's something still so new about every time I remember my exits.Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12697316292339073713noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8474856909452718079.post-23925211529217248332009-09-17T12:48:00.001-05:002010-05-05T09:39:36.594-05:00On My Arranged Marriage to Windows; or, Ubuntu is My Dirty Whore (Part 1)I don't even know where to start.<BR/><BR/>Maybe at the Verizon store. <BR/><BR/>Sure. <BR/><BR/>When we waltzed in, irritated as can be about how our "smart" phones were stupid fking pieces of everynameunderthesun and if they didn't stop running out of the memory needed to send a simple gd text message we would run over them with our cars and they'd have to replace them because we have insurance and we'd keep running them over so they'd keep having to replace them until they gave us a phone that was actually smart. <BR/><BR/>*exhale* <BR/><BR/>The salesperson quietly led us over to the Blackberry section and told us that the only way to get the functionality we demanded in a phone was to get away from the Windows operating system.<BR/><BR/>I had a few flashes of the unexpected errors on my home computer. The times when I've had to force the poor thing to shut off when it freezes up. The updates and restarts. The expired anti-virus software that interrupts everything I do. <BR/><BR/>I blinked it all away so I could drool over the Blackberry in my hand. BB made the transition from old new phone to new new phone amazing. It is the smartest, most easy to use thing ever. I mean it.<BR/><BR/>That was a few months ago.<BR/><BR/>This month, I began scoping out the Dell site as I'm considering buying my daughter a laptop for Christmas. She just has all this STUFF. Her iPod, her digital camera(s), her Leapfrog Pen thingy, code upon code upon code from stuffed animals, cereal boxes, and candy wrappers. All of these things require her to use my computer. Now that she's in middle school, she'll have more assignments that she needs a computer for. My poor computer is getting old, it can only handle me. It told me so.<BR/><BR/>So I started looking at laptops.<BR/><BR/>Ubuntu.<BR/><BR/>That was the word starting at me. I had clicked on "open source operating systems" and there it was: "Dell now offers Ubuntu."<BR/><BR/>Hmmm. I had heard, of course, of this open source business before but, not being technically inclined, never really looked into it. Now, having started to realize (because of the little black beauty that is rarely farther than a few inches of my hand) that there is a whole beautiful, fully-functioning world beyond Windows, I decided to investigate this Ubuntu.<BR/><BR/>Twenty minutes on the Ubuntu site and a bit on Wikipedia had my interest piqued enough to send messages to my awesome Canadian friend Duncan and my kid brother, both in the know on technical matters. They both seemed a little wary of giving a kid an operating system that was different than what she'd be using in school.<BR/><BR/>But, I was already becoming committed. I had learned that Open Office's software, which comes (free, of course) with Ubuntu (also free, of course) allows the user to create word docs, spreadsheets, and presentations that are able to be opened and edited with MS Office products. In fact, most everything you do on Ubuntu (from Linux, btw) is compatible with Windows.<BR/><BR/><B>Then there was this: Windows comes on everything I buy, unless it's a Mac, even if I don't want it. I pay for it, it's my operating system. I pay for it and then I have to pay for everything that works with it. I have to buy software that is Windows compatible to work on the OS that I didn't choose. It came with it because they all do. I can't walk into Best Buy and say, "No, thanks. I'm going to use Linux, so just sell me a computer without Windows and I'll put the OS on myself." I can't do that because the computers already have Windows on them and it's included in the price because it isn't free. Then, I end up with a computer with a bunch of extras on it that I don't need/know how to use but am afraid to remove because I don't know what they are or what they do. So, I have to buy a computer, paying extra for the OS I don't want, and remove it myself so I can have the free OS I do want. </B><BR/><BR/>Duncan told me that if I decided to go with Ubuntu, there is a large support community. My brother told me that it would be good for him or me to try, but not to guinea pig Jenna.<BR/><BR/>I began reading. I read a very useful article written by a tech geek who went Ubuntu and then rated it on the basis of whether its various categories of functionality were as good as Windows. Most everything (but for 2 categories) worked as well as or better than Windows. It appeared that the only thing I was going to have to do to Ubuntu to make my computer work for me like it does now was install a different music player to make it play/store MP3 files as the format is proprietary and if Ubuntu came packaged with the software needed to process these files, they'd have to pay for licensing/charge for the OS.<BR/><BR/>What are the main reasons a person would leave Windows? Frozen screens. System crashes. Security issues (requiring the purchase of additional software to protect a computer). Cost.<BR/><BR/>I needed no further convincing. Exactly one week ago, I began backing up my files in preparation for my new OS.<BR/>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03998397530309269321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8474856909452718079.post-20578427874715369212009-09-14T12:49:00.002-05:002010-05-05T09:42:17.959-05:00Adventures in Water and UbuntuI have an irrational fear of water. Always have had. <BR/><BR/>It's odd because, aside from really good prose, there's little I find to be more breathtaking than a body of water. Still, the second I know my toes won't be able to touch the bottom, that there's any chance I'll fall in, I'm on the verge of clawing my own eyes out.<BR/><BR/>I'm not a good swimmer, perhaps this is partly to blame. <BR/><BR/>I had swim lessons when I was a child. When the final day came and we had to jump off the diving board at the deep end to show our parents our new skills, I had a meltdown. I wouldn't do it. I don't know how old I was and don't remember a thing of the lessons leading up to that point, but I remember screaming, crying, begging to not have to do it. <BR/><BR/>In fourth grade, I went home after school with a friend to swim in her pool. Outside, she ran and jumped into the middle of the pool. It was hot and I was excited, so I followed suit. Upon entering the water, my feet found bottom with my head what seemed like several feet (probably only inches) beneath the surface. Panic set in, even as I floated to the top. I don't know how I reached the edge to grab on and inch my way to shallow water. I was so embarrassed because of how I was feeling and knew somehow that I couldn't show it. I did my best to participate from the shallow end and around the sides of the pool so she wouldn't know how scared I was.<BR/><BR/>Sometime in my late teens, my best friend and I took an adult beginner swim class. I spent a bunch of my learning time in the shallow end. Toward the end of the class, I would go in the deep end but would only swim across the pool on my back, doing a backstroke. I still couldn't bring myself to jump off the diving board.<BR/><BR/>Dating an outdoorsy adrenaline junkie has really pushed my fear of water to the limit. I've been able to get over it enough to drive his jet-ski by myself at a good, safe 35 mph, 40 if I'm feeling <B><I>crazy</I></B>. I don't do any "tricks" that might cause me to eject myself from the safety of the warm black seat. When he drives me, it is nothing but terror and sometimes I think I may have to trick him, a non-reader, to sit in his recliner where I will strap him down and force him to read <I>Breakfast at Tiffany's</I> just so he knows what it feels like!<BR/><BR/>The first time he tried to teach me to waterski (he is a very patient teacher, I might add), he had me in shallow water, lifejacket on, learning to get into a starting position. This necessitated floating on my back with the skis sticking out as parallel to one another as possible while he slowly dragged me around. I couldn't do it. I could not lie there on my back floating harmlessly. Why? I have no idea! Maybe it was because I knew that this was a lesson that would lead me into deeper water. I felt like I had no control and I started crying. <BR/><BR/>Yep. For real. The first and only waterski lesson I had eventuated in crying before I even did anything.<BR/><BR/>Yesterday, I went on an annual boating trip with him and his friends. They like to get together and play on the water. I'm good with that. I can handle speed on water, like it, in fact, so long as I'm sitting safely on a boat. They tubed, smiling big as they used all of their boating skills to cause each other to fly in the air, flipping as many times as possible, smacking the water with force upon landing. <BR/><BR/>I had fun, too. I even joined them in the water as they swam. I had a lifejacket on, after all. But every single time one of them would try to convince me to go out on the tube or waterski (<B>It'll be fun! They promise!</B>), I would instantly feel anxious, even possessing the knowledge that I wasn't going to do it. It doesn't matter that I trusted them not to pull me the way they pulled each other. It doesn't matter that I knew I wouldn't drown with a lifejacket on or that they wouldn't let me drown anyway.<BR/><BR/>In the end, I think it only matters that I don't have control. I can't decide how much water I'm going to swallow or if I'm going to fall off. <BR/><BR/>I'm not sure I'll ever get a grip on the thing, but I kind of hope so. It would be nice to find that sort of thing fun and not terrifying.<BR/><BR/>I don't know why I hate it so much, anyhow. Where else can I piss myself in fear and have noone notice?<BR/><BR/>This got long. You'll have to hear about my impulsive install of Ubuntu and deletion of Windows later. <BR/><BR/>It'll be fun.<BR/><BR/>I promise.<BR/>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03998397530309269321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8474856909452718079.post-68321489643675555572009-08-25T12:50:00.000-05:002009-09-23T12:51:55.134-05:00Sex in a Library, A ChallengeI swear on all that is holy that MySpace blogs are long overdue for a "Literature" category.<DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><FONT size="4" style="font-size: large;">Okay, kids, you have one month (and one day, to be precise) until </FONT><A href="http://www.msplinks.com/MDFodHRwOi8vd3d3LmFsYS5vcmcvYWxhL2lzc3Vlc2Fkdm9jYWN5L2Jhbm5lZC9iYW5uZWRib29rc3dlZWsvaW5kZXguY2Zt"><FONT size="4" style="font-size: large;">National Banned Book Week</FONT></A><FONT size="4" style="font-size: large;">, as designated by the </FONT><A href="http://www.msplinks.com/MDFodHRwOi8vd3d3LmFsYS5vcmcvaW5kZXguY2Zt"><FONT size="4" style="font-size: large;">American Library Association</FONT></A><FONT size="4" style="font-size: large;">.</FONT></DIV><DIV><FONT size="4" style="font-size: large;"><BR/></FONT></DIV><DIV><FONT size="4" style="font-size: large;">You can read all about it over there, but the purpose of Banned Book Week is to bring awareness to challenges to books in school libraries and curriculum. </FONT></DIV><DIV><FONT size="5"><FONT size="5" style="font-size: 18px;"><BR/></FONT></FONT></DIV><DIV><FONT size="4" style="font-size: large;">Censorship is not an effective way to "protect" children. </FONT></DIV><DIV><FONT size="4" style="font-size: large;"><BR/></FONT></DIV><DIV><FONT size="4" style="font-size: large;">I've directed your attention to Banned Book Week before but this year, I'd be positively tickled if you would all look at </FONT><A href="http://www.msplinks.com/MDFodHRwOi8vYmFubmVkYm9va3N3ZWVrLm9yZy9NYXBvZmJvb2tjZW5zb3JzaGlwLmh0bWw="><FONT size="4" style="font-size: large;">this map</FONT></A><FONT size="4" style="font-size: large;">. It's a graphic of books that have been challenged in schools since 2007, and those are only the reported cases of attempts to have books banned. </FONT></DIV><DIV><FONT size="5"><FONT size="5" style="font-size: 18px;"><BR/></FONT></FONT></DIV><DIV><FONT size="4" style="font-size: large;">Most go unreported. </FONT></DIV><DIV><FONT size="5"><FONT size="5" style="font-size: 18px;"><BR/></FONT></FONT></DIV><DIV><FONT size="4" style="font-size: large;">I know, I sound dramatic. Get over it.</FONT></DIV><DIV><FONT size="4" style="font-size: large;"><BR/></FONT></DIV><DIV><FONT size="4" style="font-size: large;">I challenge you: in this month leading up to Banned Book Week (to be clear, this takes place September 26-October 3), choose a book on the above-linked map to read. Write a blog about the book, how you liked it, why you think it was challenged and if you would want your kids to read it. Publish your blog during Banned Book Week and I'll post a link to your blog. </FONT></DIV><DIV><FONT size="5"><FONT size="5" style="font-size: 18px;"><BR/></FONT></FONT></DIV><DIV><FONT size="4" style="font-size: large;">Naturally, I'll remind you about this and, if you participate, ask you to change your avatar on 9/26 in recognition of Banned Book Week:</FONT></DIV><DIV><FONT size="5"><FONT size="5" style="font-size: 18px;"><BR/></FONT></FONT></DIV><DIV><FONT size="4" style="font-size: large;"><BR/><A href="http://viewmorepics.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=viewImage&friendID=184160597&albumID=0&imageID=32954878"><IMG border="0" width="325" src="http://c3.ac-images.myspacecdn.com/images02/21/l_b1491815c9f7483c8a60e478033442de.gif"/></A> <BR/><BR/> </FONT></DIV><DIV><FONT size="4" style="font-size: large;"><BR/></FONT></DIV><DIV><FONT size="4" style="font-size: large;">I will give you extra credit if you get it on in a library in the next month, we'll have to set up some kind of non-incriminating code so you can report about it in your blog. I'm open to suggestions for this. :-)</FONT></DIV><DIV><FONT size="4" style="font-size: large;"><BR/></FONT></DIV><DIV><FONT size="4" style="font-size: large;">P.S. If none of the books on the map strike your fancy, choose from </FONT><A href="http://www.msplinks.com/MDFodHRwOi8vd3d3LmFsYS5vcmcvYWxhL2lzc3Vlc2Fkdm9jYWN5L2Jhbm5lZC9mcmVxdWVudGx5Y2hhbGxlbmdlZC9jaGFsbGVuZ2VkY2xhc3NpY3MvcmVhc29uc2Jhbm5lZC9pbmRleC5jZm0="><FONT size="4" style="font-size: large;">this list</FONT></A><FONT size="4" style="font-size: large;"> of the top 100 challenged classics of the 20th century.</FONT></DIV><DIV><FONT size="4" style="font-size: large;"><BR/></FONT></DIV><DIV><FONT size="4" style="font-size: large;">P.P.S. I have chosen Ernest Gaines' <I>A Lesson Before Dying</I>, challenged for its sexual content and profanity</FONT><FONT size="4" style="font-size: large;">.</FONT></DIV><DIV><FONT size="5"><FONT size="5" style="font-size: 18px;"><BR/></FONT></FONT></DIV><DIV><FONT size="5"><FONT size="5" style="font-size: 18px;"><BR/></FONT></FONT></DIV><DIV><FONT size="4" style="font-size: large;"><BR/></FONT></DIV><DIV><FONT size="3" style="font-size: medium;">Because the thing below isn't working, I'm currently reading </FONT><I><FONT size="3" style="font-size: medium;">Crossing to Safety</FONT></I><FONT size="3" style="font-size: medium;"> by Wallace Stegner.</FONT></DIV><DIV><FONT size="5"><FONT size="5" style="font-size: 18px;"><BR/></FONT></FONT></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03998397530309269321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8474856909452718079.post-15111417831889982342009-08-05T12:51:00.000-05:002009-09-23T12:53:00.507-05:00"Summer 2009"I keep seeing that on friends' photo albums over on Facebook. I still prefer MySpace because of the blogging and don't update my photos as often over on FB. Alas, since my summer isn't even half over, you won't be seeing any "Summer 2009" albums for a bit. <DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>I haven't done a stew in awhile so I'll keep up the summer theme.</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>I've been very busy and have had little time for keeping up with my letter writing and blog reading (also Maranda pointed out that I'm slacking in the blog-writing dept.) but I have been reading books, so that's always good. My favorite so far this summer was <I>Cat's Cradle</I> by Vonnegut.</DIV><DIV><BR/><A href="http://viewmorepics.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewAlbums2&friendID=169281709&view=true"><IMG border="0" width="325" title="Off Planet Book Club" src="http://c2.ac-images.myspacecdn.com/images02/1/l_9d1ef50e264f49a2b7c5fdf23227d141.jpg"/></A> </DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>If you ever need book suggestions, <A href="http://www.msplinks.com/MDFodHRwOi8vcGVvcGxlcmVhZGluZy5ibG9nc3BvdC5jb20v">this blog</A> rocks.</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>Boys, shield your eyes.</DIV><DIV>I've become suceptible to UTIs in my old age. Never had them in my life until a year and a half ago and have since had three. I can't pin down any single cause. Since I have devoted my summer to accepting compensation from the Unemployment Insurance Agency, I have a pretty good system of sleeping in when my kids aren't here. This UTI bs has me up in the morning a good hour and a half before I want to be. Boo. </DIV><DIV><BR/><A href="http://viewmorepics.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewAlbums2&friendID=162881312&view=true"><IMG border="0" width="325" title="teddy" src="http://c4.ac-images.myspacecdn.com/images01/46/l_0de39c72306c79bb8ece53f5cde9e623.jpg"/></A> <BR/><BR/><BR/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>Speaking of the kids.</DIV><DIV>They're in IN for a month with their dad and I hate it. I thought it would be easier this year, I thought wrong. I talk to them nearly everyday and have been writing to them. My, my. I can't imagine what it would be like for a parent with children who do not want to spend time with the ex-spouse. At least my kids are happy when they're with their dad and I can take a tiny bit of solace in that. While they've been gone, Alex lost a toenail (it was on its way before he left due to an unfortunate stubbing incident) and Jenna is reading <I>Twilight</I>.</DIV><DIV><BR/><A href="http://viewmorepics.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=viewImage&friendID=184160597&albumID=0&imageID=40910134"><IMG border="0" width="325" src="http://c3.ac-images.myspacecdn.com/images02/109/l_1b127577ecee4eeaaaaf1b1473387f8e.jpg"/></A> <BR/><BR/><BR/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>I suppose it's time I come out with my review of <I>Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince</I>. Previously, I have been lucky enough to divorce my opinion of the movies from the books. The movies have had their fair share of deletions and embellishments as is necessary in these sort of adaptations and I have loved every single one of them as their own franchise, separate from the books. Not so with this last one. The deletions and embellishments detracted from the story too much for me and I left the theater thinking the franchise had strayed and the unique characterization that was previously maintained has been compromised. I don't like to say these things, I am a hardcore HP fan, after all. I'm going to take the kids to see it when it leaves the theater and hits our local $3 theater to give it another shot. Until then, as always, I remain loyal to the house of Ravenclaw.</DIV><DIV><BR/><A href="http://viewmorepics.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewAlbums2&friendID=319461637&view=true"><IMG border="0" width="325" title="Prince of Knockout E.N.T.Wadi" src="http://c4.ac-images.myspacecdn.com/images01/27/l_6df14a2d9657be2c9e8c9abbd5d26553.jpg"/></A> <BR/><BR/><BR/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>I love my new Blackberry Tour more than life itself. Aside from being a mama, falling in love, and having a kick ass Asian, it's the best thing going for me right now. Thanks, bitchy sister for getting me a better phone to replace the one that sucked. My Blackberry is smarter than Einstein!</DIV><DIV><BR/><A href="http://www.msplinks.com/MDFodHRwOi8vczYxMC5waG90b2J1Y2tldC5jb20vYWxidW1zL3R0MTg3L0FuZHJlc1QxMDcv"><IMG border="0" width="325" title="AndresT107" src="http://i610.photobucket.com/albums/tt187/AndresT107/blackberrytour.jpg"/></A> </DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>My friend Leslie sent me a great article about a teen who is suing Amazon because he was using his Kindle while writing a report in which he made extensive electronic notations to <I>Nineteen Eighty-Four.</I> Amazon deleted the book from his Kindle over a copywrite issue and his notes became meaningless as they pointed to a book that no longer existed. There really is a great deal of irony in the situation. Anyhoot, this is one of the bigger complaints against Kindle, an issue I have not had. I still love my Kindle. More than my Blackberry, even.</DIV><DIV><BR/><A href="http://www.msplinks.com/MDFodHRwOi8vczk1LnBob3RvYnVja2V0LmNvbS9hbGJ1bXMvbDEzNy9GcmlnZ2luQmx1ZS8="><IMG border="0" width="325" title="FrigginBlue" src="http://i95.photobucket.com/albums/l137/FrigginBlue/Kindle2.jpg"/></A> <BR/><BR/><A href="http://www.msplinks.com/MDFodHRwOi8vYmxvZ3MubW9uZXljZW50cmFsLm1zbi5jb20vdG9wc3RvY2tzL2FyY2hpdmUvMjAwOS8wNy8zMS90ZWVuLXMtbGF3c3VpdC1teS1raW5kbGUtYXRlLW15LWhvbWV3b3JrLmFzcHg=">My Kindle Ate my Homework</A><BR/><BR/><BR/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>Like I said, the summer isn't over yet. I'm off to an adult only (I like saying that, makes me feel like not having my kids with me is a choice) canoe trip this weekend. The following weekend, I'm heading to LA with my boyfriend and his parents for a family wedding. We'll be there for a few days and then will be spending a few in Kansas City. We're wrapping up the summer with a bonfire. After that, you'll see my "Summer 2009" photo album. In the meantime, here's one of some guy I don't know from the "Boat Night 2009" album. (Boat Night, as you may remember from last year, is the night before the Port Huron to Mackinac sailboat race in which all who are sailing and all who aren't come from miles around to drink themselves silly in our downtown area.)</DIV><DIV><BR/><A href="http://viewmorepics.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=viewImage&friendID=184160597&albumID=0&imageID=41739140"><IMG border="0" width="325" title="T shirt and jeans. T shirt optional" src="http://c2.ac-images.myspacecdn.com/images02/110/l_2f9ab57069374e27a98657008687b81d.jpg"/></A> </DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>Okay, I have to go sloth on the beach with my sister-out-law and my Asian. Have a nice day.<BR/><BR/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><BR/> </DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><BR/><BR/> </DIV></DIV>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03998397530309269321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8474856909452718079.post-86340084505753320252009-07-28T12:53:00.000-05:002009-09-23T12:54:29.840-05:00Chasing a Train<BR/><A href="http://viewmorepics.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=viewImage&friendID=184160597&albumID=0&imageID=41738896"><IMG border="0" width="325" title="Nickel Plate Road 765" src="http://c4.ac-images.myspacecdn.com/images02/84/l_65733e8b953a4d2fa0bd8238798d4c43.jpg"/></A> <DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><I>The Nickel Plate Road 765 weighs 404 tons, goes over 60 mph and keeps an elite company as one of the very small group of steam engines that are still operational.</I></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><BR/><A href="http://viewmorepics.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=viewImage&friendID=184160597&albumID=0&imageID=41738958"><IMG border="0" width="325" title="GNR concert, complete with crowd surfers" src="http://c4.ac-images.myspacecdn.com/images02/72/l_80ce5729a1f449c9bef621199e3b76fb.jpg"/></A> <BR/><BR/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><I>LEGO company was born in Denmark in 1934 but it wasn't until 1949 that the evolution of wooden to plastic toys produced by the company became what it is now.</I></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><BR/><A href="http://viewmorepics.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=viewImage&friendID=184160597&albumID=0&imageID=41738905"><IMG border="0" width="325" title="Pere Marquette 1225 aka " src="http://c4.ac-images.myspacecdn.com/images02/88/l_45b6b0c90c884a8a83362672bc724ddb.jpg"/></A> </DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><I>The Pere Marquette 1225 is the same size and sister to the 765. It's the only operable 2-8-4 Pere Marquette steam engine. To build the engine today, one would need 2.5 million dollars. The 1225 became famous in 2004 when its blueprints were used to design the Polar Express, featured in the Oscar-nominated movie by the same name which, in turn, was based upon the award-winning children's book by Michigan author Chris Van Allsburg.</I></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><FONT size="4" style="font-size: large;">Sub-cultures run rampant in our society. We have Trekkies, Harry Potter nerds (*shoots hand up in air*), and Weezer fans (*again with the hand*). I've recently become exposed to the Train Geeks, the group to which my boyfriend belongs.</FONT></DIV><DIV><FONT size="4" style="font-size: large;"><BR/></FONT></DIV><DIV><FONT size="4" style="font-size: large;">At the hub of the Train Geek culture are festivals where said geeks can go and see a variety of real life, operable and otherwise, engines, model train sets (including the most awesome LEGO model I've ever seen, though not the largest), maps, art and literature featuring trains. It so happens that the largest such festival in America is </FONT><A href="http://www.msplinks.com/MDFodHRwOi8vd3d3LnRyYWluZmVzdGl2YWwyMDA5LmNvbS9ldmVudC1hdHRyYWN0aW9ucy5waHA="><FONT size="4" style="font-size: large;">Trainfestival</FONT></A><FONT size="4" style="font-size: large;"> 90 minutes away in Owosso, MI. *fist pump*</FONT></DIV><DIV><FONT size="4" style="font-size: large;"><BR/></FONT></DIV><DIV><FONT size="4" style="font-size: large;">When we attended on Sunday, I had no possible way of knowing what I was about to see. Thousands of people come from who-knows-where to stand in hour-long lines for the chance to spend 120 seconds in an engine. Tents upon tents of impossible to navigate crowds hoarde around massive model train sets. </FONT></DIV><DIV><FONT size="4" style="font-size: large;"><BR/></FONT></DIV><DIV><FONT size="4" style="font-size: large;">But that's not what the bad ass train enthusiasts do. Nope. Bad ass train enthusiasts hop aboard the motorcycle, ignoring the 70% chance of rain and they chase a train.</FONT></DIV><DIV><FONT size="4" style="font-size: large;"><BR/></FONT></DIV><DIV><FONT size="4" style="font-size: large;">A day in the life of a train chaser.</FONT></DIV><DIV><FONT size="4" style="font-size: large;">1) See train off at start point.</FONT></DIV><DIV><FONT size="4" style="font-size: large;">2) Run like the wind to car in effort to be the first in the pack of dozens to try and beat train to next crossing. </FONT><I><FONT size="4" style="font-size: large;">Alternatively</FONT></I><FONT size="4" style="font-size: large;">: Decide at last minute after watching scores of people leave start point to head for their cars that it really is okay to chase a train on a motorcycle. Why the hell not? Run to motorcycle, put on helmet, and GO!</FONT></DIV><DIV><FONT size="4" style="font-size: large;">3) Look for steam on the horizon as biggest clue of train's present location. Go that way.</FONT></DIV><DIV><FONT size="4" style="font-size: large;">4) After what may be several *PWNs* by fast train or 10 miles of weaving down back country roads, finally beat train to crossing.</FONT></DIV><DIV><FONT size="4" style="font-size: large;">5) Get out of car (motorcycle), take pictures/video of train crossing.</FONT></DIV><DIV><FONT size="4" style="font-size: large;">6) If in car, repeat steps 1-5 until train reaches destination.</FONT></DIV><DIV><FONT size="4" style="font-size: large;"><BR/></FONT></DIV><DIV><FONT size="4" style="font-size: large;">It seems silly, but I can't begin to describe how exhilarating it was. Maybe part of that is all of the other people doing the same thing. Anyhow, it was super fun and I hope to do it again someday.</FONT></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><I>In the video I took from my perch on the back of the bike, we are approaching the crossing. You can see a couple of cars in front of us and on the other side of the track. You can see my train geek boyfriend jumping off and leaving me in the dust to run up while simutaneously trying to wrench his camera from his pocket (HOT, there's nothing in the world like a nerdy boy). After the train goes by, you can see a woman beginning the run back to her car (there's also a man behind me who you can't see) to do it all over again. </I></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><BR/><BR/>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03998397530309269321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8474856909452718079.post-59297720126146145512009-07-08T12:54:00.000-05:002009-09-23T12:55:21.102-05:00Book Tag<DIV><DIV><DIV><DIV><FONT size="5" style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 18px;">“Don't take too long to think about it. Fifteen books you've read that will always stick with you. First fifteen you can recall in no more than 15 minutes.”</FONT></DIV><DIV><FONT face="Georgia" size="5"><FONT size="5" style="font-size: 18px;"><BR/></FONT></FONT></DIV><DIV><FONT face="Georgia"><FONT size="2" style="font-size: small;">A</FONT><FONT size="2" style="font-size: small;"> </FONT><FONT size="2" style="font-size: small;">T</FONT><FONT size="2" style="font-size: small;">a</FONT><FONT size="2" style="font-size: small;">g</FONT><FONT size="2" style="font-size: small;"> </FONT><FONT size="2" style="font-size: small;">f</FONT><FONT size="2" style="font-size: small;">r</FONT><FONT size="2" style="font-size: small;">o</FONT><FONT size="2" style="font-size: small;">m</FONT><FONT size="2" style="font-size: small;"> </FONT><FONT size="2" style="font-size: small;">D</FONT><FONT size="2" style="font-size: small;">e</FONT><FONT size="2" style="font-size: small;">w(ed). She didn't actually tag me. She didn't actually tag anyone. I gave myself an invitation.</FONT></FONT></DIV><DIV><FONT face="Georgia" size="3"><FONT size="undefined" style="font-size: 13px;"><BR/></FONT></FONT></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><I>A Wrinkle in Time</I> by Madeleine L'Engle- It was the first book I read cover to cover in a day and may, then, be directly responsible for my love of reading. I think I was in Fourth grade. My daughter has not finished it, she says she likes it but I think she's just aware of how much I liked it and doesn't want to "let me down." Maybe I'll steal it from her and re-read it and rediscover whatever it is that turned me into a reader.</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><I>The Great Gatsby</I> by F. Scott Fitzgerald- When I read it in high school, I was in love with every word on every page. Now, it's nothing short of disappointing. Why do I include it if I don't like it? Books have infinite power, including reminding us how much we've changed. While the book gets me nostalgic for simpler times, I can also see an evolution of my preferences in writing.</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>Conversely,</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><I>To Kill a Mockingbird</I> by Harper Lee- Didn't like it in high school, don't know how anyone could not love it now. Maybe it took becoming a parent but the portraits painted of the characters in Ms. Lee's lone published novel encapusulate every trait we should strive to possess and all we should fight against. If I were to ever have another daughter, I would lobby heavily for the name "Nell."</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><I>Catch 22</I> by Joseph Heller- I've read it three times and liked it more each time. So laugh out loud funny and so sad at the same time. Hello, triumphant human spirit.</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><I>Breakfast at Tiffany's</I> by Truman Capote- The most beautiful writing. Ever.</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><I>Devil in the White City</I> by Erik Larson- The book that showed me that non-fiction doesn't have to be boring. Quite the contrary, it can be chilling and magnificent.</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><I>Ender's Game</I> by Orson Scott Card- Orson Scott Card's foresight serves as a perfect backdrop for an amazing story that takes the good v. evil theme to depths most stories only touch on the surface.</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><I>Brave New World</I> by Aldous Huxley- The ultimate functionalist society. Chilling. </DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><I>The Fountainhead</I> and <I>Atlas Shrugged</I> by Ayn Rand- While I see holes in her philosophy that the 19 year old Melissa never did, these are two of the most important works of fiction ever written and every reader should read them, love her or hate her. Even if I don't embrace everything it means, Howard Roark will always be perfect to me.</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><I>The Winter of Our Discontent</I> by John Steinbeck- It's hard to pick a favorite Steinbeck but this must be it. Ethan holds tight to values that will never get his family all that glitters. A very honest book.</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>And speaking of honesty,</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><I>Sonny's Blues</I> by James Baldwin- A short story, maybe novella, actually. I dare you to read it and not want to finish it on the spot.</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><I>Crime and Punishment<I> </I><SPAN style="font-style: normal;">by Fyodor Dostoevsky</SPAN><I>- </I><SPAN style="font-style: normal;">It took me a looong time to "get into" this book but I was so glad I did. Perhaps it's be</SPAN><SPAN style="font-style: normal;">cause I never tire of the good v. evil story and this had so many layers to it. Politics, society, self. It still makes me think.</SPAN></I></DIV><I><I><DIV><SPAN style="font-style: normal;"><BR/></SPAN></DIV><DIV><SPAN style="font-style: normal;">Roll your eyes it you want to,</SPAN></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><I>Harry Potter</I> <SPAN style="font-style: normal;">the entire series by J.K. Rowling- Unlike Ender, we got to see Harry experience some actual childhood, perhaps making it all the more bitter to see his youth compromised. The books are incredible and my only disappointment is how tidily everything was packaged up at the end. As an aside, the movies are likely the least disappointing reproductions of books ever. New movie in one week!!! Excuse me while I go touch myself.</SPAN></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><I>Waiting for Godot</I> <SPAN style="font-style: normal;">by Samuel Beckett- Actually a play but I've read my copy several times and struggle in public not to do so out loud. The dialog is musical. Never has a story of utter uselessness felt so good. If you like Samuel Beckett, YouTube "Play" with Alan Rickman. The whole thing is on there and I often forget to breathe when I'm watching it.</SPAN></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><I>Franny and Zooey</I><SPAN style="font-style: normal;"> by J.D. Salinger- My favorite Salinger, even more so than Catcher in the Rye. Great commentary on religion and, oh, how I fell in love with Zooey. </SPAN></DIV></I></I></DIV><I><I></I></I></DIV><I><I></I></I></DIV><I><I></I></I>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03998397530309269321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8474856909452718079.post-56661734206094593532009-06-28T12:55:00.000-05:002009-09-23T12:56:12.426-05:00A Good Title Eludes Me<DIV>Today you're getting four for the price of one. Happy/sad stew, if you will:</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><A href="http://viewmorepics.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=viewImage&friendID=184160597&albumID=2027582&imageID=36736825">My mother</A> is hard to look at right now. She found out a bit ago that she has pre-cancerous cells growing on her face and is currently at the tail end of a round of topical chemotherapy. It's like getting a chemical peel everyday for two weeks. She can't go out in the sun. She's not even 50 yet and today, as we were sitting in the shade planning for our camping trip next weekend, I stared at the varying degrees of skin erosion and thought non-stop about how much this needs to work so she doesn't have to go through it for nothing. Because, if she's just going to have to go through intravenous chemo, couldn't she have done it with every layer of her beautiful face intact?<DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>***</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>I've taken up golfing and am horrible at it. I'd be even worse if we didn't play with special rules. When we want to use a special rule, we must say "I invoke-" and then:</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>"-the 5 foot rule!" If the ball lands anywhere between 5 and 15 feet of where we were standing when we swung at it, it doesn't count as a stroke.</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>"-the throw me another ball rule!" If our drive blows when we tee off, we can go again (up to 2 additional drives!) and not count it.</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>"-the mud puddle rule!" If it rained at some point and the course is damp, it will likely have puddles somewhere. If the ball lands in a puddle big enough to make a splash, as it would in a pond, we can remove the ball from the puddle and drop it, like we would if it landed in a pond.</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>"-the I should've got that in rule!" If that ball is only 3 inches from the hole and I still don't make it, I'm counting it as in. Period.</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>***</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>Today I said goodbye to my brother, his wife, and my nephews. They're leaving to make a new life in Tennessee. I know that's what people do, but it is so hard to see him go. No one in my family has ever left before. </DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>***</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>Thursday I say hello to <A href="http://www.myspace.com/realwoodies">Grau Geist</A> and Friday to <A href="http://www.myspace.com/delilahs_dead">Delilah</A>. Yay for MyFriends and real-life meet-ups!</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03998397530309269321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8474856909452718079.post-5540976571974211992009-06-20T12:56:00.000-05:002009-09-23T12:57:16.962-05:00Did You Knows<DIV>I'm not very good at communticating my feelings to people I care about, I like it better if they think I have none <IMG src="http://x.myspacecdn.com/images/blog/moods/iBrads/contemplative.gif"/> and this is a tiny (probably generic!) collection of things left unsaid, past and present.</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>If you leave a comment, leave it as a "did you know."</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>Did you know...</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>If I were the one going, it wouldn't hurt half as bad as watching you go.</DIV><DIV><IMG src="http://www.localwin.com/julie/system/files/lu10/Saying_Goodbye.jpg"/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>I'm glad I didn't meet you first. That's why I simply smiled when you told me you wish you had.</DIV><DIV><IMG src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_PUjYKIyEP6g/SRudD3p0zKI/AAAAAAAAAvo/u1ukedGPWbg/s400/simpsons_handshake.jpg"/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>I want to hump your leg.</DIV><DIV><IMG src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_wvoLtwni0kc/R-sKpM9d2RI/AAAAAAAAP_Q/gOyK34leIos/s400/dog%2Bhump%2Bleg.JPG"/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>I've said "I never had a positive male influence while I was growing up" too many times, but I always did, even if you didn't follow all of the rules.</DIV><DIV><IMG src="http://www.thisshirtrocks.com/productphotos/odoyle-green-real_display.gif"/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>I'm happy because I don't feel like I <I>need </I>anything from you which gives me a free pass to simply be content and, well, that's pretty good.</DIV><DIV><IMG src="http://www.nataliedee.com/031303/freepass.jpg"/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>You're the only person I don't have to elaborate with.</DIV><DIV><IMG src="http://img.timeinc.net/time/daily/2007/0708/superbad_0816.jpg"/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>Somehow, you were never more perfect to me than in a moment when I couldn't wait to go home. I'm so glad home was always waiting for me in places you never would and vindicated that you'll never know what that feels like.</DIV><DIV><IMG src="http://mocoloco.com/art/upload/2009/01/ota_going_home.jpg"/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>You are not alone, I made the same decision as you and I know it was the right one.</DIV><DIV><IMG src="http://blog.kir.com/archives/images/question_mark.gif"/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>You are so very, very, very small.</DIV><DIV><IMG src="http://gossamer.open-site.org/robodance/tiny-toad.jpg"/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>I want to be you and each time I've ever said anything critical to you, that's why.</DIV><DIV><IMG src="http://th00.deviantart.com/fs11/300W/f/2007/119/3/d/I_love_you_Flowers_by_cathydelanssay.jpg"/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>Looking up at you is one of the coolest things I've ever done. Someday, I will do it again.</DIV><DIV><IMG src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3048/2585623315_391c7360fe.jpg"/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>I can't tell you everything because you are so GD judgmental. You're aware of this but I don't think you understand how much this keeps you from having truly rewarding relationships.</DIV><DIV><IMG src="http://imagecache5.art.com/p/LRG/16/1645/B42GD00Z/frustration-golf-ball.jpg"/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>You drink too much.</DIV><DIV><IMG src="http://medicineworld.org/images/blogs/12-2006/alcohol-422270.jpg"/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03998397530309269321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8474856909452718079.post-24627126574157583892009-06-08T12:57:00.001-05:002009-09-23T12:58:46.406-05:00Baby Talk, a BOGO"Awen't you the cutest baby ever? Yes, you are! You sooooo smart!"<DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>A brief sampling of some of the ridiculous things parents say to their new babies. Not wise-cracking doctors, though. Doctors say clever things to their babies, for example:</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>"Are you forming neurological pathways?"</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>Bahahaha! *sigh*</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>I spent the weekend in Chicago meeting my bff's new baby.</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>She's spending a significant amount of time worrying, in spite of her massive storehouse of knowledge, about the things that all new parents worry about. Should her boobs be bigger than a porn star's? If baby spits up, does he need more food to replace what is lost? Is she making enough milk? What do you do when he's not exactly crying but not happy, either?</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>And, the biggie: Why can't he stay exactly this size forever? </DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>That one is causing her a bit of trouble in her post-partum emotional state.</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>It's true, when they get bigger, you take risks. One day, they're going to insist upon entering the school building alone, without you. One day, you're going to have the incredible urge to pick him up and squeeze him, precisely because he's getting so big, only to have him squirm from your grasp because he has something better to do. One day, you're going to remember how much you loved doing everything for him when you see him make his own lunch because he's hungry and recognizes that it's lunch time.</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>Still, if he didn't get bigger, you wouldn't get to see his face light up and his little arms reach up to you when you get home from a long day at work. You wouldn't get to see how proud he is to hold your hand and put you on display in front of all his friends when you show up to school for a field trip. You wouldn't get to blink back tears the first time he reads 43 words in a row from a book with no help from you.</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>I like them getting bigger.</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>*************</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>On that note, my daughter "graduates" from the fifth grade tonight. It seems like such a silly little ceremony but I can't help but think about the first time she walked into school without me, the thought of not being able to eat lunch with her everyday anymore, and the sight of her walking and giggling with her friends as she walks out to her safety patrol post.</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>When I think about when I started middle school, it seems like that time up through high school went by so fast and it will for her. And again for me. </DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>Do I still wish she was little?</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>Nope.</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>She's the coolest kid on Earth and I can't think of someone I'd rather hang out with. She's my built-in perpetual date to museums and plays. She's the girl who will keep the conversation going in the car. She's the one I look at and see myself, only smarter, funnier, prettier. She's the one I've never wasted a second of my life being anything other than proud of.</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>Congratulations, Jenna. </DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><IMG src="http://c2.ac-images.myspacecdn.com/images02/66/l_eba151e1b4884faf9ecb93e2ac4b8da9.jpg"/> </DIV>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03998397530309269321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8474856909452718079.post-2500801743873739472009-06-08T12:57:00.000-05:002009-09-23T12:58:28.137-05:00Baby Talk, a BOGO"Awen't you the cutest baby ever? Yes, you are! You sooooo smart!"<DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>A brief sampling of some of the ridiculous things parents say to their new babies. Not wise-cracking doctors, though. Doctors say clever things to their babies, for example:</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>"Are you forming neurological pathways?"</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>Bahahaha! *sigh*</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>I spent the weekend in Chicago meeting my bff's new baby.</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>She's spending a significant amount of time worrying, in spite of her massive storehouse of knowledge, about the things that all new parents worry about. Should her boobs be bigger than a porn star's? If baby spits up, does he need more food to replace what is lost? Is she making enough milk? What do you do when he's not exactly crying but not happy, either?</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>And, the biggie: Why can't he stay exactly this size forever? </DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>That one is causing her a bit of trouble in her post-partum emotional state.</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>It's true, when they get bigger, you take risks. One day, they're going to insist upon entering the school building alone, without you. One day, you're going to have the incredible urge to pick him up and squeeze him, precisely because he's getting so big, only to have him squirm from your grasp because he has something better to do. One day, you're going to remember how much you loved doing everything for him when you see him make his own lunch because he's hungry and recognizes that it's lunch time.</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>Still, if he didn't get bigger, you wouldn't get to see his face light up and his little arms reach up to you when you get home from a long day at work. You wouldn't get to see how proud he is to hold your hand and put you on display in front of all his friends when you show up to school for a field trip. You wouldn't get to blink back tears the first time he reads 43 words in a row from a book with no help from you.</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>I like them getting bigger.</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>*************</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>On that note, my daughter "graduates" from the fifth grade tonight. It seems like such a silly little ceremony but I can't help but think about the first time she walked into school without me, the thought of not being able to eat lunch with her everyday anymore, and the sight of her walking and giggling with her friends as she walks out to her safety patrol post.</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>When I think about when I started middle school, it seems like that time up through high school went by so fast and it will for her. And again for me. </DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>Do I still wish she was little?</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>Nope.</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>She's the coolest kid on Earth and I can't think of someone I'd rather hang out with. She's my built-in perpetual date to museums and plays. She's the girl who will keep the conversation going in the car. She's the one I look at and see myself, only smarter, funnier, prettier. She's the one I've never wasted a second of my life being anything other than proud of.</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>Congratulations, Jenna. </DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><IMG src="http://c2.ac-images.myspacecdn.com/images02/66/l_eba151e1b4884faf9ecb93e2ac4b8da9.jpg"/> </DIV>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03998397530309269321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8474856909452718079.post-57340478747755361052009-05-31T12:58:00.000-05:002009-09-23T13:00:05.886-05:00The Stretch Marks Mapping an Old Love<DIV>Sister #2 leaned in so her face was close enough to mine to violate all generally accepted regulations regarding personal space. </DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>"Get away! What?! My face is dirty from riding the go carts! I tried to clean it but I haven't had any time! Stop it!" I squealed.</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>"You're growing a mustache," she stated simplistically with calm authority.</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>***5 minutes earlier***</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>"Look at you with your socks and long-sleeved shirt. Aren't you hot?" Sister #1 inquired as she pulled her shorts up her thighs as high as she comfortably could and pushed her sleeves up to her shoulders, perfectly positioned beneath the sun.</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>"It was cold this morning and I won't get home until after the concert. It will probably be cold afterwards in Detroit anyway." My only defense for the black long sleeved T beneath my aged Hip concert T on a decent weather day. </DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>***15 minutes later***</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>I finished my beer and got up to go in and ruin my children's lives by informing them it was time to go. </DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>As I walked up the stairs, Sister #1's husband: "Your shoes are gay!"</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>"I like these shoes! Shut up, Steve!"</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>Sister #1: "They are kind of gay. Aren't you supposed to look hot when you go to a concert?"</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>*sigh*</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>So went a brief visit with the out-laws yesterday. I love them. They're so much fun. It's truly comforting to have people to poke at who will poke right back. It's too bad I don't get to see them often.</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>But let's face it, I'm getting old. There's an inexplicable dark strip developing on my upper lip. The fine hair that covers my face is no thicker or darker there, yet somehow the skin beneath appears darker. The shoes I like are gay. The clothes that used to be cool to wear to a concert aren't hot.</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>And, sadly, the concert kind of sucked.</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><IMG src="http://photos-d.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc1/hs095.snc1/4706_1142267525864_1502734844_30349299_195833_n.jpg"/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>Loyalty is an attribute of mine that I cherish. Perhaps it's because there is nothing more important in my life than family and, while my actual relatives are closest to my heart, I believe family is found in nooks and crannies that don't always exist at Thanksgiving dinner. So it's odd that I found myself screaming "Please play something cool!" instead of "WOOOOOOOO!" at times last night. </DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>Don't worry, it was too loud for anyone but my sister to hear my treason. </DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>Rock concerts have long been like a dirty whore mistress for me, a truly unique experience. It's a place to go and get drunk (high, in some cases) and sweaty while dancing and screaming with other people just like me. (To be perfectly clear, I never dance, but I get so excited at rock concerts that<I><B> even I</B></I> bounce up and down a little.) Fans who belt out the same songs I do while they drive to work in the morning or take the long way home when one of our favorites comes on the radio, ensuring the volume of the speakers drowns out our own voices. At a concert, as an aggregate, we can't sing loud enough to cover up the intensity of sound coming from the very people who wrote the songs, we can't jump high enough to escape the feeling of the drums making the floor vibrate, we can't even pause briefly enough to appreciate the bass of butterflies in our stomachs. </DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><I>Note: None of the above paragraph applies to any of the boyfriends who were kind enough to share this experience with their crazy girlfriends even though Game 1 of the Stanley Cup Playoffs was on at the exact same time as a band they don't really care for was playing.</I></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>I'd like to tell you that I know where this concert went awry. It may have been the new album, consisting of some quality music that should probably have a warning label on it that reads: "Do not listen to while contemplating suicide." </DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>Excepting one song, it's just so <B><I>slooooowwwww</I></B>. </DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>And they played every single depression-inducing song on it. Half of their set (which was admirably long- 3 hours) was dedicated to the new album and it blew. I'd expect to spend more time sitting in my seat than standing at a Coldplay concert, but not at The Tragically Hip! Plus, because I prefer the kind of music that makes me want to stand, I wouldn't even buy tickets to a Coldplay concert. </DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>I'm about to make a confession and this whole thing will start to make sense.</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>TTH has dozens of cool songs, songs that have arguably catapulted them during their 26 year career to be one of the top 2 bands in Canada (which is why most of my fellow Americans have never heard of them) as not many could say they're better than Rush. That's a debate for another blog.</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>During the second half of the show, they finally played a good number of the songs they are so well known for, including my absolute favorite which previously incited a spell of self-loathing following an embarrassing vomiting experience that caused me to miss it at the last Hip concert I attended.</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>But it didn't make it better.</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>Something was lost. </DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>Even as I shouted out "In the middle of that riot, couldn't get you off my mind" and "I'm just a shade shy of true wickedness," it wasn't the same. The experience of seeing my favorite band play some of my favorite songs didn't make up for how much I sat on my ass in my seat during the set.</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>My sister and I dubbed it the worst Hip concert with the best seats we'd ever been to.</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><IMG src="http://c3.ac-images.myspacecdn.com/images02/110/l_2ef9eb5de1f24ebfb656250bdc14774e.jpg"/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>Here's the thing. I'm not sure if my less than stellar concert experience was because of a fail on the band's part in playing too many bubble-bath mood setting songs or because, for me, everything has become a metaphor for aging.</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>I have no problem with my actual age, it's the aging I can't stop thinking about. </DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>Because no matter how much night cream I slather on my face before bed, there are still lines in the morning.</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>Because the skin above my upper lip is somehow darker, my shoes are gay, and I don't- no <I><B>can't</B></I>- dress hot anymore.</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>I shall hope that yesterday's concert was a fluke and the next concert will find me happy I paid too much money for a seat I won't be sitting in so long as I can feel the music in my toes and I'll say to myself, "I'll never be too old for this."</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03998397530309269321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8474856909452718079.post-78032363354069916102009-05-26T13:00:00.001-05:002009-09-23T13:03:15.771-05:00What if the French Had Won?<DIV>"No daughter of mine is going to look like a slut!"</DIV><DIV>-My boyfriend's mom, upon seeing that I had attempted to escape from my bonnet, in spite of its status as a required part of my costume.</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><IMG src="http://c4.ac-images.myspacecdn.com/images02/77/l_d60f4d03bd7b49c8a175cea1cbb9c6a7.jpg"/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>"You look like one-seventh of a Utah bride!"</DIV><DIV>-Friend Ryan, visiting in plain clothes.</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><IMG src="http://c4.ac-images.myspacecdn.com/images02/99/l_22e6b563716c462ca658f49512e46ab3.jpg"/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>My boyfriend's family has been participating in the <A href="http://www.sunbursttours.com/feast/" target="blank">Feast of the Ste. Claire</A> for several years. It's an annual (not exactly like a pap smear since some women have pap smears bi-annually) re-enactment of what life was like 'round these parts during the early parts of our history. As the website I linked to would tell you, the Feast represents four time periods in MI's history and has camps set up to depict each (Native American, French explorers, British traders, and American Revolutionaries).</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><IMG src="http://www.sunbursttours.com/feast/feast09/Map09.jpg"/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>A big part of the weekend is a battle re-enactment that takes place on both days (the Feast is always held on the Saturday and Sunday of Memorial Day weekend). If you've been around long enough you are aware that, while the State of MI seems to think that I'm smart enough to teach history as I passed their "rigorous" test with flying colors, I suck at history. I wish I didn't, but I do. Also, in spite of my frequent violation of the laws governing the irritating comma splice, I passed the English test with brighter, higher flying colors. </DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>Anyhoot, keeping in mind that I suck at history, you will give me some latitude in my attempt at explianing the battle re-enactment. The boyfriend could do it better.</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>On Saturday, the battle occurs as the British are trying to win territory from the French. The British win as is historically accurate. I'm not sure if the re-enactment is of one specific battle or a generalization of the outcome of a series of struggles in the area. In any case, in spite of its historical inaccuracy, it is the tradition of the Feast to allow the French to win on Sunday.</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>Because the men of our family were with the French navy, our camp was located in the French settlement area of the Feast. The camps must be historically accurate. The food we made had to be cooked as it would have been in Colonial times and had to consist of what was available then. Anything that can be seen by the public has to be as it was during whichever time period the camp represents. This means that we had to turn our backs to pour our beer or Diet Coke into our mugs and hide our smart phones behind baskets on the table as we were checking the score of the Red Wings game.</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><IMG src="http://c4.ac-images.myspacecdn.com/images02/103/l_4e9ebd73107844059d8830aa98b66b5b.jpg"/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>"You need to have better control of your woman! You don't see Melissa running loose, do you?"</DIV><DIV>-Scott to his dad, upon discovering that his mom had skipped out of packing up duty on Sunday evening and went home. It was probably one of the funniest things I've ever heard.</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><IMG src="http://c4.ac-images.myspacecdn.com/images02/112/l_9a8b04a3392b42b08f2f257f7a16ae27.jpg"/></DIV><DIV><I>This is how I'm punished when Scott catches me "running loose."</I></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>Overall, I had a great time. It was something different to do. Don't get me wrong, we had a lot of downtime and got bored easily. The worst was when Scott found my first gray hair. I should have kept my bonnet on.</DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><IMG src="http://c4.ac-images.myspacecdn.com/images02/95/l_171a59ae2da6436eb792b73dd78ff8a3.jpg"/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><B><FONT size="4" style="font-size: large;">So, for all of you history buffs, I ask you: What if the French had won?</FONT></B></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV><BR/></DIV><DIV>Bonus video:</DIV><A href="http://vids.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=vids.individual&videoid=57881199">What Scott Does to his Women When They Get Loose</A><BR/>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03998397530309269321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8474856909452718079.post-13204964365953718092009-05-11T13:03:00.000-05:002009-09-23T13:04:42.258-05:00My First Golf Trip, a Photoblog<DIV></DIV><DIV></DIV><DIV style="margin: 0px; padding: 5px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"></DIV><DIV style="margin: 0px; padding: 5px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"></DIV><DIV style="margin: 0px; padding: 5px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">My friend Maranda works at the golf course that her grandparents own. I decided that this is my year to become a golfer. Here are a few of the things I learned on our first trip:</DIV><DIV style="margin: 0px; padding: 5px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><BR/></DIV><DIV style="margin: 0px; padding: 5px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"></DIV><DIV style="margin: 0px; padding: 5px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><IMG src="http://c4.ac-images.myspacecdn.com/images02/67/l_58e0f21d4cc04255b521315e6c6d8c83.jpg"/></DIV><DIV style="margin: 0px; padding: 5px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><BR/></DIV><DIV style="margin: 0px; padding: 5px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><BR/></DIV><DIV style="margin: 0px; padding: 5px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"></DIV><DIV style="margin: 0px; padding: 5px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><IMG src="http://c1.ac-images.myspacecdn.com/images02/72/l_166ee5fbc0f84ed5a8d5e81219205d40.jpg"/></DIV><DIV style="margin: 0px; padding: 5px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><BR/></DIV><DIV style="margin: 0px; padding: 5px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><BR/></DIV><DIV style="margin: 0px; padding: 5px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"></DIV><DIV style="margin: 0px; padding: 5px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><IMG src="http://c4.ac-images.myspacecdn.com/images02/83/l_bb77b6af03a04c9aa28d6bb7bbd67cdf.jpg"/></DIV><DIV style="margin: 0px; padding: 5px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><BR/></DIV><DIV style="margin: 0px; padding: 5px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><BR/></DIV><DIV style="margin: 0px; padding: 5px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"></DIV><DIV style="margin: 0px; padding: 5px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><IMG src="http://c2.ac-images.myspacecdn.com/images02/105/l_5ef25afb6c664ea19f3360007c6ff0bd.jpg"/></DIV><DIV style="margin: 0px; padding: 5px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><BR/></DIV><DIV style="margin: 0px; padding: 5px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><BR/></DIV><DIV style="margin: 0px; padding: 5px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"></DIV><DIV style="margin: 0px; padding: 5px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><IMG src="http://c3.ac-images.myspacecdn.com/images02/103/l_63aa5fd6693d419e9ff22aeb932d9602.jpg"/></DIV><DIV style="margin: 0px; padding: 5px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><BR/></DIV><DIV style="margin: 0px; padding: 5px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><BR/></DIV><DIV style="margin: 0px; padding: 5px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"></DIV><DIV style="margin: 0px; padding: 5px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><IMG src="http://c3.ac-images.myspacecdn.com/images02/81/l_e284a847e231462c8a45b66c1fcb3cde.jpg"/></DIV><DIV style="margin: 0px; padding: 5px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><BR/></DIV><DIV style="margin: 0px; padding: 5px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><BR/></DIV><DIV style="margin: 0px; padding: 5px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"></DIV><DIV style="margin: 0px; padding: 5px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><IMG src="http://c1.ac-images.myspacecdn.com/images02/89/l_4cd475ba294d4dc8ae62bdfc1f654308.jpg"/></DIV><DIV style="margin: 0px; padding: 5px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><BR/></DIV><DIV style="margin: 0px; padding: 5px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><BR/></DIV><DIV style="margin: 0px; padding: 5px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"></DIV><DIV style="margin: 0px; padding: 5px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><BR/></DIV><DIV></DIV><DIV></DIV><DIV></DIV><DIV></DIV><DIV></DIV><DIV></DIV><DIV></DIV><DIV></DIV><DIV></DIV><DIV></DIV><DIV></DIV><DIV></DIV>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03998397530309269321noreply@blogger.com0