On worrying

<div align="center"> </div><a href="http://rookery9.aviary.com.s3.amazonaws.com/13859500/13859812_cf25_625x625.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://rookery9.aviary.com.s3.amazonaws.com/13859500/13859812_cf25_625x625.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 596px;" /></a>Do you worry a lot? Worry is the mother of all rabbit holes, isn't it? It can pull us down so easily once we start worrying about our jobs, our relationships or even something as simple as what to make for dinner. I'm sure you can tell by now that I've indeed caught the worry bug a time two -- or three or four. <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPiqIkKd4Ky-cYZbW23t96K-uJMsWc1U2-zo6n1weMK33bTw8_JvXZgbb_U4GS0EnYNI2LkWz5e-D39IsI8T5-ZQbh8aljWuj0MABoCvXmpbpQQY7-nYxZ1lcSaziTLzpjLxXSMSIXWKs/s1600/02.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5735801911718969458" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPiqIkKd4Ky-cYZbW23t96K-uJMsWc1U2-zo6n1weMK33bTw8_JvXZgbb_U4GS0EnYNI2LkWz5e-D39IsI8T5-ZQbh8aljWuj0MABoCvXmpbpQQY7-nYxZ1lcSaziTLzpjLxXSMSIXWKs/s400/02.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 263px;" /></a>But then I came across something: In 1933, author F. Scott Fitzgerald <a href="http://www.listsofnote.com/2012/01/things-to-worry-about.html">wrote a letter</a> to his 11-year-old daughter, Scottie. He ended the letter perfectly with a list of things to worry about, not worry about, and simply think about. These are some things, according to Fitzgerald, that we <span style="font-style:italic;">do not</span> need to worry about...<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">*Don’t worry about popular opinion<br />*Don’t worry about dolls<br />*Don’t worry about the past<br />*Don’t worry about the future<br />*Don’t worry about growing up<br />*Don’t worry about anybody getting ahead of you<br />*Don’t worry about triumph<br />*Don’t worry about failure unless it comes through your own fault</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Isn't that a great list! So, friends, what do you find yourself worrying about? How do you get yourself to stop those annoying racing thoughts once they pop in your head? (For me, working on my blog is a good way to calm down!). xoxo</span><br /><br />P.S. How cool would it be to have F. Scott Fitzgerald as your dad? :) <br /><br />[Top photo of F. Scott Fitzgerald via <a href="http://witanddelight.tumblr.com/post/19269464518/lylaandblu-f-scott-fitzgerald-photographer">wit + delight</a>]

On worrying

Do you worry a lot? Worry is the mother of all rabbit holes, isn't it? It can pull us down so easily once we start worrying about our j...

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Love Lounge: How old were you when you got married? Did you feel any pressure to tie the knot?

<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8p2SFy2R1lanT0m-5SSPTCRCTgkykIgjIl5AtmQ7QHkm8rEfVD9BxQ6Gs9V-mDSYnvEufqR5LeSbne24OBm6gFv1PmwTtK9xGxCrPhVvcdqMI54zKvqj5xEAcwAW1cAl9Y73LvhGP1tI/s1600/marry2.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5735026557417471186" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8p2SFy2R1lanT0m-5SSPTCRCTgkykIgjIl5AtmQ7QHkm8rEfVD9BxQ6Gs9V-mDSYnvEufqR5LeSbne24OBm6gFv1PmwTtK9xGxCrPhVvcdqMI54zKvqj5xEAcwAW1cAl9Y73LvhGP1tI/s400/marry2.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 284px;" /></a>It's sort of an odd coincidence: Most everyone in my mom's family (<em>her mom, her sisters...</em>) got married when they were 22. And although I <em>haven't</em> given much thought to is the age I'd like to be when I tie that knot, I did find myself going though a bit of self-doubt when I turned 22.<br /><br />Then, when my best friend got married a few years ago, I found myself bringing out the old metaphorical yardstick yet again. It's not that I actually wanted to get married <em>right then</em>; I just wondered if I <em>should be</em>. With so many of my peers marrying in their mid- and late-20s, the whole subject of marriage was hard to ignore. <br /><br />"The peer pressure to marry doesn’t necessarily suggest a problem with marriage itself, but a lack of other cultural models," says <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/04/23/reasons-to-get-married_n_1447389.html?ref=weddings&ncid=edlinkusaolp00000008">psychologist Lyla Cicero</a>. "This results in a lot of people choosing marital and family structures by default rather than by intention -- a kind of compulsory monogamy."<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmFzK8i5v6Sq3ggmvgbNo_dOgSjv5670w-dqjsWZQXryzaGZ1zXOm23JVzjgPN-O6BmQAy3Aw_V_uI8a1iUx54YK-z9kg83gXIh1E55CnwNAgRGmMiUhzrFrJ9Vd7BFsqkDWXEOcD_aSk/s1600/marry.png"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5735026566722403106" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmFzK8i5v6Sq3ggmvgbNo_dOgSjv5670w-dqjsWZQXryzaGZ1zXOm23JVzjgPN-O6BmQAy3Aw_V_uI8a1iUx54YK-z9kg83gXIh1E55CnwNAgRGmMiUhzrFrJ9Vd7BFsqkDWXEOcD_aSk/s400/marry.png" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 227px;" /></a>And, as it turns out, the mid-20s is the perfect time to get married, at least according to <a href="http://www.cosmopolitan.com/celebrity/exclusive/marriage-age?hootPostID=ee8d539df8da463f0806b035a2b7c824">new research</a>. Having higher education, financial security and a firm sense of your goals and values in your mid-20s make for a perfect marriage recipe -- and lower the chances of going down the divorce path. <br /><br />But honestly? I don't want to get married until <em>I'm</em> ready, not when my peers or society think I should be ready. I think a lot of women -- and men -- feel this way too. Marriage, at the core, is such an individual thing. It can't be placed on some sort of arbitrary time table, full of neat little boxes of steps to check off. It's something you have to feel in your heart instead of calculate in your head. <br /><br /><strong>So, I'm curious, friends: Are you married? How old were you when you got married? Did you feel any of that peer pressure? Would you do things differently now if you had the chance? If you're not married, do you envision yourself being married by a certain age? xoxo</strong><br /><br />[Photos by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/superbomba/">superbomba</a> and <a href="http://www.rachelthurston.com/">Rachel Thurston</a>]

Love Lounge: How old were you when you got married? Did you feel any pressure to tie the knot?

It's sort of an odd coincidence: Most everyone in my mom's family ( her mom, her sisters... ) got married when they were 22. And alt...

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MEMO TO MEN: Baby talk

MEMORANDUM<br />TO: Men all over the planet<br />FROM: Melissa<br />RE: Baby babble<br />DATE: April 19, 2012<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAdI-Z6NF6NF0GW_SEEAfVCBeHiRdIttRWN7pEX2BBzVG_C_-_9GpCRFvAvbddjEuSqbnSneYfr-iqYIl0bmXfgWd9lrhZrbJ46swj9Ur8t2kPS2_aIntfnyP3I_VwdNggYbB2d3qR7cs/s1600/02.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5733146472799079186" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAdI-Z6NF6NF0GW_SEEAfVCBeHiRdIttRWN7pEX2BBzVG_C_-_9GpCRFvAvbddjEuSqbnSneYfr-iqYIl0bmXfgWd9lrhZrbJ46swj9Ur8t2kPS2_aIntfnyP3I_VwdNggYbB2d3qR7cs/s400/02.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 268px;" /></a>Yesterday, boys, I wondered whether society views women and men differently when it comes to wanting children. I'd say it's pretty obvious it does, wouldn't you say? A man who doesn't want kids is sometimes applauded for following his dreams or throwing himself into his career while a woman who makes the same choice is sometimes criticized for going against nature. And, well, I must warn you of the dangers of feeding into these stereotypes, boys. They're rubbish. They're crazy. And frankly, they're downright archaic. <br /><br />Because from one woman to you: A man who is good with children is an extremely attractive man. Even if you don't necessarily want kids of your own, the fact that you're so good with them -- that you can make them laugh, that you aren't afraid to be silly with them, that you know just the trick to get them to eat their peas -- makes you the kind of man I want to be with. When you think about it, you can tell a lot about a man -- about anyone, actually -- by the way he takes care of children. If he's warm and caring and sensitive, you can bet he's going to carry those qualities with him into the other relationships in his life. Some of the men I've admired most in my life, including my father, grandfather and uncles, have adored children, have always known the importance of nurturing children and have never taken that responsibility lightly, whether they themselves were fathers or not. <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihY9poALka08WXe0yktvuX8VwFqbUV4NKSheWDpyWH6915RGwMLi2OIdle-u5fekcjTJJSfHwCzfkAMffZfvdECFlqx11PLSiEU4WCuXyba99IiM4cS2MgoQzzbk5Yl99tspRJcjo8g7s/s1600/01.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5733146476235110274" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihY9poALka08WXe0yktvuX8VwFqbUV4NKSheWDpyWH6915RGwMLi2OIdle-u5fekcjTJJSfHwCzfkAMffZfvdECFlqx11PLSiEU4WCuXyba99IiM4cS2MgoQzzbk5Yl99tspRJcjo8g7s/s400/01.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 268px;" /></a>But those who were fathers? They threw themselves into their roles. They loved their children more than anything in this world and relished in watching them grow and learn and thrive. They knew that they were shaping someone's future, and they considered that their greatest job in life. Of course, it's OK if you don't want children. After all, I'm still on the fence myself. But not being good with kids is a definite red flag in my book. The kind of red flag that makes me want to high-tail it in the opposite direction and never, ever look back. Keep that in mind, boys... xoxo<br /><br />[Photos by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/thelittleleaf/">thelittleleaf</a>]

MEMO TO MEN: Baby talk

MEMORANDUM TO: Men all over the planet FROM: Melissa RE: Baby babble DATE: April 19, 2012 Yesterday, boys, I wondered whether society views ...

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Letters To My Future Husband: Letter #155.

Dear Mr. Melissa Blake:<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYInugEOGOLspzvKiWDKmaAR5Sg9Jli8nwBQierk563fn70KZF20PaqWh90Gz7nEqGAihn2aJCCm99zpHYZ-lKrV0n2HN9m3R1wUPaloKvMQ10IXdCkis3qYYB4fiulgOpc64mfHt5iJg/s1600/02.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5732085986452072418" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYInugEOGOLspzvKiWDKmaAR5Sg9Jli8nwBQierk563fn70KZF20PaqWh90Gz7nEqGAihn2aJCCm99zpHYZ-lKrV0n2HN9m3R1wUPaloKvMQ10IXdCkis3qYYB4fiulgOpc64mfHt5iJg/s400/02.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" /></a>I'll be honest, Sweetpea: You would have hated the person I was a few years ago. I was that woman. I chatted on my cell phone as I dashed through the supermarket, rolling my eyes and wondering why the little girl with the pigtails and pink puffy dress couldn't move any faster. I even avoided the under-six set at church. <br /><br />Even <span style="font-style:italic;">I</span> hated me.<br /><br />The plain truth: <span style="font-weight:bold;">I didn't want to have kids</span>. I wanted a high-power career as a New York City magazine editor instead of a high-power position as president of the PTA. I wanted to be roused every Saturday by the morning sun sweeping through the nearby window and the smell of freshly brewed coffee instead of being jolted awake by shrieks from the next room or the smell of a not-so-fresh diaper. That's how I viewed motherhood. Not a very flattering portrait, was it?<br /><br />All the sippy-cup, Dr.-Seuss, bubble-bath fun? Well, I'd just leave that to the Mommy Bunch. I considered myself a Career Woman, and the two shall never meet. <br /><br />It wasn't that I grew up with horrible motherly role models. My childhood was quite the contrary, in fact. My mother threw herself into motherhood raising my younger sister and me. Herself a stay-at-home mom, the three of us spent our days rummaging through large piles of children's book at the library or sitting on the banks of the nearby lagoon feeding the ducks. If anything, you'd think I'd want to be my mom, Part II. But one lap around my bedroom would reveal I'm no where close to filling her large shoes. My bookshelves are lined with writing books, various anthologies and the AP style manual; my mother's shelves were lined with family health books and framed family photos. I keep cold cans of Coke in the fridge; she always had fresh juice boxes on hand, the plastic wrapper already removed from the straw, of course. <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRwsLva5B581srgVd05jf8BRBpZsqW7ZSZCaZxNlIGMOJOGiTCQHXDVaGcV8gnODonq4739o_6VQ-jMM4wb_85emLefPk5r7gr-43vy-Zb_9Y0n3e9ZZceoBz-ASXOzjMns71d_aADjrg/s1600/03.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5732085984155471538" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRwsLva5B581srgVd05jf8BRBpZsqW7ZSZCaZxNlIGMOJOGiTCQHXDVaGcV8gnODonq4739o_6VQ-jMM4wb_85emLefPk5r7gr-43vy-Zb_9Y0n3e9ZZceoBz-ASXOzjMns71d_aADjrg/s400/03.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" /></a>That all changed when I met a set of tiny triplets.<br /><br />After years of trying to conceive, my mother's coworker gave birth to their three bundles of joy. I visited them in the NICU, all curled up under a blanket and the overhead heat lamp. For some reason, I felt an instant connection with each of them. We continued to visit them every few months, first as content eight-month olds, then as clap-happy ten-month olds who could sit up.<br /><br />Then one fall day in October, with orange and yellow leaves swirling in the front yard, my mom and I found ourselves on their doorstep. There was one of the triplets, his face and hands making homemade window clings on the front window. His mother opened the door with one hand as she steadied another one of the triplets on her hip. And the third little boy? He held tightly to her knee and buried his head in her jeans.<br /><br />“Oh, I'm so sorry about the mess,” she chirped as we entered the living room.<br /><br />Picture books dangled from the edge of the coffee table, a toy car had found its way smack dab in front of the fire place and small bags of Halloween treats lay strewn across the brown carpeting. I’ll admit I felt a bit out of place, almost as if I’d stepped into a room I didn’t quite belong in. A private club. <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFREKMRqKNioTeJdQNfk-7Yc5yQ_xQa1sDjesoRvlDneRte_IZ3GwHGXcanMk9Avv2_UIvyjP2hd_LcFWF1Hd_roUsgS5n19Tr2UCadtHzmZyqZ1uyzNwhBs82rD-37EMkKqLZdnqVqas/s1600/01.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5732085993609144002" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFREKMRqKNioTeJdQNfk-7Yc5yQ_xQa1sDjesoRvlDneRte_IZ3GwHGXcanMk9Avv2_UIvyjP2hd_LcFWF1Hd_roUsgS5n19Tr2UCadtHzmZyqZ1uyzNwhBs82rD-37EMkKqLZdnqVqas/s400/01.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 322px;" /></a>As I sat down, a bit nervous, the quieter of the three boys came over to the couch and proceeded to offer me his pacifier not once, but twice. I declined, naturally, picked up the picture book that lay next to me, and the two of us sat down for a little reading and relaxing. <br /><br />“What’s that? A yummy pie,” I said as he pointed to a colorful picture.<br /><br />“Oh, that’s a tri-an-gle,” I said, neatly sounding out each syllable of the word.<br /><br />Was I really using what people call <span style="font-style:italic;">baby talk</span>?<br /><br />Over the next two hours, we (<span style="font-style:italic;">yes, me and three 18-month-olds</span>) shared laughs, more books, strawberry Pez dispensed from a Jasmine dispenser (<span style="font-style:italic;">a big hit</span>) and even shook and swiveled our hips to Shakira tunes. <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUtLPNHpBHIksO7FG72DhQGJBl_SJTo5IBm6mD7t5JnhWVf2ZtBlN1JDpnhR6CLeaJbNs7x2sRt9XlBZELTzUwkSV46Jc08ZWkoV6EAETTPcrxO92RYPPP5Bw1i3t-kJx3pk8tykB9k3w/s1600/04.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5732085980030093586" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUtLPNHpBHIksO7FG72DhQGJBl_SJTo5IBm6mD7t5JnhWVf2ZtBlN1JDpnhR6CLeaJbNs7x2sRt9XlBZELTzUwkSV46Jc08ZWkoV6EAETTPcrxO92RYPPP5Bw1i3t-kJx3pk8tykB9k3w/s400/04.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 263px;" /></a>I may have entered that house a cynical independent woman who had resigned herself to a life of spinsterhood, but I left a woman who, for the first time, could actually, perhaps, maybe see herself with a baby in her right arm instead of a cell phone clasped to her ear. Maybe someday, Sweetpea. What do you think? Until we meet... xoxo<br /><br />P.S. More on how <a href="http://melissabxoxo.blogspot.com/search/label/Disability">my disability will affect my having children</a> later in the week... :)<br /><br /><em><strong>**Don't forget to enter the <a href="http://melissabxoxo.blogspot.com/2012/04/shopbop-100-gift-card-giveaway.html">Shopbop giveaway</a> for your chance to win a $100 shopping spree!**</strong></em><br /><br />[Photos via <a href="http://weheartit.com/">We Heart It</a> and <a href="http://iheartbaby.tumblr.com/post/12854163876">i heart baby</a>]

Letters To My Future Husband: Letter #155.

Dear Mr. Melissa Blake: I'll be honest, Sweetpea: You would have hated the person I was a few years ago. I was that woman. I chatted on ...

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MEMO TO MEN: A second chance at prom?

MEMORANDUM<br />TO: Men all over the planet<br />FROM: Melissa<br />RE: The joys of a second prom<br />DATE: April 12, 2012<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSzKFIArWOrs8NiekbWVQvPhYEr8GKJ54r8FgXX-sJca2VtWFuXccX1WS3yWL1diLqrkvCCqMvc2U09nE7YzdO5RKG6dePi24gBpP4P3LpLXEfCrsK5ASq2Q2ZynRJfEw6wVswLhxW7T4/s1600/aa2.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5730508884503291058" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSzKFIArWOrs8NiekbWVQvPhYEr8GKJ54r8FgXX-sJca2VtWFuXccX1WS3yWL1diLqrkvCCqMvc2U09nE7YzdO5RKG6dePi24gBpP4P3LpLXEfCrsK5ASq2Q2ZynRJfEw6wVswLhxW7T4/s400/aa2.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 265px;" /></a>I'm taking applications for Prom 2.0, boys! The shiny, glitzy and, yes, puffy dresses have been prominently displayed in every store window from Albany to Anchorage - blue, red, pink and orange shimmery gowns of all shapes and sizes.<br /><br />Yes, it's prom season. Can you feel - and smell - the love?<br /><br />I can't. Maybe it's because I never went to my prom.<br /><br />It wasn't because I couldn't find a dress small enough for my tiny body or because I had too many suitors vying for my love and affection.<br /><br />The truth: I had no interest in going at the time. Zero. Zilch. I feared having to take those all-too-awkward, yet obligatory prom photos - you've seem 'em, where the girl with gelled-up hair grins from ear-to-ear as her date can't exactly figure out where to place his hand because, after all, her dad is standing sternly off to the side glaring at said poor helpless boy.<br /><br />I dreaded making awkward small talk in the car as I nervously fiddled with my corsage because now, I was the one who couldn't figure out where to put her hands. But what I feared most was having to dance - yes, awkwardly again - to some Journey power ballad a la "16 Candles." And don't even get me going about the prom after-party at the bowling alley.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHxQWk-Ds_PHxOe560BAOZPUPGUiVTy64Oimjic1R_bCnjuK9uy4Xrk2LAhsehK5O4r0uaTGEHtcc9ghzMxwEsZ_w3qY13yPfPpaedOGF_79LpXN-z2QNpfy948x-eokGi6-9L_8FMksU/s1600/aa.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5730508888685145458" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHxQWk-Ds_PHxOe560BAOZPUPGUiVTy64Oimjic1R_bCnjuK9uy4Xrk2LAhsehK5O4r0uaTGEHtcc9ghzMxwEsZ_w3qY13yPfPpaedOGF_79LpXN-z2QNpfy948x-eokGi6-9L_8FMksU/s400/aa.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 287px;" /></a>Let's face it: The prom extravaganza stood as a torturous web I didn't have the strength to navigate. But now, some 12 years later, I get a bit misty eyed when I think of what could have been. Where is my corsage? Where is my '80s power ballad?<br /><br />As fate would have it, my cousin, Lindsay, came to my rescue a few years ago. For an entire month, she was in full-on prom mode. She found the perfect dress (a red bejeweled number). She shopped for shoes like Imelda Marcos. I'm sure she even circled April 26 in red pen, a color that matches the dress, of course, on every calendar within a 25-mile radius. The big day.<br /><br />And the best part is that she was gracious enough to let me vicariously have my very own prom experience. I oohed and ahhed at the pictures she sent me of her dress, and for the first time, I felt like that giggly 17-year-old girl again. When she began telling the tale of all the amenities that come with the limo, well, I could scarcely contain myself.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjegvudv0P5uHrTDQb9r0YANaHeRAIUzpCH8Ip-ApGdxRk_CN9H93thn-gEASC5Ehr8KQwNqrIiy3YnB1JHw26TS-LOhZycakJpvT97n5jWOHibrrLFlSqf1RalgEmDa2DZBBQD3eckQOs/s1600/aa3.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5730508882238225666" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjegvudv0P5uHrTDQb9r0YANaHeRAIUzpCH8Ip-ApGdxRk_CN9H93thn-gEASC5Ehr8KQwNqrIiy3YnB1JHw26TS-LOhZycakJpvT97n5jWOHibrrLFlSqf1RalgEmDa2DZBBQD3eckQOs/s400/aa3.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" /></a>So, with that in mind, boys, here's the deal: I'm surprised no one has ever had a "second" prom. A shameless shindig for those who want to reclaim their youth and their missed opportunities to sip punch and sway to the tunes. Although, now that all of us are a bit older, we may have to do a little tweaking of the classic prom paradigm. I picture something along the lines of a semi-lively bingo tournament complete with rows of sheet cake and glasses of apple juice. We'll laugh, sip, shout "BINGO" and be under our bed covers by 9 p.m. We have to think logical now, you know. We're not getting any younger. And please, no corsages allowed. Our allergies might flare up. xoxo<br /><br /><em><strong>P.S. Don't forget to enter the <a href="http://melissabxoxo.blogspot.com/2012/04/shopbop-100-gift-card-giveaway.html">Shopbop giveaway</a> for your chance to win $100 shopping spree!</strong></em><br /><br />[Photos via <a href="http://weheartit.com/">We Heart It</a>]

MEMO TO MEN: A second chance at prom?

MEMORANDUM TO: Men all over the planet FROM: Melissa RE: The joys of a second prom DATE: April 12, 2012 I'm taking applications for Prom...

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Let's talk siblings!

<div align="center"> </div><a href="http://rookery9.aviary.com.s3.amazonaws.com/13534000/13534056_e1b4_625x625.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://rookery9.aviary.com.s3.amazonaws.com/13534000/13534056_e1b4_625x625.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 329px;" /></a>In honor of yesterday's <a href="http://www.siblingsday.org/">National Sibling Day</a>, let's talk about those relationships that are often a mixture of love, competition, petty fights (<em>and some not-so-petty ones</em>) and at the end of the day, respect. They can be all at once frustrating, fascinating and fantastic. I've talked about <a href="http://melissabxoxo.blogspot.com/2011/10/do-you-have-nicknames-for-your-siblings.html">my sister</a> before, but I'd love to share a little more of our story today...<br /><br />My younger sister, Janelle, and I are twins, despite our four-year age gap. We talk alike -- we’ve been known to spontaneously burst into a British accent, riddled with <em>bloody</em> this and <em>cheeky</em> that. We think alike -- my aunt once commented that we seem to have our own <em>sister language</em> because we could finish each other’s sentences and know instinctively what the other was thinking long before a single syllable ever escaped from our lips. And my mother used to say that we both share the same hurried gate, a mixture of frenzy and determined energy -- though I bustled around in my wheelchair while Janelle laced up her slick white Nike’s and set off to pound the pavement. Until my father’s death, I never understood the deep bonds of sisterhood. Our lives are changing and our paths are beginning to diverge on the metaphorical trail that has become our shared existence. And all the while, I’m not so sure if I’m ready to swiftly wave goodbye to our shared history and enter the <em>real world</em> without my partner in crime. After all, it had always been us against the world. Will the solo woman I become vastly differ from the little girl who wrapped her gangly arms around her little sister in a childlike bear hug?<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe4RRZbiBGbYfRgvryBZGPd8YHqkVwd1SDu0CdzksQfgbrYV7Cwh9Y3URAxhNo54FWHV8aZzJtbPTrkfYC4hnW9wlvc3eiIVyvYvOzEd721bYpdWF1Kve-ub67GtMZzRCOV7MAZw3WmJM/s1600/02.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5730137653258038338" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe4RRZbiBGbYfRgvryBZGPd8YHqkVwd1SDu0CdzksQfgbrYV7Cwh9Y3URAxhNo54FWHV8aZzJtbPTrkfYC4hnW9wlvc3eiIVyvYvOzEd721bYpdWF1Kve-ub67GtMZzRCOV7MAZw3WmJM/s400/02.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 313px;" /></a>Janelle was born when I was a four-year-old little redhead. There was some concern that she would also have <a href="http://melissabxoxo.blogspot.com/search/label/Disability">Freeman-Sheldon Syndrome</a>, so my parents did their homework: They visited three geneticists, one of whom said my Freeman Sheldon Syndrome may have come from my mother’s side. And then, ever the thinkers, my parents contemplated, discussed and contemplated again. Apparently, they thought a sibling would be good for me, so on a chilly fall day in October, with the colorful leaves falling from the trees, we welcomed the newest member of our family. As the story goes, I was as proud as if my new baby sister was my own daughter as my father lifted me high up so I could peek through the glass walls of the tiny incubator to get my first glimpse of her big bald head and shiny blue eyes. I was the first one to see her, even before my mother, and in my child mind, that somehow gave us an extra-special bond. <br /><br />But our roles were often reversed growing up. Because of all my surgeries and the fact that the hospital became our second home by the time I was two years old, my sister had to grow up fast, bypassing a totally typical childhood for the sterile halls of doctors' offices and hospitals. She was a little person in a big, scary medical world, getting shuffled around to family members during my surgeries so my parents could be with me at the hospital or sitting for hours in a hard hospital chair. A child shouldn’t know the words needle, IV or operating room better than words like playground, toy or Chuck E. Cheese, but she never once complained. Instead, she took care of me, playing games with me as I lay in the large hospital bed and telling me about all the exciting things she and my father did while they were home by themselves.<br /><br />So when my father died, I worried about my sister more than ever. I became her protector and felt this intense need to take care of her, to give her the stable sort of life she missed out on during her childhood. I thought that if I could just hover over her like a mother hawk, I could ease her grief and prevent anything bad from ever happening again. I couldn’t physically take care of her the way she did for me all those years, but I could be the emotional rock -- the stability -- that she needed. But maybe all my motives went far deeper than that. Maybe it was my way of taking care of her, of paying her back for all those years she took care of her big sister. Maybe I even felt guilty that my little sister was robbed of her idyllic childhood because of me. <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh9yTqqX5100thtyy__ZeVtnHdSrFKwz5H9UOBvdUq-SJVejPXx6U5ohTrXUZf2ofio3KsQO4s5u5mBPWbiHXO2BOD1peZY-i1_TT6rhxKmoW0wEPdUeiaOvdd6ySO6NJ8Gd-JmSvKJYc/s1600/03.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5730137650841329250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh9yTqqX5100thtyy__ZeVtnHdSrFKwz5H9UOBvdUq-SJVejPXx6U5ohTrXUZf2ofio3KsQO4s5u5mBPWbiHXO2BOD1peZY-i1_TT6rhxKmoW0wEPdUeiaOvdd6ySO6NJ8Gd-JmSvKJYc/s400/03.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 316px;" /></a>A few years ago, I happened to glance at her as she emptied the dishwasher. And she was a carbon copy of my father. Her mannerisms, her meticulous technique of placing each bowl in its proper place -- it was all my father. And yet she also looked like that little girl who once screamed in sheer joy as he pushed us halfway to the sky on the playground swings. I got a tear in my eye as I realized we’re each other’s last link to our father. She’s the only other person on Earth who’s had the same childhood and who will carry those memories of being with our father in her heart like I do. We may grow up, but I know we’ll somehow always come back to each other. And maybe for a little while longer, it will still be us against the world. <br /><br /><strong>Do you have siblings, friends? How has your relationship changed since childhood? Are you closer now than you used to be? Are you alike? Different? Do you think the sibling relationship between brothers is different than it is between sisters? What do you love about your siblings? What's your sibling story? xoxo</strong><br /><br />P.S. A very, very (<em>very!</em>) exciting <a href="http://melissabxoxo.blogspot.com/search/label/gorgeous%20giveaways">giveaway</a> is coming up soon! :)<br /><br />[Top photo via <a href="http://www.siblingsday.org/">National Sibling Day</a>]

Let's talk siblings!

In honor of yesterday's National Sibling Day , let's talk about those relationships that are often a mixture of love, competition, ...

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Love Lounge: Who are you?

<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH2RDwZulnzF7D9gnVwtBDdaiZ0481n6m0cJq99diudhUUQUFYsT9dcBJccWSfkgOQgTv3hH1EqV14MWySj3b7Ua-MBmyPSMGOscXx5vF6hs0MLrxdFGjJYyslgV_sU2n_LerZCHltkco/s1600/01.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729488410010606498" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH2RDwZulnzF7D9gnVwtBDdaiZ0481n6m0cJq99diudhUUQUFYsT9dcBJccWSfkgOQgTv3hH1EqV14MWySj3b7Ua-MBmyPSMGOscXx5vF6hs0MLrxdFGjJYyslgV_sU2n_LerZCHltkco/s400/01.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 260px;" /></a>I'm many things to many people: daughter, sister, friend, coworker, writer, quirky comedian. All these parts of me harmoniously exist together; in fact, people are amazed at the sheer fact that I don’t topple over from wearing all these different hats. <br /><br />But sometimes, two pieces of me -- my womanhood and my physical disability -- don't fit into the puzzle so easily. Sometimes, I feel like I can be one or the other, apparently, but never both. I can be a woman. I can be someone with a physical disability. But I can never be a woman with a physical disability. Now, maybe this is how I've built it up in my head, but nonetheless, these sorts of thoughts of creep in.<br /><br />But why? You wouldn't think it would be so hard to have the two coexist. Yet sometimes I picture them in this battle with each other -- each trying to be "top dog" and shine brighter than the other.<br /><br />That's why I've always been a huge proponent of people-first language. I'm not a disabled woman. I am a woman <span style="font-style:italic;">with</span> a disability. It looks like a small thing, those two ways of identifying someone with a disability, but the latter does something with first one does: Emphasizes the person. It doesn't mean you're negating the person's disability. It doesn't mean you're pretending said disability doesn't exist. I suppose it just means that I'm embracing all of me. <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiHwaCa26rgiejEz4Koqd4AGACAzst9K8-VoJuyi1HHkLtXtwXF21KRJcqCl1G_7S_eHI3qC5cdmLxi5B1JaiL_Z8jLgC_HYUA0TcRTzIK4AtIfbWwbA8JNtcPdUCisFEDelytlK2AaUQ/s1600/02.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729488405163885986" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiHwaCa26rgiejEz4Koqd4AGACAzst9K8-VoJuyi1HHkLtXtwXF21KRJcqCl1G_7S_eHI3qC5cdmLxi5B1JaiL_Z8jLgC_HYUA0TcRTzIK4AtIfbWwbA8JNtcPdUCisFEDelytlK2AaUQ/s400/02.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" /></a>In conversations with people, and in posts on my blog, I’ve begun trying to reconcile the two. I know they can peacefully coexist, but I can't wrap my head around it sometimes. Or maybe I don't want to? I'm not so sure. But I do know that I am a <span style="font-style:italic;">woman with a disability</span>. <br /><br />The truth is, this womanhood is something that is mine. And my disability is something that is mine too. I own them. Both of them.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">So, friends, tell me: Who are you? What hats do you wear in your family? Among your friends? At work? Do you ever find that you have competing hats? Are there parts of you that sometimes don't go too well together? How do you deal with that when it happens? xoxo</span><br /><br />[Photos via <a href="http://www.leloveimage.blogspot.com/">Le Love</a>]

Love Lounge: Who are you?

I'm many things to many people: daughter, sister, friend, coworker, writer, quirky comedian. All these parts of me harmoniously exist to...

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MEMO TO MEN: Double-edge compliments

MEMORANDUM<br />TO: Men all over the planet<br />FROM: Melissa<br />RE: Compliments! Yikes! <br />DATE: April 4, 2012<br /><div align="center"> </div><a href="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7246/7045059185_e05b0ba86f_z.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7246/7045059185_e05b0ba86f_z.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 573px;" /></a>It should be quite obvious, shouldn't it, boys? A compliment is just that -- a compliment. Neat and obvious. Like a pretty little present in a nice little box tied up with a pretty pink bow. It makes you smile. It gives you those fluttering butterflies in your stomach. It let's you know that someone thinks you're cool enough for a glowing -- and equally cool -- compliment. We all love compliments. They boost our ego. They make us feel like, yes, we're doing something right in this world. <br /><br />And yet..sometimes even the best of the best compliments can enter that murky, uncharted, confusing territory. Sometimes, instead of walking away smiling and feeling like you're on cloud nine, you walk away thinking, "<em>Wait, what was that? Was that a compliment</em>?" I know, I know, boys. I'm sure you don't mean to serve these compliments on a cutting-edged plate, but sometimes, they're just all too bittersweet. On the outside, it's sweet. But on the inside, once you peel away that sweet, delicious layer? You're left with a bitter after taste that you just can't seem to shake. Take these examples, for instance...<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkyM2en_Qo2cXJrn93Zz4zjuPUKPnfTaFddINqg2h9Cy_NriY2PgOO4UhMKgayydjeX-aCyhyt6s9lH-0y0GwkrKb2CB6DtKtBwxIjatb8jc6DNPZwKhreVehJoEi-ki49dclNtjbwDQA/s1600/03.png" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5727553471017566306" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkyM2en_Qo2cXJrn93Zz4zjuPUKPnfTaFddINqg2h9Cy_NriY2PgOO4UhMKgayydjeX-aCyhyt6s9lH-0y0GwkrKb2CB6DtKtBwxIjatb8jc6DNPZwKhreVehJoEi-ki49dclNtjbwDQA/s400/03.png" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 319px;" /></a><strong>You're my best friend</strong><br />This is fine if that's all you want to be -- best friends. But hearing those words when being best friends is the decidedly <em>last thing</em> you want to be can cut like a knife.<br /><br /><strong>You remind me so much of my sister/mother</strong><br />Remember how I was only a few credits shy of a psychology minor in college? Well, that background comes in handy for this back-handed compliment. Freud would have a field day with this one. Sure, maybe you love us like you do your mother or sister, but that leaves me, well, a bit creeped out.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4ckupqn043Zh2ERqr56pLAzzvYyuXvD1pxlw65j0KF6wrhKfxx0xj8hAX4lPW78HUzb1CmhNfXh8XvY-zhRVMwl7mfFAB85js_y8DTcYMbwSQy3llnMz3udANub-YTJImZm1_4GKIthQ/s1600/03.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5727553485379951042" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4ckupqn043Zh2ERqr56pLAzzvYyuXvD1pxlw65j0KF6wrhKfxx0xj8hAX4lPW78HUzb1CmhNfXh8XvY-zhRVMwl7mfFAB85js_y8DTcYMbwSQy3llnMz3udANub-YTJImZm1_4GKIthQ/s400/03.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 268px;" /></a>I know it's not just you, boys. Women are guilty of this too. Maybe we're just not aware of what comes out of our mouth and how it's being received. In our minds, it could sound perfectly nice and logical, but the second it leaves our lips, it gets twisted and tangled before falling on the ears of its receiver. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">So, what about when it's not so clear? What happens when the metaphorical compliment line has become so blurred that it's almost rendered invisible? What happens when a compliment just doesn't come off as sincere as the person intended it to be? Can you ever take an awkward situation like that and make it not-so-awkward? xoxo</span><br /><br />[Photos via <a href="http://www.leloveimage.blogspot.com/">Le Love</a>]

MEMO TO MEN: Double-edge compliments

MEMORANDUM TO: Men all over the planet FROM: Melissa RE: Compliments! Yikes! DATE: April 4, 2012 It should be quite obvious, shouldn't ...

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Question of the Week: Question #19

<em>Have a question? I'd love to hear it, so feel free to email me (mellow1422 [at] aol), friends! Today's question comes to us from a question asked in <a href="http://melissabxoxo.blogspot.com/2011/10/memo-to-men-vulnerability-lesson.html">this post</a>...</em><br /><br /><strong>Do you have any male friends that you have absolutely no interest in physically but that you still love to hang out with? </strong><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxMh_VgfFQpXXEbySXVhzd7zPvv-llcGgsjabNIa9Xlzt-1DWzEpA2EcuXaPGUO15bPnLT5IOQqwqCvdfbSQSQdVnbTDOW91hpojRJ-DjqYNmOIgXdlzHQXz0qIhVu5XzVDQMPNPheDO4/s1600/01.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5727224847915132226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxMh_VgfFQpXXEbySXVhzd7zPvv-llcGgsjabNIa9Xlzt-1DWzEpA2EcuXaPGUO15bPnLT5IOQqwqCvdfbSQSQdVnbTDOW91hpojRJ-DjqYNmOIgXdlzHQXz0qIhVu5XzVDQMPNPheDO4/s400/01.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" /></a>I've mused about <a href="http://melissabxoxo.blogspot.com/2012/01/memo-to-men-girlfriend-vs-girl-friend.html">male-female friendships</a> before, but surprisingly, I've never really given it much thought in relation to myself. Honestly, the more that I think about it, the more I realize that I don't have any male friends. Sure, I've got my solid <a href="http://melissabxoxo.blogspot.com/2012/03/question-of-week-question-17.html">girl group</a>, but I still haven't found the Billy Crystal to my Meg Ryan a la <a href="http://melissabxoxo.blogspot.com/2011/10/love-lounge-what-if-your-life-were.html">When Harry Met Sally</a>.<br /><br />It's not like I've had some sort of traumatic experience in my past that has made me distrustful of guys. It's not like I haven't had positive encounters with them in the past. So is it that I simply can't relate to them? Am I afraid? I'm not all too sure.<br /><br />Actually, you'd think I'd be comfortable with the whole guy-girl dynamic by now thanks to my mom. She met her best friend, Bill, when she was 5 and he was 4. They lived in the same neighborhood and spent their days playing outside and going to each other's houses for summer picnic lunches in the backyard. Fast-forward 50 years, and they're still best friends. They've seen each other through college, through marriage, through that scary first job, through having children. Their relationship has always fascinated me because, well, no romantic feelings ever entered into the pictured for either one of them. Ever. I've asked my mom, "Didn't one of you ever fall for the other," and she always gives me this look -- a mixture of shock and awe -- as if I'd just uttered something so blasphemous that she's been rendered speechless.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwtQXb1wAOO9xlj3c4wV_rRos87nJgRK04js2J4eUIQwIMct8baSDzXvqnHWXqCKX7TzPSlFCpisHWJY1nDzN0uTopKfC9J1bSbvwJSlkGqHX0bwROKrM0LlPHPNwW7RHE3XATopn3Tog/s1600/02.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5727224840688266338" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwtQXb1wAOO9xlj3c4wV_rRos87nJgRK04js2J4eUIQwIMct8baSDzXvqnHWXqCKX7TzPSlFCpisHWJY1nDzN0uTopKfC9J1bSbvwJSlkGqHX0bwROKrM0LlPHPNwW7RHE3XATopn3Tog/s400/02.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" /></a>But their friendship? It worked -- for half a century and counting! So, they must be doing something right. Maybe I should take a cue from them? It would give me great insight into the male mind...<br /><br /><strong>Ladies, I'd love to know: Do you have male friends? What do you like about having them in your life? How did you meet? Do you think it's inevitable that emotions will get in the way, or can men and women really be <em>just friends</em>?</strong><br /><br />[Photos via <a href="http://weheartit.com/">We Heart It</a>]

Question of the Week: Question #19

Have a question? I'd love to hear it, so feel free to email me (mellow1422 [at] aol), friends! Today's question comes to us from a q...

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Barack and Michelle

<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje_mTEHRbg4zcQEzc2_gdmFTA7KpfnN8GfyRz4jxATe4w9lYhMepDH3UXbHE-2oSGnKnCEECUq6tEeXaQl054xahyphenhyphen23TYP8jELzWXZwkVpHaZUBtEQ3bh9OeH4z1BdNLab3X8rDuKyZfw/s1600/01.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5726966679646640562" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje_mTEHRbg4zcQEzc2_gdmFTA7KpfnN8GfyRz4jxATe4w9lYhMepDH3UXbHE-2oSGnKnCEECUq6tEeXaQl054xahyphenhyphen23TYP8jELzWXZwkVpHaZUBtEQ3bh9OeH4z1BdNLab3X8rDuKyZfw/s400/01.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" /></a>It's official: President Obama is on <a href="http://pinterest.com/barackobama/">Pinterest</a>. Here's a <a href="http://pinterest.com/pin/276408495849969543/">sweet photo</a> of the First Couple to make your heart swell just a bit on this Tuesday morning. How adorable are they? I wonder what Barack was whispering into Michelle's ear...<br /><br />P.S. More Obama love, including <a href="http://melissabxoxo.blogspot.com/2009/01/man-candy-monday_19.html">Man Candy</a>, the <a href="http://melissabxoxo.blogspot.com/2009/01/crowds-begin-forming-in-washington-dc.html">2008 election</a> and <a href="http://melissabxoxo.blogspot.com/2012/01/swoon-alert-obama-singing-al-green.html">channeling Al Green</a>.

Barack and Michelle

It's official: President Obama is on Pinterest . Here's a sweet photo of the First Couple to make your heart swell just a bit on th...

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Sponsor Spotlight: Meant For A Moment

<em>I love the idea behind Tara's shop, <a href="http://www.etsy.com/shop/Meant4amoment">Meant For A Moment</a>: Each item is designed for a single moment in time. Read on for the inside scoop on her inspirations and how she found the courage to follow her dreams...</em><br /><br /><strong>Keep in touch...</strong><br />Official Web site: <a href="http://www.etsy.com/shop/Meant4amoment">Meant For A Moment</a><br />Become a fan on <a href="https://www.facebook.com/meant4amoment">Facebook</a><br />Follow on <a href="http://twitter.com/#!/meant4amoment">Twitter</a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm8jn7XxjJtfpV8UnNiokvXHmbXkEXNnNnjzAk2jFa1VwNuKiSYepFndQpnErPtoZCAjKe8OaxBdoojZnOxnDKYpq6yDjGcQJrw6XOs0G2hPc-NHU8mO6cAE12ruO0_oeJ2-N_S1qYU80/s1600/01.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5725329039408935202" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm8jn7XxjJtfpV8UnNiokvXHmbXkEXNnNnjzAk2jFa1VwNuKiSYepFndQpnErPtoZCAjKe8OaxBdoojZnOxnDKYpq6yDjGcQJrw6XOs0G2hPc-NHU8mO6cAE12ruO0_oeJ2-N_S1qYU80/s400/01.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 53px;" /></a><strong>So tell me a bit about you and your shop.</strong><br />My <a href="http://www.etsy.com/shop/Meant4amoment">Meant For A Moment</a> shop is filled with illustrated prints, stationery and custom illustration options that really are meant for a moment. None of my designs are created specifically for any occasion. Each one is created as a sentiment you would see or read and think, "<em>Oh, that is so Susan right now</em>," hence the name, Meant for a Moment. It is most important to me to be unique. All of my designs are hand-drawn or painted by me. My Etsy shop features all of my uniquely illustrated designs, recognized for their whimsical nature and loving sentiments. In my shop, you can purchase custom illustrations, M4aM stationery and illustrated prints. <br /> <br /><strong>What inspired you to start the shop?</strong><br />I was working a really tedious 9-5 job as a graphic designer, and I was yearning for more creativity in my life. Sitting inside the walls of my cubicle was cramping my style, and I didn't feel like I had that <em>glow</em> any more. Illustrating always gave me a glow of confidence, and I had lost it in the mix of my 9-5 job. So I made a deal with myself, 'to be remarkable.' And that's how it all began. On my lunch breaks, I would sketch greeting card designs and write clever, quirky little sentiments all over anything I could find. My mind became consumed with the creations of this card line, "Meant For A Moment." Everything I saw turned into a future card. Friends would catch me saying, "<em>Oh, that would be a great greeting card!</em>" all the time. It was really a fun time. As word spread about my illustrative pursuit, I began to receive inquires about custom illustrations. Soon, I had enough inertia, energy and courage to follow my dream. I left my 9-5 job and created my company, "Meant for a Moment Designs." I opened my Etsy store a few months after I had all my ducks in a row, and it has been a glowing adventure ever since. <br /><br /><strong>In this recession economy, what are some ways people can still look chic for less?</strong><br />I have been hooked on <a href="http://www.pinterest.com">Pinterest</a>, and I have found some amazing hair tutorials that are out of this world. With a combo of great nails and hair, you can have your sloppiest fashion mishap ever, but people will notice your pretty hands and styled hair and know that under it all you really have it 'going on'! <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuo_xNOLq_HSUSR5P2GReWhFEHH-seI8f1ktGKSL5BE0gngXHQbWFThtfFuvIfbiqOzpRyl9eTTwImT_8WkhgTkT4zKrsfz0IY8buhMDZf8AsDZYo51nPRtLRBaR2b9hU88nVADrNpOd4/s1600/02.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5725329018621642114" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuo_xNOLq_HSUSR5P2GReWhFEHH-seI8f1ktGKSL5BE0gngXHQbWFThtfFuvIfbiqOzpRyl9eTTwImT_8WkhgTkT4zKrsfz0IY8buhMDZf8AsDZYo51nPRtLRBaR2b9hU88nVADrNpOd4/s400/02.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" /></a> <br /><strong>What is your favorite item in your shop and why?</strong>Most of my greetings and prints are inspired by someone in my life. my dad says it's like reading my diary; I laugh because he is kind of right. I really love the <a href="http://www.etsy.com/listing/38329863/hold-your-hand-illustrated-print">Hold Your Hand</a> print that reads "<span style="font-style:italic;">It's not going to be easy she said, but if you promise to never let go of my hand I think I could hold onto yours forever</span>" I was falling madly in love when I created this print, and it is actually a drawing of my fiance, Dave, and I -- we're in the midst of planning our wedding for July. It was a super amazing time for me to feel so in love with someone so fast. I actually gave him the print for our first Christmas together, and it is hanging in our bedroom now.

Sponsor Spotlight: Meant For A Moment

I love the idea behind Tara's shop, Meant For A Moment : Each item is designed for a single moment in time. Read on for the inside scoop...

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Letters To My Future Husband: Letter #153.

Dear Mr. Melissa Blake:<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTVbJUYOhWR5J1RyZ3pTDESL0csrfBTwn_uH86XbqqDzc5Fk-fOkLEdKKqzdOm7EqVGJJWPzPG59U_Ej6vLaswmGg1_Z7AAQ6WZ2OOp9tLWp0VQN9WtEDkVnEStnYW3tLNwU6l6-3C_hw/s1600/01.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724981835690195090" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTVbJUYOhWR5J1RyZ3pTDESL0csrfBTwn_uH86XbqqDzc5Fk-fOkLEdKKqzdOm7EqVGJJWPzPG59U_Ej6vLaswmGg1_Z7AAQ6WZ2OOp9tLWp0VQN9WtEDkVnEStnYW3tLNwU6l6-3C_hw/s400/01.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 265px;" /></a>A reader posed a rather interesting question a few weeks ago...<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">How long are you going to write these letters?</span><br /><br />Hmmm, I didn't know exactly how to respond. Maybe that's because, really, I've never given the question much thought. But I suppose it's one to think about. How long will I write to you? Another month? Another 6 months? Another year? Until we meet? Until we get married? I'm not sure. Usually, I cringe at the thought of uncertainty (<span style="font-style:italic;">as you'll learn, Sweetpea</span>), but I'm OK with this unknown, at least for now. I'm not in any big rush to hurry up and finish writing these letters because writing them, actually, is half the fun. When I think back over all the letters (<span style="font-style:italic;">and there have been a lot, Sweetpea</span>), I've honestly learned just as much about myself as I've learned about what I want for us and imagined what our life will be like together. Who says that has to end? Seems to me you can't ever really put a time table on that, can you?<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYo5ZdkTzUtY600QhJoDVur81GImGyA85wvJXq-LYUPZ9QMfTlA9nKm6j5TeQjQfroxj9CKltWxLH63vWKIH5M1qpX__kSLC59mOUREfjgR0sfT5dlAc9qhTrRZIf-QBoQDd0l7tjMOIg/s1600/02.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724981833490257538" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYo5ZdkTzUtY600QhJoDVur81GImGyA85wvJXq-LYUPZ9QMfTlA9nKm6j5TeQjQfroxj9CKltWxLH63vWKIH5M1qpX__kSLC59mOUREfjgR0sfT5dlAc9qhTrRZIf-QBoQDd0l7tjMOIg/s400/02.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 274px;" /></a>Truthfully, maybe these letters don't have a definitive ending. Maybe it''s impossible to draw some neat little line and be able to say, "Yes, the story contained in these letters in complete." Because like these letters, life is never really complete. Our life story, I mean. I know, I know. There <span style="font-style:italic;">is</span> a literal ending when we die, of course, but what about the time leading up to that? When can we say, without a doubt that, "Yes, I've made it. This is exactly where I'm supposed to be"?<br /><br />Some say this whole life business is a linear process. I'm not so sure I agree. Because sometimes, we will regress. I know I have. Sometimes, we will jump ahead one step too many and get ahead of ourselves. I know I have. And probably more than once, we'll fight it every step of the way. Sometimes it's the scariest things in life that give us those special moments to reflect upon later in life, when we're old and gray and sitting on our front porch sipping our lemonade and chuckling at the crazy stuff we did as a bumbling youth - like the time I refused to eat lunch in the car in Arkansas on a 95-degree day out of principle. "Keep driving," I told my mother. Needless to say, I was near dehydration by the time we arrived at the hotel three hours later. Another lesson learned, I guess. What? I've never told you that story? Oh, just you wait, Sweetpea.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4IF_nJ3ZCPKkLwa0ewCqnZ2gzV-jBy-kNPuEU00BvuTotw7KSBH3Dg5cWv2VRGlF1eVUvwql2cwNPoT7Oij4HQJuPNpNC52UGcwh2Y4GlQ9YN5gLvXcv0i2OFqL7Jgym1vlQkx1jXe3Q/s1600/03.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724981830153561794" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4IF_nJ3ZCPKkLwa0ewCqnZ2gzV-jBy-kNPuEU00BvuTotw7KSBH3Dg5cWv2VRGlF1eVUvwql2cwNPoT7Oij4HQJuPNpNC52UGcwh2Y4GlQ9YN5gLvXcv0i2OFqL7Jgym1vlQkx1jXe3Q/s400/03.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" /></a>Searching. Exploring. Laughing. Crying. I suppose that's the transformative journey these letters have taken me on. And I don't intend to get off the ride any time soon, Sweetpea. Until we meet... xoxo<br /><br />[Photos via <a href="http://www.leloveimage.blogspot.com/">Le Love</a>

Letters To My Future Husband: Letter #153.

Dear Mr. Melissa Blake: A reader posed a rather interesting question a few weeks ago... How long are you going to write these letters? Hmmm,...

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MEMO TO MEN: The value of honesty

MEMORANDUM<br />TO: Men all over the planet<br />FROM: Melissa<br />RE: The honest truth <br />DATE: March 27, 2012<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkoPu6_tenmmdOhAjgOaOZkYCcP3BFJo8psr5ekOZ8ZghOzSIiLqzTTJawzmaUyplO3jTPGL-K3-odMsqgihm_Sz7QC7zibFfyqDVA16sBhy8tScs16StrgLh0QoBB9ch1BguV-WL2hIs/s1600/aa2.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724667005965993858" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkoPu6_tenmmdOhAjgOaOZkYCcP3BFJo8psr5ekOZ8ZghOzSIiLqzTTJawzmaUyplO3jTPGL-K3-odMsqgihm_Sz7QC7zibFfyqDVA16sBhy8tScs16StrgLh0QoBB9ch1BguV-WL2hIs/s400/aa2.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 400px;" /></a>Boys, every so often when I'm watching TV, someone will say something that just resonates pure truth to me. Take a recent episode of <a href="http://beta.abc.go.com/shows/revenge">Revenge</a>, for example, in which <a href="http://melissabxoxo.blogspot.com/2011/12/man-candy-monday_26.html">this guy</a> utters these words...<br /><br /><em>Whether we're together for a day, a week, a year, 10 years or forever, I'll always be honest with you</em>.<br /><br />Oh, honesty. That little word. It's a pesky little word, isn't it, boys? And yet, it holds so much weight in relationships -- both romantic and platonic. Maybe that's why, then, it's always surprised me when I see basic honesty ranking pretty low on some people's priority list; sometimes, it seems like honesty isn't even valued at all, instead, merely cast aside as if it were yesterday's trend. Dishonesty. It's almost become one of those nasty habits. Sure, it starts out small. Maybe you tell little white lies about what you did with your friends last night. But before you know it, lies are rolling off your tongue so fast and easy that even you're beginning to believe them. It's a scary thought, isn't it? It would be so easy to fall in one fell swoop and fall down the rabbit hole of your lies.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7D8lw4ogmo4-2kkGWNvhH1cleIDaJfqyPmkeQD0wE2XBifLsHYx5HmFhGchlmHGJFfdGwhIEUCn6hjtwEeAgGVtSutEoFVg5UQThsu_THHRrxKzMrfNLvVY_XnXPj7EIsc7CpLwbDcR8/s1600/aa.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5724667004882579906" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7D8lw4ogmo4-2kkGWNvhH1cleIDaJfqyPmkeQD0wE2XBifLsHYx5HmFhGchlmHGJFfdGwhIEUCn6hjtwEeAgGVtSutEoFVg5UQThsu_THHRrxKzMrfNLvVY_XnXPj7EIsc7CpLwbDcR8/s400/aa.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 265px;" /></a>And by being honest, I'm not just talking about honesty when it's convenient for you, boys. I'm talking about full-blown, would-never-dream-of-lying honesty. There's comfort in knowing that at least one person in the world will always be honest with you, isn't there? It makes you feel as though you have someone to walk beside you in this crazy world, where everything can feel so uncertain at time. This can make all the difference in the world. I can guarantee that I will always be honest with you, boys. No matter what. Of all the ingredients for a healthy relationship, honesty takes the cake for me.<br /><br />Because honesty, boys, comes down to a matter of respect. Respect for the other person. Respect for the relationship. And of course, respect for yourself. It means that you value yourself and the other person to <em>want</em> to make things work, to try your best and see where this relationship will take you. And that's the honest truth, boys. What do you think...? xoxo<br /><br />[Photos via <a href="http://www.leloveimage.blogspot.com/">Le Love</a>]

MEMO TO MEN: The value of honesty

MEMORANDUM TO: Men all over the planet FROM: Melissa RE: The honest truth DATE: March 27, 2012 Boys, every so often when I'm watching TV...

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Love Lounge: Did you have a quarter-life crisis?

<div align="center"> </div><a href="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7084/6871697730_314b1fc5d1.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7084/6871697730_314b1fc5d1.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 481px;" /></a>Did you have a quarter-life crisis, friends? I was reminded of my own little mid-'20s, post-college, what-the-heck-am-I-doing? meltdown when I discovered Lizzy Stewart's <a href="http://lizzystewartdiary.tumblr.com/">illustrations</a>. Her sentiments are spot-on -- all that wondering where your life is going, wondering why things aren't magically falling into place after graduation and seeing your late '20s looming on the horizon.<br /><div align="center"> </div><a href="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7244/6871710382_c680857261_z.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7244/6871710382_c680857261_z.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 510px;" /></a><div align="center"> </div><a href="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7110/7017824963_98760940c7.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7110/7017824963_98760940c7.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 488px;" /></a><div align="center"> </div><a href="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7119/6871728656_36ca955e00_b.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7119/6871728656_36ca955e00_b.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 735px;" /></a>It happened to me a few years after I graduated from college. It was one of those moments that sticks in your head like a movie you know you'll never forget. I was shopping, and as I was checking out, the cashier said, "<em>Thank you, ma''am.</em>"<br /><br /><em>Ma'am</em>.<br /><br />What happened after that is sort of a blur. I probably just mumbled a thank you in return and got out of there as fast as I could. When did I become a ma'am? How did I go from a youthful young lady to a ma'am, I thought? -- a term reserved for, well, lack of a better word, not me. Ma'ams were the sort of women you'd see playing afternoon Bingo and telling "<em>In my day</em>" stories. The fact was that I didn't feel like an adult. At all. So when had I become one? Somewhere along the way, I got to thinking that once I got that coveted college degree in my hands, everything would fall into place as if the stars were aligned just for me. I'd have everything figured out. <br /><br />The real truth? I was actually left more confused. Who was I? What did I want in life? Where was I going? For the first time since kindergarten, my "life canvas" was blank. It was time for <span style="font-style:italic;">me</span> to forge my own path, for <span style="font-style:italic;">me</span> to make my own to-do list and for <span style="font-style:italic;">me</span> to paint that canvas. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Did you feel like this when you were 25, friends? Do you know anyone who went through this? What has helped you deal with those growing pains the most? If you're not 25 yet, do you think you'll grapple with these issues when you hit the milestone birthday? xoxo</span>

Love Lounge: Did you have a quarter-life crisis?

Did you have a quarter-life crisis, friends? I was reminded of my own little mid-'20s, post-college, what-the-heck-am-I-doing? meltdown...

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Question of the Week: Question #17

<em>We've talked about <a href="http://melissabxoxo.blogspot.com/2011/11/would-you-rather-have-large-circle-of.html">friendship</a> before, friends, but today, I'd love to get a little more personal on the subject. Several of you have asked about my social life, so I hope you enjoy this <a href="http://melissabxoxo.blogspot.com/search/label/Newspaper%20Columns">newspaper column</a> on my nearest and dearest friends. And as always, got a question? I'd love to hear from you, so feel free to email me (mellow1422 [at] aol)!</em><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv2HhsYlu5eNh12NIEsNUsLSNeMn0Q0IzT_KDgyVGKLgroD2eiCUpXP8r8eDZet8Nho5aJnvJqDHY7SCpCUJQs0Uv2bYTitGF19LVLABAnUvld7993YQiWFpxSfmZDjpf3e6GaJcpwkoI/s1600/aa.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5722042030839315954" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv2HhsYlu5eNh12NIEsNUsLSNeMn0Q0IzT_KDgyVGKLgroD2eiCUpXP8r8eDZet8Nho5aJnvJqDHY7SCpCUJQs0Uv2bYTitGF19LVLABAnUvld7993YQiWFpxSfmZDjpf3e6GaJcpwkoI/s400/aa.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" /></a>I’ve never in my life been a social butterfly. I tend to fly in the peripheral unlike one of my oldest friends, Amanda. She can walk into a room and instantly draw the spotlight to herself. She’s friendly without being overbearing, funny without being over-the-top and yet still sensitive without being patronizing. She’s my authentic, genuine friend. What you see is what you get with Amanda. Every time. <br /><br />Leave it to our friends never to disappear, to always be there, even if <em>there</em> is a park bench or a penthouse at the Four Seasons – or maybe even if <em>there</em> is a conversation over instant message or email. <br /><br />With a little help from our friends, we can achieve big things. But are some friends just naturally equipped to brave the world with you in different situations? <br /><br />Lucky for me, I have a Rolodex of buddies. It didn’t take me long to mentally fortify my legion for life’s battles, big and small.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOw4GSfvdlY46vCqxlwaGxqnNdS9tQjmEme8srGajdiqtzkI-1ynoI3nzzbS-ubvyIOb0qPtfPd4s-pfO3mYqrNvjz0pteFVFT5qsBwp__P13hOV13_fBKTjIE35jBFGKmpLaXOW53Pqc/s1600/aa2.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5722042033863815842" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOw4GSfvdlY46vCqxlwaGxqnNdS9tQjmEme8srGajdiqtzkI-1ynoI3nzzbS-ubvyIOb0qPtfPd4s-pfO3mYqrNvjz0pteFVFT5qsBwp__P13hOV13_fBKTjIE35jBFGKmpLaXOW53Pqc/s400/aa2.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 271px;" /></a><strong>The Forever (“I knew you when….”) Friend</strong><br />Brandy’s been my partner in crime for 21 years. We grew up best friends, but felt like sisters. She saw me through the little things like the time she sat at my bedside and played hours of Monopoly with me after a surgery, feeling unglamorous and nervous about starting high school in two weeks. She also saw me through the big things like the month after my father died when she stayed at my house, a time when the only thing that made me smile was seeing her sprint around in the mornings wearing her olive-green alligator slippers. She indulges me in my quirks (<em>I’ve worn the same mint-green sweater for 10 years</em>) and I overlook her eccentricities (<em>she refuses to leave voicemail messages</em>). But it all works for us. <br /><br /><strong>The “Where we left off” Friend</strong><br />Something tells me it was fate that brought Sam into my life. She was a cute 4-year-old when she knocked on our apartment door and asked my mom if she could help take care of me. I was still a baby at the time, and my mother had just broken her leg. Little did we know Sam would become like family to us. Our lives have taken a heap-load of twists and turns, but when we get together, all the puzzle pieces just naturally fall into place again. We still have that connection. It feels as if we’d never left each other, but instead just picked up right where we left off. And now, she has two beautiful daughter of her own.<br /><br /><strong>The Uplifting Friend</strong><br />My friend Jalyn is, hands down, the most genuine, caring person I know. She’s the one who never misses a birthday (<em>especially her own</em>). She’s the one who, five years after my father’s death, isn’t afraid to say she misses him. She’s the one who never shies away from a hug. In a world of pent-up, isolated people, Jalyn is the ray of sunshine in my sometimes-cloudy life. She's always ready with a smile and a deck of Elvis playing cards for a mean game of War. But instead of the game ending in competitive bitterness, it never fails to end in laughter and plenty of smiles. <br /><br /><strong>The Talk-Late-Into-The-Night/Over-Breakfast Friend</strong><br />Another one of my oldest friends, Claire, has a knack for making me spill my guts when the sun goes down. I can tell her things I could never admit to anyone else, and she instinctively <em>gets it</em>. It doesn’t hurt that we have the same wacky, Seinfeldish sense of humor or the fact that our families eerily mirror each other. We can talk for hours, about everything from our secret dreams of becoming a detective duo to analyzing (<em>and overanalyzing</em>) our interactions with crazy boys. I really should thank Claire for the free therapy! Or she should at least start charging me an hourly fee!<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZuAyddjU0AScRiFs701uBju-GXaTBilJMPJXWo8skJqvyqjWXCg6M0MRN2-wRFwbcNeINhZ_JkR1pQGuggjhVxsAbipK3ghGnYgLB68Md3VD5dZeG4a_pTy6i8gDS09VCovRKnLsLYwg/s1600/aa3.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5722042029095039058" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZuAyddjU0AScRiFs701uBju-GXaTBilJMPJXWo8skJqvyqjWXCg6M0MRN2-wRFwbcNeINhZ_JkR1pQGuggjhVxsAbipK3ghGnYgLB68Md3VD5dZeG4a_pTy6i8gDS09VCovRKnLsLYwg/s400/aa3.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 400px;" /></a><strong>Your friends are always out there, waiting for that phone call or email or text. Who’s on your Dream Team? I’d love to hear about them!</strong><br /><br />[Photos via <a href="http://audreyhepburncomplex.tumblr.com/">Audrey Hepburn Complex</a>]

Question of the Week: Question #17

We've talked about friendship before, friends, but today, I'd love to get a little more personal on the subject. Several of you hav...

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Letters To My Future Husband: Letter #152.

Dear Mr. Melissa Blake:<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNOmW7eOdZyPaThORiEooxYIyAEi_gNXV3XXk4M4Lb6G7MevZDl3BrsWnwku46axxnqOCamkxOqMZ9ACB3LeV8eC46F1s7_Kde9RJ7uZ5JbAXFL7oIG1qC83OsbXc9egcaSlpkFlLQn1E/s1600/03.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5717575123857967426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNOmW7eOdZyPaThORiEooxYIyAEi_gNXV3XXk4M4Lb6G7MevZDl3BrsWnwku46axxnqOCamkxOqMZ9ACB3LeV8eC46F1s7_Kde9RJ7uZ5JbAXFL7oIG1qC83OsbXc9egcaSlpkFlLQn1E/s400/03.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 218px;" /></a>Last week, I had a dream about my father, Sweetpea. It was the first dream I'd had about him in a long time, and it was one of those vivid, feels-like-it's-real-life dreams. We all knew my father was going to die (<span style="font-style:italic;">still by suicide</span>), but there was nothing we could do to stop it. So we all -- family and friends -- were left to say goodbye to him, knowing we were absolutely helpless. Talk about dreams having <a href="http://melissabxoxo.blogspot.com/2012/02/question-of-week-question-13.html">deeper meaning</a>, huh?<br /><br />How many years has it been since my father died? The questions sounds strange, I know, but I wonder how long he'll have been gone by the time we meet. Does it seem like a long time to me? Well, this Saturday marks nine year's since his death. <span style="font-style:italic;">Nine years</span>. When he died I was 21. Now I'm 30. When he died, I was a junior in college. Now I'm a newspaper adviser. Heck, when he died, the world had yet to be introduced to Snooki -- or her burgeoning baby bump. Am I still the same person I was back then? How much have I changed, if I've changed at all? <br /><br />Truth be told, I still have flashbacks to that day sometimes. Even now, nearly a decade later, it will all just come over me and overwhelm me like a whooshing waterfall running over me. My mom, not wanting me to see the paramedics take my father out of our house, made sure I stayed in the bedroom. But even now, as weird as it may sound, I'm still sharply and abruptly taken aback by everything now and then. Sometimes, everything that's happened just hits me, and I can't help but think to myself, "<span style="font-style:italic;">How did this ever happen? How did we ever get here?</span>"<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvXGruIyZM-1kpK6ZZ-Q1hVeJoOTRNG01xCAQUVY6r-vH5KnhpLI_BtP_qS5RFXWhjduM0HDvLXEx9O73BQbGDPQjMl0_ttJEc-bvy515YGbzX9N1X6BVtKkMXAsI0oNtZXe_FSUyhI4M/s1600/02.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5717575130913063010" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvXGruIyZM-1kpK6ZZ-Q1hVeJoOTRNG01xCAQUVY6r-vH5KnhpLI_BtP_qS5RFXWhjduM0HDvLXEx9O73BQbGDPQjMl0_ttJEc-bvy515YGbzX9N1X6BVtKkMXAsI0oNtZXe_FSUyhI4M/s400/02.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 366px;" /></a>Because, really, it all just blows my mind. My father will always be 51, but we've all aged. We've lived and aged and had all these experiences, but it's like he'll be frozen in time forever. I can't wrap my head around it<br /><br />And you and him? I wonder about him meeting you and what that would have been like. In case you haven't figured it out yet, Sweetpea, I wore a pretty big Daddy's Girl sash, so watching you two shake hands for the first time would probably have been an equally big deal. And of course, after you left, we probably would have had a long father-daughter talk about you. I can just imagine my father and I talking about you, him giving me all sorts of advice and words of fatherly wisdom about love and marriage -- did I mention my father was never shy about expressing his feelings, Sweetpea?<br /><br />A girl in my office recently got engaged, and she said her fiance went to her father before the proposal to get his blessing. Would you have done that? What would my father have said? I can see you doing something like that, trying to work up the courage to approach my father; maybe you even had a speech prepared. And maybe my dad, in his classic over-protective nature, gave you a speech about the importance of marriage and how you have to treasure and take care of one another. Maybe you even walked away from the conversation a bit scared of him, but deep down, you knew he liked you.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPDahHNifU3Yb4yP0vuSfAaPQ-0AcC9OJdh143RYoIJjFlUuKrtkj0Gty_uT8VaBonLOg4mUU_aHiHKRHcOBQqfZFvOVgIhDsAkrssMPbQMhbxLoAZFn7fxNTXoVrWge6lbQ5aT6mii-0/s1600/01.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5717575133404525154" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPDahHNifU3Yb4yP0vuSfAaPQ-0AcC9OJdh143RYoIJjFlUuKrtkj0Gty_uT8VaBonLOg4mUU_aHiHKRHcOBQqfZFvOVgIhDsAkrssMPbQMhbxLoAZFn7fxNTXoVrWge6lbQ5aT6mii-0/s400/01.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 383px;" /></a>But what I'm really, really realizing this year: He's gone. There's so much I'd want to say to him if I got the chance and yet, I'm not even sure if I'd be able to. I'd want to scream and yell and tell him just how angry I am that he just chose to leave and how we didn't have a chance to say goodbye. But when it's all said and done, I'd probably just jump into his arms and tell him how much I love him. Something tells me my anger wouldn't seem so important in that moment. In that moment, I'd probably just tell him how much I've missed him. Until we meet... xoxo<br /><br />[Photos via <a href="http://weheartit.com/">We Heart It</a>]

Letters To My Future Husband: Letter #152.

Dear Mr. Melissa Blake: Last week, I had a dream about my father, Sweetpea. It was the first dream I'd had about him in a long time, and...

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Love Lounge: What's your secret to confidence?

<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimUVJ76RXKipQ_tT2-0_zUNakVDuIkN4mwJskdN3xsGfADmXcOeGKNGOjH3dW-92NXyf1irZV-yTTISDyCYcfr0B_TEk0xPjJVyPwCBp6Ns_xMsJqkz8atJRnq00OkE9MK4SNdhAfpfvc/s1600/01.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5717201602473185362" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimUVJ76RXKipQ_tT2-0_zUNakVDuIkN4mwJskdN3xsGfADmXcOeGKNGOjH3dW-92NXyf1irZV-yTTISDyCYcfr0B_TEk0xPjJVyPwCBp6Ns_xMsJqkz8atJRnq00OkE9MK4SNdhAfpfvc/s400/01.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" /></a>I'm never shy about telling people I think I'm beautiful. I'm never shy about telling people I'm going to be a star one day (I even practice my autograph from time to time, but that's probably more than you ever needed to know). And of course, I'm not at all shy about telling people that I know what's right for them. All the time.<br /><br />Yet the scary truth: Sometimes, I don't know if I believe those statements.<br /><br />They say a confident, bold outer you will produce a glowing, radiant inner you. I've been thinking a lot about that lately. Some people, like my father, for instance, are confident. And that confidence is genuine. You can just tell by the way they walk, talk and generally carry themselves. It really is a sight to behold, actually. It's not arrogance, the things they say about themselves; it's just a quiet, ever-humble assertion that they are content and happy with who they are and where they are in life.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd2u5s6idgx3i7VO_ysr5b3lsr_ZWYkIeDPSCLDVFDitAQdt_z1E9UGuJDMggpGckcbEM6CacgbqZ_RboaQSySQ0TrO1dgsNYBTokYldOiFlolPAyq02O7adgdkU-2YOjnodK0uPGbnd0/s1600/01.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5717205742410556322" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd2u5s6idgx3i7VO_ysr5b3lsr_ZWYkIeDPSCLDVFDitAQdt_z1E9UGuJDMggpGckcbEM6CacgbqZ_RboaQSySQ0TrO1dgsNYBTokYldOiFlolPAyq02O7adgdkU-2YOjnodK0uPGbnd0/s400/01.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" /></a>Confidence can be a tricky thing, can't it? As easy as it can be to get it, it can just as easy blow away like the wind. And sometimes, we can feel ourselves getting scared that it will never come back. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">So maybe we should just all stop looking for that key of confidence. Let it come to us naturally, in its own time and in its own special form? What do you think, friends? What are you secrets to killer confidence? What do you do when you need a dose of I Am Awesome? xoxo</span><br /><br />[Photos via <a href="http://www.leloveimage.blogspot.com/">Le Love</a>]

Love Lounge: What's your secret to confidence?

I'm never shy about telling people I think I'm beautiful. I'm never shy about telling people I'm going to be a star one day ...

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Love letter from Johnny Cash

<div align="center"> </div><a href="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7059/6959101719_10d3a9b862_z.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7059/6959101719_10d3a9b862_z.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 574px;" /></a><a href="http://melissabxoxo.blogspot.com/2011/06/man-candy-monday_20.html">Johnny Cash</a> and June Carter Cash had one of those love affairs for the ages, didn't they? The kind that make you think, "I want a love like <em>that</em>." After they both died in 2003 (<em>just four months apart!</em>), their only son, John Carter Cash, began sifting through photos, letters and other family treasures from his pack-rat parents. The collection became <a href="http://www.amazon.com/House-Cash-Legacies-Father-Johnny/dp/1608870286/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1315348168&sr=8-1">House of Cash</a>, a family scrapbook of memories. My favorite find? The above letter, written by Johnny to June, which reads...<br /><br /><em>Hey June,<br /> <br />That's really nice June. You've got a way with words and a way with me as well. The fire and excitement may be gone now that we don't go out there and sing them anymore, but the ring of fire still burns around you and I, keeping our love hotter than a pepper sprout.<br /> <br />Love John</em><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn0Af5RLNqItGNKXnuUNuULc1s4iqLEUnWEe4UxP3Y4eXbsB5F6GQIWfD8BrIq_OlKkGbU6EoHKS7MnQT_gHLFz_9zsMCoskazKrmKwyKDGcfiEOFeVvg0BzQhnfVDDrw4ekWoZH51hcU/s1600/aa2.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5716807095855455906" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn0Af5RLNqItGNKXnuUNuULc1s4iqLEUnWEe4UxP3Y4eXbsB5F6GQIWfD8BrIq_OlKkGbU6EoHKS7MnQT_gHLFz_9zsMCoskazKrmKwyKDGcfiEOFeVvg0BzQhnfVDDrw4ekWoZH51hcU/s400/aa2.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" /></a>"<em>Dad never ceased to remind my mother of his love for her</em>," says John Carter. How romantic is that? I picture them somewhere together right now singing to each other, don't you? xoxo<br /><br />[Via <a href="http://tmagazine.blogs.nytimes.com/tag/house-of-cash/">New York Times magazine</a>]

Love letter from Johnny Cash

Johnny Cash and June Carter Cash had one of those love affairs for the ages, didn't they? The kind that make you think, "I want a...

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MEMO TO MEN: The beauty of pain

MEMORANDUM<br />TO: Men all over the planet<br />FROM: Melissa<br />RE: Take off your beauty mask <br />DATE: March 5, 2012<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBuJvM_xcavHUH7RRaCwSzE7qBctBAy8SNST5FjhEW1DmBobqwVw_mY5bQiQ5dmnrTL93-Yi1rKuLF1PEEAGoU0PWUopNrOAS_VsCJk2uT81WXkLqAPdn2YnjrfY5rNjnK24V4xRhyfT8/s1600/01.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5716459853377512530" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBuJvM_xcavHUH7RRaCwSzE7qBctBAy8SNST5FjhEW1DmBobqwVw_mY5bQiQ5dmnrTL93-Yi1rKuLF1PEEAGoU0PWUopNrOAS_VsCJk2uT81WXkLqAPdn2YnjrfY5rNjnK24V4xRhyfT8/s400/01.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" /></a><span style="font-style:italic;">"Behind every beautiful thing, there's been some kind of pain."</span><br /><br />That's a quote from a Bob Dylan song, boys. Now, don't get me started on how much I can't stand that harmonica-swinging, folksy singer, but that quote? Well, I love it. It's pretty perfect, in fact. And it's something that's been on my mind lately. We can so easily become consumed with just looking <span style="font-style:italic;">at</span> that person that we stop taking the time to look -- really look -- at what's <span style="font-style:italic;">inside</span> of the person standing right in front of us. Not literally inside, of course -- more like taking a closer look beyond the surface. Because I can guarantee you one thing, boys: This is where the story is. The real story, anyway, and when you think about it, the only story that really matters.<br /><br />We're so quick to quiver at the mere mention of the word pain, as if its simple utterance alone has the power to hurt us. We run from it. We hide from it. We do everything in our power to escape from its mighty clutches. But we can't ever escape it -- at least not fully, anyway. And the more we rail against it and the more we shun the pain of others, the uglier we let it become. Take it from me, boys, we earn pain by living. No one who has ever lived has ever been able to go through life unscathed. It's just impossible. <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_Fuli2kZketDx86mMD7aY3KcGBgaL0ztRZfbqNfnL6_jItBPMboJJbOGEXCQ_YTwRiisHqcNyyVtaNDh-PxwQL4t7NDKpFiWgp6_5Iv6USiE54EOIo9wgI3W07sOPZ5g9C4Hiw2sZKJ0/s1600/02.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5716459856040631746" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_Fuli2kZketDx86mMD7aY3KcGBgaL0ztRZfbqNfnL6_jItBPMboJJbOGEXCQ_YTwRiisHqcNyyVtaNDh-PxwQL4t7NDKpFiWgp6_5Iv6USiE54EOIo9wgI3W07sOPZ5g9C4Hiw2sZKJ0/s400/02.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 253px;" /></a>It's sort of like baring our soul to another person, I suppose, this whole pain thing. We're scared, sure, but we trust that the other person isn't as scared as we are. We hope that the other person will want to get to know the pain behind our beauty. Because, really, just like all those wonderful experiences we've had, the not-so-wonderful experiences have their place in our heart too. We'd never want to relive them, of course, but they're a part of us. They've shaped us into the person we've become. Denying that -- or worse, not even acknowledging it -- is the same as not accepting the other person for who they are.<br /><br />All too often, we let ourselves get scared by the littlest imperfections. At the end of the night, when the other person's beauty mask comes off, aren't we just the slightest bit curious to see what lies underneath? I've always thought it was our bruises, not our beauty marks, that made us beautiful. Something tells me I'll always see love that way. Life isn't perfect. But it can be beautiful. Are you in, boys? xoxo<br /><br />[Photos via <a href="http://weheartit.com/">We Heart It</a>]

MEMO TO MEN: The beauty of pain

MEMORANDUM TO: Men all over the planet FROM: Melissa RE: Take off your beauty mask DATE: March 5, 2012 "Behind every beautiful thing, t...

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Would You Rather: Be liked or be respected?

<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr6waT9yri1oLtiVn9k91JKl2XvQBz7g5J3KH50owiVL4mwgVG5jV42ZfAMGbKnuflWJyPRotaqxs0ow2nMlDso1f68COnKe0bOKhlhWMQ45U4E0m3d6CwVq5SW-wDMAXe0Jh5RFYhEe4/s1600/01.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5715038141646897538" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr6waT9yri1oLtiVn9k91JKl2XvQBz7g5J3KH50owiVL4mwgVG5jV42ZfAMGbKnuflWJyPRotaqxs0ow2nMlDso1f68COnKe0bOKhlhWMQ45U4E0m3d6CwVq5SW-wDMAXe0Jh5RFYhEe4/s400/01.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" /></a>For today's head-scratching, nail-bitter, let's talk about respect. We've discussed the topic before as it <a href="http://melissabxoxo.blogspot.com/2011/10/memo-to-men-little-thing-called-r-e-s-p.html">relates to guys</a>, but I wonder: Is it better to be well-liked or well-respected in this world? Are they the same thing? <br /><br />For me, I'd much rather be liked. Because when you think about it, isn't being liked the foundation of respect? As corny as it sounds, I can't help but think that respect sort of blossoms like a spring flower -- each petal a different part that makes up the whole. Being liked is most definitely one of those parts. Does that make sense, friends?<br /><br /><strong>So I'd love to know: Where do you stand? Would you be happier being liked or respected? Are they mutually exclusive? Can you have one without the other? Are there certain aspects of life in which you'd prefer one over the other? xoxo</strong><br /><br />[Photo via <a href="http://www.weheartit.com">We Heart It</a>]

Would You Rather: Be liked or be respected?

For today's head-scratching, nail-bitter, let's talk about respect. We've discussed the topic before as it relates to guys , but...

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