I'm obnoxious.

There is something about being home that makes me revert back to being a child. The second I walked in my Grandfather's door it was as if I had lost about 20 years and went up 3 dress sizes. (The food. Oh my God. We should all eat like New Englanders.) He even puts these slippers out for me that are essentially two giant pooh bear heads that you cram your feet into. That ends up being my footwear of choice the ENTIRE weekend, and there is nothing like walking around with your feet in pooh's head that makes you feel super sexy.

So, I regress. Majorly. And I have never thought about it until this last trip.

One morning Gramp and I were drinking coffee in the kitchen as I watched him prepare the turkey for dinner. (Notice I said watching, not helping. I am a total ass.) Totally out of character for him, my Gramp looked up at me and said out of the blue: "You know. Your Grandmother would have been really proud of you. You've turned into an amazing woman."

My jaw dropped and I stared at him and then I stared down at my pooh bear heads on my feet. I was wearing snowflake pajama pants, one of Brett's old shirts, and my hair was still in little braids I had absently constructed as I watched him cook food for me. I felt anything but womanly. I didn't even feel adult.

"Well." I said. "Let's not go that far."

He frowned at me over the naked turkey. "You're being weird."

"No, you're being weird!" I sang out, and then clamped my hand over my mouth, trying to silence the sing-songy Melissa that comes out when I am nervous or uncomfortable. Or drunk. I cleared my throat and looked him in the eye in the way I imagined an adult woman wearing pooh slippers would. "Gramp. I feel like I have no idea what I am doing with my life and I feel anything but womanly. What would Gram be proud of, exactly?"

He was quiet for a long time, and I felt that I had shattered the one adult moment we had shared this entire trip. I slowly unthreaded the braids from my hair and patted my pooh feet lovingly. "She would be proud of you because you chased your happy." He grunted, shoving the bird into the oven. "That's all we ever wanted for you, and you did it. You've grown up a lot."

It was refreshing to know that his idea of success and maturity was not measured in 401k plans or glittering job offers. He didn't care that I wear pajamas that are actually intended for toddlers or that I am still in school at 28 years old with my ovaries covered in a layer of dust. He was just proud of me for chasing...something. For leaving my small town and going after a dream and a life and not ever really giving up on it. To him, that dedication made me a woman. And a grown up. It was weird to see myself through that lens.

I guess the whole point is to make sure we are open to the possibility that we're not total fuck ups. To be willing to look at ourselves the way other people see us- because sometimes, for good and for bad, that is the most realistic interpretation of who we are. Maybe I spent the rest of the day twirling around the kitchen in my slippers, (I discovered that the pooh head is so heavy that if you get yourself going in a good spin you can rotate several times because the weight propels you forward...yes, I realize how awesome you now think I am...) AND MAYBE I stole the pickle and cheese tray and ate the whole thing by myself, AND MAYBE I made up a song about Christmas and sung the whole thing to Gramp really loud in my stage of a kitchen, (some of the winning lyrics? "It's Christmasss...CHRISTMASSSS....CHRISTMASSSSSSSSS!") but these things didn't make me a child, they made me a very eccentric adult with an insatiable need for attention.

I'm ok with that adult. And I kind of like the fact that she's not always polished, she's not always quiet, (well, never, actually.) but she is colorful and loved and a little bit insane.

And I am still chasing my happy, Gram. And I promise I will never, ever stop.

Happy Everything.

I'm so embarrassed I have been gone for so long.

I blame the holidays. I truly was in my hometown- which means we have one meat shop, one liquor store, one wal-mart AND THAT IS IT. So, I don't apologize for eating turkey in the general great expanse of nothing with my Grandfather.

Don't judge.

I went home for Thanksgiving, as you can tell. And I spent the holiday religiously- meaning I was in my slippers and unkempt hair the whole time. It was bliss. My Gramp even put out cheese cubes for me. I MEAN, WHAT IS BETTER THAN THAT? Nothing. I may be a California girl and know about all the fancy ways to entertain, but you put a plate of cubed cheese in front of me and I WILL LOSE MY SHIT.

I love my Grandfather.

It was a weekend of white zinfandel (his favorite wine,) home videos, Melissa in pajamas, and epic dart wars/air hockey tournaments. My Grandfather put in a game room when my Gram died, and believe me: it gets used. Although I think his vision was a place to bring the grandkids together,not have them at each other's necks...but still. It is a great place.

So, I came home to Berkeley, approximately 5.6 pounds heavier and that much more depressed. I met my personal trainer on my arrival and this is AN ACTUAL CONVERSATION WE HAD:

Her: (Amazonian, Venus Williams-ian,) "You've gotten flabby in the ONE week I was not working with you."

Me: "Don't you have a soul? Or pumpkin pie? I feel like no one loves you or something....I mean, the way you gnash your teeth at me."

Her: "That is not really nice, is it? Do 100 push ups. NOW."

Me: "I'm ovulating. I don't know why I said no one loves you. I...love you. But I cannot procreate with you, so..."

Her: "3...4...5..."

Me: "Oh my God. I don't know if you know me, but I will not be doing 100 push ups."

Her: "DON'T YOU WANT TO BE HOT?!"

Me: "I feel like I am special in my own way..."

Her: "I give up. But I don't. Because you are paying me."

Me: "Yes! I pay you to say nice things!"

Her: "Your hair always looks nice when you come in. And I like your perfume..."

Me: "Finally. NOW we are getting somewhere..."

I am horrible at personal training.

Being home has sparked something within me that has been eating away at me ever since. Number one, PEOPLE CAN AFFORD HOUSES IN NEW HAMPSHIRE. I kept an eye on real estate stuff while I was home, and I was sickened to discover I could probably afford a 4.5 bedroom house with servants quarters, a laundry room, and an in-law apartment attached. We went to visit old friends...and they welcomed us into their beautiful ADULT HOMES THAT THEY GET TO LIVE IN TOGETHER. It was hard to see. I came home to my studio and I immediately spent 50$ on Christmassy decorations to make it feel un-dorm-like. I called Brett immediately:

Me: "So, I found a tree....I named him Marvin."

Brett: "You named...a tree?"

Me: "Well. Of course. You thought he would just go nameless? I'm not a horrible person, you know."

Brett: "But...Marvin? Wha..?"

Me: "It's awesome. And he misses you. So I feel like you should shut your mouth before you upset everyone."

And that is the story of how Marvin came to be.

Moral is: family will always try and lead you away from the one thing that (maybe only you) believe in. But, they mean the best. Family is about: awkward moments, mustached kisses from aunts, secrets kept from Mom and Dad, sibling love/rivalry, laughter, joy, sweat, tears...

Life is full of awkward, sweaty, Stanford-trainer-moments. It is up to us to take a step back, laugh, and...live.

Happy Holidays everyone. May your family be less weird than mine.

8 Weeks until I am TOTALLY SEXY and in a bathtub with a turkey leg. Naturally.

I woke up really, really sick today and I woke up in a very, very dramatic way. The second I opened my eyes and groggily realized the little sore throat from the night before had turned into a full blown earache/swollen gland/aches and pains extravaganza, I lost it. I laid there in bed moaning out loud: "Oh no, OH NOOO" over and over again as if that was going to magically restore my heath.

I don't usually mind being sick, but when I am ALONE and there is NO ONE TO MAKE ME SOUP AND PAT MY HEAD It sort of loses its romantic appeal. I also had a workout today that I really didn't want to miss.

Yes. You heard that right. I did not want to miss a workout.

I'm not fat by any means, but I'm also definitely not in shape. The one day I was late to class and had to sprint up 4 endless levels of stairs and nearly died was the day that I felt like enough was enough. I got a gym membership the next day. And then I spent that day scouting out where all of the hot tubs and spas were. And then the next day I started working out.

Priorities.

It's amazing what happens when you tell people that you are working out again. It releases a barrage of back-hand compliments. "Oh good," a friend told me. "I mean, you need it, right?" Another friend gushed: "You are going to look SO HOT! And it won't take that long, because you're, like, not fat at all. You're just soft! Oh my God, I can't wait to see how good you are going to look!"

Now, I'm not going to tell you all how much I weigh, (123 pounds) because that is not the point of this story, (I only weigh 123 pounds, goddammit) and I won't submit to the noise my friends are making since I know that they only have the best of intentions. (123. fucking. pounds.) It is about health, I get that, and my friends are just excited that I am making some life changes and won't be curling up in bed with a glass of scotch balancing on my stomach as I read.

Or, I will, but that stomach will be SEXIER. And probably flatter, which will in turn provide a better table-top for my booze.

So now you see why I was despondent over missing that workout.

Junking myself up on Nyquil, I took my sick, soft ass to the couch and woozily googled Tina Fey pictures. This is one of my favorite things to do. I don't know why. I'm not normal. I came across this picture, and my life was changed:

It was the single funniest thing I had ever seen. Especially hopped up on Nyquil at 11am. I immediately, (continuing to make good choices) banged out an e-mail to a photographer friend of mine. This is exactly what it said:

hi guys!
I have a pretty amazing idea.

I was thinking of doing a boudoir shoot- but a really awesome one. I want to mimic Tina Fey's esquire spread, captured in spirit with this picture. This is what I am thinking: me in a bubble bath, eating a turkey leg, wearing rain boots. Or posing with empty bottles of champagne, clown dolls, stuffed monkeys in my wedding dress. OR if we could get a BUNCH OF CATS...well, I don't know what we would do with them, but it sounds promising.

I have a million more ideas, all better than the last in my brain. I know we can't get a million cats, but we CAN get a turkey leg.

I look forward to your reply and hopeful continued friendship.
xo
Melissa

I had decided in my drug induced haze that the most logical reward for getting a hot body would be a photo shoot with a turkey leg. This made total sense to me, and I even thought "I could make this a book and give it to Brett for his birthday!"

Because everyone knows that there is nothing a man wants more than a picture of his wife with 4,000 cats and stuffed monkeys.

Sometimes I am just too sexy for my own good. Or, I will be. In 8 weeks.

You're Doing Everything Wrong.

I really love when people admit that they have no fucking idea what they are doing. It warms my heart. It makes my stomach tickle. I find nothing more beautiful than admitted weakness.

It's all of the other bastards out there that really get me down. You know everything? You're good at everything? Awesome. Here is a cookie. A COOKIE ATTACHED TO MY FOOT WHICH IS NOW IN YOUR FACE.

So, you can imagine how thrilled I was when, on the phone with a friend, she soothed my anxiety over the details of my life. Details like I live in a studio apartment, my husband lives across the country, and everyone around us seems to be doing it "right." She countered with the gorgeous argument: "Well, maybe everybody else is doing it wrong. That should be the name of your book. "You're Doing Everything Wrong."

I actually had to sit down on the floor- in the middle of a store- because I had never heard anything more profound in my entire life. "You could even follow it up with a sex book." she continued. "You're still Doing Everything Wrong."

"I've always wanted to share my 2 positions. It's selfish, really, not cluing the world in on that."

"Well, there you go." She laughed. PROBLEM SOLVED.

It made me think back on a time where I was having cocktails with THE WIVES: a group of woman from Brett's office that were all newly married, and all very proper and "doing it right," no doubt. While I love these ladies an insane amount, they are not exactly the crew that I would drag my Edward barbie doll out of the closet with. For some reason, the topic of lying came up.

(As it naturally does over a cheese plate and bottle of Cabernet.)

"I would never, ever tell a lie." One wife dramatically declared, taking a tiny sip of wine. Meanwhile, I had gulped mine down and blurted out: "Lying is like snorting cocaine. SUPER FUN in small doses and it makes life more interesting. But you probably shouldn't do it, before...like a wedding or a baptism or something."

Silence.

In all honesty, I have never, ever snorted...well, anything, but especially not cocaine. This is just a PRIME EXAMPLE of Melissa "not doing it right" by going for the most inappropriate joke at the most inappropriate time. I spent the rest of our cocktail hour reassuring them that I was not a druggie and didn't actually lie on a regular basis.

Which was basically a normal night with the Wives, anyway.

There are countless times in my life where I second guess every thing I say and every thing I do. This can be helpful once and awhile. I don't need to dump half a bottle of champagne in my shoe at my husband's work mixer. I don't always need to be the first one up dancing at weddings...like, before the bride and groom. The word "fuck"- being an English major at Berkeley-probably shouldn't be my favorite and most used word. It's not like I don't have more to choose from. That all being said, I don't have to wake up the morning after a dinner date with friends and crucify myself for every flaw, every awkward movement, every thing that I did wrong. BECAUSE YOU KNOW WHAT? You're doing everything wrong, I'm doing everything (and I mean everything,) wrong...

WHO THE FUCK CARES.

I'm flawed. I make up stories. I taught the kids I use to nanny how to do a really authentic Indian-cab-driver accent. I talk too much, I'm wasteful with paper towels. I totally cheated on a test LIKE LAST WEEK and I'm not always a very patient person.

But I would do anything for someone I loved at ANY time of the night or day. I make a killer baked macaroni and cheese. If you are in my home you will be treated like a king or a queen. and I know how to pour a proper glass of wine.

So, maybe some people think I'm not doing everything by the rules that they created and hold the rest of the population to. Maybe I'll have kids. Or not. Maybe I'll adopt a bunch of monkeys and name them all "Esmeralda." Maybe I jar peanut butter for a living and go home to my husband, dog, and stuffed deer collection. Maybe I'll wear sweater sets and pearls and be the head of the PTA.

Um. No. Actually, I would never do that.

The point is- I'm not doing anything wrong. There is a good chance I'm doing everything wrong- but I'll take it.

We're all doing the same thing, whether we realize it or not. Fucking up, making mistakes, making memories, laughing, learning, loving, breathing.

No one on earth is doing "it right."

Well-

except Chuck Norris.

Every time you tell your girlfriend you love her, a puppy gets it's wings.

(Taken at the "New Moon" premier. And yes, that is a bottle of wine in that water bottle, thankyouverymuch.)

I called my father today in need of some comfort only my quirky father can provide, and this is the conversation we actually had:

Me: "Hey Dad. I just need a pick me up. What are you doing? Wait. Let me guess. Sitting in the den, watching football?"

Dad: "I resent that. I did a lot today. I took my neighbor's junk to the dump and stood in the yard talking with her for an hour. She has a bag attached to her abdomen that collects her poop, Melissa. Her husband died last year and I was the one to carry him out of the house. It's been a fruitful day."

Me: "You do realize that I am putting this conversation on my blog later, right? Even if I can't tie it in in any way? I'm doing that."

Dad: "I forgot that I can't tell you anything."

So, there that is.

I have been a bit down for about a week, but only my nearest and dearest can tell. I was talking with a close friend on the phone recently and she just came out and asked me why I have been so out of it. "Your blog entries are totally depressing." She said. "I know something is up- they haven't been very funny lately."

"Ah, but this is where you are wrong." I replied emphatically. "They have been funny. You're just confused. Or maybe they were so funny you cried, thinking that they were sad?"

"No. They were sad. You are totally bumming me out everyday."

Awesome.

I don't know why I am sad. Well, actually I do, but I DON'T HAVE TO TELL YOU EVERYTHING, BLOG. I'm doing that thing I do when I am pretty depressed. I put on a maniacal face. I am overly enthusiastic about everything. I maintain a hectic social life with ridiculous stamina. And then I cry myself to sleep.

It's super attractive.

I called upon a friend today when the noise got too loud in my head. She is, quite literally, the only friend I have that I simply cannot shock. She knows more about me than Jesus. I could tell her: "Hey, I accidentally killed someone," and she would just nod, take a sip of wine, and be like: "I'm sure you had a good reason. What should we do with the body?"

Friends like that are rare.

We met for lunch and she let me launch into a diatribe about life as she sat serenely across from me, nodding and soothing and motioning the waiter to bring more wine. I was surprised at the force behind my words and the emotions I was vomiting out onto the table. I was so used to biting my tongue that having the freedom to unleash my (carefully chained) fury and sadness was pretty liberating. And exhausting. And needed.

When I was done, she said the exact thing that my soul was aching to hear. "Do you know that you are beautiful? You are beautiful, and you are giving, and I am so lucky to know you and to love you in this life."

Fucking A.

I think I actually melted a little bit. My shoulders slumped, my tongue went slack, and suddenly- every vile thing that had been brewing inside of me was gone. I looked at her, pushed all of the emotional vomit aside, and said: "Did I ever tell you how fantastic you looked in that red dress when we went to Lo Coco's? I mean- you are a stone cold fox."

And I was back.

We sat there for hours, giggling, drinking red wine, and reminiscing about the day we met. We met on craigslist, actually. I had placed an ad looking for girls to start a book-club, and among the many pictures of penises I got, she replied and we met in a coffee shop.

"You came in wearing that yellow dress" she started-

"And I saw you in all black, being all European, and I was like, fuck."

"It was love at first sight." we sort of both said, but not really because life isn't a movie. In all reality she said it and then I echoed it and then we said it again a few times. Sorry to ruin the romance of it all.

But our lives are like a movie. We've seen each other through divorce, marriage, new beginnings, sad good-byes, love found and lost. She's lived with me, she's fed me, I loaned her my "Twilight" book and we both became obsessed to an unhealthy degree.I ate my first (and only, I swear) pot brownie with her, I have wept in front of her. I have been my best in front of her. We have held hands through so much that life has tossed our way.

Yes, maybe finding her meant I had to stare at a plethora of e-mailed penises, but I would do it all again in a heartbeat. Girlfriend's are the sisters in life that you choose. And I would choose her everyday.

On the way home we were talking about how I intended on taking my Twilight Edward barbie doll out of his package so he can go with us to the theater. "Can we put him between us, and each of us hold his little hand through the movie?" She asked.

I swear to God I looked at her, and was filled head to toe with ridiculous love. "Yes we can." I replied. And then I hugged her. And hugged her. And whispered a fervent thanks for the woman that she is.

Which is kick ass. Obviously.

28 is the new AWESOME.

(Fucking Terrifying.)

I was sitting in a cafe today with a friend as we excitedly went over details of her upcoming wedding. Ok, maybe I wasn't exactly "excited," but I was mustering up enough froth to throw her off my scent. It's not that I am not happy for her. I truly am. She is, quite literally, the sweetest woman I have ever met and her fiancee is a dreamboat and so, so good to her. They are going to be fantastically happy. I know it. I see it every time I look into her face. But since I am a selfish and childish bitch I don't want anyone to be happy...ever. In fact, every one's husbands should just move across the country. Girls on one side, boys on the other. Then we could all be in the same boat! Fairs fair.

See? Bitch.

Somehow, kids came up, (naturally,) and she asked me if I was planning on being a stay-at-home Mom. I sat there blinking at her for a few moments, feeling oddly like I was hovering outside of my non-impregnated body. I shrugged gently, just to give my limbs something to do and so she wouldn't think I had fallen asleep on her with my eyes wide open or anything.

I ended up telling her that I had been in school so long that I would really like to have a career at some point. "I'm 28." I said. "I've been in school for 5,678 years. I'd really like to earn a paycheck. Like, a lot of paychecks."

The only thing that bothered me about this conversation was the fact that it felt like it was too early to be happening. But it wasn't! This friend is THE SAME AGE as me, has been to grad school, has a career, owns property.

I own a killer David Sedaris collection and have a teddy bear and a plastic vampire doll shoved into my sweater closet.

Practically the same thing.

It reminded me of the day before when I was opening up a gym membership because I'm tired of calling my weekly wine-bottle-walk exercise. The (very fat, seriously? At a gym?) guy taking my information started creepily hitting on me:

Guy: "So, is there a Mr. Cottle?"

Me: "Well. Yes. You see that there is because I wrote down his information. But, he won't be on this account. Because, like you can see in front of you, he lives in Pittsburgh?"

Guy: "Why would your husband leave someone like you?"

(at this point I had to look down at myself to see what exactly this guy was seeing. Work-out clothes, messy hair, and definitely a distinct dribble of coffee down the white of my front. And a smear of toothpaste on my cheek. So, I totally got why he was into it.)

Me: (always, always trying to make a joke.) "Well, ask my therapist. HA! Just kidding. Um. Don't I get a card, or something?"

Sliding my card across the table he ruined everything about out our glorious moment with this:

Guy: "So, you're 28. Finishing up a Ph.d at Berkeley, then? That is so cool."

Me: "Oh. Well, yes, that is super cool. But no. Nope, I'm just finishing my undergrad. But...Go Bears!" (awkward fist pump.)

Guy: "You're 28 and just finishing your undergrad?"

WELL, HEY ASSHOLE. YOU'RE ABOUT 900 POUNDS, HITTING ON A MARRIED WOMAN, AND YOU WORK AT THE YMCA!

Ok. That was mean.

To be fair, he was very nice, waived my entrance fee, and creepily called me on the phone number I left IN CASE OF EMERGENCY, so I shouldn't be so harsh. However, he struck a nerve. A nerve that only I cared about, sure- but a nerve all the same.

I thought about this as I walked home from the cafe, weaving in and out of a endless plethora of happy couples holding hands. (Seriously? Hold hands at home, not in the middle of the fucking sidewalk.) I knew I was being unnecessarily mad. I knew I was a little bit off my rocker. Only when I reached the comfortable and dark confines of my dorm-like home did I sit down and work through my thoughts like a big girl.

A few days before Brett had chuckled into the phone with me about how scary it was to think about us buying a house in Boston. We could potentially be relocating there, and as we started to talk mortgages, careers, possible kids, we both ran out of breath from panic and he said: "Hey. Doesn't this sometimes feel like a ride going too fast? Like, get me the fuck off and stop this thing?"

Now, Brett would never say "fuck," so I embellished that a bit, but I was filled with a sweeping sensation of gratitude when Brett was so...honest. No, he doesn't mean "get off the ride" in a suicidal/homicidal/divorce-icidal way. He just meant that sometimes life trips along so fast that we can only see the muted colors of it as it whizzes by the outer realms of our vision.

While it's dizzying and fun, sometimes it is nauseating. Sometimes you feel like you need to stop for a bit. Sometimes you just want to get the fuck off and...breathe.

This world is designed for us to keep on marching forward. Technology is constantly evolving, cars are getting to the point where they can probably drive YOU and make your coffee on the way. 28 is now an age where you should be well on your way to a doctorate, have a house in the suburbs and 2.5 children. While I want most of these things, (definitely the car that makes me coffee,) I'm also content staying right where I am.

I'm content with watching a zombie movie on a school night. I'm content with knowing that I have a teddy bear on cuddle stand-by if I ever need to pull him out of the sweater closet. I'm content with life being a little slow, a lot of colorful, and perfectly imperfect.

My sweet friend in the cafe wasn't the one to make me feel like I needed to be anywhere at this age. I'm the only one comparing myself to everyone around me, but I am done with that for now.

Because, frankly, I feel bad for the 28 years olds out there that don't have a plastic vampire doll in their sweater closet and a 2$ bottle of wine in their fridge. This life I have is pretty fucking fantastic. And magical.

And mine.

Oh, And I Also Do This In My Spare Time:

I don't just blog folks. I'm a fish singer.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=opqcCBUrJqo&feature=share