Assvice

Too much? Email to baby bro, upon imminent trip to a gorgeous Caribbean island for senior week:

OK, I hope you are still around, as here are my travel tips, based on my sage experience:

* Have a bit of cash on you (say $100 at all times) for tips, taxis, and covers. Keep the rest in the bank and use your check card to access. There will be 8980 ATMS in your hotel alone.
* Make a copy of your passport and put it into your luggage, separate from the actual passport.
* Write your credit card/check card info down and/or copy the card and leave at home. You can call mom to cancel if it gets lost or stolen.
* USE THE SAFE. Put everything valuable in it, like your passport, iPod, phone, etc. Don't leave anything valuable sitting around. (J and I always have our passport on us when we travel, but since you will be drinking a lot, I don't recommend.)
* Wear sunscreen! Seriously though, nothing ruins the fun like a bad burn (see: Melissa in Miami, 2005).
* Don't drink too much and then get in a fight. Have fun and be nice.
* Be especially kind to the help, and they will be good to you.
* Be a gentleman and don't let any ladies get Natalie Hollowayed.
* Sleep on your stomach!
* Have a blast! And be smart. Also - you are not in America, and as you know from DR, not every country has the same amenities or moves as quickly as you would like. Enjoy and be a nice tourist!

Have the greatest time ever - I know your first trip out of the country as an adult will be the best ever!

Love you!!

I obsess because I care.

Carbs to HomeValley: Fool! You Can Not Escape Us. We Will Win This War!

The world is a giant carbohydrate, in case you hadn't noticed.

Greetings from Columbia, SC, where it is hella-humid and a balmy 95 degrees. Luckily, I get to spend most of my time here ensconced in my hotel room, or in a freezing office building, or in the Carolina Ale House tomorrow eve, where I am sure I can eat or drink absolutely nothing. Ah well. This is the life I chose, y'all. Poor little diet girl.

J and I went to his boss's son's graduation party on Saturday, and at first glance, my prospects were dismal. An entire table was filled with delectable, doughy goodies (the pretzel tray! I worship you, pretzel tray. You are all that is right and good in this world!), dips, chips, cookies, and other delicious carby-calories. I slunk away, unnerved, and gnawed on some raw veggies with a tablespoon of ranch dip. Um, yum?

I sipped on iced tea with sweetener, as J drank beer after delectable beer. Once the hot food was served, I allowed myself a jumbo hot dog sans bun, and some baked beans.

After the soiree, I forced my slightly buzzed hubby to take me to Osaka, our favorite sushi restaurant in Chestnut Hill, for some raw fish goodness. Oh, but I cheated with sinful clear alcohol in the form of a slightly dirty Grey Goose martini. And you know what? The alcohol didn't even taste or feel good. It left me feeling cloudy, and that's about it. Maybe there is something to clearing it out of your system, eh?

I headed to the track on Sunday morning (I find I much prefer to run outside; I look forward to these runs as they are somehow carthartic; spiritual even, despite "Piece of Me" by Britney Spears persistently blasting in my headphones). On my way out the door, J asked what my plans were: "5 miles?" "Ha!" I laughed, "with these legs, I'll be lucky if I get to 3." (Legs were still extremely tight from Thursday's rigorous one-hour yoga class.)

But a funny thing happened as I went around and around that oval: I just kept going. I tried to make it to 3 miles, then I stretched my goals to 4. On my 16th lap around I thought: "Fuck it - we might as well go for 20, dude." And so I went. I ran five miles for the first time in my entire life, and man, did that feel positively liberating. I'm really doing this, y'all! It's a shock to my system to feel as if I am on course to complete a lofty goal.

But what of P90X you ask? She arrived in an inoccuous-looking box last Thursday, at which time I snapped this photo of her, then went about my business.

I finally bought resistance bands on Saturday evening, and by this morning, we were ready to go. (Although I have yet to take those ridiculous "before" shots of my abs and booty; I shall make J do it this week when I arrive home.) I am doing P90X Lean, for those of us that don't wish to bulk up like Hugh Jackman in Wolverine (but well done, HJ. Well done.)

I bounded down the stairs at 6 AM and sweated and grunted and growled my way through "Core Synergistics" which is all about the damn "core", of which I have none to speak (my abs have always looked presentable, however, there is no muscle there. Only lovable, soft tissue.). "Wow," J remarked as he kissed me goodbye, "You're really sweating!" By the time Tony got to the "Prison Push-up", I was about ready to not only throw in the towel, but drop-kick my television and then wail on it some for good measure. But somehow I survived, and when brother said I could either continue on to the "bonus round" or fast-forward to the cool down, you better believe I was light-stretching with the best of them.

All-in-all, it has been a mostly successful week-long foray into HomeValley Version 2.0, The Fit Kid. (Although, I did almost allow myself a martini before boarding my flight to Columbia this afternoon. Nervous flyer! I decided against it in the end, however, and opted for Au Bon Pain's organic black tea and almonds. Almonds, y'all! They are my new best friend.)

O! The new issue of O is out on stands and it includes the Summer Reading List! Pick up your copy today and nerd out with me, won't you? There is so much to read and so little time!

Thoughts on the Tonys, via email to Grace.

Things that made me hate theater (thanks TONYS):
Constantine Maroulis (HATE)
Liza Minelli (HATE)
Next to Normal (um, no thanks)
Legally Blonde (really? REALLY?)
Jersey Boys (d-bags singing o what a night HATE)
NPH (Where were you, NPH? Where were you???)
Billy Elliott (enough with the gyrating! Stop this madness!)
Sir Elton John (learn to read a teleprompter, a-hole)
Shrek (totally superflous. Shut up, Donkey)

Things that made my inner theater geek proud:
Kristen Chenoweth (she should be in everything)
HAIR! (when can we see this??)
Poison (added bonus: Bret Michaels getting taken out by the set - karma for unleashing Rock of Love upon this world)
NPH (I still love you, Neil...)
West Side Story (because it is still awesome)
God of Carnage (also want to see)
Reasons to be Pretty (seems up our alley)

Also, How about how Angela Lansbury looked old in 1966? Maaame.

Graduation Day.

My Dearest Darling Baby Brother –

I can’t quite believe that you are graduating from high school! This makes you a bona fide adult; it makes me very old. I have been writing this letter in my head for the last six months. What to say to the new grad? So here it is: as your older (questionably) wiser, sister, I wanted to offer you some pieces of sound advice for your beautiful, magnificent future:

Be open-minded. Really, this is pretty much all I got. I know we kid about how you were born a little old man, but there is some truth in that. You were born with opinions on everything. Now that you are an adult, you’re still pretty rigid in your beliefs, which is often a good thing: hey, you’ve got convictions! But I think, as you go through life, you will find that opening up your mind to new people, places, and experiences will make you that much more of a person. You’ll become more empathetic; you’ll learn how to relate to different people, and you’ll be able to build a fuller picture of this world, and where you want your place to be in it. I am still doing this, every day. It’s a lifelong process. But I do try (and sometimes fail) to wake up every day very grateful. We are blessed to have all of the things we do at this point in time; and the wonderful thing is, the future is ours to do with what we make it. Never let anyone tell you who you are or where you fit or what you can’t do. Decide who you are; decide what you want to be, and go for it. Realize now that anything you want in this life, you can have; you just have to work hard and take chances and be good to other people.

Which brings me to my next point: Be good to other people. This can be difficult. The world is chock-full of douchebags. Some days you may feel superior. Don’t. Just try to be nice; remember that not everyone has been afforded the opportunities you have had. Everyone has a story; a reason for why they are the way they are. Try to be kind; try to get to know people. You’ll decide who you like and who isn’t your cup of tea. Just don’t make snap judgments about people because of race, age, social class, or the like. You could end up missing something or someone fantastic that way.

And also: travel. I know you don’t want to hear it now; hell, I didn’t do much travel in college. But take it from me; this is how you learn about yourself. This is how you see what you are made of; whether at the swim-up bar in DR, drinking Sammy Sosas, or driving through the Jordanian desert at night, scared shitless. Travel is beautiful, exhilarating, and sometimes terrifying, but always worth the trouble. And hey, if you need a travel buddy, you know J and I are always up for an adventure.

When I was graduating high school, a cheesy song was popular based on a college commencement address (“Wear sunscreen” ring a bell?). In it, one piece of advice was: Do one thing every day that scares you. Ever since I first heard it, I haven’t been able to shake that one. I live by it. Whether I am giving a presentation, flying on a plane, traveling to the Middle East, or getting married, I always try to step out of my comfort zone. I believe it’s how we grow and become more self-aware. Disclaimer: please don’t do anything stupid, like chug 20 beers or base jump. As your older sister, I have to draw the line somewhere.

The day you came home from the hospital nearly 19 years ago, I knew we’d be fast friends. We had a very special bond from the start; I always felt I had to protect you. I hope, in your estimation, I’ve done a good job; I hope you’ll look after my babies someday as I looked after you.

I want you to know how sincerely proud I am of you. You are a wonderful person with a big heart. You have had to withstand great pain in your young life, and I know that has shaped you. I hope that you are able to move forward in your life and be happy. I hope you feel your dad’s presence in your life everyday in the best possible way. He is looking after you; and I know how immensely proud he would be of you as well. He loved you with every fiber of his being, as all of those who know you do. I know you will continue to do him proud.

I love you more than I could possibly say in a Word doc. Know that I - along with J - am always here for you. And have fun! You are about to embark upon the best days of your life. Enjoy every single moment, and study every so often.

I know you’ll go far.

Love,

Sis.

And defeat him I will. Defeat. Him. I. Will.

As yesterday was my first official day sans carbs, I expected to feel awfully sluggish (even The Real JC said I will want to go to sleep at 6); instead, I felt incredible! I didn't sleep well on Sunday night (maybe 5 hours total), and as I am an 8 - 11 hour type of gal (what?), I thought I'd be miserable. Lo, I stayed up and busy until around 11. I exercised (no run, only elliptical), and even gently asked the woman that brought my room service last night to kindly, "Take this bread. Please. I can't risk it." They had actually given me FIVEor SIX pieces of bread, which is like, everything that is wrong with America, right there in a basket with creamy white butter and oil-soaked roasted peppers. (*drools*)

I usually order breakfast from the handy card that Marriott places on my bed, and last night I had some pretty high maintenance instructions: scrambled eggs; grilled ham; no juice, but water; tea, but decaf; and HOLY GOD DO NOT BRING ME THOSE HASH BROWNS THEY ARE THE MINIONS OF LUCIFER.

But the devil (shut up, Heidi Montag) is fierce:

I narrowly defeated the potatoes, y'all. But the ketchup, in all of its high fructose glory, most certainly won this morning. Damn you, HFCS! Damn yoooouuuuu! (*shakes fist in air, vows to defeat this most nefarious foe*)

J-isms

J, at Panera:

"In the grand scheme of nerds: how big of nerds do you think we are?"

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Scenes from a walk after the Manayunk Bike Race:

M: (seeing fun being had by all on streets) This sucks. Next year, we are definitely having a party for the race.

J: Well next year, I'll be 33, so I don't know...

M: You'll be 32.

J: Wait - will I?

M: Um, I thought so. Aren't you 31?

J: I don't know. I've been telling people I'm 32.

M: I told someone last night that you were going to be 32 this year.

J: Let's figure this out. (Thinks for a moment) Yeah. Yeah - I'm 32.

Dietgirl!

This is Melissa P. HomeValley, reporting live from Border’s book shop in South Portland, Maine. Our author is determined to do this and do this right, and by "right" she means pick a fad diet and go to town. Kidding! Sort of.

So I am here this eve doing “research”, jotting down notes and desperately trying not to purchase anymore books (HV: NO MORE BOOKS). I already have 747 books in my office/library that must be read this year, lest I die. And as J lamented last night in bed, “Read read read. All you do is read.” So I must read read read just to catch up, more so when I am away from my dear, dear husband.

I also must write write write, if I am ever going to be an actual author. Amidst the madness now, I will settle for updating this here blog, my baby, who is almost three years old (so big!). Sunrise, sunset, yadda yadda yadda, and here we go.

I took notes as I lounged in the coffee shop, which I appropriately labeled "diet crap". Here is what I found out so far:

The South Beach Diet: Dr. Agatston advocates 3 meals per day, 2 snacks, a "dessert" (quotes dripping with sarcasm), and lots of water. What he does not advocate during "phase 1": bread, rice, potatoes, pasta, baked goods, fruit, alcohol, candy, cookies, ice cream, sugar.

Hmm.

Doc swears I will lose 8 - 13 pounds over the first 2 weeks. Then, I should move into "phase 2", in which I slowly reintro carbs until I reach my goal weight (which I likely already reached during phase 1). That means into Phase 3, which, as I indicated in my notes, is: "rest of yo life, girl!" (Ever since I bought Vanessa a "Mahogany" birthday card - Girl, It's Your Birthday - I can't stop using "Girl". Bear with me.)

I jotted down some sample recipes from the book... And really, right now this sounds pretty good to me.

Next, I picked up Quantum Wellness by Kathy Freston. I skimmed through. VEGAN? Next.

I also took a look at Doctors Oz and Roizen's (never any Roizen love, O) YOU! On a Diet and it really was an assault on the senses. It was laden with cartoon drawings and was shouting at me with LARGE proclamations in bold. I skimmed the meal plans; they're very similar to the SB diet, so I quickly put the book aside. One new caveat here: no eating after 8:30 PM.

Lastly, I perused Jillian Michaels' Making the Cut. Jillian offers 7 rules one must follow to get jacked:

1. Stick to your magic number, or BMR (Basal Metabolic Rate). I'll spare you the calculations, but apparently I need to imbibe 1429 calories a day. Strike one, Jill.
2. Eat for your metabolic type. I'm a balanced oxidizer (based on a quiz) which means I need equal parts carbs, proteins, and fat. Sorry carbs - I think, for now, you are out.
3. Eat every 4 hours. Yes please!
4. No processed or junk food. This shall be the most challenging, but I love the idea of it. I am sick of feeling heavy, bloated, and full. I've long suspected that my body is not processing food effectively; I am sure cutting out anything processed will help. But is it possible? Are Sweettarts processed? Fuck.
5. Beat the bloat. Less sodium, more water. Easy enough.
6. NO BOOZE. Errr... Um. Okay. I think I can do this, especially because Jill (bless her heart) gave me a small window to cheat (only clear alcohol with no calorie mixer). This, to tell you the truth, may be the most challenging. Booze is part of my social and professional life. Oh, and remember this? Here's hoping my will power has improved since then.
7. Write it down. Sorry about this, Internet. Just following orders.

So, I have decided to follow Jill's rules, with a hint of South Beach thrown in. This week I am eschewing breads, rices, pastas, etc., but I have allowed myself some fruit. I love me some fruit. Next week, I'll ween.

Oh - and high fructose corn syrup? Still the devil. As well as white flour and white sugar. Boo.

The Biggest Loser. For real.

Man, I really need to figure out how to become an actual member of the blogosphere. Today I tried to download a "widget" (wha?), and failed because apparently my "layout" was "disabled". My thousands of daily readers Grace has been bugging me for an "RSS Feed" (huh?) for a year, and I still can't seem to figure that one out. Um, help? Blogosphere? I did actually get a question about "technorati" right on Cash Cab the other night, but I still don't know what that means. After 3 years? I am a blogging misfit. But I am resolved to get this down. There has got to be some Complete Idiot's Guide out there for bloggers, eh? And maybe, just maybe, once I have figured this all out, the cool blog kids will welcome me with open arms, and my readership will quadruple! (4 readers some day! Imagine!) Lo, I have been slacking. But I will get better for you, Internet. Blog, or perish.

So, first things first: this. I have been reluctant to share this link with you all, as I have spent an exorbitant amount of time there over the last two months, and have shed many tears. I was trying to shield you all from the pain, I s'pose. I don't really have words. Just sending good thoughts to LA on a daily basis, and occasionally leaving a comment or two. Go there and read, and then send all of your good thoughts that way too.

Secondly, this social blog outcast ordered P90X today! I am frightened, yet enthused. I had seen the infomercial twice and seriously considered purchasing it then, but I always stopped myself, for I cannot be sold! (Shut up, Proactiv.) I told J about it a few months ago. Then, everywhere we went, people were chatting about this patented system of "muscle confusion". Word on the street is it works as it kicks your ass something fierce. J and I are interested in getting into tip-top shape this year, possibly before I go and get knocked up and promptly ruin my new ripped physique. But hey! This can only be good for you, Future HomeValleyians. I am doing this for the kids, y'all. This has nothing to do with bikinis. Nothing at all.

I was chatting with Allie about my purchase this morning, at which time she urged me (twice) to blog my progress, which seems like a noble idea, and possibly will help me through the rumored four weeks without carbs. (Hopefully, this will cause minimal marital strife. We love each other, but man, we love our carbs.) (Sweet, sweet carbs.)

So if we are going to do this, Internet, we are going to do this with full disclosure. I hate to mention numbers, as every frame is unique (and beautiful, super foxes!), but I feel (and a Self Magazine quiz backs me up) that my ideal, "happy" weight is around 130 pounds. This was me my junior year of college, maybe 130 - 132 pounds?

(If I was any kind of a real blogger, I would know how to write text on a picture and circle things, like have a little white arrow pointing at my belly, that says something cute like: "Hello, Belly!" But I live life on the outskirts, an edgier, freak of a blogger, who must write cute things in the paragraph below.) I use this picture - which really doesn't show much of my physique - as this was The Time of My Best Figure, as I recall fondly. I had zero qualms about hopping into a bikini and talking to boys (Those flowers were from a boy!) I had just turned 21 and I ran shit, like Oprah. This was taken in my first William Street apartment. What was my secret? I lived solely on pasta with tomato sauce, chicken with pasta with tomato sauce, baked veggies (a specialty of one of my roommates), and vegetarian sushi from the restaurant downstairs. Really, I credit the walking. Not only did I have to walk everywhere I went, I also took an almost daily stroll across the Brooklyn Bridge to my third favorite borough in which I used to reside. I had a CD Walkmen and I listened to "I'm a Slave 4 U" more than any human ever should. But I was happy and healthy and loving life, which is also good for the physique and the soul.

My actually thinnest was about 9 months after 9/11. I really had no appetite after the attacks and was down to about 125 or so. I don't have a picture of me then readily available, but it was Post-Traumatic Stress thin, which is decidedly not hot. Anyway, when I moved back to PA after graduation in May 2002, and bought my trusty little Hyundai, Emma, I packed on the LBs. I would sit in my cat-piss smelling, Section 8 apartment (over a karate studio, no less), and eat whole pizzas watching Kelly Clarkson kick ass on American Idol. Depressed much?

When I moved back to NYC in 2004, I started dropping weight again. Here is a very serious shot of Vanessa and me in Old San Juan, a bit drunk and having watched far too much Top Model (maybe 134?):

Ay, is there anything like settling into true love to help you gain some of that weight back? I wish I could upload the shot of me on Deal or No Deal in February 2008. We had friends Lauren and Eric over a few months after the LA trip, and when they saw my bloated frame on the screen they were a bit taken aback (and yes, the camera does indeed add 10 pounds. Gah!). "Looks like you've lost weight since then," was the consensus. Indeed. Here is a shot from LA, likely around 140 - 142 pounds:

Sister could bench-press Howie! (Cute bag, though.)

But a beach wedding (and a Maxim model coming to your nuptials) will kick even the most carb-loving lady into action, so here is a shot from DR:

(Um, and as an aside, I loved our wedding. This picture perfectly wrapped up the whole affair: sweat-soaked, dancin', singin', glorious celebratin'. I really think we should frame this one, J.)

I was probably about 132 - 134 at the time of the wedding, and I felt pretty good (legs could have been a bit more toned, but I shan't complain. Did you see how fun my reception was?! Also, quite the calorie-burner.)

I went to the gym earlier today. I ran 4 miles. I think I actually had a slight heart attack. During the last mile, my chest constricted and I nearly passed out. Good on me! After the perilous jog, I did weights and tried to do a pull-up. Just one. I couldn't even begin to lift myself, (My limbs were completely unresponsive: You want us to do what? Lift? Sister, you crazy.) so I just hung there like a dead fish. You've got your work cut out for you, P90X.

Finally I headed over to the scale, which used to be in the ladies locker room but now is right next to the weights, where all the meatheads convene. Lovely! I took off my sneakers and hopped on: 137 pounds today. So ideally, I'd like to lose at least 7 pounds in 3 months (P90 should be here in 5 - 7 days). And of course, I've still got to fit in runs for the November 22nd Half-Marathon. Looks like HomeValley is going to be quite busy, folks! I will do a weekly update on this blog, so help me God.

I will also figure out what a "widget" is. Lord have mercy.

Woe, Thy Name is HomeValley

Woe. Whoa!

Work woes, y'all. Have you ever just been a bit off? Well, first I was just a bit off, and then I was way out in left field, and then I was holy shit what fucking planet are you on? off. It all came to a grueling head yesterday, folks, in which I narrowly thwarted disaster though of course I can't recount here. I will say this: Buddy? Director of high school musicals? Thanks, man. I would never have recovered were it not for my extensive theatrical training bit part as a Jet ho in West Side Story.

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I have discovered Pandora! Here is a mystical place where, when I am in my office, I can type in one artist I dig and then listen to a floppity jillion songs I love in a similar genre. I put in "Damien Rice" hours ago and have not heard a song I disliked since.

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The girls and I convened on Saturday evening for a long-awaited dance party at a "new" Delaware County club. Though glorious in its old school hip hop flavor, too many familiar faces of the feigned Awesome! I'd rather not talk to you at all variety were present, and as I dropped Allie off later that night (ahem 2 AM), we decided we should probably find other places to convene, as we were grossly unprepared for the high school reunion.

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Have I mentioned True Blood? Because I am off to watch the last of the DVDs, and I am sure they will not disappoint. Is there a word for a vampire lover? Because instead of woe, that should be my name. Lord.

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Random image from this year's Lost party anyone? Yeah, that's right.

Oh, and...

...I'm pretty sure I sauntered up to my old boss (the regional VP) last night at the hotel bar in Boston, wrapped an arm around him, and demanded he sing karaoke with me (despite no karaoke machine anywhere to be found). Using my Miller Lite as a mic, I proceeded to sing a few bars of Journey's "Don't Stop Believin'". I was reassured this morning that he really enjoyed my performance.

The moral of the story?

I'm awesome.

When People Stop Being Polite...

J and I had a lovely Memorial Day weekend. In fact, as I watched my brother light sparklers at Grandpop's house on Sunday at dusk, my heart swelled. I watched all the kids in the front yard and thought: One day they'll remember these picnics fondly as the best days of their lives. It was a scene you'd recognize from a movie montage, with "What a wonderful world" playing in the background as the children scrambled around, laughing and playing.

And then, I was brought promptly back to reality.

Lord, I wish I could write it here. But it's personal stuff. Suffice it to say that a typical bbq broke off into a much-needed extended family therapy session, complete with tears and truth-telling, and "I love yous" had by all. And for all of the pain that was discussed, it was a very hopeful conversation. We said things the things you don't talk about; the unpleasantness that is typically swept under the proverbial rug. It was really very liberating, and I hope the conversation affected the others so profoundly.

And if I haven't said it here before, I'll say it now. Happiness? Is hard work. You can't sit on your ass all of your days, waiting for it to find you. As if you spend all of your life in misery - moaning about your job, your family, your friends, and Mondays - and suddenly Senor Happiness drops by your home unexpectedly, and you're all: Finally! Man - it's about fucking time you showed up!

I have been unhappy. I have been through pain. Sometimes, I wonder if I am able to remain optimistic because I haven't quite gone through enough pain yet; and then I begin to worry about impending doom, and then I say Shut up, brain! You mustn't worry about the things you can't control. And that actually works. Mostly.

I am so very grateful for the life that I have. Possibly I am obtuse. Most days, I feel lucky and blessed. And this is a very bold statement, but I think you should to. Even if you're not happy, I say, pretend you are. Then do the thing(s) that will make you happy. Then eventually, you will be happy. The end. Don't forget to tip your waitress.

J and I got home on Sunday night and, as I absently watched Hitch on TNT, I couldn't stop thinking about the important conversation I had had earlier. I wondered what I could do to help; how could I be supportive? I started to feel awful before I realized that I cannot take all of this on. It's not mine. I can help; but I can't obsess.

Happiness is a choice. For some, I believe other barriers (chemical, emotional, trauma) make that choice much more difficult. For me, I wake up most days with the steely intent to enjoy my life. To be nice to others. To be grateful for all the wonderful things. To love my husband and family and friends.

Some days, I suck at all of those things. So I wake up the next day and try again. It's simple to me, and I hope you see it Secret Person(s) That I Am Speaking of Incredibly Vaguely Whom I Love Unconditionally, or SPTIASOIVWILU.

Always here for you.

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In other news that is incredibly humbling, J and I went to visit his Nana in her new home, a "nursing and rehabilitation center". Nana is 91 years old and remaining strong. She can still speak, though it's difficult for her, and J's mom worries that she is in pain. Dyke (I am sure he hasn't heard that one before), J's pop-pop and Nana's husband of 68 years, sits dutifully by her side each day, holding her hand and keeping her comfortable.

Her neighbor, the incorrigible Victor, sits in the hall with a towel wrapped around his head. He moans, "Oh God! Oh God!" repeatedly. He snaps at young children and nurses who walk by: "What have you got to EAT! I'm hungry!" As J and I sat visiting with Nana on Saturday, he finally wheeled himself to the doorway, smiled and waved to me.

"Hi," he said kindly. "Say, you got anything to eat in there?"

Humble and grateful. I'm just sayin'.

Ballin', but Greasy.

Was it my gorgeous, greasy hair? Was it my bloodshot eyes, bedazzled by gray, puffy circles, thanks to an utter lack of sleep? (Shot bolt right up in bed last night about 1:30, and, wide awake, finished the third Sookie Stackhouse novel) (Addicted!) (Digression.)

Whatever it was, there was something about the way I sashayed into the Columbus Northwest Marriott this eve that screamed: baller. The young man at the front desk took heed! He looked me over and then stated plainly: “I’m gonna hook you up.” He told me I’d be on the top floor (“use your key to get up in the elevator”), and, with a wink, warned me: “Don’t get lost in your room.”

Ballin’.

And so I greet you from the the concierge floor, which is really quite a snoozefest without my sidekick J (though the tub is divine) AND the real concern here is mah greasy hair. My. Greasy. Hair. Do you know how celebrity stylists are constantly berating us to skip the shampoo? That our hair will be so much more manageable and lovely if we go a few days between washings?

Lo, I am not that girl.

For shame!

Sexy greasy!

Does not do Grease justice.

It's really such a terrible, oily tragedy, just one day sans washing. Do not let this happen to you! Lather-rinse-repeat, as needed. Indeed.

In other non-news, I could get used to nonsense blogging!

HomeValley's Helpful Hints!

If you have forgotten your mobile phone charger at home, and if you have subsequently forgotten to buy a back-up charger at the Providence Place mall (despite that being the reason you went to the mall in the first place but oh Forever 21 is there!), fear not! Just go to the front desk at your hotel and ask to borrow one of the 89803 forgotten chargers they have stored behind the desk. That's because of people like me! You're welcome.

This has been a HomeValley Helpful Hint!

Doin' It Badly.

Has it really been nearly a month since I've written anything?


Aye, it has.


I have been very busy perfecting my life and ignoring my blog. Case-in-point, last week I bought an audio CD: 100 Ways to Motivate Yourself, by Steve Chandler. And you know something? It's actually quite effective! Consider that Steve says that one of the reasons we avoid doing a particular task is because we are afraid we'll do it badly. The solution, then, is to just do it, and embrace doing it poorly! In fact, do it as badly as you must, as long as you are doing it. I liked this one a lot. I hope you do as well, as I present an exceptional foray into mediocre blogging. Won't you come along?

I have spent a lot of time and energy making lists, setting deadlines, and trying to achieve my goals - the lofty ones, and the daily ones. To date, I've:

• Made a bonfide chore chart! It's true. I brainstormed and jotted down all of the chores that need to be done on a weekly, bimonthly, and quarterly basis (no seriously) and created an excel spreadsheet, which I printed and fill in whenever I manage to get something done around the house. Yes, there are still more "J"s on my chart than "M"s, but this is progress.


• Run, a lot. I was completely overwhelmed on the eve of Mother's Day, as per usual. Each year, J and I prepare a lovely meal for our immediate families to celebrate our mums, which means we host roughly 10 people. I am always consumed by the task, though this year I vowed to be calm by preparing to-do lists well in advance, and having a test run of the proposed meal the week prior. When the test meal wasn't quite excellent enough, I was in panic mode. I whined to J out of frustration, and silently thought that I would have to nix the Susan G. Komen 5K that Sunday morning. Now, because of my lack of preparedness, I've foregone the 5K for the past two years. The fact that I even entertained the idea of bailing a third year made me angry. So I stopped moaning; J and I went to the grocery store and resigned ourselves to a meal of pasta and meat sauce. I rose the next morning at 5:30 AM, caught the 6:11 train for Center City, and made my way through the race festivities, alone. And it was glorious. It's quite humbling to stand among breast cancer survivors, feeling their hopeful energy. It makes it impossible to complain about your trivial troubles. By the time I started the race, I felt positively giddy. I made it through the course in 30 minutes and 2 seconds, which was good enough for me. More exciting was the turning point; the decision to take action, and the subsequent feeling of triumph. I could do it! Since, I've run roughly every other day, 2 or 3 miles at a time, and I am committed to running the Philadelphia Half-Marathon on November 22nd. And you know what? This time feels different. This time, I know I can stop making excuses and accomplish a damn goal already. I'm ready.


• Made lists, and then more lists. For work, I made a list of what I need to do on Monday mornings (shit- must do those things ASAP); I made a list of what to do on Friday afternoons. I hung it up in front of my desk, and, when I am working from my office (i.e., not now), I know what needs to be done (change VM to accurately reflect weekly travel; return emails/VMs, etc.) It's all terribly mundane but conversely very exciting to me, because it alleviates the pressure. I don't have to hide or cower; I just have to do these things. Brilliant! I also created a Master List of things to accomplish in the month of May, which I have been attacking little by little. Again: progress.


• Developed a new found respect for Arnold Schwartenegger. I am not being facetious. In 100 Ways To Motivate Yourself, Chandler discusses the time he interviewed Arnold in the mid-70s, around the time his first movie flopped at the box office. He asked the future Terminator: "Now that you've retired from professional body-building, what are you going to do next?" To which Ahnuld responded calmly: "I am going to be Hollywood's biggest box office star." I, along with Chandler, was floored by that; here is an Austrian man who had an extremely successful career as a body-builder; a massive career as an actor; and an equally impressive career as a governor of one of the largest states in the country. And yet, seemingly, he had it in him all along. He told himself it would be so, and it was. Respek.

So, that's the gist. I am trying to get my affairs in order, and also trying to ascertain where my writing fits into it all. J and I spent last weekend in DC with lovely friends Matt and Maria, and at one point Matt asked me if I was still blogging. I wasn't sure how to respond to that; nor could I expostulate on exactly why I have been so reticent to write lately. I am sure all will become clearer as I continue in my odyssey of organization and self-actualization. Stay tuned.

I've got PMS.

There is one large pimple on each side of my face, the frightening pair adorning my cheeks like freakish goiters.

I am inexplicably angry and dangerously immobilized. I can go from contented to egregiously annoyed in mere seconds.

That's right, folks! I've got PMS!


Today I growled at J like David after Dentist.


"Oh no!" He cowered. "A week of this?"


It's true. The familiar tidal wave of hate has arrived!


Circumstances are making my case slightly more dire today. I was scheduled to be in DC this morning, though I had nothing pressing (er, nothing) on my calendar. I foolishly decided to make the trek on I-95 South (brave little martyr) and was ceremoniously defeated by nefarious rain and traffic. About 70 miles into my journey, I actually, you know, called the DC office to double-check that I had nothing pressing. Once confirmed, I immediately turned around and white-knuckled it home through the downpour. Nothing like a completely pointless four-hour drive in the rain first thing on a Monday morning!

I also initially titled this post "I've Got PMS and a Handgun" (an homage to the tee-shirt that was once ubiquitous on the Wildwood boardwalk); then I realized dude, you're an asshole! It's only the 10th anniversary of the Columbine massacre. I am crabby and insensitive.

Then, as if I needed another reason to be absolutely miserable, I watched a documentary of the Columbine killers on You Tube. Man, those fuckers were out of their minds. My heart aches for all those affected by the tragedy.

In a vain attempt at a pick-me-up, I headed to the gym. En route, I turned the dial to a radio station that insists upon saying the name and artist of every song played in the most hideously irritating voice. I had a thought, smiled, and believed I had stumbled upon blog brilliance. I promptly pulled out a pen and wrote this on a scrap of paper:

radio stations saying name of every song! haha fuckers! pop eyeballs out and throw at them. Hard.

Wow. I am an amazing writer.

And so I (and my long-suffering husband) soldier on through a week of hormonal high and lows. I will attempt to quell the wrath for your benefit, kind readers, but I make no guarantees.

Procrastination Station

'Member when I confessed I had a l'il problem with procrastination? Yes?

The ramifications continue. Turns out, when a friend spends the night in your third floor guest bedroom in January, and comes down the stairs in the morning and says gently, sorry dude, but you've got squirrels in the walls, the best solution is not to simply hope they go away.

It was certainly a valiant try, though.

Alright you, little bastards. You go the way of your raccoon cohort. ASAP as possible, bitches.

DUDE, Why don't I delete emails EVER?

That's all.

Slight Movement, and Stacking Trays

Siiiigggggggggggggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

There. That's better.

So, I hit the publish button. Then I went downstairs, kissed my husband, and made a strong martini. We sat and talked, and I started to feel the tiniest bit better. Lighter. My martini made me slightly drunk and my eyes welled with tears and I told J I could do it! I could reach my potential! This was it.

The next morning I woke up utterly panicked. I had to delete that post! It was way too personal; likely my most intimate piece to-date. I ran to my office and promptly pressed the power button on my computer.

Then I went downstairs and ate waffles. I took deep breaths and went about my Saturday morning routine. This is a good thing, I told myself. This is a fresh start.

I kept reassuring myself on the elliptical at the gym. I kept breathing as I walked into Staples.

And here I froze. Because I have this thing.

It's this very real obsession with starting fresh. And this obsession brings with it the acquisition of new notebooks, journals, and planners.

It's a distinct pattern in my life, you see. I can't finish what I start, but I can start anew. And so that's what I do, over and over again. My bookshelves are littered with unfinished journals, mindless new beginnings, year after year.

I wish I could tell you I broke my pattern. But like a junkie, I feel victim to all of those shiny new FiveStars, chock-full of fresh, clean, blank goodness. I stayed so long in the aisle picking them up and running my fingers over their smooth covers that a salesperson asked me if I needed help. (Ha!) I picked out two identical books: one black and one gray. And I told myself firmly: This is the last time. You cannot do this again. You need to commit. You just committed. There.

There.

So I earmarked one of the books for "GMAT Studies"; the other for "Writing and Ideas". I also bought some shiny new rollerball pens, for good measure.

There.

On Sunday I opened up my dog-eared copy of Overcoming Procrastination. I took out my highlighter and started to read about stacking trays. I bought the plastic trays in January when I organized my files. I piled three on a cabinet, labeled Mel's Inbox, Mel's Outbox, and To File.

On Friday evening, directly before the HolyShitYouHaven'tSentInYourTaxesWhatIsWrongWithYourGoddamnBrain debacle of '09, J looked at the mound of papers in my Inbox and asked, "Babe, do you ever go through these? I'm getting worried you are missing things."

Er, yeah. I am missing the entire point of the goddamn stacking trays, thankyouverymuch.

I revisited the trays on Sunday. And do you know what I almost bloody neglected? A tiny postcard, from the New York Center for Independent Publishing. The invitation to the annual conference, with keynote speaker:

Wally. F'in. Lamb. (!!!)

Wally is only my favorite writer. Ever. He's brilliant and insightful and moving and humane. I want to take walks with him through meadows and hold his hand and swap life stories.

Coincidence?

I screamed, then bounded down the stairs waving the postcard wildly. "J! J! Guess whaaaaaattttt?!"

It was good news. And maybe it's the impetus I need to begin living my actual life.

Also, to file (promptly!) under Things that Put All Your Bullshit into Perspective:

Yesterday, as we celebrated Easter Sunday at Grandpop's house, my mom pulled out a silver book commemorating my grandparents' 25th Wedding Celebration. It was full of guest lists, gifts, and keepsakes. One card was from my late Grandma Bea, whom in 1979 wrote a letter to her husband thanking him for being such a wonderful man. "We haven't always had it easy, but we have four wonderful kids who are so good to us. We have our health; and we have each other. I don't tell you this enough, but I love you."

My beloved grandpop (who is still young and spry) wrote a note to Bea as well, entitled "Our first Ten Years, 1954 - 1964"). In 1961, he said, "I lost my job; but I didn't lose you."

Yeah, and then my heart burst.

I am optimistic.

In front of the Sphinx in Cairo, just because it's awesome.

Inertia

Everything I do, everything I say is disingenuous.

It seems that my paralysis has seeped into every facet of my life; for I can’t even string coherent sentences together; thus the sight of a blank post template makes me slightly panicked. I can’t write! There is too much to say. Too much to do elsewhere. And I am so overwhelmed that I can do nothing. I am frozen in time. I can read and watch reality TV. I can escape; and I can make lists. But my lists are superficial. They read: Drop off dry cleaning. Make car payment. Buy groceries.

They never get to the root of the problem. The reason for my lethargy. Am I depressed? Am I in the throes of a quarter-life crisis?

I want to talk about Egypt. I want to post that Jordan was an extraordinary country; that we had an amazing time despite a myriad of challenging – and sometimes frightening – situations.

It’s all true.

But I can’t write it.

There is too much else in my brain, and it jumbles around and I can’t be bothered to make sense of it all.

“Maybe I should see a therapist,” I say to J, after a particularly grueling argument regarding my failure to send my city taxes in by J's April 10th deadline (which I agreed to, after postponing the date multiple times). J roared, and I bolted. I got in my car and decided I would drive to the mall. (I quickly nixed that plan once my mind cleared a bit and I remembered that I loathe shopping.)

I drove. And I thought. I attempted to get to the heart of it; to think long and hard enough to reach into my soul, and find the day it began. As if there was one single day in my life – maybe I was three? – when I decided the answer to life’s problems and nuisances was to stick my head in a book. If it overwhelms you, Lissa Jean, tune it out. Do nothing. Come sit here; read Where the Wild Things Are and escape awhile, won’t you?

“I don’t think you need therapy,” J says, not unkindly.

If I must read, it might as well be self-help, eh? I have highlighted most of The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Overcoming Procrastination. Most – not all.

I never finished the fucking book.

GOD!

So I make another list, and I check off the little things. But I completely miss the point. I can’t see the bigger picture. I can’t apply to grad school, because I can’t take the GMATS, because I can’t find time to study. Because if I study, and I fail, I might have to hold myself accountable! Better to see what is happening on The Biggest Loser. Then I will be inspired to change my life; then I will create another list. I’ll tell myself firmly: I’ll start tomorrow.

Yes, tomorrow. Tomorrow is my drug of choice. Tomorrow is looming; but right now? Right now I can sit on my couch and drink this cabernet.

So you wanna be a writer, kid? Well, publish one fluffy feature with a local paper (last November!), and call it a day.

You got published! Now, take a load off. Take a hot bath. You’ll come up with another good idea tomorrow.

My situation is dire. I am rapidly running out of twenties, and I need to be better. I need to do better. I need to be more.

And yet my head feels heavy with the weight of it all.

I am ready to begin again. I am ready to press reset and right the wrongs, all the wasted hours. I am not sure how to do that, but I have an inkling that the first step is being honest, writing it down.

And, of course, hitting the publish button.

Here goes.

I call this post: Time Crunch

Oh, did I mention that today, at about noon, J and I embark on our greatest adventure YET?

Friends, we are off to Egypt and Jordan!

And I have managed to fit all of my demure clothing into a miniscule suitcase, and still, my husband says: "You're not gonna extend that bag are you?" Nevermind that we are checking. J is obsessed with the weight of the bags we must carry, like, from the plane to the car, and then from the car to the hotel. I suppose once a hostel-staying back-packer, always a hostel-staying back-packer, eh?

So we are all set for this trip, but how can I leave for this trip without presenting notes and musings and quotes from my last trip. I have "holy shit I am going to be seeing the Pyramids on Thursday" brain, so, here are the EXACT scribblings from my journal. Enjoy.

DAY 1

February 18, 2009

Evening ( overnight) flight to London.

Just asked Grace to keep something on the low-down, to which she replied "down-low", to which I replied, "no doubt." Then we laughed for about 10 minutes straight.

We're almost underway! Just ten and a half years since our last transatlantic flight, we embark on journey #2! Completely excited and just a tiny bit drunker than last we boarded.

"And I'll keep the change." - HV

"Ya filthy animal!" - Grace

"It's called 'Chunnel' for 'channel' and 'tunnel'. It's kinda like brunch." - Grace, authoritatively

"Yeah, I get the word combo." - Rousseau*, dryly

Covent Garden - Nagshead: beers and good conversation (Note: We talked about that chimp that ripped that lady's face off for an hour. Now that's deep.)

Buckingham Palace - Municipal Building; underwhelmed (For real, y'all. B-league.)

HV and Renaldo* own this city! WHAT UP?

"I am having the best time!!!" - HV, apropos of nothing

"I have never felt so awake!" - HV, exhausted and deliriously drunk

"Quit dippin' your fat in my shit!" - Grace

"That's what she said." - HV (Boo yeah!)

PIG FAT.

Heart Attack. Baker's dozen for me! Fatty FAT FAT. (Note: Remember, these are my actual notes.)

"And I ate a goddamn pigeon." -Rousseau, upon finishing her pigeon

Dear Diary,

Renaldo spilled his wine on me. Very upset.

(And mercifully, we end Day 1 here, though there was much drunk haiku-ing later that evening.)

Day 2

Today: Tower of London, Westminster Abbey, Portobello Road, Notting Hill Pub Crawl

"Oh, I want that postcard!" - Grace, pointing

"The one with that lady?" - Rousseau, inquisitively

"Yeah, Rous. That's the Queen." - Grace, sarcastically

"Did anyone kinda giggle every time they said 'crown jewels?' - Grace, naturally

"We shall call you 'Will'." - HV

"How about 'Renaldo'?" - Renaldo, on his new blog-pseudonym

"You know they saw our Westminster Abbey bags and were all about that!" - HV, on how attractive American tourists who shop at gift shops actually are

"I like to call it 'Victorian bling'!" - David, the kindest tour docent at St. Paul's cathedral

"Maybe if you bitches would have gone out to get the coffee!" - Renaldo, tiring of listening to four women yap

Day 3 - The Penultimate

Bacon! HP sauce = delicious

Post cards from Prince William

Coffee at The Bean, onwards to St. Paul's Cathedral ("feed the birds")

Gorgeous - dichotomy - plain and "Victorian bling"

Crypt - Duke of Wellington and Flo Nightingale

Away to Shakespeare's Globe - Romeo and Juliet

Onward to Borough Market - venison burgers, fish and chips, and Turkish delight

Away to London Eye - regroup

Grace and I off to Red Lion pub by Westminster to compose correspondence from Queen Elizabeth and Prince William to friends back home

Evensong at Westminster Abbey - incredibly emotional service

Off to Harrod's from WA Station

Play in food hall - purchase our weight in chocolates and teas

TOYS!

Champagne bar! Brilliant

And London Eye at night.

Lovely dinner (despite rude hostess) at Light Bar

Back to N's flat - time to party

Wear sequin shirt with magical party powers since am able to stay wide awake through 2, at which time we all head to Sosho

Dance until 4 AM - London brilliant and busy and electric!

"How can I perfect my English accent?" - HV, after yelling one to many "Cheers, mates!"

"Well, for starters, try being born in ENGLAND." - Lovely new friend Brad

In bed by 5 AM

Heathrow by 10:30.

Blue. Blue. Blue.

And well, that about sums up a frenetic, unforgettable trip.

Cheers mates!

* Names have been changed to protect the innocent.

Blimey!

Back from London!

'Twas a rollicking great time, one that I shall not soon forget. Though I havn't much time to write it all down right now, I did manage to keep diligent notes in my journal, often pausing to write down particularly brilliant quotes.


There were also many, many haikus.


On evening number one, I ate pig fat. The waiter marveled: "Oh, try the middlewhite; it's brilliant!" So Rinaldo* and I decided to sample the local fare, and were sorely disappointed. But: when in Rome. (Yes?)

On my last evening in London, Grace and I traveled back to Westminster Abbey for "Evensong", the nightly prayer service. Inside the nave, next to the graves of Isaac Newton and Charles Darwin (!), an all-male choir sang the Magnificat gorgeously. Tears of joy filled my eyes, and I began creating a mental list of all I had learned in the UK, in a mere three adventurous days. The first of which, I share you with now:

Am a lucky, lucky lady.

How blessed I am to have traveled to such wonderful places during my 29 years! To find myself, on a random Saturday in February, having visited St. Paul's Cathedral, Bill Shakespeare's Globe Theatre, the London Eye, Westminster Abbey, and a charming pub (in which Grace and I drank Leffes and composed wickedly funny postcards)! To sample delectable food (it improved greatly after the "pork scratchings"); to drink good wine with new and old friends; to dance until 4 AM; to shout "Cheers, mate!" to one and all; to indulge in Toblerone and British tabloids! It was all perfectly blissful and beautiful and lovely.

I can't wait to share it with you all!

Unpublished.

Where are the bags from?

Westminster Abbey, uh huh!

Watch! Watch! (

*Sadly, we shall never know how this drunken haiku would have ended.

London Calling: A Haiku.

Lord, I am so drunk.

England! You served me pig fat.

I am so naive.

Oh Bloody Hell!

OY - it's been a while, huh?

Let me just say: the new job? She is quite hectic. I have been traveling more than ever, as well as learning a million and four new things per week. It's a lot for my tiny brain (which I just typed as "brian", then chuckled. Doesn't take much.).

Now, what has your blogmistress been up to lately?

Loads.

*Laughs at inside joke.*

Grace and I are about to hit the road; we're taking off to jolly old England for a much-needed vacation on the sunny UK beaches. We leave on Wednesday; but before that trip, I've got to hit up Pittsburgh for a spell. So today I am preparing for London:

You see, when you pack for a trip to the United Kingdom, you do not want to forget the essentials, those being: your beloved copy of The Office, starring the incomparable Ricky Gervais; a biography of Anne Boleyn; and your Once DVD. I mean, you will be near Ireland, at least.

By the way, in the interest of showing you pictures of stuff in my bedroom, here is a postcard that is placed strategically throughout our home:

Obviously, not as effective as I had hoped. But we'll get there.

In other news, Happy Belated Valentine's Day! J and I pretty much refuse to celebrate this holiday, because, as my dry cleaner told me yesterday: "Everyday is Valentine's Day when you are in a good relationship." Wise soul.

But my husband knows his audience: he took me to Barnes and Noble! It was a lovely treat. Four books later, we grabbed a bite to eat at Derek's in Manayunk, where I consumed exactly one seemingly benign Manhattan, which had me effectively drunk by 6:15. So I did as you do, and I made up rock songs about the movie we were planning to watch:

I now pronounce you Chuck and LARRRRRRRRRRRRY!!!

Which, incidentally, was a fairly offensive and boring film. Which, incidentally, is the excuse I gave J for why I was fast asleep by... 7:30.

"The Orientals cheat, you know."

I watched President Obama speak today from a small pub in a hotel in Pittsburgh. I was – as per usual – the lone liberal in a sea of conservatives, so there I sat, alone, breathing in the exquisite moment. Tears pricked my eyes as I listened to our pragmatic new Commander-in-Chief speak firmly about inclusion and equality, proclaiming that all nations are our friends. And Muslims? You are also our friends, and we will all learn to coincide in peace!

If you saw it, regardless of your politics, I don’t think you can deny the purity and grace of our new President’s message. My heart still soars for me, for you, and for all our future babies.

Of course, at the airport bar just now, a middle-aged Steeler fan remarked that he does not, in fact, gamble, at least not since “those damn Oriental women started dealin’ at all the tables.” They cheat, you know."

Yes, indeed, Mr. Obama, we have a ways to go. But we will succeed. Yes we can.

The Last Year of My Twenties. Let's get real.

A few weeks ago, as G and I browsed the stacks at Border's, I came across The Complete Idiot's Guide to Overcoming Procrastination.

"Well, look at this!" I announced, holding the book for G to see. "This is what I need!"

"Ha," she snorted. "I would put off reading that."

"Yeah, me too," I agreed. But I bought it anyway.

Now the missive sits next to me, dog-eared and highlighted, adorned with 15 post-it notes, all instructing me to declutter this and organize that. It's actually working! I've cleaned out my entire office (all of my work and personal files), and I feel positively lighter. My brain is being decluttered, and I feel like I am finally in control of my own destiny, as opposed to just hiding in Friends reruns, willing myself to feel inspired to write, to clean, to cook, to exercise. To live my life. I am doing it, and that's that.

So here it is, my 2009 Resolution list. It is considerably smaller than last year's. Drumroll please:

(Joy to the World!)

1. I will finish what I start.
2. I will write. And write. And write. And when I am spent? I will then write some more.
3. I will become a more loving, caring wife, daughter, grand-daughter, sister, cousin, and friend. (See also: more timely "thank you" notes.)
4. I will get into supreme physical shape via increased cardio, strength-training, yoga, and healthy eating. (Okay, okay, I know it's trite, but really, what do you have if you don't have your health? Besides, I am also very interested in wearing a bikini this year with zero misgivings. Sue me.)
5. I will drink less. Lest I become haggardly elder lady. In my THIRTIES.

So that's that. And yeah. It'll happen this year. I feel it.

On a separate, unrelated note, the new Bachelor looks like George W. Bush. And he just said "amazing journey" twice. I bet this time, things'll work out.

Happy 2009! I am a rock star!

So it's 2009, and I have been MIA for many, many days. Miss me?

Well, I missed you. Terribly. And for the three of you who are interested, I still have a job! And I totally meant to blog about my adventures in securing said job. Let me just tell you, I had already written the post in my head. It was entitled: "And then I got my period." (I thought it sounded like a country song chorus, right?) And since you ask, US Air lost my bag. It took me 3 cabs to find a mall. I then got stranded at the mall in Columbia, SC. My luggage arrived the next day. Broken. My return flight was canceled. I had to drive to Charlotte. My face wash exploded in my bag. My flight was delayed. And then I got my period. No, really. It was so insulting. But all's well that end's well. The end.

And now I find myself in Orlando, Florida, at the start of a new year, and it is time to review last year's resolutions. Oh boy! This should be an exercise in futility! Let's see:


Become more clear-headed. - Sure.

Perhaps drink less alcohol. - Next.

Also, consider a mantra. - "Mmm. Wine."??

One Thing At A Time. - No, that's better.

Because honestly, we can't go on with our head so - cluttered. - Ahem. Better luck in 2009!

Meet Howie Mandel. - Haha! Yes! Did it, bitches!

Provide Internet photographic evidence of said meeting. Blam. What up!

Take the GMATs. - I'm a loser.

Take them again and really rock them. - No comment.

Apply to graduate school. - Well, at least I took a class. That's really something.

Actually go this time around. (Don't ask.) - Well, we'll actually go later this year, won't we, HV?

Be amazing future wife. Think special presents and thoughtful gestures, amongst, ahem, other things. - Now I am depressed. Although I did just gift J with a day at the shootin' range, something he has always wanted to do. But I also told my mom to get him a humidifier for Christmas (he needed it!). Yeah, those two cancel each other out.

Visit a California winery. - Check! Three down!

Develop exquisite physique for July nuptials. - Meh. Not exquisite, but serviceable.

Avoid burritos. - Switched to burrito bowls. I am giving myself this one.

Watch less television. - F you, resolution list.

Finish Anna Karenina. - No. And I am taking this off the '09 list. Come on, Tolstoy. Throw me a bone.

Even though Lisa Turtle gave away the ending trying to impress that snobbish intellectual she had a crush on in that one episode.

Reduce call-screening by 50%. - If I'm being honest... No.

Call Grandmom more. - I'm a jerk.

Give more compliments. - I will give myself this one. You are so pretty.

But make sure they are sincere. - Well, you are somewhat attractive.

Stop DVRing Sex and the City on TBS. - Yes! Your puns are silenced forever, Bradshaw.

Stop worrying so much. - Sort of.

Consider another mantra for this. - "Don't worry. Be happy."

More. Yoga. - Nice work! Until after the wedding. Lazy.

Get published. - Yeppers! One article down, 894090 to go.

To this end, definitely drink less and cut out bad TV. - Look alive, HomeValley!

Post more. - I'm an asshole.

Become a friend of the blogosphere. Delurk. - Meh.

Floss. - Nope.

Organize office. - We did it!

Maintain organized workspace. - Good luck with this.

Send "thank you" cards. - Did it!

Visit Africa. - March 2009.

See the pyramids in Egypt. - Soon enough, my precious.

Go on a safari. - Not this year. Not next.

Quell road rage. - Ehhh.

Get promoted. - Or move laterally! Good for you, though.

These are stupid:

Become a better networker.
Volunteer at least three days this year.
Become a student of theology.
Pick a religion that works.
Stop offending Jesus.
Become spiritual person.
Quit complaining.
Gossip less.

Finally get belly-button ring removed, because honestly. You got that thing at 18 on South Street. Time to let go. - Change of heart about this one. Stay young.

Develop solid wedding song playlist. - Well, I think all who attended can agree. I rocked this.

Avoid most wedding cliches. - Yep.

Share your success in these quests with the Internet. - You're welcome, Internet.

And also those damn Istanbul pictures already. - Merhaba, friends.

So, was it a successful year? Meh. Probably not, resolutionary-speaking. But I will remain steadfast this year. I've discovered a newfound zest for organization, dedication, and a little something I like to call: finish what you start, you silly blog-mistress. That's what 2009 is about. And I swear, I am going to do it.

Happy New Year, y'all.

Imminent.

"What are you working on?" The kindly older gentleman seated next to me at the coffee house inquires, as I toil away the hours on my Dell laptop.

"A business plan," I say, smiling.

He grimaces. "A business plan? Ha! That's what they ask you to do before they fire you!"

Quite.

Welcome to the Bitter Barn!

Since Festivus is upon us, I think it is high time that we begin the traditional "airing of greivances" that comes along with this age-old, Seinfeldian holiday.

I'll start, okay?

I really, really believe, with my whole heart and soul and mind and being, that mass-emailed letters for "job opportunities" are the absolutest lamest method for contacting a prospective candidate, and they sort of make me hate the Internet. I am not some chump, Mass Emailed Letters for "Job Opportunities"! I am an actual, thinking, living, working person, who is frankly insulted by any form of communication that begins: "Dear Candidate". Asshole.

Yesterday, I did some light job-searching on Careerbuilder. I found an opportunity that looked somewhat appealing amidst all of the sewage that recruitment companies and scam artists post. And lo! The ad copy read: No online or emailed applications. We believe you are more than just your resume. Call our HR department directly, at...

Angels began an Hallelujah chorus in my mind's soundtrack. I called immediately. The conversation went like this:

"Dave": Hello! Are you calling about the ad online?

HV, smiling: Yes! I am interested in X opportunity!

"Dave": Wonderful! Let me just ask you some questions. Name? Email? Address? Background? Degree?

HV answers all that is asked, delighted at "Dave's" attentiveness.

"Dave": OK, we are a firm representing many Fortune 500 companies in the area. I am going to send you a packet to fill out and get back to us. We do background screening for these companies first, and then we'll set you up with a floppity-jillion interviews and you'll make $500,000 in your first 3 months. And the best part is, it only costs you $29!

HV, dejectedly: Wait... You want me to pay you $29? Isn't your fee typically provided by the client?

"Dave", condescendingly: Is $29 a problem for you?

HV, sarcastically: No, "Dave", I can afford it. I have just never heard of such a thing.

"Dave": Well, we have to pre-screen for our clients!

HV, resignedly: Well, you can send me the packet and I'll take a look.

"Dave": Fantastic. Now, would you like to pay by debit or credit card?

HV, angrily: Seriously, "Dave"? I don't know you from Adam, and you want me to give you my credit card information?

"Dave", smugly: Call us when you're ready. [Hangs up abruptly.]

Which brings me to my next grievance: I fucking hate "Dave".

And the "Economy".

And the potential threat of losing my livelihood.

To name just a few.

J came home yesterday afternoon to find his glum wife bemoaning her career future. And that husband of mine? Who is awesome? Talked me off the ledge. We came up with FIVE possible solutions! And we made budgets! And by the time I hightailed it to the Olive Garden to meet mom and Gina for dinner (yes, the frugality starts tomorrow), my future prospects seemed a hell of a lot better.

And I will leave "Dave" to "Karma".

And at this time, I would appreciate it if you too would hop into the Bitter Barn with me. What are some of your year-end grievances?

I'll Be Lovin' You Forever

So I wasn't sure how I felt about going to see the New Kids on the Block. Dude, I'm 28. And I had already suffered a particularly potent type of heartbreak in 1993. The Kids had recently been generating a ton of bad press (had they changed their name to NKOTB yet?), when my brother Mike unceremoniously mocked my unabiding love of Jordan, Joey, and the gang: "Melis - they're OVER. They're so gay!"

And you guys? I cried. I was thirteen, and my eyes filled with tears, and I probably screamed that he was a butthead, and I ran to my room and slammed the door.

And then, weeks later, I conceded defeat. I had to let them go, you know? I threw my full support behind Jason Priestly and Mark-Paul Gosselaar, and called it a day. NKOTB eventually broke up, and we all moved on.

Suddenly, it's 2008, and Grace is buying $91 tickets for a New Kids reunion show at the Wachovia Center. (Email to Grace: You know, that is a ridiculous amount to pay for those tickets. Email to HV: I know. But we will have fun!)

I didn't give the concert much thought until the date approached. I was looking forward to seeing Grace and the girls, and hopeful that the Kids would play "Funky, Funky Christmas", but that was about it. Before the show, we drank numerous beers and gorged on Chickie's and Pete's crab fries. Then we grabbed our seats, and the lights dimmed.

And... PANDEMONIUM ensued. I started screaming my face off with the rest of the sold-out crowd. My heart was pounding! My palms were sweating! And lo - the Kids appeared before our eyes, rising up from the center of the stage like angels, and looking damn fine approaching 40, thankyouverymuch.

My eyes filled! I bit my lip and wondered what in God's name had come over me?

And then I realized.

I owed this to her:

And her:

And her:

And - oh yeah - her:

That's right, folks: 1990 HomeValley. The little girl whose sole purpose in life was collecting New Kids paraphernalia, and loving on Jordan, Joe, and Donnie. The kid who attended her first NKOTB concert that year - her first concert ever - and probably felt just as teary and excited the first time those dudes appeared (ahem, 18 years younger) on the stage that night.

And believe you me, she and I had a blast together a few weeks ago at the Wachovia. Although, we never did hear "Funky, Funky Christmas".

I'll be lovin' you forever, indeed.

There but for the grace of God...

Sorry, but if you are looking for the funny, you won't find it here today. It's been a long week, y'all.

Each day, I remind myself that every moment is a gift. I am quelling my urge to procrastinate, and I am trying to celebrate life every second I am breathing. J and I had a wonderful date on Tuesday night, making homemade burritos, drinking wine, watching our shows, and laughing a lot. But when we crawled into bed that evening, I burst into tears. Grief washes over me like a wave some days, and I am prone to fits of crying.

Now, I am not grieving because I lost Donna, though I will miss her dearly. I am grieving for all that was lost to her friends and family. Everything they must continue without: a sister, a daughter, a friend. Her "life celebration" was heartbreaking and beautiful. The funeral home was filled with all things that were Donna: her Morrisey memorabilia; her pin collection; her stuffed animals; her roller skates; the books she loved. There were pictures and slide shows and, most poignantly, silent video of her living, moving, breathing, laughing. Her loved ones presented a gorgeous portrait of a life - of her life - that ended so abruptly. I was overwhelmed by the injustice of it all. As the minister eulogized: "I think we can all agree, folks, that 31 years? It's just not enough. Thirty-one years is NOT enough."

Amen to that, brother.

At the service, I spoke with another coworker.

"I was the last person to see her alive," he said, his eyes filling. "I drove her to get her car, which she was having cleaned. She was chatty on the ride there - same old Donna. I stayed to make sure everything was okay. When she got in the car, she rolled down her window and smiled at me. 'Smells much better in here!' she said. Then she drove off. You know, they found a Wawa receipt in the car. She must have stopped there, and then the accident happened. I dropped her off at 5:15, and they called the accident at 5:33."

I can't stop thinking about that fucking Wawa receipt, either. One minute you stop for a coffee, or a snack. The next - nothingness.

When I got home, I looked up her myspace page, presumably to further torture myself. Her last login was the day she died.

And these, Internet, are the thoughts that keep me awake at night now. The idea that you can be going along in your regular routine - checking myspace, picking up your car, stopping for a coffee... And then, that's it.

And I sit here, in the coffee house, staring at my monitor, and the post-it I've attached to it, per Allie's suggestion: Life. I think, this time, I will hold onto this resoluteness: to remember that each moment is a precious, precious gift. That no matter how bad it gets, we are all so lucky to be here still.

I hope you will too.

And tomorrow, by God, I will lighten this place up a bit. Talk about the New Kids concert, or something. That ought to get us smiling again, no?

Haunted

A coworker was killed in a car accident last night.

She was young and vibrant, not unlike myself.

We were not particularly close, but we were very friendly. She worked in our local office, so I saw her more frequently than most. A few months ago, we had a long conversation. I was in the office, showing her my wedding photos. She was complimentary ("You are still glowing!"), as she always was, and inquired coyly if my brother was single. That day, she peppered me with questions about my relationship with J.

"I hope you don't mind me asking you so much," she said, smiling. "Someday, we'll have drinks and I will tell you my story."

She was ebullient outwardly, but I always sensed there were dark issues she dealt with privately. It always seemed as if it were a struggle to be happy, and she put on a brilliant show. I wish I had known her better. I wish we had gone out for those drinks.

In times like these, when someone so young dies so suddenly, I am haunted by thoughts of their last days, weeks, months. I wonder, what would she have done differently, knowing she had mere months, weeks, days to live? I shudder at the thought of my own life being snatched away in an instant. So I drive slowly and carefully. Recommit myself to a life with purpose. Reach out to friends. Vow to be a better wife and daughter and sister. Stop screening calls.

Like life, these resolutions are fleeting. Next week, I'll be late for an appointment, speeding again. I won't answer my grandmother's call because I will be too busy. I'll snap at my husband. I wonder why it seems impossible to hold on to this feeling, this combination of sorrow mixed with grief, and also pure joy, because we are alive and we can hug our loved ones, and have another girls' dinner, take another vacation, watch another Adam Sandler movie.

Rest in peace, Donna. I hope, wherever you are, you are happy.

Melissa P. HomeValley, Reporter-At-Large

So, what exactly did my Facebook hiatus spawn?

Well, I did go to the gym on Friday. I did apply for several different jobs, now that my corporate fate is in peril. I did talk to my old colleague about that production job in New York, and you know what? She thinks I am actually qualified and says I will get an interview in the next two weeks. And, my friends, I did submit some writing samples to a local newspaper, and this week I have my very first assignment.

Apparently, life is what happens when you close your Internet browser and walk away from the Facebook.

Who knew?

I had the opportunity to travel to DC yesterday for a brief meeting, and afterwards, with an hour to kill, I meandered around the Northwest quadrant, marveling at the Capitol building. Staring at it, my heart swelled once again with hope for our country, for the world, and for myself.

It's been a very good week.

A Life With Purpose

This morning, as is typical when I work from my home office, I stumbled down the stairs incoherently and immediately turned on the television. I scrolled the DVR menu until I found what I was looking for: yesterday's Oprah.

Ah, O. Just what I need to start my day, to live my best life.

Yesterday's guest was one Mr. Will Smith, who is so lovable I just want to squeeze him. He spoke about how he had just turned 40, and that now, he does not want to do anything in his life without purpose.

Right! I said aloud to my television screen. I want to live my life that way too, Mr. Smith! I thought. And then I made a mental list of all the things I wanted to accomplish today, including: mailing our marriage license to the translator (ah, destination weddings), going to the gym, eating perfectly healthy, applying for a new job, writing a blog post, sending my resume to an old colleague who has a TV producer position available for me in New York (it's such a stretch, I just can't not send my CV on a wing and a prayer), etc.

I came upstairs shortly thereafter for a conference call. I booted up my computer and clicked on Internet Explorer.

When suddenly, I realized it.

Facebook.

Facebook is the enemy of all productivity. It is the devil's minion. It must be stopped!

I had been fervently rooting through Facebook pages for 30 minutes, when I froze with this devastating realization.

Holy crap on a cracker - I am addicted to Facebook. I have a problem.

And now I need to make it right. But how? How does one restrict utilization? How do I go about my daily life not knowing what you all are doing at this precise moment? Without seeing your pictures from the weddings and Halloween parties you have recently attended? Without your clever wall posts? How?!?

*Deep breath*

So, I am officially exiting Facebook for the remainder of this Friday. Baby steps. I don't want to overwhelm myself, or my constant craving for information about all of my FB friends.

Melissa P. HomeValley... what are you doing right now?

Over and out.

Letter to My Future Babies

Dear Beautiful, Kind, Open-Minded Babies: C, V, and A,

I hope this is not premature, but: you're welcome.

Love,

Mom

The Jerkstore Rang

Yesterday, I swore I wouldn't be dragged into it. But it happened. Again.

A business associate pulls out her cell phone at a luncheon in central Jersey, smirking. "Check this out," she says conspiratorially to me. She shows me her phone and I begin reading an email as she scrolls.

The email details a "plan" for Americans: from now on, all wages will be pooled together and split equally. This will allow for workers who are too lazy to work overtime to still be paid equally as well. The supervisor will give eloquent speeches in the breakroom, etc.

And suddenly my blood is boiling. I push the phone away, smile, and say merely: "Please."

She giggles. "[Our multi-millionaire business associate] sent that to me today. Hilarious, right?"

This woman sits next to me adorned in fur. She places her phone into a large leather Coach bag. She calls her assistant and asks, "Which car did my husband drive to work today? Was it the burgundy car?" When asked how many cars she actually has, she smugly replys, "Five." She's taking the family on a cruise to the Cayman Islands next month. I'd estimate her annual income is between 400,000 and 500,000. She must be worth millions.

"I already get taxed too much," she assures me.

Well fuck, for your sake, I hope that radical socialist doesn't get elected today. Spread the wealth? Is he insane?