On making friends with technology

Note: I found this old column I wrote way back in the day when I toiled away as a newspaper columnist. I couldn’t resist sharing it, if only to demonstrate just how far I’ve come. Suffice it to say, technology and I are totes BFFs today. Need more evidence? Might I direct you to Pinterest, Twitter, Facebook, Instagram and now YouTube!

A few nights ago, I lay in my cozy little bed ready for a wonderful night of slumber. The covers were pulled tightly around my neck, and my head rested softly on a fluffy pillow. Ahh, how I wanted to savor the moment. And then it happened. I was jolted out of my precious moment of relaxation by a terrifying thought. I’m afraid I’ve misled you, my dear readers. In last week’s column, I bragged about how I was a TV connoisseur, practically labeling myself a channel-surfing expert. Yes, I love TV, but I’m not a technology person. If only I could have lived during caveman times. Life was so much simpler then. Heck, the biggest invention they were forced to get used to was a little spinning wheel. I know this admission may shatter the image some of you have of me. So if you don’t believe me, I’ve scoured my life files and have compiled ample evidence, just for you, my readers.

Exhibit A: I grew up listening to music
You could always hear melodies wafting from my room like the smell of fresh bread from a bakery. But I’m an old-school music person. In my formative years, I got used to listening to music on tapes, and by the mid-’90s, I boasted quite a collection. Then those circular thingies came along — called CDs, I think –and it threw my whole existence out of whack. Tapes were excellent as far as I was concerned. Why would I want to change a good thing? I just couldn’t get used to this new technology, which is why I didn’t transition to CDs until 2000. And my CD player? That’s a whole different issue. I start to hyperventilate when I realize how fast they change the models and designs. I’m going to have to take a Xanax when my current player breaks and I’m forced to buy a new one. And for the record, no, I don’t have an iPod; that would put me over the edge. I see all these people walking around with these little black or white or pink gadgets tucked in their pockets, and I just want to shout, “Come on! What happened to old-fashioned CDs?” Apparently, they went out the same window as 8-track tapes, but no one bothered to send me the memo.

Exhibit B: Back to this television nonsense
You can put an end to your presumptions — yes, I do have a color television. The TV is not the problem; how I choose to record my precious shows is trickier. Until last summer, I was the VCR’s biggest fan — that’s videocassette recorder for all you new-school technology hipsters. My VCR of choice was a stylish one, too — a sleek, black Magnavox with such a high-tech remote I thought I could power a space shuttle if I wanted to. After all, the thing had all the features I needed: play, stop, fast-forward, rewind and record. What else could you possibly ask for? Oh, right, a pause button. Yep, it had that, too. Then my mother decided one fateful summer day that we were in desperate need of a DVR player. I maintain to this day that heat stroke had clouded her mind. A few hours later, the doorbell rings and these men enter carrying a large box and a tool kit. They were on a mission as they flung wires all over the place and climbed on the roof to install a satellite dish. All the while, my heart started pounding with a thunderous force, and I could feel my breathing getting more and more shallow. My lovely VCR was gone, and in its place was a bigger black box and a silver remote. I’m still working out the kinks of the thing, and only a few months ago did I figure out how to record different shows at the same time.

Exhibit C: I admit I’m not a novice when it comes to the Internet
I know how to send e-mail. I’m always up for a good Yahoo! search. I’ve even splurged a couple times on eBay. But that’s about as far as I’ll venture into cyberspace. I do love my Internet, but I’m a bit scared to explore what else is lurking out there. Sometimes I even have this irrational fear of the entire computer. I see all these young people living and breathing the Internet. They talk to friends online. They shop online. They can even watch movies online now. Here I thought I was a hipster when I won a Smurfs stuffed animal on eBay. If only I had inherited my father’s technology know-how. He was an electrical engineer, which made him the designated “gadget guy” in my family. As a wee child, I thought it was cool to have a dad who could fix anything, from a toy to my mother’s old washing machine. He was happiest with his hands covered in grease and a pile of tools spread out before him like the keys to a hidden treasure. He wouldn’t stop until everything was restored to perfect working order.

But all is not lost for me. My mother has a way of making me feel like an expert. As she tries to navigate the computer, I’ll inevitably hear her little voice beckoning my assistance. “How do I send an attachment?” she yells. So, like a technology superhero, I zoom to her rescue, strike a few keys and see a smile creep across her face when the computer tells her the mail has been sent. Thanks to my mother, I can flex my technology muscle. And who knows? This could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship between me and good ‘ol technology.

P.S. Check up on last week’s Column Throwbacks: Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday. 🙂

[Photos via We Heart It]

Column Throwback Week #5: What does the map of your life look like?

Did you know that I-65 runs from northern Indiana practically to the shores of the Gulf of Mexico? Or did you know that there are two times zones just in the city of Indianapolis? Or that there is a Bowling Green, Ohio, and a Bowling Green, Kentucky? I do. It’s my own little superpower. In fact, I’ll let you in on a little secret: I’m a ROAMer. That’s Readers Of Any Map (and yes, I just made up that cute little acronym…). We’re a rather secret society, drawn to any map within 100 yards like a mosquito drawn to your pale, exposed flesh in the July sun. But I can’t help but ponder: Do maps imitate life? If your life were a map, what would it look like? But more than that, is it even possible to chart your life in a clear and predictable order?

I’ve been fascinated with maps since I donned barrettes as a wee school girl. By maps, I don’t mean those imitations you can readily get on Mapquest or those GPS thingies. Those are fake, or at the very least, maps for novices. I’ve spent many a car trip huddled in the back seat with a sprawling atlas draped over my lap. I became transfixed, lost in a world of places and monuments. It was as if I dived head-first into that atlas. The smooth white pages. The colors — blues for the lakes, greens for the forests and browns for the mountains. I marveled at the open expanse of Montana. My eyes glimmered at the bustling eastern seaboard. And my heart beat just a little extra when I stumbled upon a black dot next to my hometown. I even thought of the people in each town. Who they were. What they did. What life was like in a town of 500 people. Yes, I had an intimate relationship with my maps.

And then my mind would naturally wander to the topic of life. Life, in all its splendid forms, is simply one giant map. Looking. Searching. Finding. Losing direction. It’s all part of the tango of life. Like maps, life is about exploration. In the grand journey of life, you’re not so much looking down the stretch of highway aiming for one — and only one — destination. It’s about exploring what you see on that highway. Taking a trek down the unbeaten path to explore a new relationship, perhaps. Discovering a hidden passion. Even something as simple as sampling a vegetarian meal, which I did a few weeks ago and actually enjoyed. It’s in those moments when you take the most chances that you’re able to truly find out who you are.

But other times, like maps, you find your life in the cracks or the creases of the map. You can’t exactly see where you’re going. You feel lost. You may even feel scared as you lose your sense of direction. The sun is setting. It’s getting dark. And nothing around you looks even remotely familiar. But just as you meticulously smooth out that rough map, before long, you see the city lights looming over the horizon. You breathe a sigh of relief as you instinctively know you’re back on track. Like maps, sometimes you’re all by yourself, like a desolate spot in the Arizona desert. Other times, like in New York City, you’re surrounded by people. You welcome them with open arms, laughing into the wee hours of the morning with friends or having intimate Sunday brunch chats with your mother over a cup of hot coffee. You realize a good balance of the two is exactly what you need.

Like maps, sometimes, no matter how hard you try, you can’t easily fold up your life. Like that pesky atlas, you fold one side of your life over, but it doesn’t fit. So you try to fold the other side. That doesn’t fit either. After much frustration, you come to the conclusion that life can’t always be folded into a cute little pink bow. Sometimes it’s uncertain. Sometimes it’s messy. And most of the time, it’s complicated. You have no choice but to move forward, even if you have a few loose ends dangling from your side. But those life maps you cling to so tightly? They’re only a guide — a framework, if you will. You can do everything to be in control, to chart your course the way you want. You pack up your metaphorical car and begin your journey. For awhile, it’s smooth sailing. Then you come to a fork in the road. But remember: Behind every great map, there’s an equally great story. A lesson to be learned at every pit stop and scenic overlook. Are you brave and daring enough to flip through that daunting atlas and see where it takes you?

[Photos via We Heart It]

Column Throwback Week #4: On the power of procrastination

The computer cursor and I are rounding out hour two of our staring contest. I’m sweating. He won’t budge. It’s a stalemate. I’m definitely in an alternate dimension, a vast black hole of writer’s Hell. The drought has arrived. The well is dry — a well that once produced a steady stream of ideas. By well, I mean my creativity. By dry, I mean empty. Hollow. Gone. I fear I’m finished. I am without an original thought in my head, and, as a writer, this petrifies me. My thoughts — my creativity — are the tools of my trade. Like a surgeon can’t be without his scalpel, I feel completely naked without my creative juices. I must find some way to get them flowing once again. There has to be an easy way to implore those muses. Let me walk you through a writing day in “Melissa, Life of a Columnist.” It’s better than any soapy soap opera, although I wouldn’t mind having a hunky co-star at my side.

But I digress. The scene: Several days before my deadline. Why have I decided to start this at night, when my eyes are drunk with sleep and the computer keys are blurring together? The clock on the wall ticks off the seconds as I stare at a blank computer screen. I can feel my blood pressure rise and beads of sweat form on my forehead as the blinking cursor makes me more and more angry. That blank Microsoft document stretches on for miles in an endless stream of white nothingness; now it’s clear why I’ve always hated that color. I gently tap my foot on the floor, hoping somehow this will bring me the divine inspiration I’ve been waiting for. But, to no avail. Thirty minutes pass and that evil cursor is still staring me straight in the eye. Blink. Blink. Blink. It’s evil. I’m beginning to think it’s out to get me, but I try to remain calm. Am I being paranoid? People tell me I’m a paranoid person, but I don’t believe them. I like to think of myself as a cautious person. Sensitive? Yes. But paranoid? Definitely not. OK, think hard, I tell myself. I’ve got to focus if I want to get this column finished in this century. Heck, at this rate, I’ll even relax my rigid standards and shoot for this millennium.

“Hey, Melissa, come watch ‘Whose Line Is It Anyway?’” my sister yells.

“Great! I’ll be right there,” I say.

As I settle in, something mysteriously happens. My eyes glaze over, and I am unable to speak. In fact, a numbness washes over my entire body. I’m incapable of uttering one syllable, except for the occasional squeals of laughter that escape my lips. This show has never been funny to me until now! The show comes to an end. Because of my television-induced sleepiness, it’s all I can do to muster the strength to pick up the heavy remote.

“Mother, can you turn the TV off for me?” I yell. My mother’s been trying to send an e-mail attachment for the last two hours. “I’m busy,” she replies. I guess I’ll have to take matters into my own hands. My finger poised on the remote’s power button, I had every intention of turning the TV off. But something went wrong. The remote must have malfunctioned because I hear the sweet tune that is the theme song to FOX’s hit The O.C. resonating throughout the living room. Well, there’s no time for deep thinking right now. I’ve never missed an episode of this riveting soap, and I don’t intend to start now. Call it my one guilty pleasure, but I can’t get enough of this show. I love it because it shows me a world I will probably never experience: The high-class, wealthy, many times shallow, world of Orange County, California. Who wouldn’t like to watch rich kids sneak off to Mexico or attend an ultra-hip private school? If only I were rich and…

Hey, there’s an idea. Maybe I could write about what it would be like to be wealthy. After all, I do love money, and I love spending money even more. I often dream of rolling in a big, slushy pile of crisp green bills, laughing maniacally. After the show, I head into the kitchen for a late-night snack. This is becoming a regular occurrence for me. I rip open a bag of Jay’s barbecue potato chips and reach into the cabinet for a bowl. No snack is complete without a tall, bubbly glass of Pepsi. After all, I’m young. Therefore, I should “think young” and drink Pepsi. All these advertising slogans give me another idea. Well, I’ll ponder it more fully after I indulge in my, um, little snack. I sit back down in front of the computer, no further along than when I left an hour earlier. The cursor is still blinking. Did it get bigger while I was gone? Maybe if I get myself in the correct typing position, I’ll have better luck. I sit up straight, placing my hands on the keyboard.

Music — that’s what I need. Nothing gets me motivated like some great tunes. I browse through my collection of CDs. I have to make my selection carefully. Should I listen to Clay Aiken? No, he’s so mesmerizing; he’ll just distract me. Britney Spears? No, because if I listen to Britney, I have to sing along. After much thought, I settle on Sting’s Fields of Gold. Thinking about the west wind, barley and the setting sun, not to mention Sting’s voice…ahhh. What was I doing again? I sit back in my comfy chair and wait for the muses to arrive. Maybe I can’t get this column done because I’m not motivated and I’m constantly procrastinating. Could that be the cause of all my problems? As I begin coloring in a random Little Mermaid coloring book, it hits me: No, that can’t be it. That’s ridiculous.

[Photos via We Heart It]

Column Throwback Week #3: On post-college goals

(Note: What I love about today’s throwback column is that it was written just after I’d graduated from college. Oh, how far I’ve come…).


A change is a-brewing? Can you feel it? A cool, crisp breeze billows over what’s left of the yellow corn fields. The days are getting shorter and shorter, making way for pink sunsets and clear, starry nights. The once green-leafed trees are sprouting reds and oranges. And I, once again, greet the day at 6 a.m. Ahh, yes, the stillness and idyllic lifestyle of summer is but a distant memory now. Fall is officially here. Life in a college town makes the transition ever so poignant and gives you a bird’s-eye view of what is to come. A once-sleepy town has awakened to a bustle of activity, bursting at the seams with energy and livelihood. At its center? Some 25,000 students who will come bright-eyed and ready for the next nine months. But for the first time in what seems like forever, I won’t be joining them in ceremoniously cracking open those new textbooks and gleefully opening a new pack of pens. In fact, this is the first time in 19 years that I haven’t had the world of education calling my name in late August. And I have to admit, it’s a bit jarring.


For as long as I can remember, going back to school was always a big production in my family. My parents were big education supporters. My mom has worked at the same middle school for 12 years. And even though it took him close to 22 years, my father received his bachelor’s degree in engineering just two years before he died. Needless to say, school was a big deal in my household. Every year, I looked forward to packing into the family car and making the pilgrimage to Wal-Mart in search of the perfect school supplies. Armed with a list and curiosity, I made my way down the aisles, inhaling the fresh smell of school supplies galore. Four different colored notebooks? Check. Four folders to match said notebooks? Check. A pack of blue pens? Check. A jumbo yellow highlighter? Check. And, most important, a pink backpack? Check. Can you tell I’m a bit fussy when it comes to my supplies? Maybe it was a bit nerdy of me, but I was the sort of girl who had her backpack all ready to go a week before classes actually started. As I neatly tucked in my school treasures, I also was packing away all the memories I had from the summer. It was my way of saying goodbye to my “summer self” and getting in a new frame of mind.

In my family, school wasn’t just about learning. No, no — school was also about goal-setting. What did we want to accomplish that year? As my mother so eloquently told us, “The year is what you make it.” So, naturally, not having school to force me into goal-setting mode has sort of thrown me off balance a bit. It’s amazing to think that the life I’d known for close to two decades could somehow just vanish, and in its place is a whole lot of soul-searching. I’ve learned quickly that the decade known as your ’20s is a time for a whole different kind of goal-setting — maybe even more important than those childhood days of wanting to get As on all the spelling tests. Now, goal-setting for me and my chums has to do with life and realizing the person each wants to become. 


What do I want to do for the rest of my life? How do I want to leave my mark on society? I think I’m moving along nicely on the journey. I’ve decided writing is the life for me. I’m a journalist at heart and have big aspirations of someday living in a penthouse apartment in Manhattan, reading the New York Times while sipping coffee in a corner diner and working tirelessly as a magazine editor. Yes, that is the life I’d like … someday. But for now, I’m taking my mom’s advice and starting with smaller, more manageable goals. Since graduation, I’ve been working on freelancing. I’m still learning the ropes and haven’t had a sale yet, but I’ve got spunk and determination. We all have goals in life. Whether it’s something as simple as making a homemade dinner at least twice a week or something that requires a bit more effort, like becoming the CEO of a corporation. We all have things we’re passionate about — things that make our life worth living. And we all have to work to achieve those goals.

But maybe, like all things in life, the destination isn’t as important as the journey. It’s the journey that teaches us the most and shows us the greener side of life. Maybe the destination is just a nice perk along the road of life. And the person I want to be? If summer was a lazy cat, rolling around in the sun, finding the perfect, soft pillow for endless sleeping, then fall is a thunderous, roaring lion, full of boundless energy and ready to conquer anything in its path. The lion is the one who sees the importance of the present and is a force to be reckoned with. At least for this year, I’m determined to be the lion.


(Note: Speaking of school supplies, look for a very special giveaway in the coming weeks).


[Photos via We Heart It]

Column Throwback Week #2: If I wasn’t a writer, I’d be…

Every day, I leaf through the newspaper classifieds. It’s not that my soul is aching for a used but — “in good condition” — putrid-green couch and love seat with matching throw pillows. Rather, my curious mind simply likes to see what’s out there. I cry at the lost doggies and kitties. I laugh at what people have for sale. And then I get a faint glimmer in my eyes when I see all the want ads. There’s a million available jobs, or so it seems, all ripe for the taking. Open that gigantic newspaper and you could be anything — teacher’s aide, pizza delivery girl, mechanic, even a secretary. There’s an endless supply of jobs for a hard-working, go-getting, versatile gal like me…

Sensational singer
Yes, it’s high time I suited up and got in touch with all the career dreams that have been haunting me since childhood like a ghost creeping through the night. For instance, I first got the itch to perform when I entered middle school. And it wasn’t the kind of itch that can easily be soothed with calamine lotion, either. This itch turned into a gnawing, which turned into night sweats, which turned into a fever, until I surrendered to the temptation and screamed, “I need to sing!” It’s to the point now where I sing all the time. In the shower. Folding laundry. When I’m sending e-mail. I even sing in my head. Half the time, I don’t even know I’m singing until my sister, in her bold and brazen voice, shouts, “Stop singing!” But the thing is, I can’t stop. For me, singing has become a release. I can’t get up and run a mile, but I can be free when I sing. And I feel like I walk with each note I utter.

Fabulous fashionista
Of course, I want to be realistic, and being a singer would allow me to diversify my talents. On the side of my Grammy-winning career, I could model the newest fall and spring fashions, complete with cute, matching handbags. My red hair pulled back with a specialty headband imported from Milan or Paris or wherever those Versaces and Dolce & Gabbanas live, I’d strut down the catwalk, my pretty smile matching my pink satin dress and sparkling sapphire earrings. My days of sporting dusty old sweatshirts and boring black shoes would be over, and I’d be a confident new woman with a new sense of high fashion. The editors of Vogue and Elle would look to me to set the trend and help us forget about last year’s pumps and oversized bracelets.

Lovely librarian
But maybe I should set my sights a bit lower. Short of reading the entire Oxford English Dictionary or rolling around in a pile of books, I could satisfy my love for words at a sort of word-lovers Mecca. It’s a mammoth building, towering above the skyline like the Bat Signal, and it’s the hippest place on Earth for us nerds, the wide-rimmed-glasses set whose secret weapon is a backpack full of books. The local university’s library has already become my safe haven, the place where I go to shut out the bustling world. I sometimes have dreams of sneaking behind the stacks right before closing and staying perched on the third floor all night. I could do wonderful things for that place if only they’d bestow upon me the awesome title of librarian, complete with a badge to show off my authority. Besides, librarying runs in the family. My aunt’s one, and she once told me about how excited she was to have a new box of fresh books to open. If only I could be inducted into that secret cult of Librarians United In Words, who spend their meetings in the library’s basement arguing over who will be the lucky one to shelve a pile of smooth, shiny books. I want to be thisclose to Mr. Dewey Decimal.

Natural nursing home social director
Or there’s a career with the over-65 set. I began my love affair with the elderly when I joined the Grandparent’s Club in middle school. Each week, we little children ventured to the nursing home. It had long halls and dim lights, but strangely, I was not afraid. The elderly and I, we have a bond like this (picture me clasping my hands together in a show of solidarity). We both eat early lunches — mine’s usually at 11:20 a.m. on the dot. We love a good juice drink. And we both snuggle into bed before 9 p.m. Maybe that means my calling lies in being a social director for a retirement home – a live-in social director, of course. I can picture it now: A group of four white-haired, elegantly dressed women and me sitting around a table, nursing a bottle of apple juice and playing a mean game of bridge.

I’ve come to treasure that daily rendezvous with the classified ads. It’s almost like being a child, when every day you want to be something different when you grow up. Maybe that’s the beauty of being young. You can be anything. You can do anything. I may be all grown up, but I still have dreams. I’m slowly learning that you never have to give up your dreams. You may get older, but your dreams can live on forever. Your relationship with them may just be the most satisfying relationship you will ever have, so hold onto them. No matter where reality takes you, your dreams will always be right behind.

[Photos via We Heart It]