Blessed

As the youngest of five children, it is quite easy for me to recall the horrible ways my older siblings would torture me—not that I hold a grudge or anything.

At Thanksgiving dinner in the city, we, along with our cousin C, would play an annual game of hide and go seek.  This was one of my favorite childhood games, [I was the smallest and could hide more easily] and I looked forward to it all year long.  The rest of the clan looked forward to it for other, much crueler reasons.  Namely, when they decided they didn’t want to play anymore, [weird how I was always “it” when the decision to be done was made] they would break the rules by hiding out in the fire escape, a spot deemed off limits as it was technically not part of the apartment.  After searching and searching for what felt like 3 hours to my 5-year-old mind, I would go crying to the adults.

It gets better!  Eventually, I caught on to this little game inside the game.  I began to suggest [prematurely] that we should all hide in the fire escape-haha!  The elders never appreciated this when it was my idea.  Year after year, they would insist that we continue playing…playing until it was my turn, so they could hide in the fire escape without me.  So I cried.

If I could count the number of times I was thrown or pushed into our backyard pool or into the Chesapeake Bay, I would retell each one now—but I can’t, so I won't.  I’ll just tell you that it was more times than I knew there were numbers for when I was little.  And I cried after at least 85% of these scarring incidents.

Have you ever been dropped, head first, onto a slate floor?  I have.  It hurt, and I cried.

I was wildly creative as a child.  Unfortunately, my creativity was stifled at an early age [not from a head injury].  As youngsters, the five of us decorated our basement floor with a Lego town, featuring a fire station, gas station, pizza joint, and marina.  Additionally, we each built our own houses and boats.  My favorite part was that we got to name our boats.  What was mine called, you ask?  Honk-Honk-Comin’-Through-Please-Bab-ay! [Exclamation point included.]  Well, this was far too creative for my siblings.  They refused to call my boat over the [imaginary] walkie-talkies.  When I would call them on their totally mundanely named boats, they would ignore me.  So, I’d retreat from the basement, crying.

The four musketeers found particular pleasure in abusing my middle name—Joy.  They would chant things like “Happy, happy, NO joy” at me when I would cry.  Which would make me cry more.  They would go so far as to suggest that Mom and Dad should have named me “Melanie No-Joy.”  So, I would cry more.

As you can see, I cried a lot.  Probably more than your average pesky little sister.  [Perhaps someday, I’ll write about how pesky I was…]

Recent events have had me thinking about my relationships with my siblings.  Somehow, we have all come to a mutual understanding that no matter how much we tease one another, it is because we love each other.  I feel truly blessed to have each of them in my life, and appreciate that they have been by my side all these years—whether they were making me cry, wiping the tears away, or something in between.

I know that if I have a terrible week and need to get away, even for just a night, I can hop in the car, pick up an apple pie & brick of cheddar cheese, and go see D.  I know there will be a cold glass of milk, just for me, waiting when I arrive.

I can count on K for a nice dinner out and a place to crash should the weather inhibit my ability to get all the way home.  I can also count on her for a Celine Dion and/or Moulin Rouge soundtrack jam-out session.

I look forward to the many emails I receive from E on any given day.  Sometimes, it's close to 100...but even if there are only one or two emails because one of us [ha] is busy at work, the quick question or funny comment is always well worth it.

C never ceases to make me laugh.  Getting to hear his voice is always special, especially when it’s for the first time in several months, and he’s rambling in a drunken version of French [which I do not speak] from halfway across the world.

Love you guys.

-Melanie

A Victim of Love

If you're like me, you looove a good grilled cheese sandwich.  There's something about the warm, cheesy, gooey yumminess that is undeniably delicious and comforting.  Plus, it's so versatile [bacon, spinach, tomatoes, different cheeses, with a side of soup or salad...the list goes on], and thereby appropriate for any occasion.

Not surprisingly, the grilled cheese sandwich is high on my list of go-to comfort foods--right up there with Chinese food, mac-n-cheese, and warm brownies.  So, when B and I arrived home after a long week filled with family celebrations, holiday gatherings and a trip to Washington, DC, I took a quick look at the freshly homemade loaf of bread in my hand and knew exactly what we'd have for dinner.

I immediately begin cutting slices of bread (and perhaps nibbling on some).  Shortly thereafter, B came in from taking Jack for a walk.  He insisted that I give Jack a treat, so I assumed he had done his business and did as I was told.

I then went back to making the sandwiches.  I can't stress enough how hungry I was!  At this point, B started to acting...oddly.  He was pacing, looking from me-to the sandwiches-to Jack-and back to me.  He assured me that he was okay, simply exhausted, so I tossed the first sandwich onto the stove.

B suddenly "strongly urged" [he swears he didn't yell] me to look at the dog. 

Quickly and urgently, I knelt down to look at Jack.  An extra dog tag hung on his collar.  I squinted and read those four magic words, "Will you marry me?"

Stunned.

Tears streaming down my face, I turned around to face B who was down on one knee, holding a gorgeous ring out for me to see.  He stumbled his way through a quick speech full of the most wonderful things a girl could ever ask to hear.  I leaned over, excitedly exclaimed, "yes!" and hugged my fiancé long and hard.

[Moments later, I realized what had been left on the stove...]

**pictures to follow**

To Blog or Not to Blog...

For some months now, I’ve been debating whether or not I should attempt writing a blog of my own.  I enjoy reading what others have to say on a wide variety of topics and am generally intrigued by the whole idea.  However, when it comes to picking a title or a focus for my blog, it doesn’t take long for me to choose one of the following excuses against creating a blog:

1.      My life isn’t interesting enough

2.      People won’t understand my humor

3.      I’m too young and inexperienced to have valid opinions/advice

4.      It won’t be liked by anyone, and I’ll fall into a deep, dark depression over it

Well, as you can see, I’ve resolved these issues, at least temporarily, and am proud to welcome you to Melanie’s boring, unfunny, naïve, depressing Mark!

I don’t know where this blog will take me, but now that I’ve reached the completely arbitrary number of possible topics that I deemed an appropriate amount to build confidence, I’ll be off to a [minimally] mediocre start.

-Melanie

<insert hopeful face>