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]

Column Throwback Week #1: In which I have a heart-to-heart with my therapist

I was going through some old things last week and realized something: I’ve never shared some of my favorite newspaper columns with you, friends. I was a weekly newspaper columnist for two years before I started blogging, and I suppose I just never got around to posting those columns here. So! I thought this — being one of the last lazy, hazy weeks of summer — would be the perfect time to post a selection of my favorites from those early years. These are my favorite columns you haven’t read, and I hope you enjoy them. As always, feel free to leave your comments below or send me an email (mellow1422 [at] aol). The first topic? Something I know all too well: Therapy…

During one of my three-hour lunches recently, I sat in my mother’s cozy room. The ceiling fan swirled cool air, and outside the window, I could see a tall green tree reflected against a classic early autumn sky. I sat in my own private cocoon. It may have been the tail end of summer, yes, but I felt myself sinking into a mini-hibernation. A place of deep contemplation. A place where the streets are lined, not with gold, but with an endless row of question marks, topped off with a few “whys” and “hows” for good measure. But what was my case? What was my inner demon?

During one of my first counseling sessions a few months ago (this was after I completed nearly 90 sessions with my previous therapist, just to give you some perspective), my official-looking therapist wasted no time in getting down to business.

“Where would you like to start?” he asked, a large pen poised over what looked like 20 sheets of paper. Am I really that far gone, I wondered? I sat there for a moment. Stunned. In the silence, I pondered that blunt question. I pictured my little universe. My fears, my anxiety, my quirks — they all spun and revolved around change. Why do we try so hard to make our lives fit into that box we’ve neatly tied with a fluffy bow? Why are we so scared to turn with the tide of change?

The closest diagnosis I can muster is a touch of obsessive-compulsive disorder. I do things in a certain order — I eat every morsel of my lunch in a certain order, with the crackers always coming first. I do things a certain way — four squirts of soap each time I wash my hands. I simply like my universe to be ordered and predictable. Apparently, this worried said therapist. He looked me squarely in the eyes and asked, “What does this fear of change look like?”

Another blunt question. Does this man know Dr. Phil? Again, I thought for a moment — or two or three. Then the image flashed crystal clear across my mind. It was a cave I’d envisioned before. A large cave. A dark cave. I stood in front of it, unable to get my footing. I feared entering its hollow walls, thinking I’d be forever lost in its damp maze. And it was a deep cave. You can’t see ahead, and you didn’t have a flashlight. Not even a candle to guide your way. So I resigned myself to standing outside the cave. Maybe I was standing guard, darting my eyes in every direction to make sure everything stayed exactly the same. Forever.

See, I could explain what I was doing, but I hadn’t a clue why, even though I know that it’s quite idiotic to think life, your career, even your hairstyle will be constants in your life. But that cave. What is there to be afraid of? Maybe that cave represents my new life after my father’s suicide. I don’t want to say hello to this cave because that would mean saying goodbye to my old life. As I tightly grip the past, I’m desperately trying to keep my old life alive. The flame’s going out, but I keep relighting it as if carrying the candle into the cave with me will seemingly blend the two. Life doesn’t promise stability. It falsely advertises it, but in the end, it never delivers. The only certainty is uncertainty.

“Sometimes you need a rainy day,” said my cousin over lunch one day. She’s 17. What a smart girl. Maybe I need to step outside and get a little wet. I don’t want to sink in the rip tide anymore. I want to stand on the shore, letting the water rush across the tips of my toes, and welcome the incoming waves, no two waves ever exactly alike.

[Photos via We Heart It]

Love Lounge: Inner Strength.

I thought you all might enjoy reading my newspaper column from today. I’d love to hear what you think! How do you find your inner strength? xoxo
A few weeks ago, I found myself in the hospital. It was the last place I expected to be, in more ways than one.

And quite honestly? I was scared. As the days passed, I quickly realized a lot of “firsts” were taking place. It was the first time I had ever been in that hospital. But more importantly, it was the first time my mother wasn’t by my side the entire time, holding my hand and rubbing a warm cloth on my head. It’s not that she didn’t want to be there, mind you. I think she would have been there if not for two things:

• The visiting hours were quite strict.

• And as she’s been saying a lot lately, “Melissa, you’re almost 30. You can do this by yourself.”

Leave it to mothers to be right. More times than we’d care to admit. My mother was no exception. She was right. About everything.

I’ve been feeling like I need my mom more than ever lately, which gives me both a sense of braveness for being able to admit and a sense of “What?” As in, “You’re almost 30. Why do you still need your mother so much?”

But we all need our parents, don’t we? We never really grow out of that childhood hat when we’re around our parents. Maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe we need our parents just like we need oxygen. Because without them, we wouldn’t be who we are today. Without them, we wouldn’t be able to put one foot in front of the other – sometimes bravely and other times a bit afraid. Walking slowly at first, constantly checking to see if our parents are right behind us, until the moment comes when we can make our own way.
So maybe my mom was just a phone call away while I was in the hospital. But without the comfort of her hands to hold every single second, I was forced to forge ahead on my own. I didn’t always know what lay ahead, and I couldn’t predict the future. So I had to figure things out for myself. Maybe you remember the moment in life when you had to do that, too. We have to try on our adult hats for the first time in our lives, and we have to find our own inner strength, which is sort of a paradox considering I got my inner strength from my parents.

If being in the hospital last week taught me anything, it’s that no matter how long it takes or how old we are, each of us does have that inner strength and inner sense of adulthood within us. Even though my “adulthood” moment may have come a bit later than my peers, it came, perhaps at the exact moment it was supposed to all along.

And in case you were wondering: Yes, I did make very good use of the fact that my mother was only a phone call away. But I don’t think she minded too much. I like to think she was proud to see my inner strength starting to bloom.

[Photos via Audrey Hepburn Complex]

Happy Father’s Day!

Happy Father’s Day to all the wonderful dads in the world! I miss you today, father! I hope you enjoy the day, and I hope you enjoy this excerpt from my newspaper column this week! Read the full column here.

P.S, Thanks to a little girl named Sonora Smart Dodd, Father’s Day is celebrating its 100th birthday this year! xoxo
The task of find the “perfect” card for my father always proved to be a rather difficult one.

You see, my father wasn’t the typical father. Maybe all daughters say that at some point in their lives, but my father was, well, my father. None of the cards ever seemed to suit him well. They always seemed so stereotypical. The covers usually depicted a variation of some common themes.

There were the sports card, showing a father and child bonding over a game of baseball. Or there were the cards with some long poetic prose on the cover that I could never picture my 12-year-old self buying. Truthfully – and I mean this with the utmost love and respect for my deceased father – I almost felt more comfortable buying a card for him with a more feminine feel to it.

He was, after all, a man very in touch with his emotions. If he wanted to say something, he said it. No waiting. No hesitating. He just spoke.