From Great Love, Comes Great Loss... Comes Great Love.

Two weeks before I got the call to come back to home, I was on the phone, this time with him. He asked me about my temporary job that I had just gotten, as an assistant to the Dean at the Harvard School of Public health.

It was my first real job out of college and I was barely twenty-two. That summer after I graduated, I fought to get back to Boston. I fought him. I left that August, secured a dingy basement apartment in September and by October had my first job. If I had known better, I would have known that something in him was trying to keep me closer to home. But I was young and stubborn and hellbent on getting back to the life I had built for myself up north.

He was in the hospital and had just finished dialysis. His voice was breathy and broken across the phone line. "Keep your desk clean," he said, giving me advice when the only thing I wanted to hear was him asking me to come home. "It will show them that you have respect for yourself and your job."

For many months after his passing, I remembered less of the man he was, and more of the mourning that followed. The image of the dirt falling out of the shovel and onto his casket. Sitting with my cousins in the gazebo in the backyard, trying to find some sort of normalcy, in a world where our foundation had been swept from underneath us. Family coupled in the tables on the back patio. My grandmother. Bowls of olives. The images changed but the feeling, though, always consistent. I had lost my best friend. I lost my ally. More than anything, at its very truth, I lost the person that saved the seat next to him for me. I lost the feeling of comfort , and the security in knowing he would always be there.

It will be nine years now since he has been gone, and the more time passes, the more I remember the smallest moments. It's not every day and they come and go, it's true. But after a long day's work, when I prepare my things to start the long trek home, I clear my desk and turn off the light, and I hear him. . . every time.


Life is divided into these small moments -- both happy and sad. We keep them with us, hold them close. They are our strength to push us through and also our weakness and baggage.

One night this past week, the intimidating boss and I were packing in a late night and leaving work. She was talking about her new boyfriend, how he'd sort of mentioned the idea of a marriage proposal. This woman that was so normally rigid, became light-hearted, carefree -- a school girl floating on the air of her first kiss. Seeing her like that, just confirmed what I have always known -- I will feel that again someday.

Ever since then, even though I had felt it before, it's on the surface more -- the affirmation that I am a wonderful woman with so much to offer and so much love to give. And maybe I not-so-long-ago suffered one of love's most awful punishments. . . but I am no longer willing to punish myself.

If anything, I may even love smaller moments more now... freely, purely, whole-heartedly... and perhaps, with a school-girl hope, that fate's hand has saved a blessing for me.

I'll have the Ben Affleck...

Things I have learned from working at my current job the last two weeks:

1. The title "art director" is so much more fun than my previous title. Not that I do anything different, its just more fun to say.

2. I have way more work in the first 6 days of work than I have had possibly in my entire time at my previous position. I have worked through every lunch, save today, and have left work no earlier than 8:15 when my hours should be 9:30 to 6:30.

3. My Star-crack (aka '*$' or Starbucks) drink of choice also happens to be Ben Afflecks. I learned this last Thursday morning, where I defintely needed the coffee following my marketing brainstorm all-nighter. I collected my drink from the portly barista and headed over to the fixings bar, I was approached by this 20-something guy in a Jamba juice apron. "Iced coffee with a shot of sugar free vanilla, huh?" He says it the way the bartender looks at me when I order a Bacardi and Diet, also known as the "skinny bitch" -- as in, you do know you're not a skinny bitch, right??? So I ask him what the big deal with my order is, and in the back of my mind, I'm thinking about how this guy I almost married once used to complain how my coffee order was so complicated. "Oh," he shrugs, "I used to work at the Starbucks in Savannah and Ben Affleck used to come in all of the time and order the same thing." I joked that maybe Ben and I were soulmates -- you know, right after he's done with his kick-ass-wife and little baby. Or that maybe its the Boston in me. Ben probably knows, like I have come to know, that no where but in the Boston Dunkin Donuts can you find the best French Vanilla Iced Coffee you may ever drink. The only thing you can get close to such a fine taste is my (I mean, our) concoction from Starbucks. Now, I could get into why you can't just get one at Dunkin Donuts in Miami or Savannah... but that's a whole other blog to itself. Anyway, the guy smiles at me and goes on his way into the white morning sunlight. I shake some cinnamon into my coffee, thinking to myself that the person that would get the greatest kick out of this story is someone who will never hear it.

4. I am not meant to drive on the highway. It takes me 60 minutes to get to a job that is only 30 minutes away. I also drive into Havana -- I mean, Miami -- where apparently everyone has taken a different driving test than I had to take when I got my license. Oh yeah, half of them don't even have a license, and forget car insurance. The State of Florida actually came out with a press release this week stating that using an indicator was merely a COURTESY. . . as if anyone used one anyway. When you put out your indicator, all it does is indicate to the cars behind you that it is time to excelerate.

5. Protein/ meal replacement bars still taste like chocolate flavored chalk. Never, in any circumstances, will I ever eat a Pria Powerbar Chocolate Almond Crunch bar EVER again. Worst.tasting.thing.ever. It was like chocolate, chalk, and Elmers glue paste.

6. If I go to bed now, I will actually be going to bed EARLY for a change.

*cue Dolly Parton....*

Independence Day

I started the new job this week and I could not be more thankful that I had a day off in middle of the madness. The beginning of anything new can be overwhelming to one's senses and this new job is no different. I love new challenges and new stimulation. . . but when I have to be creative and I am overly stimulated, it's a lot like asking me to paint something pretty with red and green paint. It will just come out looking like mud or muck.

The first two days certainly had its challenges. I had moments when I wanted to crawl underneath my desk and I had moments when someone needed to talk me off of a ledge. I am still kind of waiting for them to look at me at the end of this week and say, You know, we thought we liked you, buuuuttt, not so much.

And wouldn't that just be the story of my life.

That's why I'm here blogging at 11:44 at night. I've been racking my brain trying to think of a marketing idea for a hotel chain revamp so when my boss looks at me tomorrow for some answers, I don't look quite like a chump. And that's just it. . . it's why I am blogging. Because I am a chump. My brain feels so completely drained of creative juices. I can't hear the brilliant ideas over the other voices in my head -- the ones reminding me who is who, what is what, and whatever you do, don't ask the senior art director anymore stupid questions tomorrow.

Women don't usually scare me. In fact, I have oddly been told by many women, some my closest friends, that when they first met me, I scared them. But this woman, the senior art director, intimidates the crap out of me. She's fearless, confident and brilliant. A creative, out of the box, in the zone kind of designer. It's so simple for her because she's been there for a few years, knows her co-workers, knows her clients, knows the industry... I may as well be asking her if red and yellow make orange when I ask her the anything. Judging by the look on her face, she lets me know it, too. But she is brilliant and most of the reason that I haven't quit is because I am going to learn so much from working with her in this arena.

Tonight, I am thankful for this pit stop in this week of craziness. I'm thankful for new challenges, new opportunities to show up to life. I'm thankful for the glimpses of independence I have felt in just this short while. My hope is that this path will bring me to a higher place in my life... a life I caught a glimpse of once, as it sailed on by in the night.

I Got The Job!

Somewhere, someone was smiling down on me on Friday afternoon. Finally, I get to get back to work. I am so excited to be in this new company, in a new arena, a different field to test my creative strengths. Most of all, it seems I can't wear sweatpants here and they certainly don't seem to use instant messenger to communicate -- they actually get up and speak to one another! Imagine that... perhaps it will give me more to write about...

Why Me, God?

Everyone has a bad day. A long time ago, I subscribed to the idea that I didn't have to succumb to my moods and that I could just CHOOSE to be happy. That works most of the days... but some days, you just deserve a day to say, Why Me God?

I always said that I have better even than odd years. The beginning of this 2007 has not exactly proven me wrong. I did once have a good 2005, so I suppose that alone might prove this theory of mine wrong. However, I'll concede that it's the exception to the rule since somewhere along the line it's led to a crappy 2007. But, you know, I don't have time to sit around and replay moments and soundtracks and things I could've said and done differently. I don't have time to sit around and play the what-if game. What if I asked what he wanted; What if we talked about things and communicated instead of just walking away from the highway pileup, disheveled and in shock. What if I hadn't have trusted someone enough to believe everything would be alright when I left my job to plan a wedding and marry the military and prepare to set out on the greatest adventure my life has known to date?

But like I said, I don't have time to lose my religion in my bedroom with candles a flicker and some awful cacophony of music and lyrics blaring from my laptop speakers.

Any rejection can sometimes seem like the same rejection all over again. When I interviewed with the prospective company last week, their interest level was an absolute 10. They called me back to interview with my would-be boss on Friday and we met and had an interesting connection to art and even heartache. She had a broken engagement, too. I didn't even make it to the deli to meet my grandmother for lunch when the would-be boss called me back and said she loved me and asked if I would be interested in doing a little take home project to show my skills. Of course, I agreed and I turned it in before Monday morning, as asked.

In the first interview, they said they'd make a decision on Tuesday or Wednesday of this week. Naturally, I figured I would hear something after I sent the test project, but it's now Friday and NOT ONE E-MAIL or CALL from the company.

It's like waiting (I mean, not waiting) for a boyfriend to call you back. You start rearranging the clothes in your closet by color and style; cleaning the tiles in your bathroom with Clorox clean up and an old toothbrush; checking your e-mail every other minute and running to your phone to look for a missed call if you go to the bathroom, take a shower, or get the mail. Cause you know, you're not waiting...

You walk a fine line between being interested and just plain desperate.

I decide I will wait until Friday to e-mail the company. It seems like a good balance between overzealous desperate stalker and hey, I was just going through my things and found your business card and casually remembered we met last week, so how about it?

But I had the whole rest of the day yesterday to think about: Why didn't these people LOVE me? Why didn't they call me back yet? Maybe they really love me but just had some huge accounts drop in their lap. Maybe they've been meaning to call but they lost their cell phones or they had to go out of town because their great aunt Myrtle died.

Mostly, I think, WHY ME GOD? Why can't I just get a break? Haven't I been through enough this year? Can't I just get back on my feet finally?

I put on my workout clothes and couldn't even muster up the energy to take my dog for a decent walk. So I plopped myself on the couch and turned on the TV to Dr. Phil. He's interviewing this woman who has one normal daughter and a set of triplets that were born deaf and blind. Her first husband left her because he couldn't handle the heavy load and her second husband, who knew fully what he was getting into, was also ready to leave her, too. She's dealing with a broken marriage and three broken children.

I thought about the inability to see the world for all of its colors or to not hear even its most precious or aggravating sounds. I started to think about the poor girl in Ohio whose husband killed her and her unborn 9 month old baby; the young girl in Iowa that was leaving the Target and never came home; the woman who was killed by her deranged wrestler husband who then smothered his young son and killed himself. All of these images ebb and flow like a glowing kaleidescope and for one moment, I don't ask Why Me God?

People can say all they want to about those crappy daytime talk shows, the news sensationalizing Paris Hilton in jail or a runaway bride who turns up somewhere in Mexico. But the truth is, most of these stories, as different as they are, allow us moments to step out of the details of our own lives. And while some may be less grounded, I think some of us end up a lot more human.

Go to Work, Barbie

Cost of new faux-leather hard cover multi-ring art portfolio: $58
Cost of new color ink cartridge to print out samples: $40
Cost of new suit for interview because I've lost weight: $120
Hours spent redoing online portfolio: www.melaniemagicdesigns.com: 62
Hours spent designing, printing, cutting, constructing hard cover portfolio: 24


I have spent more money and time just trying to become gainfully employed than actual face to face time with potential employers. After posting my resume online, pushing it on family members, strangers at the local bar, literally offering it to the meat guy at the local supermarket... I've still spent more time and energy on applying than actual replies. Half of the time, it's like I send my resume out into the abyss of the internet -- like a penny dropped into a well, listening intently for the tin-ting-a-ling or splash when it hits the bottom. [If you watch Lost, it sorta reminds me of that episode where they figure out all the notebooks they send out of the tube end up in a pile in the middle of the jungle]

I know if I could just speak to a real, live human being, they would love me... but cyberspace just wasn't speaking back.


Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result. I decided to revamp my website, create a PDF media kit/resume, and get to crackin' on my hardcover portfolio. I had all but given up, and then I got three phone calls within 24 hours. Ahh... live human beings... and ack, interviews.

Interviews are divided into three stages: "the screen," "the date," "the make."

In "the screen," the employer will call you and speak with you over the telephone. They'll ask you miscellaneous questions, but really, they're just trying to figure out if you give good phone. Do you sound creepy is preliminary, do you know what your talking about is secondary.

"The date" is just what it sounds like... a date. A good first interview is like a good first date. You wear your best clothes (maybe a pair of lucky underwear or a piece of jewelry you swear possesses the good juju). You might talk to yourself in the mirror, practice how you are going to shake hands. You remind yourself of key phrases and key words you might find helpful. You smile a lot, ask a lot of questions. You talk about what you're good at, you talk about what you could do well for them. But just when it's getting good, it's time for you to leave. That's fine, because like any good first date, it's the mystery that lingers... they're exactly where you want them... and that's what brings me to the make.

"The make" is the big third date. They've already confirmed you're not an axe murderer, and now they want to meet you again, introduce you to some of the people on the team. They want to see you naked. Well, you know, not literally naked (there's lot of laws about that kind of stuff), but they want to find out what makes you tick... and exactly how much it will cost. A smart businesswoman knows how to sell herself but not put herself up for sale. You give them the number, they give you the handshake... and then you wait for the offer.

Cost of peeling off the price tag on my new hardcover portfolio while waiting in the boardroom for the CEO to arrive to interview me: PRICELESS.

Along Came a Spider...

My latest adventure started late Wednesday afternoon. I was feeling slightly groggy, light headed, and sort of nauseated. So I lay on the couch and dozed off. An opening monologue from Ellen later, I awoke to Dateline and the realization that I took a two hour nap. This should have been my first clue because I can never sleep during the day -- my analytical brain and constant ADD never let me rest for ten minutes much less two hours.

The next morning, I woke up and my left shoulder was on fire, sort of like a sun burn. More than that, it felt like it had been dislocated. I had a searing pain running up and down my arm like I had lifted at the gym but chose weights that were far too heavy for me.

Day 3, a small blister came up and a surrounding rash. I had my mother take a look at the thing and she informed me it was a spider bite. So in disbelief, I decided to do what internet technology enables most paranoid people to do -- I self-diagnosed via Google images.
No sooner did I hit "Search" than a whole slew of variations of this shot showed up. Warning, not for the faint of heart or those who have just eaten:



Yeah... that's exactly why I decided to never self-diagnose myself before bedtime again. My spider, fortunately, was not a Brown recluse but was likely only of the garden variety. It must have bitten me when I went out for a bike ride that Wednesday.

It's Day 6 now and my entire left arm still hurts. The blistered area, even though regularly doused with calamine lotion, itches horribly. If that's not bad enough, three other red patches have developed, too. My entire left arm is arthritic, and my shoulder socket is so terribly tight that I can't even sleep on my left side.

As I type this, I am jacked up on Benadryl, so hopefully that will excuse my lack of grammar skills. But yeah, it's probably about time to put away my Web MD and head to the doctor.

Thirty Speaks to Twenty

the passing of memorial day weekend symbolizes not only the beginning of summer, but the beginning of the holiday season. the northern hemisphere wakes up from the armpit of winter that is january and february, and the lull of duldrum days until finally -- finally -- it's here.

for me, it's also always a reminder that my birthday is around the corner. after the vacation jaunting of june, july and the long stretch and yawn of august, suddenly it's football season again, the air is crisp and cool, and then it's labor day and my birthday... and this year, i turn thirty. the big 3-0. whoo-dee-hoo.

thirty used to seem so old, but reconsidering it, i feel it's really the new twenty. i guess that's what everyone says to evade the truth. but really, i feel and look the best i ever have... i'm confident but not cocky. i'm wise but always curious to a new adventure. i'm strong and secure, but soft in the right places. i am so much more of a woman... and still a girl in all of the right ways.

when a girl looks back on her twenties, she can feel an overwhelming need to just breathe out. exhale to release ten years of life. ten years to stretch her soul, ten years to gather all of the mosaic pieces of lesson and experience -- ten years gone, upside down, fading in the rear view mirror.

thirty, to me, means no longer apologizing for the person i am, but standing up to life. so much of a girl's twenties are spent wishing away calories, contorting your shape to fit into a predetermined mold. apologizing for being too smart, too funny, too shy, too bold, too deep.

thirty, to me, means knowing how to walk away from heartache with the grace of a woman but still the hope of a girl. i am no longer bitter, angry, twisted and wrung dry on the line. the woman in me, my thirty, knows that it takes far more energy to be hateful than to just be happy.

and i am. not because i never loved, but because i loved with everything i am. and not because i let it be free, but because when i held it in my arms, i treasured it beyond all riches. and not because of the ending, but because from such an ending is always reborn a beginning. because god has a wicked sense of humor and fate's hand will always surprise you.

and if you don't learn from your travels, if you don't appreciate every breathing wonder that enters into your life; if you spend more time building walls than you do tearing them down, if you can't just breath out and stand in the mirror of the world naked in full cellulite -- not apologizing for every dimple but revelling in your unique ways -- you'll never cross over the mountain to see what i see from here...

perspective. it's a woman's best friend.

accidentally deep: a definition of what's to come

Changes, changes...

I decided that I needed to get back on the blog horse. And this all required a new space, a new name, a new look, and a new perspective.

So while I procrastinate further with the whole remodelling of my life, I remodel my blog.

Cheers!