Turning 30. What does that age bring up for you? Any specific memories from the actual day itself? To me it was the first of many “man this feels old but nah it isn’t really that old” birthdays you celebrate after you hit the milestone that is 21. 

My 30th birthday gifted me with a whirlwind of emotions and complex feelings. I don’t really remember including that on my Amazon wish list but thanks anyway, dirty thirty. So thoughtful. I had finalized my divorce just a couple of months prior and was admittedly going through some divorced-before-30 feels. Cool cool cool. 

The other complex emotion? Barf. Yes, actual vomit. More of a physical reaction than a feeling, technically - but try telling that to someone hurling through the sky, hungover, at a wildly high altitude. Because yes, I made the very conscious decision to do two things the morning after my 30th birthday party:

One: Wake up hella early.

-and-

Two: Yeet myself out of an airplane. 

Let’s summon George Carlin aka Rufus, cram into our Bill and Ted phone booth time traveling machine and arrive at the night before my first skydive shall we? I was temporarily living with my dad and stepmom (cough divorce cough) and while they were away on travel that summer, I was left in charge of the fancy uptown condo which was great because their neighborhood was conveniently located to a ton of glitzy hot spots for nibbles and libations, all of which were fit for an unforgettable 30th celebration. 

Reservation booked, guest list secured, outfit selected - it was time to birthday boogie. We sipped and snacked at one of my favorite restaurants on lower greenville ave in Dallas, Texas. And even though I already had a divorce under my belt at the tender age of 30, I was relieved to be entering a new decade, a new season of my life with that relationship firmly behind me. Melanie 3.0 was the textbook definition of a fresh start. 

Dinner wrapped but a few of my guests still had an appetite to party - and it would’ve been rude of me as a hostess not to oblige so we sauntered around uptown and ultimately landed back at the fancy condo where just a super chill oh so casual after party unfolded. (honestly the craziest thing outside of consuming a waterfall of booze was taking turns riding my niece and nephew’s toy horse around; that thing was dope)

Cue alarm clock at a time totally rude considering the prior evening’s events. Woof. I was still a little drunk and knew the worst was still ahead of me …oh yeah! I was going skydiving! And thank the dear sweet baby jesus for adrenaline. 

Me and my then-boyfriend did a quick try-and-remove-the-night-before refresh (both to ourselves and the fancy uptown condo) and hit the road to Hillsboro. We knew we were in for a treat after two magical things blessed our arrival:

One: There was a gate code to get past a certain point as we closed in on the airport. One could either call for the code or try their luck and guess the code based on the following hint, “what transponder code does a pilot use in the event of an inflight emergency?” Well. Boyfriend was a pilot soooo…. we got in without a phone call to the front office.

-and-

Two: After entering 7700 for hangar road access and as we circled to find a spot for the Santa Fe, we happened upon a gentleman suited up in skydive gear topped off with a ballin’ pair of shades. He was propped up against the side of the hangar, cigarette in hand. He took a long (if not a little dramatic) pull of his pall mall and through the exhaled cloud of smoke he said, “y’all here to jump?” Boyfriend and I turned and looked at one another, each of us with a cheshire cat smile slapped on our face - who was this guy? I mean, the rizz he had ...absolutely unreal.

The place itself was situated on a beautiful tiny Texas airport just outside of the major metroplex where things turn rural. The staff welcomed us, waivered us, and began to prep us for the impending skydive party. As gear was fixed to our persons, two more things happened that gave us even more warm fuzzies for what was about to go down:

One: Boyfriend and I realized that we’d be jumping out of a King Air C90 (!!!) to avgeeks like us this was a premium plane for a first jump experience. This wasn’t your everyday semi-cantilever’d Cessna situation. 

-and-

Two: Realizing that we’d have such a noble sky steed, boyfriend asked if it would be possible to do a high-altitude jump, a cute lil 18,000 feet fall versus the typical 14,000. …FL180 is where oxygen starts to get spicy and by spicy I mean there’s less of it. But what’s life without a little danger, eh? Skydive crew said we don’t see why not and locked in our higher deplane request. 

Heart pumping, we made our way to his majesty the King Air alongside our jumpmasters (lol boyfriend ended up with the “y’all here to jump guy” who called him Eddie the whole time - bf’s name was not Eddie), paused for a few pics before boarding, and suddenly we’re off and climbing. 

Did I mention this was mid-June? In Texas? Y’all she was a sauna. But boy I tell you what she sure did cool down as we circled higher in altitude. The aircraft had a see-through sliding hatch door - that’s where everyone shimmy’d to fall out - and I’ll never forget how the ground bailed fast, the air got all zesty, and my nerves finally decided to match the temp and chill.

Aww here go. Time to fall out of a perfectly good airplane strapped to a complete stranger who will be in charge of getting me safely (and softly) to the ground below, somewhere between a pasture and a runway. In sync, my jumpmaster and I scooted out butts up to the hatch and with a WHOOSH, the door flung open as my full weight - my literal full body - dangled outside of the airplane. 

That’s the part no one tells you - one of you (me) dangles off the edge of the plane while the other (not me) prepares to hurl you both into the sky. A wild reminder of what you agree to in those ‘you might die but can’t sue us’ waivers.

We push. We do a few cute lil flips and we stabilize. Freefall felt like forever but the chute quite literally ripped me back to reality. Controlled descent was peaceful. Zen AF. Silent, suspended between sky and soil, I finally looked down beyond the clouds, the landscape folded into a patchwork of pastures and dirt roads. And there, in the distance, the King Air touched down. When else do you get to watch your own ride land from the sky? Picture-perfect.

The ground closes in and we prepare to put ourselves down which I thought was going to be scary but turns out nope, just a gentle glide over a patch of pebbles, a lift of the legs, and plop. We made it. I was still reeling as I peeled myself apart from my jumpmaster, a couple of notable thoughts and feelings washed over me:

One: Omg did not die, great.

-and-

Two: What an incredible thing I just did man oh man my thirties are going to be awes—I’m going to throw up right effing now.

And throw up I did. A lot. In the tiny women’s restroom at the nice people’s skydive facility. My adrenaline immediately cashed her check upon safe landing and chaos aka my hangover came to collect. 

After several minutes I did pull myself together enough to be safely escorted in the Santa Fe back to fancy uptown condo where I’m pretty sure I tried to eat sushi (my fav) but couldn’t (le sigh) so settled on some leftover gluten-free red velvet birthday cake. While in the bathtub. What was this day? AM skydive sesh, PM cake and a hot soak? A final two thoughts came to mind at the end of such an epic yet challenging day:

One: Nausea (still so unforgiving)

-and-

Two: Still worth it. If this is how the next decade starts, I’m ready to jump.

Let’s talk about travel adventures where you pay to do manual labor. And by manual labor I mean eight hour days in an open field, (shade who is she?) digging into hardened clay, and old school sieving said clay. No? Anyone? Maybe you in the back?

Well, y'all are missin out.

In the Spring of 2024 I hopped into my sis-in-law Sarah Bob’s fancy mom Acura around 5:30 on a Friday morning to drive the four and a half hours to Murfreesboro, Arkansas. Destination - Crater of Diamond State Park. Vibes - hungover AF (well I was anyway thanks to a late night scotch sesh with my bro). I was not ready. But I got myself into that passenger princess seat, dialed in the SiriusXM, and we hit the road. 

Cut to less than an hour to our desty and we were literally driving through someone’s backyard? But like, it's on the GPS? Cool? Cut to then arriving at diamond park (no, there’s not a cool theme song like Jurassic Park, I checked) in the early afternoon. I knew I was in Arkansas when I was in the restroom and found someone’s left-behind phone, tapped the screen, and saw nothing but text messages from Donald Trump. ~twilight zone intensifies~

Tbh I thought we were going to do a cute lil drive by of the park, then roll over to our “hotel” to check in, freshen up, and THEN go back to diamond dig* for a few hours. False. We rolled in hot and got right to business. 

*dig - yes. We were there to straight up dig for diamonds. That's the draw and reason behind being cool with all of the manual labor. You gotta earn it. 

We got after it until a couple of hours before sunset. Zero diamonds were found day one but we cruised the land extensively and learned how to sieve – dope, right? Exhausted, we clocked out of diamond mining, hopped back in the mom Acura and cruised over to our home for the weekend …which ended up being a handful of structures built to mirror an old western ghost town. Think Tombstone but less tuberculosis. However – the best part about our western town was the corn pit.

Yes - you heard me. Corn pit.

Sarah Bob and I were actually made aware of the corn pit before we even started our Arkansas adventure (shoutout internet), but we were still not 100% certain of what we would find/get ourselves into when indulging in such kernel luxury. Suspense building, we giddied up into our Back to the Future III-style accommodations, cleaned ourselves of the day’s dirt, cracked a cold one, and made our way to the corn.

We were greeted by an abnormally large CORN PIT sign (like what else could this be?) that sat atop a dusty screen door. A request to remove our shoes was also etched into a plank of wood cuz one would never dare enter the corn pit with footwear. ~scoff~

Spoiler alert - it was just straight up corn. Pure, free range, crunchy kernels stacked up to just about ankle height. It’s giving organic ball pit. After an appropriate amount (?) of time dabbling in the pit, we strapped our sandals back on and gave the rest of our ghost town a gander.

Highlights included:

• a random illuminati triangle hut (see above)

• large outdoor claw-foot bathtub staged to instagram perfection

• teepee with included fire pit and hot box capabilities 

• and at least three trucks in guest parking with rather large pro-second amendment bumper and/or window stickers 

After we wrapped up the grand tour of our Cracker Barrel cosplay lodgings, we set off to satiate our tummies; manual labor do be making you quite famished.

Murfreesboro left a lot to the imagination when it came to dining establishments. Have you ever seen My Cousin Vinny? The scene where Vinny and Mona Lisa Vito are at the local town greasy spoon and the menu is just, “Breakfast - Lunch - Dinner” …yeah, that was essentially us sans mistaken murder rap. 

We landed on the town’s Tex-Mex restaurant, both of us highly interested to see what Tex-Mex food looked like in the “The Natural State.” Spoiler alert x2 it was beans, rice, and alotta cheese. Basic, a little sad, and came with the requirement of joining their “club” aka signing our names and providing our email addresses via a ca. 1997 composition-style notebook in order to drink alcohol. Yes, many moons before we wandered into this queso-scented relic, fellow diamond diggers had scrawled their names in the sad Mexican food place guestbook of despair. We were just the latest in a long line of modern-day miners looking for a buzz in a dry county. 

Bellies full (and personal information left behind for the ages), we decided to take a stroll through the town’s local flea market. What tour of Murfreesboro would be complete without a saunter down the aisles of folks trying to sell their trash as someone else’s treasure? Exhausted to the point of feeling high, we dove in. 

Highlights included:

• “He Touched Me” on vinyl 

• several hundred pieces of glassware of varying styles and stage of disrepair 

• a burlap wreath with a hand-painted, wooden sign that read, “I’d rather be in the barn with my daddy” – yes that was a real thing

• and many, many inappropriate natural state t-shirts with a lot of creative liberties taken 

Pure gold. Laughs for lifetimes. 

We crashed out in ye ol western town and hit the diamond park day two with a plan and a lot more tools. We also befriended Ol’ Man Jenkins (not his real name) who gave us the master class in sieving – we locked down the cheat codes. He also pulled out his rusted, bent altoids can that was full of his low quality but high vibes diamonds he had collected over years at the park. OMJ told us stories about how many of his friends put several kids through college funded by their diamond park finds. Dang – we should be so lucky?

After several hours of storytime with Jenkies, illuminati Bob and I took a final lap throughout the field and dropped our dig tools at the front office. We were walking away with zero diamonds, but some pretty rocks and a couple of buckets of dirt for continued exploration – yes, they let you take to-go dirt. No drive thru tho.

We did dinner at the ~other~ restaurant and afterward swung through the town’s antique establishments (which outnumbered places to eat 5:1), laughed at a hand-written wedding registry, and closed the night on our front porch swiping left though the locals via my bumble account (I’ve never seen so many pearl snaps). After two days of legit hard labor and a lot of laughs, we tucked ourselves in and promptly passed out while watching 21 Jump Street. 

The ride back to Texas proved to be just as adventurous as the way out seeing as we were directed to take the back roads for whatever reason aka the deliverance route.

But on that drive back I realized that this was the first trip I’d spent a solid 48 hours with my sister-in-law, just the two of us. The time I shared with her on this adventure, this absolutely bizarre, wild ass it-could-only-be-a-Melanie-and-Sarah-style adventure, was the real diamond uncovered on this trip. 

My roots are Texan. While I may have been born in New Jersey, my family moved back to the Lone Star State before my first birthday. My grandparents always joked, “…you better bring her back to Texas before she learns how to talk.” Check.

Joke’s on them, tho as I don’t really have a Texan accent. In fact I am very accent agnostic. Am I from Iowa? Alabama? Maine? All/none. I definitely give off 'locational chameleon' vibes. I do, however, have two expressions that give away - or at least hint at my hometown in a slightly howdy-coded way.

The first is “y’all” which I know I know, does find a home outside of the Texas borders in terms of vernacular. But y'all is a classic and will always be on the top shelf of my Texpression toolbox.  

The second is …drumroll please… big’un. Yes, big’un. Pretend like you are saying “big gun” but with most of the syllables smooshed together and with the heavy twang of a southern drawl applied. 

While the former implies a group of people, the latter tends to be more of a descriptor. “Man, that there cow is certainly a big’un. Y'all ever see a sumbitch that big?” (okay this is an aggressive example but I had to really drive it home). These words have been a natural part of my own personal Textionary since my early days goofin’ off in the cul-de-sac of Twin Creek. 

After moving to the midwest a few years back, I realized that my tiny little Texan treasure of a word almost immediately started garnering inquisitive looks. “I’m sorry - what did you just say?” someone yells at me over the incredibly loud bass drop at the bar. “Did you just say big …gun?” which leads me to repeat the phrase in a different, more explanatory context that usually involves some sort of hand gestures to try and further communicate size/scale. 

This scenario has happened several times - but the best times are always when I’m on travel, typically somewhere far, far away where languages and cultures have more distinct differences and unique qualities. My favorite instance was while hanging out with a viking bartender at kayak bar on St. Lucia Day in Copenhagen, Denmark. 

Visiting a Nordic country in the dead of winter? Bold move, I know. It’s cold. It’s grey. Sunlight has taken hella PTO. Daylight is giving bare minimum realness. So why on Earth would I visit Copenhagen during sad winter? Two words.

Christmas markets.

Hot wine. 

..or maybe hot bartenders?

There’s room for everything. 

And also, Phil Rosenthal from the netflick classic Somebody Feed Phil told me to - a man I trust like a spiritual GPS. He’s the angel on my travel shoulder; Tony Bourdain is the devil. 

Let’s set the scene. It’s my second day in Copenhagen - Wednesday, December 13, 2023. It’s crisp. It’s cold. It’s very, very dark as we watch the St. Lucia celebratory kayaks glide up to the docks at the bar, all adorned in whimsical happy holiday lights. Myself, my friend Hilary (shoutout braids and shades), and the rest of our group make moves to cozy up inside the bar over soul-warming bowls of soup and goblets of glögg (aka hot wine). 

Tummies filling up, we discussed our next move. Most of the group was ready to release to jet lag and surrender to sleep, but Hil dawg and I were primed and ready to dive a little bit deeper into Copenhagen nightlife. Because Phil told us to. 

But also because the aforementioned viking bartender locked eyes with Hilary, immediately deployed a grinch-like grin across his face, and said, “hey pretty!” as we were making an exit to try out another bar. We looked at each other and knew exactly what we needed to do without a single word spoken; we completed an on-the-spot 180 to grab a couple of open seats at the bar. Within the hour (and after enough collective eyelash fluttering), we were in deep talks with the viking, plans for a personal tour of CPH already shaping up. 

And here it comes. You know what’s about to happen next. 

I said big’un in a sentence. 

It’s unfortunate because I can’t recall what specific thing I described as a big’un - probably because that space in my memory is reserved for the look the viking gave me the moment that word left my lips. 

I’ve never seen eyebrows raise faster or eyes bulge bigger. It was as if I was a time traveller making a stop back to the future style, telling this viking some outrageous, unbelievable story from a future timeline (maybe it was about Biff Tannen). He was gooped, he was gagged. 

Without pause he circled back to the word and I got the familiar, “..did you just say big …gun?” his inquisitive face still staring back at me. So I took him on the nickel tour of my Textionary and did my best to define the characteristics of a big’un. But don’t ask me how I classified a big’un that night as I couldn’t tell you. And no, it’s not the glögg’s fault; honestly, it’s not really an exact science, it’s more of a “you know it when you see it” situation.

We wrapped up our bartender convo that evening with a final laugh re: big’un and a very nerdy conversation about the origins from which bluetooth technology drew its name. I’d like to think that we both taught each other something that winter evening at kayak bar. A little cultural exchange.

Sure, it seems like just a silly word. But dang ya’ll, I’d be lyin’ if I said it’s only a silly word. It’s a subsection of a larger, Melanie verbal ecosystem - a vernacular that I tap into only when I’m at complete ease, comfortable with my surroundings and current state of being. Nine times out of big’un ten I use it while I’m “doing the thing in the place” aka my happy place aka a mem moment for another time. 

Here’s to many future big’uns heard ‘round the world, and no doubt many more inquisitive looks that hopefully curate both domestic and international connections. Phil, I hope you approve.

First days of school are typically filled with a lot of emotions like nervousness, excitement, wonder. There’s outfits to shop for, supplies to be purchased, and summer stories to sharpen to ensure that everyone knows just how awesome your break was watching clueless on repeat and learning how to make the best boxed mac n cheese on the block (true story). 

By the time day 1 rolls around the ‘fit has been checked and class courses scheduled. Your year is stacked with common classes and electives, all in efforts to start framing that oh-so-important college application. Gotta make sure those admissions people at <insert university here> are impressed with not only your AP history courses but also your efforts in basket weaving or home ec (aka learning to sew via making pillows or developing your chef skills blending up an orange julius - another true story). A transcript is not complete without a class or two rooted in right-brain capabilities. 

For me, I chose music. But in the most back-asswards and last-minute way. 

Piano was my introductory instrument of choice as a wee Melanie - I tickled the ivories playing tunes like chopsticks and amazing grace, but never quite took my talents pro to beethoven or bach. I did, however, quickly pick up punching those 88 black and white keys after knocking out how to read both treble and bass clef and embracing common time (4/4 ftw). 

By year two or three, the magic of the piano began to fade for whatever reason. Maybe it was because I went from playing on a grand piano to a keyboard. But mostly it was because it all began to feel more like a chore and less like a hobby I was super pumped to develop. I gave it a couple of years of solid attention and dedication, but felt like it was no longer serving my lil fourth or fifth grade self so reluctantly, my mom let me back away. 

While I did decide to leave piano in the past, the lessons and skill set I had spent time developing would not have too much time to gather dust. 

Enter sixth grade. This was a super transitional year for me as I had spent the previous year separated from my grade school friends trying out a private christian school - a complete change of pace and schedule and a bit of an awkward chapter of my personal history. 

Day 1 of sixth. On the surface, all seems fine and good and normal. The pencils were sharp, chalkboards empty just waiting for critical lessons like a squared plus b squared equals c squared or PEMDAS to be scribbled on their cloudy green surfaces. But all was not normal. I reviewed my schedule and decided I did NOT want a basic elective taking up that precious space in my afternoons. I wanted to be cool. Which in my world apparently meant band. Yeah - join the band, Melanie. That’s in no way considered nerdy at all, especially as you move into junior high and high school. You’ll totally be the cool band geek!

So, on day one of my newly reestablished public school lifestyle, I marched right on into the school's administrative office (..who is she, taking such initiative and asking for what she wants at such a young age?) and asked to be in the band as a clarinet player. 

Sorry, we already have too many clarinets. 

Okay, plan b - percussion.

Nope, we have enough drummers and xylophonists. 

So okay then, what are my options?

“French horn or saxophone,” the lady guidance counselor told me. “How cool would it be to have a female french horn player?” I crushed that dream pretty fast because an instrument with the word horn in it really didn’t interest me (idk…)

So instead of a female french horn player, the counselor got herself a lady saxophonist. Which …low key is also horn, but since it’s a woodwind instrument, it doesn’t count. Music math. 

Oh ps - I made this very important commitment super quickly, without any sort of parental permission, and for sure without really thinking much past the 10 minutes it took to ask to join the band. 

I sat in my new band class later that afternoon with a major advantage and a major disadvantage (does that mean they cancel out?) …pro: I could already read music (thanks piano), con: I did not own a saxophone. 

As the only lady saxophonist in the band, I felt cool and special, real Lisa Simpson energy. I was also working on my teacher’s pet game as I had the upper hand in being the only person who could already read those whole notes, quarter notes, every good boy does fine, F-A-C-E… it’s all pretty simple boys, keep up.

Okay but what do I do about procuring the instrument? That’s going to be pretty key.

Mom!

I got home that afternoon and practiced my pitch to try and avoid my mom getting angry. I’d spin this as “developmental” and “educational” versus the “fun” and “I just want to” reasons I initially used to sign up earlier that day. 

To be 100% honest, I don’t exactly recall how the conversation went once my mom pulled up into the driveway that evening but we can sum it up with:

Me: mom, I signed up to play saxophone today and we have to go get one, like right now.

Mom: okay.

No shit. We literally drove to the fancy music store that evening and left with a Yamaha alto saxophone. She was new, she was shiny, and she was expensive (just under four dollar signs). 

I was pumped because 1. I was about to learn sax and 2. I was not in trouble. I really thought that I’d get pushback or at least a few weeks no tv because of my past with piano and hasty commitment to such an expensive instrument. But nope, just 100% support and quick action. This experience remains, to this day, one of my coolest mom interactions, and I will forever give her props for just going with it (not the standard operating scenario in my family). She recognized the excitement I had and didn’t question it.   

I played sax well into high school, even dabbled with marching band (remember when I said I wanted to be cool?) and jazz (okay, getting cooler…), but eventually put the reed down just before starting my senior year. We ultimately sold my sax to another young woman with woodwind dreams.

I did absolutely crush those sixth-grade boys, tho - I stayed in first chair both semesters and even took home the trophy for top sax student that year (humble brag).  

Thanks, saxophone, for giving me many cool memories and experiences that shaped my youth. 

And thanks, mom, for going with it.

What’s the standard age one learns how to ride a bike? I don’t want to explicitly call myself out here but I was a smooth seven-pushing-eight years old when I finally took off the training wheels. A familiar story > girl has small barbie bike with those cute and tiny extra wheels > girl vibes this way for a while > dad tells girl hey maybe it’s time to roll with only two > girls learns on a spring evening rolling around the cul de sac next to pecos avenue > dad buys girl a nice new shiny machine that makes barbie bike look like an actual barbie-sized bike. 

Pretty normal, yeah?

Sure yeah cool I guess - but going from barbie to barbarian in terms of bike size and speed did not feel normal or good but I was excited nonetheless. My new bike - the roadmaster platinum edition - was incredibly beautiful. She was a shiny blue/green color (think like mermaid tail green) with stick straight handles, big aggressive brakes, and 15 speeds. My favorite part was this tiny triangle-shaped bag that came velcroed to the frame just under the seat. And the term “bag” is being generous; it was more like a pocket that could maybe store a set of keys. I didn’t have keys, I was eight-maybe-pushing-nine years old so I chose this pouch to store my tic tacs.

Yes. Tic tacs.

I liked to treat myself whenever I finished a bike ride and I guess in the mid-90’s that meant tic tacs. But only the white or green ones. She’s a minty-mouthed diva. 

Ya’ll I’m not going to lie ..the first few days with my roadmaster platinum edition were r-o-u-g-h. I basically went from a modest mazda to a maserati overnight. I was absolutely petrified of my new bike. She was intimidating af. I knew how to crack the barbie bike code but miss roadmaster had me questioning if I could even ride a bike. I have a flash of a memory where after a particularly frustrating riding session in my driveway (such a read; not even an actual street smh) I started crying and shoved that new bike bish straight on down to the concrete; subtle foreshadowing of how future Melanie might handle problems. Oh well. I ate a tic tac and called it a night.

[Insert music montage here] and I was finally riding with more confidence, more frequency, and on actual streets. I occasionally rode with my Faj and can still picture to this day a certain intersection in our neighborhood where he always told me to look extra super good for cars. We also rode around the nearby high school parking lot on random Saturdays, which is where I experienced going over a speed bump for the first time. However - on one particular ride with my Faj we took a slightly different route which whatever Melanie cool cool cool tight tight tight we got this.

We so did not got this.

Faj and I completed a tiny baby incline and followed the sidewalk curve to the right. We all know that what comes up must come down - we immediately started to accelerate as we hit the decline. 

Let me tell you that when I say I completely lost my shit ..I completely lost my shit. Gone. Bye. I checked out and forgot what brakes were or how to be on a bike and who was I? I crooked my head to the left, just absolutely bawling ugly cry face straight into my dad’s eyes ..and he is serving “Melanie wtf” realness. Somewhere between “I’m not really sure what’s happening right now” and “what actual sound is my child making?” I’ll never forget that face. 

As I snapped somewhat back into reality, I made a quick game plan. And no, it did not involve using my bike’s extremely capable breaks. Nope my plan consisted of me rolling to the bottom of the street into someone’s front yard and just falling over.

Crushed it, right?

Composure regained (eventually) and I realized that I aggressively activated my internal panic system at a situation that did not require quite that level of a response (even more foreshadowing).

My Faj and I still laugh about “panic hill” to this day. It’s a good reminder that things are never as scary as they initially seem.

Ironically (or maybe fortuitously?) I reunited with a circa mid-90s roadmaster platinum edition in 2023 at a friend’s lake house in “hardcore” Wisconsin. It was the same frame, same color, same shiny lettering. But this time my immediate interaction with the bike was as smooth as silk thanks to a heavy dose of nostalgia. Throughout my visit, roadmaster 2.0  and I effortlessly conquered sidewalks, nature paths, and yes - even hills. Without incident.

But - if it only had a pocket for tic tacs. 

Most of our really magical Christmas memories are filed under childhood. Those warm, fuzzy wintertime winks of wonder, waiting for Santa to spoil us with his north pole goodies. My favorite part about Christmastime - past and present day - is using my advent calendar. This is not your standard candy or chocolate (or booze in some cases now) filled cardboard box you trash after the 25th. Mine was creatively crafted by my Nene (melanie for grandmother). An absolutely beautiful human being, my Nene gifted a homemade advent calendar to each of her grandchildren.

This calendar is constructed out of light canvas material, with a long wooden dowel on the bottom to keep it weighed down and another on top that includes teeny tiny notches on either end to pull a knotted string through to have it catch and hang. A large felt green Christmas tree takes up the top half with rows of small pockets on the bottom half. The tree is adorned with red beaded “tinsel,” and snap bottoms are sewn throughout the felt, signaling where the “ornaments” will adhere. The snap tops live in the pockets below, all of which are sequentially numbered with the days of December.

Each snap top is sewn to a small, circular piece of green felt to support each ornament clicking into place while seamlessly hiding each tiny piece of silver hardware to ensure all we see is the bright green felt tree dotted with ornaments. The days below begin at 1 (spoiler alert) but end at 24. I believe my Nene did this to keep things tidy and even (a trademark of hers) at four rows of six days each, but also - we all know that Christmas Eve is the main event of the holiday season.

Christmas Day always seems to flash by in a blink, but to me, the magic of Christmas Eve built and lingered. You’ve spent the season counting down the days but by Christmas Eve, time has slowed in efforts to allow ourselves every opportunity to savor and embrace everything warm and fuzzy about the holidays. Yeah that and more often than not we got to open one prezzie on Christmas Eve. I loved (and still love tbh) the Christmas appetizer. An amuse-bouche to Santa’s main course the next morning.

So - my calendar ends on December 24th. The snap-on ornaments housed in pockets 1-23 are a mix of Christmas novelties, toys, and animals - but day 24 is special. The tippy top of day 24 always peeks out of its pocket opening to get you even more excited about the impending big day. 24 is a hand-stitched sparkly silver star that finishes off the top of the green felt tree. She is queen, has been one of my favorite pieces of my own personal Christmas lore since I was little, and is the one thing I always always always look forward to snapping into place each and every December. 

Yep, at a smooth 38 years old, I am still in possession of and proudly display my homemade advent calendar every holiday. My Nene even stitched a custom tag on the back, “made with tender loving care by Nene” - her signature trademark she included with each of her sewing projects. 2024 will be the first Christmas without our Nene on this Earth, so snapping that sequined star on day 24 will come with some additional emotions this winter.

As we age, the holidays start to wash over us without the same sparkly Santa magic we felt in our younger years - but - there are still several opportunities for new memories to be made every time the calendar rolls over to December first.

And sometimes those memories include plastic wrap.

It was 2009, I was just outside of a year post college graduation using my hard-earned bachelor's degree working retail. Vomit emoji. I just loved working so hard the four years prior and graduating with honors to get paid minimum wage selling books. During the holidays. Woot.

By the beard of Zeus (I’m Ron Burgundy?) I was lucky enough to get a few consecutive days off over Christmas to spend with family. I hopped in the car with my bro and synth bob (my sis-in-law) to battle I-35 traffic toward my dad and stepmom’s house a few hours south in Austin. Outside of one phenomenal road trip stuffed with several inside jokes (shoutout to boat paint, brown hand center, nothing’s too hard …for god, and schlotz better), the highlight of this holiday was our evening with a roll of press ‘n seal.

Unlike saran wrap (which should really be called satan’s wrap because it is so evil and frustrating), press ‘n seal is smooth on the top and lightly textured and sticky underneath, which gives each sheet enough heft and grip (duh, sticky) to whichever size/surface/dish you have eyeballed for some coverage. Saran wrap just sort of listlessly flies about after you shear it off, and imo never seems to properly adhere to anything you put it on. Frustrating. Press ‘n seal for president (or press'ndent tehe).

After a very lovely Christmas Eve celebration, some wine drinking, and a few games via the Wii, the parents called it a night, and we “kids” decided to stay up for Santa, aka continue to sample from mom and dad’s liquor cabinet and goof off. At some point there were snacks. Snacks that were previously covered in press ‘n seal. What else is one to do with leftover, discarded sticky wrap?

Take a bunch of photos with it all over your face, duh.

The three of us spent the next several hours sipping cocktails and taking turns snapping photos with the same communal piece of press ‘n seal draped across our faces in one silly position or another. We were legit entertained for hours thanks to plastic wrap - and I loved every minute of it. The carefreeness of that evening sparked that childhood sense of Christmas wonder within my spirit. It taught me that not only do we experience seasons across a single calendar year but also across our lifetimes. I was entering a new “season” in how I experienced the holidays as an adult, and from that silly Christmas Eve I gained a whole new perspective around making memories and was immediately filled with gratitude - and still am to this day. 

Big ups to press ‘n seal - for the memories, for not sucking like saran wrap, and for renewed admiration for the most wonderful time of the year. I see you Santa; you’re still pretty cool. 

In addition to my advent calendar, I now look forward to the occasional roll of press ‘n seal to sneak into my stocking - a hint that this memory still blesses and is cherished by all those involved, reminding us that Christmas magic is ageless.   

The year of our lord two zero two zero mmhmm miss twenty twenty hunty certainly served up several surprises including murder hornets, the government acknowledging UFOs are real.. and oh yeah, a global pandemmy. In one way 2020 was the longest year of my life but in the same step I’ve blinked and poof, I’m in deep 2024. 

(insert Keanu Reeves woah)

Outside of the absolute mess trash hot garbage that muddied the 2020 waters, I did make major, positive personal moves that kicked off with an actual physical move to the midwest. Ya gurl packed up her pod in Texas and greeted it from her new address in Chicago, IL (well, I had to pay extra for “city service” to have it babysat in an alley but same diff). The Second City was offering me my own personal second chance in a lot of aspects. I arrived in Gotham with a renewed focus on myself - I was ready to set up in a new zip code to experience a whole new version of life. 

The last handful of years had thrown me a mixed bag of extraordinary adventure and moments of absolute happiness cycled with deep dark personal lows (insert depression here). I knew it was the moment (wink) for some big time change, and I wanted new surroundings to set up self-healing shop. I had a shortlist of where I wanted Melanie 2.0 to live with the gold medal spot going to Chicago, which is why I decided on a final solo jaunt to the city to celebrate NYE, and after a 72-hour relationship, I locked in my commitment to relocation. On January 1, 2020, I stood on the State Street bridge with the crisp winter wind whipping at my face and experienced a moment full of absolute clarity, joy, and confidence - I knew I was making the right decision for myself and my next steps in life would be filled with all sorts of healing and personal growth…

…this was not one of those moments.

As mentioned previously - and I know we all hate to reminisce about it - but 2020 was rough. Life retreated inside while parts of the world literally burned around us. There was a lot of fear and anger and sadness that dotted our day to day timeline. But - fresh off a major move, I kept my PMA hat on and stayed determined to safely experience as much joy as possible in my new city. There were a lot of casual neighborhood walks, picnics in parks, and to-go orders from local establishments. 

This “new normal” also included a Saturday ritual with my roommate (who had also recently relocated) - we’d pick a neighborhood that we had yet to explore, get ourselves there and see what kind of socially distanced shenanigans we could get ourselves into. One particular Saturday explore sesh we slid into the streets of Northalsted, grabbed a starbys, and started window shopping and planning what places we might actually visit as the world began to creep toward a soft reopening. It was an absolutely gorgeous sunny spring day and even with all the surrounding noise the world was making, I was able to escape to a quiet corner within my consciousness and really begin to take in and appreciate my new home. 

Once it was an acceptable hour to drink (which crept up earlier and earlier in the day during covid) we swapped our coffee for cocktails. We enjoyed margarita appetizers and bloody mary entrees. We scored some take away brunch and posted up in what we now call “sad egg park” (a mem moment for another time) to enjoy our impulse purchase omelets. 

Alright alright alright Matthew McConaughey style you can do the math - coffee, margs, marys + nothing being open for inside business = you are S O L when you have to P E E. 

Full bladder and not an easily accessible or public baño in sight - what’s a gal to do? A: tag her roommate in to guard the entrance to an alley while I ducked behind a very popular establishment for an oh so classy in-between two dumpsters squat. I’m sure I wasn’t the first to use the Sidetrack alley to number one and hundo p won’t be the last. And in fact this move would eventually become an mem calling card as I also found myself having to do a public park pee another time or two during the slow roll toward reopening (and yet another mem moment for a different day), but back to ‘track …

As I crouched down praying to the street pee gods and goddesses that the blinds in the apartment windows directly across from me would stay shut, I also lowkey had a moment (double wink) of gratitude for saying yes, making the big move, and doing what I could to enjoy my beautiful new city during a period of such collective ugliness and darkness.

Yes. I was grateful to be peeing behind a dumpster. How’s that for perspective?

“Do these pool sticks make me look photogenic?” said no one ever.

Correction - said one person ever.

Person = me.

College. Pretty great, right? You’re living that B Spears fantasy not a girl, but not yet a woman lifestyle, complete(ish) freedom to do everything, do nothing, or some combination of the two. Do I actually show up for my three-hour Thursday night cultural anthro class? Sigh, yes. But - do I make a stop at Chimy’s for a marg (or two) on my way to said class? Also yes. Balance. Disclaimer: I walked to class so no risk of any DWI action okay (so stop judging). Most decisions made during those pre-full-frontal lobe development years were based on “social engagements,” aka sifting through the several offers to drink cheap booze that came trickling down a giant block of ice you shared with the 50+ other people at the party. Thanks for the memories, shot block.

(hey I graduated with honors so I must’ve been doing something right)

Perhaps my most favorite tidbit about college - and this is college in the early 2000s - was how hardcore “unplugged” and present we were. This was v early social media (FB was starting to *kind of* be a thing) and mos def pre iPhone. Cell phones were basically bricks and were for talk, text, and snake only.

Technically this is more of a hindsight 20/20 observation but - judges panel - it’s allowed for the sake of this discussion. Current years seem to just fly on by without abandon, there are so many things available to us now that absorb your attention without much effort. Hours/days/years/moments/memories start to blur.

This is not a new concept by any means but with fewer distractions you’re way more in tune with what’s actually happening around you. It’s easier to stay engaged and connected with things happening in real-time; not always worrying about the phone eating first or putting so much stock in who all has fire emoji’d your insta story. You just are. The more present you are, the slower time moves.

Current day Melanie memories still rock out but are on a steady decline of acuity, but my memories from college remain crisp and distinct.

And this is one of my favorites.

Okay so off the jump this isn’t hundo p a college memory but rather a return to campus the fall after I graduated to visit friends memory but - judges panel - it counts. Besides, I’m the one authoring this thing and can pretty much do whatever I want.

In the late fall of 2008, I made a glorious return to the cotton fields and college campus of Lubbock, Texas to visit my friend, aka the other half of the brunette sandwich, Meeko (#bs4l). Meeko is obviously a nickname so don’t start facebooking that (or do I guess; it’s a free country …for now at least). I met Meeks earlier that summer during an archaeological field school in Belize. We were assigned bunkmates who formed a fast friendship in the jungle and were pretty inseparable (hence sandwich) that summer digging holes in Plaza B. Love you Meeks.

For this particular campus reunion, we planned a weekend chock full of typical college-style debauchery - drinking, queso, late nights, unauthorized offroading in the Nissan Maxima… you know, the usual suspects. That Saturday we sauntered over to the divey yet still-somehow-serving-overpriced-bevs bar to see what kind of trouble this sandwich could get into. There were about eight(ish) of us drinking dranks and playing shitty bar pool. You know, the kind you have to use a stack of quarters to play. Our drink of choice for the evening was something of the large format variety, served up in an actual fish bowl.

Yes, a literal plastic pet store fish bowl filled with 16+ shots of grain alcohol, enough to get the Chads and Brads of Phi Kappa Whatever roasted y toasted. Several straws were included for optics’ sake (like it wasn’t just Chad and Brad ordering it) to divvy up that alcohol wealth. It tasted exactly how you’d expect a classic co-ed campus cocktail to taste - notes of coconutty suntan lotion.

We clocked into getting wasted work and quickly started to make that sunblock drink disappear.

Good times ensued - more shitty pool peppered with tipsy chatter and laughter, not a phone in sight. BUT what we did have was a digital camera. Remember those? You had to make a legit effort to bring those out to the bar.

Let’s flashback to the future in our DeLorean (1.21 Gigawatts!) to current day - anyone who knows me understands that when I’ve been on my drink drink game, I like to pose pose and snap snap. I go silly goose style with photos and transcend to some random, obscure creative corner of my brain that only three manhattan deep Melanie can tap into (and also understand). Suddenly everything around me feels ~*ultra-aesthetic*~ …an abandoned alley, a random shadow, a piece of street garbage, idk - the mundane somehow magically transforms into the magnificent after margaritas.

Quick DeLorean bleep bloop back to our fish bowl night in 2008 - my photo opp of the night was none other than a rack of pool sticks we were using for our coin-based games. I saw those and for whatever reason went, yes - this. This is where I elevate my digital photography game. But wait, there’s more - not only was I ogling the pool sticks themselves as #art, but I also wanted to capture my cool stupid face behind said pool sticks. Genius.

I remember making a pretty big deal about grabbing this moment MEEKS TAKE A PICTURE OF ME BEHIND THE POOL STICKS for literal hours (in drunk bar time that’s at least thirty minutes). Like I was going to submit this impending masterpiece to National Geographic or something vis a vis, “white girl epitomizes what it's like to be a college student in the Texas Panhandle.”

Meeko stepped up to the photo plate and captured an image that she and I still laugh about to this day. It’s a core memory and a complete chapter in and of itself in our 15+ year book o’ friendship.

Hey - it may not grace the cover of a fancy fashion mag, win a Pulitzer, or find a place on the permanent IG grid, but - judges panel - it will always have top billing in my memory and ongoing text thread with Meeko.

A reminder to you, dear reader, to not fear letting go to capture anything/everything you want, whenever you want, especially as your memories start to blur as you, too, might capture your hall of photo fame pool stick moment that keeps you young (and laughing) for years to come.

Has a single piece of advice or simple phrase changed your life? Like, lowkey, just a few highly simplified terms arranged in a basic syntax, just absolutely spittin' hot game on how you process certain situations or operate in general.

If you have yet to experience this - well, shit. But it'll happen for you, you're doing great sweetie.

If this has happened to you …dope af, right??

I have a prior bossman who gave me the single best piece of advice I've received to date.

"Melanie (very pregnant pause), you need to start asking yourself what are the things that you can control" (bolded for drama) …and then he threw back another bite of his burrito bowl.

Yes. This straight-up life-altering phrase came during a boss/subordinate lunch at freebirds world burrito on MacArthur Ave in Irving, Texas. (are those still a thing? brb googling)

Not that there's, like, any standard time, place, or backdrop where profound advice is permitted to pop off - and in fact, I'd argue that the location I heard this statement contributes equally, if not more, to the stickiness of this memory.

If we were to boomerang backward through time and back around to the present day, we'd all be witness to my track record when it comes to 1) anxiety and 2) asking for help.

As a latchkey kid and current day strong single lady who don't need no man, I am fiercely independent but struggle when I deem things are not going to plan (who's plan? idk) …and further compound those feels with the absolute TERROR (caps for drama) that comes with asking for help. The cherry on top of that probably should-be-in-therapy sundae: anxiety. And when all three of these decide to vibe out in a single setting… it's like my own personalized bermuda triangle for productivity. Everything I'm working on comes to a screeching halt, followed by a cute lil mini panny attack or menty b, questioning myself and my worth but ultimately, I complete the full rotation around the crazy circle, reset and reestablish a sense of normalcy. Lather, rinse, repeat. But - this panic process has drastically shortened its cycle time in large part due to my freebrids wisdom combined with some additional tactics I've learned throughout my self-healing practice.

"What are the things that you can control?" (still slaps)

The main gut punch I experienced when this phrase hit my inner ear was holy shit - how much literal (italics for drama) time I've wasted to date focused on things that, yes, I may be attached to in some way but that I am not actively responsible for. When structuring my current to-do list of <insert everything here> it immediately filtered out so much noise and allowed my brain to exhale with relief.

Side effects may include immediate clarity and a kewt lil key bump of serotonin.

After that particular burrito bowl outing, I was a changed woman. This statement found its way to the top of my to-do lists and action items, weaved its way into my day-to-day goings ons and challenging personal situations - and I very much still to this day circle back to homegirl when I arrive at a particularly difficult or mentally taxing moment. Personal, professional… doesn't matter. This is a one-statement-fits-all situation.

Thank you, bossman, for giving me this simple gift that continues to shape my mind for the better. And big ups to you, freebirds world burrito. I miss your pretty okay menu and tiny tin foil statues.

Oh - and the google did tell me that freebirds is still a current-day thing; apparently they are "Texas' No. 1 Burrito" according to their website. Doubtful, but do you freebirds, and keep providing a fast-casual space for epic life advice.

Isn't it funny that we remember such small/insignificant/random things from years past? I mean, I didn't even have an ifun until a year or so after I graduated from college, and my early instagram days were very sus (a lot of "artsy" tree pics), but my pre-phone-as-an-appendage memory still slaps. For now at least.

Swedish fish. I don't see them often, but when I do, I am immediately bleep blooped back to 17-year-old Melanie brain with the quickness. Swedish fish? A candy I didn't even know was a candy until someone told me hey, I really enjoy swedish fish. This someone was one of my three "serious" high school boyfriends.

I straight up thought he was punking me when that was his answer to my, "hey what's your favorite candy" question - real deep, I know. But cut me a lil slack. At 17, my thoughtful conversational tactics apparently topped off at Buddy the Elf a la "what's your favorite color" energy.

It was also one of the first times I realized that certain things were available or more prevalent in specific regions or locales. As a naive little lady growing up in the state of Texas, I thought everything I had locally available to me must be exactly what it was like everywhere else. That's Real Texan of me, no? Yeehaw, giddy up.

This particular boyfriend was not from or currently resided in Texas. He was from the Land of Lincoln, praise corn jesus aka Chicago, Illinois - which, ironically, is where I currently live. Melanie, how did you meet a dude from another state without a credit card? No, it was not an internet chat room. We met in a totally typical, happens-all-the-time scenario - a royal caribbean cruise you go on with your family and fellow high schooler lady friend all sharing a single stateroom. Totes normal.

I met cruise crush Jay (not his real name) on this adventure, and I like, totally, for sure, thought we'd be together 4eva. Real write your initials out followed by a = ❤️ kind of stuff. He actually went after my lady friend initially but hey, silver medal still makes it to the podium amirite? We stayed in touch after docking and doing the whole dry land thing. After a few months of trading letters - yes, actual letters - some emails, and *maybe* a text or two (those puppies still cost .10 a drop), he booked a trip to visit me down south.

Back then and even today, I consider myself cutesy AF. I love to make handmade, thoughtful gifts. Some real, local craft store shit. For this particular boyfran visit, I wanted to greet him with a totes cute omg basket of his favorite goodies to make him feel more welcome during his first foray to Tejas. The main event in this goodie bag being you guessed it, candy. Again - I'm 17 in this story and ya girl is on a budget; those barista shifts at the local church could only pay for so much, ya'll.

I was facebook friendly with his kid sister so did the ol' social media sneak sneak and asked her what his favorite candy was. What even is a swedish fish? How is something with "fish" in its name sweet and delicious? I've never seen this candy as an available option at any of my local candy haunts. And, it's not like I can quickly google it, my ca. 2002 nokia/brick phone was good for only two things: phone calls and playing snake.

My mom knew what these fish candies were and thus confirmed their legitimacy as actual candy. I forget how I actually came to purchase this for his box o' treats but nevertheless I made it happen - I secured the swedish. Jay loved it but at the same time seriously called my candy knowledge into question after I admitted I had no idea that these fish gummy treat thingys were even a thing. And, I had absolutely zero interest in trying one. I'm more in the pb+choco/butterfinger camp.

It did his midwestern heart good knowing his child bride (more on this another time) commandeered the fish chew chews.

Today, tomorrow, and even throughout the yesterdays, I always ALWAYS think of Jay whenever I see a swedish fish sweet treat for sale at like, the Jewels or Walgreens or whatever. And I doubt I'll ever forget this little slice of specific high school history.

Too bad he ended up being a ped*phile with his own dedicated segment on Inside Edition (you know you ate that shit up back in the 90s - Deborah Norville was basically early evening Oprah). I can really pick ‘em, eh?

I wonder if they serve swedish fish in jail.