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Thursday, December 9, 2010
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Melissa's Cupcake Moments Preview
I Dream of Being Jeannie
Most girls dream of their wedding when they are young. They dream of being the bride in a beautiful puffed out gown, with their her best friends and family in bright colors around her. In their dream they can smell their favorite flowers serving as the only perfume in the room. They see their grooms, blushing and wiping their eyes as the doors open and reveal the wife-to-be. They wish to spend every day with their one true love. But until that day comes, imagination and dress up must suffice.
I was not that little girl.
When I was five, my mom dressed me as a bride for Halloween, and I was pissed.
My cousin, Jen, is four years older than me, and growing up she was my role model. Jen was always tall and thin, with a head of light brown curls and her matching milk chocolate eyes. After long days playing kick ball and swimming in her pool, her nose revealed a few freckles.
I tried to dress the same as she did, and when I got her hand-me-downs it was as good as Christmas. One of my favorite things she passed down to me was a bright orange t-shirt with a plastic image of pop bottle that was filled with liquid and glitter. For a while, I tied the back in a scrunchie so it wouldn’t be so big. I tried to play the same sports she did, but I would later find out I was better at baton twirling than softball. However, I was especially proud of my softball trophy from my team, the Yankees, winning at the end of the season. Looking back, I thought my role as catcher had a lot to do with our victory. After all, when the batter striked out I’d come out of the batting cage and scream out into the field “One out, two to go,” holding up the appropriate fingers.
I ate everything she did, with the exception of tuna fish on toast, opting for chipped ham, American cheese, and mustard, lightly toasted. Jen was pretty, sporty, and had the coolest things. Our neighborhood friends wanted to be her, or be her friend. It only made sense that we should dress the same thing for Halloween. My mother didn’t see the correlation.
Jen and I were obsessed with TV Land shows like such as “Happy Days” and “I Dream of Jeannie.” We taped reruns, took pictures of the tv when The Fonz and Chachi would appear, and we even made our own episodes of “I Dream of Jeannie” once we figured out how to blink things in or out of the camera shot. “I Dream of Jeannie” intrigued us. Barbara Eden, who played Jeannie, was beautiful, witty, yet somewhat naïve. We envied her bouncy blonde ponytail, the way her inside of her bottle was decorated, and how she had Major Nelson wrapped around her finger. We loved the way she could play any role she could think of and blink herself into the appropriate clothes. Without thinking twice, Jen and I agreed to be Jeannie’s for Halloween. Jen would wear purple, and I would wear pink, our favorite colors. It was going to be perfect.
We told our mothers the good news. My Aunt Denise is the happy-go-lucky type and let Jen dress and do her hair (or rather, not do her hair at all when she was young) the way she wanted. My mom on the other hand, always made sure my clothes were stylish and matching, that my hair was neatly curled thanks to the sponge curlers I slept in the night before, or was perfectly slicked back into a French braid, complemented with an oversized bow. My mom had her own idea of what I was going to be for Halloween – a bride.
Let your mom talk right here
I don’t remember what I said, but I was angry. I know I threw a fit, crying hysterically and screaming that I wanted to be Jeannie like Jen. My mom didn’t care. She bought the dress, the veil, the flowers, and the gloves. At the end of October, I’d be all in white. I didn’t care about any of that stuff, I wanted to be a Jeannie, in pink.
I didn’t know at the time that about seven 7 years later I would start to be interested in boys. I didn’t think about the future, or how in 16 years I would cry as I listened to Tonya, the girl assigned to do my dress fitting, telling me, “Seven years ago, you met Brandon. And Brandon loved you so much that he decided he wanted to spend the rest of his life with you. So if you think this is the dress, if you think you can see yourself walking down the aisle at St. Paul’s Cathedral, going to meet the love of your life in this dress, then you don’t need to look anymore.”
I didn’t think I’d look over at my mother, face as red as a ripe apple, wiping the tears from her eyes as she would say, “I couldn’t picture you in anything else. That’s the one.” No, all I thought about and wanted to be was a Jeannie.
-
My Mother’s Fur Coat
My mother hid it in the closet between a silver-embroidered pant suit and a red heavy winter coat, both in plastic garment bags. It didn’t matter. I always found it and pressed it against my face. The fur was soft and itchy, the beige lining silky and smooth. It smelled like my mother’s perfume. It smelled like what it was once – an animal.
My mother’s rabbit fur coat was my favorite thing to try on. I liked to pretend I was getting ready for an upscale party, all dressed up in real rabbit fur. Young and naïve, it didn’t bother me that it came from an actual rabbit. I didn’t realize what someone had to do to get the fur. What I knew – it was expensive. Anytime I put the oversized coat on, my mom would scold me and tell me not to ruin it.
I would never do anything to destroy it. The coat was too elegant, exquisite, and precious. I knew I would grow into it one day. I longed to be old enough to go to a fancy party, to be a glamorous grown up, beautiful, like my mother.
I only wore the jacket once. I can’t remember where I actually went in it. I do recall though, after that one time I didn’t desire it as much. I didn’t feel the yearning or the need to wear it. Maybe it was because I didn’t have anywhere special enough to go. Maybe I thought by that time it was just too old to wear. Or maybe it was because the coat was like most other magical things. Once I finally had it, I no longer wanted it.
After all, the coat didn’t make me fancier. It didn’t make me rich. It didn’t get me invitations to mature, sophisticated parties. It was just me in my mother’s old rabbit fur coat.
The coat’s lost now. My family’s moved a lot. Even though it wasn’t the magic I’d hoped for, I’d like to have the coat back as a memory of what it was like to be a little girl playing dress up. What it was like to be me, without any worries, wanting to be older.
-
Mrs. Dombroski
“Why did I just hear a rip?” Mrs. Dombroski glared at me with her large brown eyes, arms crossed across her chest, with one hip cocked and her lips plumped out as if she was either making a kissy-face, or biting the inside of cheek.
“I was sorting through the other papers in the garbage,” I lied, as I stood up and handed her my newly ripped, half-brown paper doll. My hand shook as I handed her the crinkled paper, avoiding eye contact, because she would see through the lie and fail me for the project. All of this stress and anxiety just to send my Uncle Bill in Denver, Colorado a stupid paper doll.
Fourth grade was the most miserable of my Center School Elementary experience. The new teacher to the school, Mrs. Dombroski, was tall, lean, and conservative. Her hair was cut like a pixie and a vibrant auburn color. At the beginning of the school year she was overly nice, probably trying to win us over since she was new to our school. Mid-year her attitude shifted and she was cold, stern, and very intimidating. Our classroom didn’t look like one of a nasty teacher. It was bright with wide windows shining light into our prison. Bright colored posters hung up around the room, encouraging us to read, try, and succeed. Paper chains were strung across the ceiling in competition with other classrooms to see who could donate the most money and create the longest chain to Make-A-Wish. The desks were set up in tables of five and in alphabetical order. She wouldn’t have it any other way. In her class, there was no such thing as incomplete homework, talking without raising your hand, or horseplay. One time Mrs. Dombroski yelled at my best friend Nikki and put her name in the “Warning Box” for crossing her eyes. After that incident, we signed up to play trumpet in the band, just to get out of her class after lunch. By the end of the day, I prayed that I would hear “Bus 175, orange” called over the loud speaker first. However, my bus was never the first or second to get there and I would be stuck waiting, hoping I wouldn’t miss the first few minutes of Wishbone.
Her tests were difficult. When she graded, she wrote in red pen, a typical cliché. If you got anything lower than a C you would have to get it signed by a parent or guardian. I found this to be a personal attack on us students, kind of a slap in the face. If she couldn’t call our parents about everything we did that wasn’t up to par in class, she’d at least get us in trouble for not doing well on a test. “A, B, at least a C” I’d repeat over and over to myself in a rhythmic way as a good luck charm. Fortunately for me, I could get around the scolding from my parents if I wasn’t so lucky. My mom left early in the morning for work, so my dad saw us off. My first option was to get my dad to sign it in the morning, knowing all he would say is, “try better next time” and scribble R.F. Marullo on the test. On occasion, I’d leave it on the kitchen table with a note to my mom that read, “Mom, please sign this. I’m sorry. I’ll try better next time.” She was probably mad when she saw the test and the note, but by the time I got home from school, she’d forget about it, and I’d think to myself, Melissa – 1, Dombroski – 0.
I don’t recall what we were learning about that sparked this project. Regardless, our assignment was to ask a friend or family member to receive a paper doll and “show” it around where they live. They were asked to take pictures and report back to us where they took the doll and what they did. My Uncle Bill lived in Denver, Colorado at the time, and he agreed to take it and show it around. Later I would receive the doll back with a full, detailed itinerary of what the doll did, saw, and a book of information about Denver. He took it overboard, but this didn’t get me extra points.
Mrs. Dombroski gave us a pattern to trace, cut out, and decorate with a face, clothes, etc. In our groups of five, we sat with our safety scissors, crayons, colored pencils, and markers making our dolls any way we wanted. The shape looked like a gingerbread man, so I can understand Nikki’s reasoning of coloring it brown, and it seemed like a good idea at the time. So, after watching her from across the room, I picked up a brown colored pencil and carefully began coloring. My technique was to color the edges darker and harder, and to not put as much pressure on the paper while coloring the inside. When I was about half way done coloring my doll brown, I looked up and noticed the other dolls around my table. Angela Mitcheltree’s doll wasn’t brown. Checking another table, I saw that Marla Whitney’s wasn’t brown either.
It hit me that these weren’t gingerbread dolls we were sending. It wasn’t Christmas, it was spring. There was string to glue on the dolls for hair. Gingerbread men didn’t have hair. My doll looked dumb and I felt out of place. I couldn’t take back the brown I already colored, and I knew she wouldn’t give me a new one if I told her the truth that I saw Nikki coloring hers brown, decided to follow, then see that others weren’t brown and it made more sense. So, I devised a plan. I crinkled the paper up and threw it away. Mrs. Dombroski watched over other’s work and I made my way towards her.
“Mrs. Dombroski, my doll ripped. Can I have another piece of paper so I can cut out another one? She looked at me with disbelief. She was right though, I was lieing.
She crossed her arms and said in a deep, degrading voice, “Go get it. I want to see it”
Crap, I thought. By now the room had gone silent. They were watching me move to the small black trash can. Everyone tensed. Mrs. Dombroski’s attitude had a way of making everyone nervous. With about 22 pairs of eyes on me, I slowly walked to the trash. When I put it in there a few minutes earlier, I made sure to hide it under the other pieces of scrap paper. Everyone’s stares jabbed at me like my mom driving bobby pins through my hair for a baton competition. I scrambled around for a minute or two, pretending like I was looking for the doll, rough and scratchy paper rubbing up against my wrists. With my hands gripped on the paper as deep as I could go in the trash can, I slowly ripped the doll. Since there was no reaction, I did it again.
Her hip was cocked, her arms crossed, and her red lips puckered. “Why did I just hear a rip,” she asked, neck swiveling back and forth with each word.
“I was sorting through the other papers in the garbage,” I lied. “I couldn’t find it.”
As I handed her the doll, she looked at it, then back at me, her glare penetrating through my skin and into my stomach where it was turning. She didn’t believe me. The class didn’t believe me. I was disgusted for putting myself in that situation. I wasn’t brought up to lie, but I was convinced that Mrs. Dombroski left me no choice. However, she spared me public embarrassment when she told me to go get another piece of paper on her desk. I sat down and cut out the doll on a fresh piece, sighing with relief, planning what I was going to do with this one. Yellow yarn for the hair, blue eyes like mine, and a pink shirt. This doll would be better, and it would look like me – a fourth grade liar.
-
First Kiss
It was July before my 8th grade year in junior high and I was meeting my “boyfriend” at the Plum Community Days festival at Larry Mills Park. The next day, my family and I were leaving for vacation to Hilton Head Island, South Carolina, and I knew that I had to make this last night count with Josh. Neither one of us had our first real kiss yet, so there was a lot of pressure and build-up to the event that I would later regret. We stood together in the playground with the night summer heat and humidity surrounding us, waiting for the fireworks to begin, on the wood chips underneath the monkey bars. With the rest of the wooden playground behind us, we faced each other. I don't recall what we said to each other – leaning into the kiss was a blur. What seemed like suddenly, his mouth pressed up to mine, slightly open and wet. I expected to taste something, like it happens in the movies. However, there wasn't a hint of popcorn, mint gum, or even cherry lip balm. The movement of his tongue was foreign and I found myself struggling to copy his, or complement it in any way.
I attempted to turn my head in the direction opposite of his, neglecting my concentration on the movement of my mouth. With that, I felt my teeth clench together and meet with something thick, wet and rigid. I bit his tongue. The heat in the air then seemed to be caused by my embarrassment. My first kiss was ruined by my innocence, immaturity, and inexperience.
The location of my first kiss is ironic – a playground, where children go to explore their youth and exert their energy. This was a place where kids could still be kids, and I chose it to be the place where I crossed the line between child and teenager. The only thing I could think to do was to run, to just go away as fast as I could. With an awkward, half hug goodbye, I ran passed the steps that lead to the tic-tac-toe game on top. The pulsing lights of fireflies, which seemed before to make the moment magical, were now just nuisance, tickling my skin as I forced into two or three. I tried to escape the kiss, the moment I wish that didn't happen, the moment I knew I wasn't ready for.
One Night at Jetz
“Yins wanna dance?”
Three cute guys approached us next to the bar with the question in the darkness of the club. I only recall what one of them were wearing – Jeans, a polo, and a hat slightly turned sideways and titled up. I don’t recall what the other two were wearing. The strobe lights highlighted back and forth, distorting the color of their faces. We were there to meet boys and dance, however I hesitated. It seemed uncomfortable dancing with a stranger who greeted me with the word “yins.” With a few shared glances and giggles between my girlfriends, Nikki and Kayla, we made our way down three black steps onto the dance floor.
I was 12 years old and just beginning junior high school. With numerous fights about Jetz, an under 21 night club in Harmarville, my mom finally let me go, with a curfew of what I imagine was 11 p.m. So with that, I took my mom’s cell phone, the advice to never set down my drink, and headed for the club with my new-found freedom. With my mom in the driver’s seat, I stepped out of the white Sonata and adjusted my shirt. Brand new and crisp, my silky white tank top from Sirens showed just enough cleavage, accentuated by a diagonal slit outlined in rhinestones. My mom passed Funfest as she drove away, and I was finally free to do whatever I wanted.
We were greeted by bouncers – big men in bright yellow shirts, taking our cover charge of $7.00 and scoping out the older girls behind us. Nikki, Kayla, and I entered a different world when we walked through the doors. Spiral staircases outlined the club, embroidered with soiled couches that comforted couples, or maybe strangers, as they made out. The dance floor became visible because of the neon lights that flashed on and off, back and forth, revealing sweaty teenagers, laughing and singing to the music. Virgin drinks occupied their hands while they rubbed up against each other as if they had an itch that needed scratched. I hid my purse under a garbage can so I didn’t have to carry it all night, but I kept the cell phone in my pocket to keep an eye on time. It would be an added bonus if someone saw me use it and they thought I was older. After all, that was always our goal in junior high.
After making our way around the upstairs of the club, we decided to go back to the dance floor. The large spiral staircases got the best of my friend Kayla. With one step, she slipped and bumped her way down at least five steps. Even in the dark, you could see the heat in her face rise from embarrassment. To calm her down, as well as hydrate my and Nikki’s throats from the all of the laughing, we headed to the bar for the most popular under 21 drink – water.
“Yins wanna dance?” Brandon asked, smooth and a little high pitched.
Strobe lights flashed back and forth on us as we danced, reflecting off of the rhinestones on my new tank top I bought for the occasion. We danced song after song and I couldn’t help but think about how fun this was, even though there wasn’t very much conversation between us. It seemed to be getting late, so I checked my phone.
“Shit,” I sighed, trying to sound mature, though I hadn’t really ever cursed in my life before that. “Hold on.”
I slipped away from Brandon and got Nikki and Kayla’s attention. “Your mom is gonna be here soon,” my statement aimed towards Kayla.
“Yeah, let’s go outside and wait for her. She’ll be pissed if we aren’t ready,” Kayla replied, implying the fact our parents never wanted to pick us up from places, but were always willing to drop us off.
I looked back at Brandon and saw him already dancing with another girl. A little irritated, we grabbed our new friends and pulled them to the side.
“We have to go,” Nikki shouted over the hip-hop.
“Already?” Bryan asked.
“Can we get your numbers or screen names or something?” Brandon took control.
“Here, I have a pen in my purse,” I said as I rushed back to grab my crochet purse that I wore over my shoulder and across my chest.
Random confidence struck me, and I grabbed Brandon’s arm to give him my screen name, “Homiechic6.” Please don’t ask, I thought I was hardcore. Before that, my screen name was “Peace81389” as in the Beanie Baby. Thank God I changed it before Junior High.
With my mark on his arm, we left the club. Later that night I received an instant message from “Bdraenacker,” or in other words, the letters of “Break dancer” mixed up. It was Brandon. That night started a six-year friendship. The seventh year started my relationship. The tenth began my engagement.
-
The Proposal
“Are you fucking kidding me,” I thought I said it in my head, but unfortunately it came out loud and clear. “Are you serious?”
Brandon was down on his right knee, leaning a little towards the left, trying to keep his balance as the Duquesne Incline descended down Mt. Washington. His face was freshly shaven, no there weren’t any remnants of his red facial hair. It was a typical February night, frigid cold and dark, though my body heatd raised and I felt like I was able to sweat. Good thing my quarter length, black glittery dress hid every flaw, with the help of control- top pantyhose.
He knelt ed there, waiting for my answer, trying to get words in between my ranting and disbelief. With a deep breath in, I began to cry, realizing that the moment we were discussing on the drive to the restaurant was happening at that moment. It was reality, and not just a distant wish.
“I have to go to the mall, so I’ll take you to work this morning,” Brandon casually said as he pulled on a pair of jeans that Saturday morning.
“What do you need at the mall?,” I askquestioned.
“I want to go to GNC, see if they have any sales on protein,” he lied. Thinking back, I have to give him credit for that one, he worked out every day and he was constantly in need of new chocolate- flavored powders to feed his growing muscles, or citrus smelling ones that gave him more energy.
“The mall doesn’t open until 10 or 10:30. I start at 9. What are you going to do?,” though his lie was good, I was suspicious.
“I don’t know, wait in my car. Maybe go through a drive-thru for breakfast,” he said. He didn’t panic.
The day at work took about a year to end. Around 2, I realized I haven’t talked to Brandon since he dropped me off at work in the morning. I texted him to see what was going on.
“Hey what’s up”
“Nothing about to head home”
“You’re still at the mall?? What the hell have you been doing”
He never answered. I didn’t talk to Brandon until I got back to my house after work.
I primped as usual when I got home. Long hot shower, Big Sexy Hair root pump straight to the scalp, hair dryer and straightener torturing my curly locks, and a barrel nose curling iron to finish it off. I came downstairs and heard whispers coming from the kitchen. My mom and Brandon were hiding something.
“Mom,” I screamed, as I slammed my black pumps into the steps so they knew I was coming. If they were going to whisper, they obviously didn’t want me to know. Although I was always the one to carefully and secretly unwrap my Christmas gifts, then place the tape back into the same spot so my mom couldn’t tell, I didn’t want to ruin their surprise. I assumed they were talking about my Valentine’s Dday present, since that’s what we were going out to the Tin Angel to celebrate for.
“Take a picture of us please,” I asked. Gladly, my mom took my pink camera and snapped a few shots. After convincing me that I looked fine, and that I just needed to put lipstick on, she saw us out the door.
“Bye,” she exaggerated, with a hug and a kiss for both Brandon and me. This was weird. She never gave Brandon a hug and kiss goodbye. She barely ever gave me a hug and kiss goodbye. I shrugged it off.
The car ride downtown consisted of normal conversation – finishing school, looking for a job, getting married, whether we wanted to rent or buy a house up front. Dinner was as normal as it could have been. The Tin Angel is a higher-end restaurant and has a prix fix menu. We got to pick from a few choices from each section of the five-5 course meal.
“I’ll have a baked potato with that. Is there any way you could load it, with like, cheese and bacon, and butter and sour cream?,” Brandon innocently questioned. I laughed at this. Here we were at this beautiful and expensive restaurant and he’s asking for bacon bits on his baked potato. This wouldn’t be our only mistake in the restaurant we clearly didn’t belong in. Later, we’d stare at the tiny bowls of water with a slice of lemon in each, wondering what the hell they were for.
The meal was delicious, but Brandon got strangely quiet. “I just have a lot on my mind,” he said at first. Then he blamed it on the food, that he ate too much. After paying, we made our way back to the incline.
“Let’s wait for one that we can go by ourselves on. It will be romantic,” he saidclaimed.
“Um, okay,” I shrugged, thinking that I was really freaking cold, and all I wanted to do was get into a warm car.
About three rides came and went, and Brandon took me outside to look at the view. His hands were tightly in his pocket, he barely nudged his arms as he swayed back and forth, saying nothing. I told him I wanted to go back inside, so we did. He said we could catch the next ride, and just hope no one else comes on.
We finally got on alone. The doors shut, and within about five seconds after the incline began to move, Brandon began.
“Well, Miss. The reason I wanted to come in here alone with you is because…” He got down on his knee and pulled out a ring box.
“I love you so much and I want to spend the rest of…”
“Oh my god,” I interrupted. “Are you fucking kidding me,” I put my hands over my mouth. Brandon smiled and tried to continue, but I wouldn’t let him.
“Are you serious,” I exclaimed. “Are you for real,” I said, as Brandon’s voice in the background tried to get the words out that he wanted to tell me. I don’t remember what else he said, but I’m sure it was beautiful. I know it was beautiful because I cried. Brandon tried to put the ring on my right finger, and I quickly corrected him by shoving my left hand in his face. We concluded his proposal with a few kisses and a few tears.
Obviously my mother knew – he had taken her to lunch earlier in the day to ask her permission. She told him that if he hurt me, he wouldn’t have to worry about my brothers or my dad, but he’d better be afraid of her. On the way home I continued to cry and say “oh my god” like a giddy twelve -year- old girl at a Justin Beiber concert.
My mom opened the door to greet us when we got back home. “Congratulations,” she screamed, hugging me tight. “Why are you crying,”
“I’m happy. You knew! I can’t believe you knew,” I yelled.
“Of course I knew. I was waiting for your call.”
The idea of calling my mom crossed my mind, but I didn’t think it was important. I figured we’d be back at the house in a half hour, she could wait. I could wait. Any other big moment, such as after passing an insanely difficult test, or even a small moment, like how I left my lunch box on the bus, I would have called her, but this night belonged to Brandon and me.
-
One Strong Woman
-
Butler’s Farmer Market
“Pick a pumpkin, Missy” Mrs. Allen said in her peppy, high-pitched voice as she inspected each side of every pumpkin and lifting it to estimate how much it will be. Brandon’s parents are the only ones I let me call Missy.
Growing up, it was either Melissa or Mitz. When I entered junior high, I adopted the nickname Miss, and have gone by that ever since. The name Missy is taunting. A sharp “Miss” followed by an accentuated and annoying “ee” never earned my attention or respect. However, when my future in-laws address me as Missy, it doesn’t bother me, and I don’t remember if it did when I started dating Brandon. Maybe I was too afraid to correct my boyfriend’s parents during our first couple encounters, or I accepted the fact I can’t snap at everyone who adds a “y” to my name. But I’d bet money that the reason is that I feel like it sounds right coming from them, like they are the only people other than my own parents who had the right to call me Missy.
During a visit Mr. and Mrs. Allen in Butler, PA, Andrea, Brandon’s sister, Mrs. Allen, and I took a drive to the farmer’s market. We pulled into horseshoe shaped gravel parking lot in Mrs. Allen’s silver PT Cruiser searching for a parking space. Cars and vans of all types were parked horizontally, some sticking out into the lane more than others. I stepped out of the car in my black wedged flip flops, clearly out of place, and inhaled the smell of dirt and leaves. The wind was strong, cooling the day, and I noticed Mrs. Allen’s short dark brown hair. Her post-chemo hair is a lot thicker than when I met her before the breast cancer. Her short figure dressed in jeans, tennis shoes, and a buttoned down shirt. Andrea dressed more like me in flip flops, dark jeans, and a tank top with a cover up over it. Their brown hair and eyes acted as a contrast to my dark blonde hair and blue eyes.
Looking around I saw flannel shirts, tennis shoes, barrels of hay, Amish folks setting up their stations, and wrinkled faces. Rows of pumpkins both large and small filled my sight with orange complemented by brown, sometimes black curly stems. Passing the barrels of hay, Indian corn, and gourds, we were welcomed by two automatic doors and metal carts. It was set up like any other grocery store, except the labels were hand written, and the word “local” appeared everywhere. The concrete floor clashed with the wheels on the carts, producing a loud, metal grinding noise. Despite the warm fall weather, it was chilly in there.
Glass covers sheltered the raw meat that was available. A round and tall man behind the glass near a meat scale in a dirty white apron called from over the counter in a deep, raspy, yet friendly voice.
“What can I get for you ladies,” he bellowed, his double chin jiggling with every jaw movement.
“Oh, we’re not sure yet,” Andrea answered. “We’re still deciding.” We really had no idea what we were in there for. Mrs. Allen took the cart and went in her own world, worrying about what she was going to feed us for dinner that night, and the next day, Sunday. Andrea and I grabbed a sample of raspberry iced tea, kielbasa, and cheese, searching for Mrs. Allen. We found her at the deli.
“Missy, the cart is empty. Put some stuff in there. Anything you want.”
“I don’t know what to put in. Get whatever you guys need,” I responded. I really didn’t need anything, but I knew she’d force me to pick something for her to buy.
After rounding the store and filling our cart with lunch meat, burgers, spinach dip and more, we checked out and proceeded outside. We were immersed in the Amish. Women in white bonnets, long and heavy blue dresses, and clogs steadied the pony’s for children to ride. A team of two men made apple cider, one throwing the apples in the contraption, the other turning a lever for juicing. Finally, two other women, stirring a large wooden pot over a fire, starting to make apple butter. I’ve heard nothing but great things about apple butter – how it tastes, how it’s an autumn treat, and how the Amish make the best.
“Where can we buy the apple butter,” Mrs. Allen loudly asked, looking around for the answer.
“Well, right here. But it’s not ready yet. It won’t be ready until around four” she answered, pushing a wooden spoon through the concoction that came out as apple butter, making it seem like it was a hard job.
“Oh, man. Okay, we’ll be back later,” Mrs. Allen promised. And we were.
Around four we found ourselves driving back to the farm market just to purchase homemade apple butter. However when we got there, the Amish were gone, with the exception of those running the pony rides. We went inside the grocery store and found the Amish who were making apple cider. I tried not to, but I stared at them. I inhaled the smell of deodorant-less men, who worked outside all day in the sun, with as much hair on their body to keep them warm if they were naked in a blizzard. I was in awe of their straw hats, their long full beards surrounding their face, their clothes, how the water they drank damped the hair above their lip. While I rudely watched them as if it were a circus show, Mrs. Allen came stomping back.
“They’re out of apple butter, Missy. I guess they sold out so fast and we were supposed to put our name on the list,” Mrs. Allen mocked whoever she asked by using a nasal voice.
“A list,” I asked. “I didn’t even know the Amish believed in lists.”
Andrea laughed, combing back her long dark brown hair with her fingers. “Oh my god Missy, I love you.”
“They’re probably stashing the left overs in that white tent over there. They want it to themselves,” I theorized.
Mrs. Allen laughed, “Well, come on, let’s get pumpkins”
“I don’t have to get one now. We still have time, I can just get out near our house. I don’t know how Brandon would feel about a dirty pumpkin in his car” I warned. Again, I really didn’t need a pumpkin. Sure, I wanted one eventually, but I didn’t need it like she made it seem.
“Pick a pumpkin, Missy. A nice big one” Mrs. Allen insisted. “Do you want a cornstalk? You guys should take a cornstalk home Come on, I’ll buy it for you”
“Oh no. I’ll get a pumpkin if it makes you happy, but I’m definitely not getting a cornstalk. We don’t need one, and Brandon would have a hissy fit if that stuff got in his car.”
Although it sounds superficial and silly, this was a whole new experience for me. I never liked the country, yet I felt comfortable there, like I did this all the time. I’m joining a family who likes the country better than the city, and lives in a more country setting, and I’m okay with that. We live in two different worlds but are coming together to be a family. The people out here are different. They don’t wear heels all the time or don’t wonder about the spring line of a famous designer. They seem to be more family-oriented. This woman was so much like my own mother – buying things for others, making sure when there is company the house is clean and there is dinner on the table, loving and caring for anyone. This woman will be a mother to me, if she isn’t already. I pondered these thoughts on the way home, with mass-produced apple butter, two pumpkins, and a cornstalk sticking out of the PT Cruiser’s hatch.
-
Daddy’s Girl
I try to make an effort to talk to my dad more often. In the beginning of November we had plans to go over his house for dinner and I was dreading it. Not because the food isn’t good, or because I had anything better to do. It was because the image of my dad always gets skewed after every visit.
When I was younger, my dad was the typical handy-man. He could make or fix anything, and he did it with precision. He’d help me with my school projects, and would make sure everything was neat, organized, and perfectly measured out. Always outside, he built us a deck, our grass was always cut, the dog poop always scooped. I’d always make him a glass of Lipton’s Iced Tea to cool him off, the kind that you mix powder with water. He said I made it the best. I took pride in that. From doing so much physical work he was lean. I don’t think my dad could have gotten fat if he tried. He was tall, skinny, and toned. I remember staring at his arm when he took off his shirt, amazed by the green ink on his arm that read “Rick” a reminder of his youth when him and his friends gave themselves tattoos. I always thought he was strong because he’d be able to sit me in a laundry basket, swing me up, down and around the house as he sang, “A Whole New World” from Aladdin.
I saw my dad today, and at first I thought he looked better than usual. His deep brown eyes weren’t the yellowish tint as usual. They were a little glassy, but white. He stands hunched over now, his legs unsteady, unable to turn his neck all the way to the right or the left due to his six hour neck surgery a few months ago. I thought he had gained weight, which would be good, considering he lost his stomach to stomach cancer when he was 50. Then, I looked again, and realized his weight was all water, bloating from the multiple cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer he drank before we got there so his body wouldn’t shake and demand the alcohol. He’d rather just give it to himself.
His dark dego skin remains the same, like he spent all day in the sun, he’s constantly tan. His curly dark brown hair has no hint of grey, and no sign of balding. I greeted him with a hug and a kiss on the cheek, trying to be gentile on his frail body as I smelled a wisp of beer and cologne. His face looks the same, only now the bags under his eyes are darker and his cheeks are puffy, another result from drinking too much. He showed me his foot, completely swollen, and said he was going to the doctor for it. It took everything in me not to call him an idiot and cry to him that it was the alcohol.
Dad called me into his room. I walked in and noticed the crucifix hanging over his dresser, as a reminder of hope and faith. He handed me $250. “For the wedding, or school. I tried getting a hold of your mother, but she doesn’t answer. So, here you go baby doll.”
“Thanks,” I said, folding and putting it in my back pocket. He kissed my head and we walked to the living room to join my brother, and I’m almost positive both of us knew that the money he gives me every so often will never make up for his lack of presence in my life, or his lack of caring for himself in order to save our family.
Most girls dream of their wedding when they are young. They dream of being the bride in a beautiful puffed out gown, with their her best friends and family in bright colors around her. In their dream they can smell their favorite flowers serving as the only perfume in the room. They see their grooms, blushing and wiping their eyes as the doors open and reveal the wife-to-be. They wish to spend every day with their one true love. But until that day comes, imagination and dress up must suffice.
I was not that little girl.
When I was five, my mom dressed me as a bride for Halloween, and I was pissed.
My cousin, Jen, is four years older than me, and growing up she was my role model. Jen was always tall and thin, with a head of light brown curls and her matching milk chocolate eyes. After long days playing kick ball and swimming in her pool, her nose revealed a few freckles.
I tried to dress the same as she did, and when I got her hand-me-downs it was as good as Christmas. One of my favorite things she passed down to me was a bright orange t-shirt with a plastic image of pop bottle that was filled with liquid and glitter. For a while, I tied the back in a scrunchie so it wouldn’t be so big. I tried to play the same sports she did, but I would later find out I was better at baton twirling than softball. However, I was especially proud of my softball trophy from my team, the Yankees, winning at the end of the season. Looking back, I thought my role as catcher had a lot to do with our victory. After all, when the batter striked out I’d come out of the batting cage and scream out into the field “One out, two to go,” holding up the appropriate fingers.
I ate everything she did, with the exception of tuna fish on toast, opting for chipped ham, American cheese, and mustard, lightly toasted. Jen was pretty, sporty, and had the coolest things. Our neighborhood friends wanted to be her, or be her friend. It only made sense that we should dress the same thing for Halloween. My mother didn’t see the correlation.
Jen and I were obsessed with TV Land shows like such as “Happy Days” and “I Dream of Jeannie.” We taped reruns, took pictures of the tv when The Fonz and Chachi would appear, and we even made our own episodes of “I Dream of Jeannie” once we figured out how to blink things in or out of the camera shot. “I Dream of Jeannie” intrigued us. Barbara Eden, who played Jeannie, was beautiful, witty, yet somewhat naïve. We envied her bouncy blonde ponytail, the way her inside of her bottle was decorated, and how she had Major Nelson wrapped around her finger. We loved the way she could play any role she could think of and blink herself into the appropriate clothes. Without thinking twice, Jen and I agreed to be Jeannie’s for Halloween. Jen would wear purple, and I would wear pink, our favorite colors. It was going to be perfect.
We told our mothers the good news. My Aunt Denise is the happy-go-lucky type and let Jen dress and do her hair (or rather, not do her hair at all when she was young) the way she wanted. My mom on the other hand, always made sure my clothes were stylish and matching, that my hair was neatly curled thanks to the sponge curlers I slept in the night before, or was perfectly slicked back into a French braid, complemented with an oversized bow. My mom had her own idea of what I was going to be for Halloween – a bride.
Let your mom talk right here
I don’t remember what I said, but I was angry. I know I threw a fit, crying hysterically and screaming that I wanted to be Jeannie like Jen. My mom didn’t care. She bought the dress, the veil, the flowers, and the gloves. At the end of October, I’d be all in white. I didn’t care about any of that stuff, I wanted to be a Jeannie, in pink.
I didn’t know at the time that about seven 7 years later I would start to be interested in boys. I didn’t think about the future, or how in 16 years I would cry as I listened to Tonya, the girl assigned to do my dress fitting, telling me, “Seven years ago, you met Brandon. And Brandon loved you so much that he decided he wanted to spend the rest of his life with you. So if you think this is the dress, if you think you can see yourself walking down the aisle at St. Paul’s Cathedral, going to meet the love of your life in this dress, then you don’t need to look anymore.”
I didn’t think I’d look over at my mother, face as red as a ripe apple, wiping the tears from her eyes as she would say, “I couldn’t picture you in anything else. That’s the one.” No, all I thought about and wanted to be was a Jeannie.
-
My Mother’s Fur Coat
My mother hid it in the closet between a silver-embroidered pant suit and a red heavy winter coat, both in plastic garment bags. It didn’t matter. I always found it and pressed it against my face. The fur was soft and itchy, the beige lining silky and smooth. It smelled like my mother’s perfume. It smelled like what it was once – an animal.
My mother’s rabbit fur coat was my favorite thing to try on. I liked to pretend I was getting ready for an upscale party, all dressed up in real rabbit fur. Young and naïve, it didn’t bother me that it came from an actual rabbit. I didn’t realize what someone had to do to get the fur. What I knew – it was expensive. Anytime I put the oversized coat on, my mom would scold me and tell me not to ruin it.
I would never do anything to destroy it. The coat was too elegant, exquisite, and precious. I knew I would grow into it one day. I longed to be old enough to go to a fancy party, to be a glamorous grown up, beautiful, like my mother.
I only wore the jacket once. I can’t remember where I actually went in it. I do recall though, after that one time I didn’t desire it as much. I didn’t feel the yearning or the need to wear it. Maybe it was because I didn’t have anywhere special enough to go. Maybe I thought by that time it was just too old to wear. Or maybe it was because the coat was like most other magical things. Once I finally had it, I no longer wanted it.
After all, the coat didn’t make me fancier. It didn’t make me rich. It didn’t get me invitations to mature, sophisticated parties. It was just me in my mother’s old rabbit fur coat.
The coat’s lost now. My family’s moved a lot. Even though it wasn’t the magic I’d hoped for, I’d like to have the coat back as a memory of what it was like to be a little girl playing dress up. What it was like to be me, without any worries, wanting to be older.
-
Mrs. Dombroski
“Why did I just hear a rip?” Mrs. Dombroski glared at me with her large brown eyes, arms crossed across her chest, with one hip cocked and her lips plumped out as if she was either making a kissy-face, or biting the inside of cheek.
“I was sorting through the other papers in the garbage,” I lied, as I stood up and handed her my newly ripped, half-brown paper doll. My hand shook as I handed her the crinkled paper, avoiding eye contact, because she would see through the lie and fail me for the project. All of this stress and anxiety just to send my Uncle Bill in Denver, Colorado a stupid paper doll.
Fourth grade was the most miserable of my Center School Elementary experience. The new teacher to the school, Mrs. Dombroski, was tall, lean, and conservative. Her hair was cut like a pixie and a vibrant auburn color. At the beginning of the school year she was overly nice, probably trying to win us over since she was new to our school. Mid-year her attitude shifted and she was cold, stern, and very intimidating. Our classroom didn’t look like one of a nasty teacher. It was bright with wide windows shining light into our prison. Bright colored posters hung up around the room, encouraging us to read, try, and succeed. Paper chains were strung across the ceiling in competition with other classrooms to see who could donate the most money and create the longest chain to Make-A-Wish. The desks were set up in tables of five and in alphabetical order. She wouldn’t have it any other way. In her class, there was no such thing as incomplete homework, talking without raising your hand, or horseplay. One time Mrs. Dombroski yelled at my best friend Nikki and put her name in the “Warning Box” for crossing her eyes. After that incident, we signed up to play trumpet in the band, just to get out of her class after lunch. By the end of the day, I prayed that I would hear “Bus 175, orange” called over the loud speaker first. However, my bus was never the first or second to get there and I would be stuck waiting, hoping I wouldn’t miss the first few minutes of Wishbone.
Her tests were difficult. When she graded, she wrote in red pen, a typical cliché. If you got anything lower than a C you would have to get it signed by a parent or guardian. I found this to be a personal attack on us students, kind of a slap in the face. If she couldn’t call our parents about everything we did that wasn’t up to par in class, she’d at least get us in trouble for not doing well on a test. “A, B, at least a C” I’d repeat over and over to myself in a rhythmic way as a good luck charm. Fortunately for me, I could get around the scolding from my parents if I wasn’t so lucky. My mom left early in the morning for work, so my dad saw us off. My first option was to get my dad to sign it in the morning, knowing all he would say is, “try better next time” and scribble R.F. Marullo on the test. On occasion, I’d leave it on the kitchen table with a note to my mom that read, “Mom, please sign this. I’m sorry. I’ll try better next time.” She was probably mad when she saw the test and the note, but by the time I got home from school, she’d forget about it, and I’d think to myself, Melissa – 1, Dombroski – 0.
I don’t recall what we were learning about that sparked this project. Regardless, our assignment was to ask a friend or family member to receive a paper doll and “show” it around where they live. They were asked to take pictures and report back to us where they took the doll and what they did. My Uncle Bill lived in Denver, Colorado at the time, and he agreed to take it and show it around. Later I would receive the doll back with a full, detailed itinerary of what the doll did, saw, and a book of information about Denver. He took it overboard, but this didn’t get me extra points.
Mrs. Dombroski gave us a pattern to trace, cut out, and decorate with a face, clothes, etc. In our groups of five, we sat with our safety scissors, crayons, colored pencils, and markers making our dolls any way we wanted. The shape looked like a gingerbread man, so I can understand Nikki’s reasoning of coloring it brown, and it seemed like a good idea at the time. So, after watching her from across the room, I picked up a brown colored pencil and carefully began coloring. My technique was to color the edges darker and harder, and to not put as much pressure on the paper while coloring the inside. When I was about half way done coloring my doll brown, I looked up and noticed the other dolls around my table. Angela Mitcheltree’s doll wasn’t brown. Checking another table, I saw that Marla Whitney’s wasn’t brown either.
It hit me that these weren’t gingerbread dolls we were sending. It wasn’t Christmas, it was spring. There was string to glue on the dolls for hair. Gingerbread men didn’t have hair. My doll looked dumb and I felt out of place. I couldn’t take back the brown I already colored, and I knew she wouldn’t give me a new one if I told her the truth that I saw Nikki coloring hers brown, decided to follow, then see that others weren’t brown and it made more sense. So, I devised a plan. I crinkled the paper up and threw it away. Mrs. Dombroski watched over other’s work and I made my way towards her.
“Mrs. Dombroski, my doll ripped. Can I have another piece of paper so I can cut out another one? She looked at me with disbelief. She was right though, I was lieing.
She crossed her arms and said in a deep, degrading voice, “Go get it. I want to see it”
Crap, I thought. By now the room had gone silent. They were watching me move to the small black trash can. Everyone tensed. Mrs. Dombroski’s attitude had a way of making everyone nervous. With about 22 pairs of eyes on me, I slowly walked to the trash. When I put it in there a few minutes earlier, I made sure to hide it under the other pieces of scrap paper. Everyone’s stares jabbed at me like my mom driving bobby pins through my hair for a baton competition. I scrambled around for a minute or two, pretending like I was looking for the doll, rough and scratchy paper rubbing up against my wrists. With my hands gripped on the paper as deep as I could go in the trash can, I slowly ripped the doll. Since there was no reaction, I did it again.
Her hip was cocked, her arms crossed, and her red lips puckered. “Why did I just hear a rip,” she asked, neck swiveling back and forth with each word.
“I was sorting through the other papers in the garbage,” I lied. “I couldn’t find it.”
As I handed her the doll, she looked at it, then back at me, her glare penetrating through my skin and into my stomach where it was turning. She didn’t believe me. The class didn’t believe me. I was disgusted for putting myself in that situation. I wasn’t brought up to lie, but I was convinced that Mrs. Dombroski left me no choice. However, she spared me public embarrassment when she told me to go get another piece of paper on her desk. I sat down and cut out the doll on a fresh piece, sighing with relief, planning what I was going to do with this one. Yellow yarn for the hair, blue eyes like mine, and a pink shirt. This doll would be better, and it would look like me – a fourth grade liar.
-
First Kiss
It was July before my 8th grade year in junior high and I was meeting my “boyfriend” at the Plum Community Days festival at Larry Mills Park. The next day, my family and I were leaving for vacation to Hilton Head Island, South Carolina, and I knew that I had to make this last night count with Josh. Neither one of us had our first real kiss yet, so there was a lot of pressure and build-up to the event that I would later regret. We stood together in the playground with the night summer heat and humidity surrounding us, waiting for the fireworks to begin, on the wood chips underneath the monkey bars. With the rest of the wooden playground behind us, we faced each other. I don't recall what we said to each other – leaning into the kiss was a blur. What seemed like suddenly, his mouth pressed up to mine, slightly open and wet. I expected to taste something, like it happens in the movies. However, there wasn't a hint of popcorn, mint gum, or even cherry lip balm. The movement of his tongue was foreign and I found myself struggling to copy his, or complement it in any way.
I attempted to turn my head in the direction opposite of his, neglecting my concentration on the movement of my mouth. With that, I felt my teeth clench together and meet with something thick, wet and rigid. I bit his tongue. The heat in the air then seemed to be caused by my embarrassment. My first kiss was ruined by my innocence, immaturity, and inexperience.
The location of my first kiss is ironic – a playground, where children go to explore their youth and exert their energy. This was a place where kids could still be kids, and I chose it to be the place where I crossed the line between child and teenager. The only thing I could think to do was to run, to just go away as fast as I could. With an awkward, half hug goodbye, I ran passed the steps that lead to the tic-tac-toe game on top. The pulsing lights of fireflies, which seemed before to make the moment magical, were now just nuisance, tickling my skin as I forced into two or three. I tried to escape the kiss, the moment I wish that didn't happen, the moment I knew I wasn't ready for.
One Night at Jetz
“Yins wanna dance?”
Three cute guys approached us next to the bar with the question in the darkness of the club. I only recall what one of them were wearing – Jeans, a polo, and a hat slightly turned sideways and titled up. I don’t recall what the other two were wearing. The strobe lights highlighted back and forth, distorting the color of their faces. We were there to meet boys and dance, however I hesitated. It seemed uncomfortable dancing with a stranger who greeted me with the word “yins.” With a few shared glances and giggles between my girlfriends, Nikki and Kayla, we made our way down three black steps onto the dance floor.
I was 12 years old and just beginning junior high school. With numerous fights about Jetz, an under 21 night club in Harmarville, my mom finally let me go, with a curfew of what I imagine was 11 p.m. So with that, I took my mom’s cell phone, the advice to never set down my drink, and headed for the club with my new-found freedom. With my mom in the driver’s seat, I stepped out of the white Sonata and adjusted my shirt. Brand new and crisp, my silky white tank top from Sirens showed just enough cleavage, accentuated by a diagonal slit outlined in rhinestones. My mom passed Funfest as she drove away, and I was finally free to do whatever I wanted.
We were greeted by bouncers – big men in bright yellow shirts, taking our cover charge of $7.00 and scoping out the older girls behind us. Nikki, Kayla, and I entered a different world when we walked through the doors. Spiral staircases outlined the club, embroidered with soiled couches that comforted couples, or maybe strangers, as they made out. The dance floor became visible because of the neon lights that flashed on and off, back and forth, revealing sweaty teenagers, laughing and singing to the music. Virgin drinks occupied their hands while they rubbed up against each other as if they had an itch that needed scratched. I hid my purse under a garbage can so I didn’t have to carry it all night, but I kept the cell phone in my pocket to keep an eye on time. It would be an added bonus if someone saw me use it and they thought I was older. After all, that was always our goal in junior high.
After making our way around the upstairs of the club, we decided to go back to the dance floor. The large spiral staircases got the best of my friend Kayla. With one step, she slipped and bumped her way down at least five steps. Even in the dark, you could see the heat in her face rise from embarrassment. To calm her down, as well as hydrate my and Nikki’s throats from the all of the laughing, we headed to the bar for the most popular under 21 drink – water.
“Yins wanna dance?” Brandon asked, smooth and a little high pitched.
Strobe lights flashed back and forth on us as we danced, reflecting off of the rhinestones on my new tank top I bought for the occasion. We danced song after song and I couldn’t help but think about how fun this was, even though there wasn’t very much conversation between us. It seemed to be getting late, so I checked my phone.
“Shit,” I sighed, trying to sound mature, though I hadn’t really ever cursed in my life before that. “Hold on.”
I slipped away from Brandon and got Nikki and Kayla’s attention. “Your mom is gonna be here soon,” my statement aimed towards Kayla.
“Yeah, let’s go outside and wait for her. She’ll be pissed if we aren’t ready,” Kayla replied, implying the fact our parents never wanted to pick us up from places, but were always willing to drop us off.
I looked back at Brandon and saw him already dancing with another girl. A little irritated, we grabbed our new friends and pulled them to the side.
“We have to go,” Nikki shouted over the hip-hop.
“Already?” Bryan asked.
“Can we get your numbers or screen names or something?” Brandon took control.
“Here, I have a pen in my purse,” I said as I rushed back to grab my crochet purse that I wore over my shoulder and across my chest.
Random confidence struck me, and I grabbed Brandon’s arm to give him my screen name, “Homiechic6.” Please don’t ask, I thought I was hardcore. Before that, my screen name was “Peace81389” as in the Beanie Baby. Thank God I changed it before Junior High.
With my mark on his arm, we left the club. Later that night I received an instant message from “Bdraenacker,” or in other words, the letters of “Break dancer” mixed up. It was Brandon. That night started a six-year friendship. The seventh year started my relationship. The tenth began my engagement.
-
The Proposal
“Are you fucking kidding me,” I thought I said it in my head, but unfortunately it came out loud and clear. “Are you serious?”
Brandon was down on his right knee, leaning a little towards the left, trying to keep his balance as the Duquesne Incline descended down Mt. Washington. His face was freshly shaven, no there weren’t any remnants of his red facial hair. It was a typical February night, frigid cold and dark, though my body heatd raised and I felt like I was able to sweat. Good thing my quarter length, black glittery dress hid every flaw, with the help of control- top pantyhose.
He knelt ed there, waiting for my answer, trying to get words in between my ranting and disbelief. With a deep breath in, I began to cry, realizing that the moment we were discussing on the drive to the restaurant was happening at that moment. It was reality, and not just a distant wish.
“I have to go to the mall, so I’ll take you to work this morning,” Brandon casually said as he pulled on a pair of jeans that Saturday morning.
“What do you need at the mall?,” I askquestioned.
“I want to go to GNC, see if they have any sales on protein,” he lied. Thinking back, I have to give him credit for that one, he worked out every day and he was constantly in need of new chocolate- flavored powders to feed his growing muscles, or citrus smelling ones that gave him more energy.
“The mall doesn’t open until 10 or 10:30. I start at 9. What are you going to do?,” though his lie was good, I was suspicious.
“I don’t know, wait in my car. Maybe go through a drive-thru for breakfast,” he said. He didn’t panic.
The day at work took about a year to end. Around 2, I realized I haven’t talked to Brandon since he dropped me off at work in the morning. I texted him to see what was going on.
“Hey what’s up”
“Nothing about to head home”
“You’re still at the mall?? What the hell have you been doing”
He never answered. I didn’t talk to Brandon until I got back to my house after work.
I primped as usual when I got home. Long hot shower, Big Sexy Hair root pump straight to the scalp, hair dryer and straightener torturing my curly locks, and a barrel nose curling iron to finish it off. I came downstairs and heard whispers coming from the kitchen. My mom and Brandon were hiding something.
“Mom,” I screamed, as I slammed my black pumps into the steps so they knew I was coming. If they were going to whisper, they obviously didn’t want me to know. Although I was always the one to carefully and secretly unwrap my Christmas gifts, then place the tape back into the same spot so my mom couldn’t tell, I didn’t want to ruin their surprise. I assumed they were talking about my Valentine’s Dday present, since that’s what we were going out to the Tin Angel to celebrate for.
“Take a picture of us please,” I asked. Gladly, my mom took my pink camera and snapped a few shots. After convincing me that I looked fine, and that I just needed to put lipstick on, she saw us out the door.
“Bye,” she exaggerated, with a hug and a kiss for both Brandon and me. This was weird. She never gave Brandon a hug and kiss goodbye. She barely ever gave me a hug and kiss goodbye. I shrugged it off.
The car ride downtown consisted of normal conversation – finishing school, looking for a job, getting married, whether we wanted to rent or buy a house up front. Dinner was as normal as it could have been. The Tin Angel is a higher-end restaurant and has a prix fix menu. We got to pick from a few choices from each section of the five-5 course meal.
“I’ll have a baked potato with that. Is there any way you could load it, with like, cheese and bacon, and butter and sour cream?,” Brandon innocently questioned. I laughed at this. Here we were at this beautiful and expensive restaurant and he’s asking for bacon bits on his baked potato. This wouldn’t be our only mistake in the restaurant we clearly didn’t belong in. Later, we’d stare at the tiny bowls of water with a slice of lemon in each, wondering what the hell they were for.
The meal was delicious, but Brandon got strangely quiet. “I just have a lot on my mind,” he said at first. Then he blamed it on the food, that he ate too much. After paying, we made our way back to the incline.
“Let’s wait for one that we can go by ourselves on. It will be romantic,” he saidclaimed.
“Um, okay,” I shrugged, thinking that I was really freaking cold, and all I wanted to do was get into a warm car.
About three rides came and went, and Brandon took me outside to look at the view. His hands were tightly in his pocket, he barely nudged his arms as he swayed back and forth, saying nothing. I told him I wanted to go back inside, so we did. He said we could catch the next ride, and just hope no one else comes on.
We finally got on alone. The doors shut, and within about five seconds after the incline began to move, Brandon began.
“Well, Miss. The reason I wanted to come in here alone with you is because…” He got down on his knee and pulled out a ring box.
“I love you so much and I want to spend the rest of…”
“Oh my god,” I interrupted. “Are you fucking kidding me,” I put my hands over my mouth. Brandon smiled and tried to continue, but I wouldn’t let him.
“Are you serious,” I exclaimed. “Are you for real,” I said, as Brandon’s voice in the background tried to get the words out that he wanted to tell me. I don’t remember what else he said, but I’m sure it was beautiful. I know it was beautiful because I cried. Brandon tried to put the ring on my right finger, and I quickly corrected him by shoving my left hand in his face. We concluded his proposal with a few kisses and a few tears.
Obviously my mother knew – he had taken her to lunch earlier in the day to ask her permission. She told him that if he hurt me, he wouldn’t have to worry about my brothers or my dad, but he’d better be afraid of her. On the way home I continued to cry and say “oh my god” like a giddy twelve -year- old girl at a Justin Beiber concert.
My mom opened the door to greet us when we got back home. “Congratulations,” she screamed, hugging me tight. “Why are you crying,”
“I’m happy. You knew! I can’t believe you knew,” I yelled.
“Of course I knew. I was waiting for your call.”
The idea of calling my mom crossed my mind, but I didn’t think it was important. I figured we’d be back at the house in a half hour, she could wait. I could wait. Any other big moment, such as after passing an insanely difficult test, or even a small moment, like how I left my lunch box on the bus, I would have called her, but this night belonged to Brandon and me.
-
One Strong Woman
-
Butler’s Farmer Market
“Pick a pumpkin, Missy” Mrs. Allen said in her peppy, high-pitched voice as she inspected each side of every pumpkin and lifting it to estimate how much it will be. Brandon’s parents are the only ones I let me call Missy.
Growing up, it was either Melissa or Mitz. When I entered junior high, I adopted the nickname Miss, and have gone by that ever since. The name Missy is taunting. A sharp “Miss” followed by an accentuated and annoying “ee” never earned my attention or respect. However, when my future in-laws address me as Missy, it doesn’t bother me, and I don’t remember if it did when I started dating Brandon. Maybe I was too afraid to correct my boyfriend’s parents during our first couple encounters, or I accepted the fact I can’t snap at everyone who adds a “y” to my name. But I’d bet money that the reason is that I feel like it sounds right coming from them, like they are the only people other than my own parents who had the right to call me Missy.
During a visit Mr. and Mrs. Allen in Butler, PA, Andrea, Brandon’s sister, Mrs. Allen, and I took a drive to the farmer’s market. We pulled into horseshoe shaped gravel parking lot in Mrs. Allen’s silver PT Cruiser searching for a parking space. Cars and vans of all types were parked horizontally, some sticking out into the lane more than others. I stepped out of the car in my black wedged flip flops, clearly out of place, and inhaled the smell of dirt and leaves. The wind was strong, cooling the day, and I noticed Mrs. Allen’s short dark brown hair. Her post-chemo hair is a lot thicker than when I met her before the breast cancer. Her short figure dressed in jeans, tennis shoes, and a buttoned down shirt. Andrea dressed more like me in flip flops, dark jeans, and a tank top with a cover up over it. Their brown hair and eyes acted as a contrast to my dark blonde hair and blue eyes.
Looking around I saw flannel shirts, tennis shoes, barrels of hay, Amish folks setting up their stations, and wrinkled faces. Rows of pumpkins both large and small filled my sight with orange complemented by brown, sometimes black curly stems. Passing the barrels of hay, Indian corn, and gourds, we were welcomed by two automatic doors and metal carts. It was set up like any other grocery store, except the labels were hand written, and the word “local” appeared everywhere. The concrete floor clashed with the wheels on the carts, producing a loud, metal grinding noise. Despite the warm fall weather, it was chilly in there.
Glass covers sheltered the raw meat that was available. A round and tall man behind the glass near a meat scale in a dirty white apron called from over the counter in a deep, raspy, yet friendly voice.
“What can I get for you ladies,” he bellowed, his double chin jiggling with every jaw movement.
“Oh, we’re not sure yet,” Andrea answered. “We’re still deciding.” We really had no idea what we were in there for. Mrs. Allen took the cart and went in her own world, worrying about what she was going to feed us for dinner that night, and the next day, Sunday. Andrea and I grabbed a sample of raspberry iced tea, kielbasa, and cheese, searching for Mrs. Allen. We found her at the deli.
“Missy, the cart is empty. Put some stuff in there. Anything you want.”
“I don’t know what to put in. Get whatever you guys need,” I responded. I really didn’t need anything, but I knew she’d force me to pick something for her to buy.
After rounding the store and filling our cart with lunch meat, burgers, spinach dip and more, we checked out and proceeded outside. We were immersed in the Amish. Women in white bonnets, long and heavy blue dresses, and clogs steadied the pony’s for children to ride. A team of two men made apple cider, one throwing the apples in the contraption, the other turning a lever for juicing. Finally, two other women, stirring a large wooden pot over a fire, starting to make apple butter. I’ve heard nothing but great things about apple butter – how it tastes, how it’s an autumn treat, and how the Amish make the best.
“Where can we buy the apple butter,” Mrs. Allen loudly asked, looking around for the answer.
“Well, right here. But it’s not ready yet. It won’t be ready until around four” she answered, pushing a wooden spoon through the concoction that came out as apple butter, making it seem like it was a hard job.
“Oh, man. Okay, we’ll be back later,” Mrs. Allen promised. And we were.
Around four we found ourselves driving back to the farm market just to purchase homemade apple butter. However when we got there, the Amish were gone, with the exception of those running the pony rides. We went inside the grocery store and found the Amish who were making apple cider. I tried not to, but I stared at them. I inhaled the smell of deodorant-less men, who worked outside all day in the sun, with as much hair on their body to keep them warm if they were naked in a blizzard. I was in awe of their straw hats, their long full beards surrounding their face, their clothes, how the water they drank damped the hair above their lip. While I rudely watched them as if it were a circus show, Mrs. Allen came stomping back.
“They’re out of apple butter, Missy. I guess they sold out so fast and we were supposed to put our name on the list,” Mrs. Allen mocked whoever she asked by using a nasal voice.
“A list,” I asked. “I didn’t even know the Amish believed in lists.”
Andrea laughed, combing back her long dark brown hair with her fingers. “Oh my god Missy, I love you.”
“They’re probably stashing the left overs in that white tent over there. They want it to themselves,” I theorized.
Mrs. Allen laughed, “Well, come on, let’s get pumpkins”
“I don’t have to get one now. We still have time, I can just get out near our house. I don’t know how Brandon would feel about a dirty pumpkin in his car” I warned. Again, I really didn’t need a pumpkin. Sure, I wanted one eventually, but I didn’t need it like she made it seem.
“Pick a pumpkin, Missy. A nice big one” Mrs. Allen insisted. “Do you want a cornstalk? You guys should take a cornstalk home Come on, I’ll buy it for you”
“Oh no. I’ll get a pumpkin if it makes you happy, but I’m definitely not getting a cornstalk. We don’t need one, and Brandon would have a hissy fit if that stuff got in his car.”
Although it sounds superficial and silly, this was a whole new experience for me. I never liked the country, yet I felt comfortable there, like I did this all the time. I’m joining a family who likes the country better than the city, and lives in a more country setting, and I’m okay with that. We live in two different worlds but are coming together to be a family. The people out here are different. They don’t wear heels all the time or don’t wonder about the spring line of a famous designer. They seem to be more family-oriented. This woman was so much like my own mother – buying things for others, making sure when there is company the house is clean and there is dinner on the table, loving and caring for anyone. This woman will be a mother to me, if she isn’t already. I pondered these thoughts on the way home, with mass-produced apple butter, two pumpkins, and a cornstalk sticking out of the PT Cruiser’s hatch.
-
Daddy’s Girl
I try to make an effort to talk to my dad more often. In the beginning of November we had plans to go over his house for dinner and I was dreading it. Not because the food isn’t good, or because I had anything better to do. It was because the image of my dad always gets skewed after every visit.
When I was younger, my dad was the typical handy-man. He could make or fix anything, and he did it with precision. He’d help me with my school projects, and would make sure everything was neat, organized, and perfectly measured out. Always outside, he built us a deck, our grass was always cut, the dog poop always scooped. I’d always make him a glass of Lipton’s Iced Tea to cool him off, the kind that you mix powder with water. He said I made it the best. I took pride in that. From doing so much physical work he was lean. I don’t think my dad could have gotten fat if he tried. He was tall, skinny, and toned. I remember staring at his arm when he took off his shirt, amazed by the green ink on his arm that read “Rick” a reminder of his youth when him and his friends gave themselves tattoos. I always thought he was strong because he’d be able to sit me in a laundry basket, swing me up, down and around the house as he sang, “A Whole New World” from Aladdin.
I saw my dad today, and at first I thought he looked better than usual. His deep brown eyes weren’t the yellowish tint as usual. They were a little glassy, but white. He stands hunched over now, his legs unsteady, unable to turn his neck all the way to the right or the left due to his six hour neck surgery a few months ago. I thought he had gained weight, which would be good, considering he lost his stomach to stomach cancer when he was 50. Then, I looked again, and realized his weight was all water, bloating from the multiple cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer he drank before we got there so his body wouldn’t shake and demand the alcohol. He’d rather just give it to himself.
His dark dego skin remains the same, like he spent all day in the sun, he’s constantly tan. His curly dark brown hair has no hint of grey, and no sign of balding. I greeted him with a hug and a kiss on the cheek, trying to be gentile on his frail body as I smelled a wisp of beer and cologne. His face looks the same, only now the bags under his eyes are darker and his cheeks are puffy, another result from drinking too much. He showed me his foot, completely swollen, and said he was going to the doctor for it. It took everything in me not to call him an idiot and cry to him that it was the alcohol.
Dad called me into his room. I walked in and noticed the crucifix hanging over his dresser, as a reminder of hope and faith. He handed me $250. “For the wedding, or school. I tried getting a hold of your mother, but she doesn’t answer. So, here you go baby doll.”
“Thanks,” I said, folding and putting it in my back pocket. He kissed my head and we walked to the living room to join my brother, and I’m almost positive both of us knew that the money he gives me every so often will never make up for his lack of presence in my life, or his lack of caring for himself in order to save our family.
Guidelines for Final Pieces
Hard copies of your final pieces will be due by 5 p.m. on Thursday, Dec. 16. This deadline is absolute. No extensions. There will be a drop box outside of my office.
Your final packet should contain:
1. Your query letter. (Addressed to an actual editor at a magazine.)
2. Your final article.
3. Sidebar(s)
4. A one-page statement detailing the following:
-- Why you chose this subject
-- Why you took this angle
-- Why you chose this particular magazine and editor
-- How your piece is a match to the demographic of this magazine/market
-- The challenges you faced writing the piece and how you dealt with them
-- What you enjoyed most about writing the piece
Your final grade will be determined this way:
50 percent: Final packet
20 percent: Quality of other pieces during the term
20 percent: Citizenship (attendance, participation, professionalism, conduct)
10 percent: Quiz grade
Your final packet should contain:
1. Your query letter. (Addressed to an actual editor at a magazine.)
2. Your final article.
3. Sidebar(s)
4. A one-page statement detailing the following:
-- Why you chose this subject
-- Why you took this angle
-- Why you chose this particular magazine and editor
-- How your piece is a match to the demographic of this magazine/market
-- The challenges you faced writing the piece and how you dealt with them
-- What you enjoyed most about writing the piece
Your final grade will be determined this way:
50 percent: Final packet
20 percent: Quality of other pieces during the term
20 percent: Citizenship (attendance, participation, professionalism, conduct)
10 percent: Quiz grade
Pittsburgh Markets for Your Work
Think global, write local.
The Carnegie Library maintains a database of all Pittsburgh-based magazines, newspapers and other publications. One of these might be perfect for your work.
Check the list here.
The Carnegie Library maintains a database of all Pittsburgh-based magazines, newspapers and other publications. One of these might be perfect for your work.
Check the list here.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Let It Snow -- Snow-sports writers wanted
It's almost time for snow sports! The Examiner.com seeks writers to cover a variety of winter activities for Examiner.com's Recreation channel. Share what gives you self-fulfillment, pride and satisfaction with people like yourself on Examiner.com. Examiners are passionate local insiders who come from all backgrounds but have two main things in common: they have a lot of knowledge about a specific topic AND they are solid writers.
Description:
Snow Sports Examiners can cover their local skiing, snowboarding, snowshoeing, cross country skiing or general winter recreation scene. They can cover just one facet of snow sports, a single ski resort, or the entire range! We’re looking for writers who want to give their readers reliable, timely information on their local snow scene, including reports on gear, best runs, etc.
Available topic titles: (may differ based on city)
* Cross Country Skiing Examiner
* Figure Skating Examiner
* Ice Climbing Examiner
* Ice Fishing Examiner
* Skiing Examiner
* Skiing Lifestyle Examiner
* Ski Resort Examiner
* Sledding Examiner
* Snowboarding Examiner
* Snowmobiling Examiner
* Snowshoeing Examiner
* other outdoor titles also available
Examiners are given their own pages on our site, complete with their photo and bio which may also include links to their personal/business site. Your work on Examiner.com can help you increase your credibility, establish & enhance your own brand and reach a broader audience and expand your client or fan base.
More details HERE.
Bike and snow experts: here's one for you!
AllAboutBikes and AllAboutSnow Magazine is on the prowl for a staff writer. Strong writing and editing skills, ability to conceptualize new and innovative story angles is a must. Some travel involved throughout the year. Must have some knowledge of the motorcycle, snow,and luxury industry. We don't need an ex-racer or pro snowboarder, but you have to know what you're talking about in order to connect with our audience.
Position includes updating web content, writing feature articles for our national print publications, and developing and researching cool new story ideas. We're the leader in unique content on the web and in print. The editor must be able to think out of their comfort zone and create original ideas that can be transformed into exciting and informative pieces.
Submit resume and writing samples to the above address. NOTE* Writing samples should be relevant to our market, or at least a loose parallel. If you don't have any lifestyle type of articles relating to motorcycles, golf, luxury, or snow, please create a 200-300 piece preferably relating to the motorcycle industry. This is a Full-Time, in-house position.
visit www.allaboutbikes.com, www.allaboutsnow.com for more information on our magazines.
* Location: Sewickley
* Compensation: 24k per year.
* Principals only. Recruiters, please don't contact this job poster.
* Please, no phone calls about this job!
* Please do not contact job poster about other services, products or commercial interests.
Position includes updating web content, writing feature articles for our national print publications, and developing and researching cool new story ideas. We're the leader in unique content on the web and in print. The editor must be able to think out of their comfort zone and create original ideas that can be transformed into exciting and informative pieces.
Submit resume and writing samples to the above address. NOTE* Writing samples should be relevant to our market, or at least a loose parallel. If you don't have any lifestyle type of articles relating to motorcycles, golf, luxury, or snow, please create a 200-300 piece preferably relating to the motorcycle industry. This is a Full-Time, in-house position.
visit www.allaboutbikes.com, www.allaboutsnow.com for more information on our magazines.
* Location: Sewickley
* Compensation: 24k per year.
* Principals only. Recruiters, please don't contact this job poster.
* Please, no phone calls about this job!
* Please do not contact job poster about other services, products or commercial interests.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Post-Turkey Joy: Written/Spoken Reading Tuesday, Nov. 30 features Stacey Waite
The 2010-2011 Pitt-Greensburg Written/Spoken Reading Series continues with November speaker Stacey Waite on Tuesday, Nov. 30 at 7 p.m. in the Coffeehouse.
After receiving her MFA in poetry in 2003, Waite has published two collections of poems, both of which were recognized with awards. Her poetry collection “Choke” won the 2004 Frank O’Hara Prize in Poetry, and her collection “Love Poem to Androgyny” was the winner of the 2006 Main Street Rag Chapbook Competition.
Waite’s most recent work has been published in “The Cream City Review,” “Interim,” “Knockout,” and “Black Warrior Review.” Her newest collection of poems, “The Lake Has No Saint,” has just been released from Tupelo Press. In addition, her poem “Trans,” which appears in the anthology “I Go to the Ruined Place: Contemporary Poems in Defense of Global Human Rights,” was nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
Originally from New York, Waite currently teaches courses in Composition, Women’s Studies, Literature, and Creative Writing as a PhD Candidate at the University of Pittsburgh. Her full length collection “Butch Geography” will be published by Tupelo Press in 2012.
Opening readers for Stacey include UPG poet Kim Wolff and nonfiction writer Montana Miller.
The Written/Spoken series offers readings on the last Tuesday of every month, and brings local and nationally-known poets and writers to campus for readings and workshops. The series is sponsored by the University’s writing program and is free and open to the public. All readings in the series begin at 7 p.m. in the campus coffeehouse, located in Village Hall. Book signings and receptions follow all events.
For more information about the series or about Waite’s visit, contact Lori Jakiela, associate professor of English, at 724.836.7481 or email loj@pitt.edu
After receiving her MFA in poetry in 2003, Waite has published two collections of poems, both of which were recognized with awards. Her poetry collection “Choke” won the 2004 Frank O’Hara Prize in Poetry, and her collection “Love Poem to Androgyny” was the winner of the 2006 Main Street Rag Chapbook Competition.
Waite’s most recent work has been published in “The Cream City Review,” “Interim,” “Knockout,” and “Black Warrior Review.” Her newest collection of poems, “The Lake Has No Saint,” has just been released from Tupelo Press. In addition, her poem “Trans,” which appears in the anthology “I Go to the Ruined Place: Contemporary Poems in Defense of Global Human Rights,” was nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
Originally from New York, Waite currently teaches courses in Composition, Women’s Studies, Literature, and Creative Writing as a PhD Candidate at the University of Pittsburgh. Her full length collection “Butch Geography” will be published by Tupelo Press in 2012.
Opening readers for Stacey include UPG poet Kim Wolff and nonfiction writer Montana Miller.
The Written/Spoken series offers readings on the last Tuesday of every month, and brings local and nationally-known poets and writers to campus for readings and workshops. The series is sponsored by the University’s writing program and is free and open to the public. All readings in the series begin at 7 p.m. in the campus coffeehouse, located in Village Hall. Book signings and receptions follow all events.
For more information about the series or about Waite’s visit, contact Lori Jakiela, associate professor of English, at 724.836.7481 or email loj@pitt.edu
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Post-Gazette Races to Publish Rachel's "Shoes"`
Great news! The Post-Gazette's "In Person" column will soon feature our very own Rachel Kuskie's piece about her lucky racing shoes. You'll remember this terrific piece from our class assignment a few weeks back. Huge congrats to Rachel! Those shoes might be lucky, but I think it's pure talent that took this one over the finish line. Burn it up, girl! (O.k. The racing puns will stop now. Stop! Ha!)
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Patch.com Hiring
Patch.com -- Aol's new and growing local news organization -- is looking for reporters, photographers, videographers and columnists to cover Moon, Pa. Contributors will be paid per contribution and have the opportunity to cover a variety of stories, including news, features, sports and commentary.
Candidates should reside in Greater Pittsburgh and have a familiarity with news reporting. Photographers and videographers should have their own equipment.
Please send resumes to Local Editor Jenna Staul.
* Location: Moon, Pennsylvania
* Compensation: $50-350 per assignment
* This is a part-time job.
* OK to highlight this job opening for persons with disabilities
* Principals only. Recruiters, please don't contact this job poster.
* Please, no phone calls about this job!
* Please do not contact job poster about other services, products or commercial
interests.
*****************
Patch.com is coming soon to Cranberry. Its mission: To be a hub of news, information and commentary for the community ... and we need you!
Owned by AOL, Cranberry Patch (cranberry.patch.com) will launch live in early December and will be devoted to everything about Cranberry including news, features, opinion, sports, school, arts & entertainment and government/politics. The online site will be updated frequently and we are looking for a variety of freelancers, including a sports reporter/editor to cover the Seneca Valley School District. Qualified freelancers will be given regular assigments and weekly columns (subject is your choice) also are available to interested freelancers.
Here's what we need:
Creative, dependable writers who are familiar with the communities and bring experience and quality journalism to the site.
Photography and videography skills.
Adherence to deadlines.
Reliable transportation.
If this is you, send your resume and 2-3 writing samples with the subject "Cranberry Freelancer Application" in the subject.
* Location: Cranberry Twp.
* Compensation: $25-$300 depending on story length/detail.
* Telecommuting is ok.
Candidates should reside in Greater Pittsburgh and have a familiarity with news reporting. Photographers and videographers should have their own equipment.
Please send resumes to Local Editor Jenna Staul.
* Location: Moon, Pennsylvania
* Compensation: $50-350 per assignment
* This is a part-time job.
* OK to highlight this job opening for persons with disabilities
* Principals only. Recruiters, please don't contact this job poster.
* Please, no phone calls about this job!
* Please do not contact job poster about other services, products or commercial
interests.
*****************
Patch.com is coming soon to Cranberry. Its mission: To be a hub of news, information and commentary for the community ... and we need you!
Owned by AOL, Cranberry Patch (cranberry.patch.com) will launch live in early December and will be devoted to everything about Cranberry including news, features, opinion, sports, school, arts & entertainment and government/politics. The online site will be updated frequently and we are looking for a variety of freelancers, including a sports reporter/editor to cover the Seneca Valley School District. Qualified freelancers will be given regular assigments and weekly columns (subject is your choice) also are available to interested freelancers.
Here's what we need:
Creative, dependable writers who are familiar with the communities and bring experience and quality journalism to the site.
Photography and videography skills.
Adherence to deadlines.
Reliable transportation.
If this is you, send your resume and 2-3 writing samples with the subject "Cranberry Freelancer Application" in the subject.
* Location: Cranberry Twp.
* Compensation: $25-$300 depending on story length/detail.
* Telecommuting is ok.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Query Letter Essentials (lecture re-cap)
Queries allow an editor to determine, quickly, whether you:
• Can write effectively
• Have a coherent, well-thought-out idea that fits the publication's content
• Have a basic grasp of grammar and spelling
• Have read the publication
• Have the credentials or expertise to write the article
• Are professional in your approach to writing
Queries save you time by ensuring that you don't invest time and energy into writing an article that won't be accepted. They can also be gateways to other assignments.
Five Components of a Query Letter
• The hook (first paragraph – attention-getter; problem/solution, question, etc.)
• The pitch (what you’re offering – how long the piece is, what your angle is, etc.)
• The body (details about the article – interview sources, structure, etc.)
• The credentials (your writing background)
• The close (say thank you)
• Can write effectively
• Have a coherent, well-thought-out idea that fits the publication's content
• Have a basic grasp of grammar and spelling
• Have read the publication
• Have the credentials or expertise to write the article
• Are professional in your approach to writing
Queries save you time by ensuring that you don't invest time and energy into writing an article that won't be accepted. They can also be gateways to other assignments.
Five Components of a Query Letter
• The hook (first paragraph – attention-getter; problem/solution, question, etc.)
• The pitch (what you’re offering – how long the piece is, what your angle is, etc.)
• The body (details about the article – interview sources, structure, etc.)
• The credentials (your writing background)
• The close (say thank you)
Schedule for Long Pieces
Today we'll be going over how to write a query for your long piece. At this point, you should have much of your basic research well underway. You should have a good idea of your angle and your story's hook. You should know which magazine(s) you'll be pitching to and what audience you're writing for, and you should know how your piece will fit into the commercial landscape/market.
****
Schedule
Tuesday, Nov. 16 -- Query letter due (hard and e- copies to class)
Tuesday, Nov. 23 -- Sidebar to long piece due (hard and e- copies)
Tuesday, Nov. 30 -- First draft of full piece due in class (hard and e- copies)
Tuesday, Dec. 7 and Thursday, Dec. 9 -- Workshop of second drafts (hard and e-copies)
Final pieces due by 5 p.m. on Thursday, Dec. 16
Your long pieces will be heavily weighted in your grade for the course. I'll be looking for the following things, among others:
* Technical proficiency
* Good sense of audience/demographic
* Evidence of knowledge of the marketplace (hook, comparison pieces, etc.)
* Good background research
* Effective and thorough use of sources
* Fresh angle
* Basic AP Style
****
Schedule
Tuesday, Nov. 16 -- Query letter due (hard and e- copies to class)
Tuesday, Nov. 23 -- Sidebar to long piece due (hard and e- copies)
Tuesday, Nov. 30 -- First draft of full piece due in class (hard and e- copies)
Tuesday, Dec. 7 and Thursday, Dec. 9 -- Workshop of second drafts (hard and e-copies)
Final pieces due by 5 p.m. on Thursday, Dec. 16
Your long pieces will be heavily weighted in your grade for the course. I'll be looking for the following things, among others:
* Technical proficiency
* Good sense of audience/demographic
* Evidence of knowledge of the marketplace (hook, comparison pieces, etc.)
* Good background research
* Effective and thorough use of sources
* Fresh angle
* Basic AP Style
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Freelance Job Opps -- Pop City
Pitch stories and ideas to this news/feature hyperlocal site.
PopCity.
PopCity.
Job Opps -- Music Writer for website start-up
Repost:
We are looking for a new team of people to join our growing music website based in the Pittsburgh area. We are currently operating in a "beta" stage with a full launch scheduled for February or March 2011!
If you are interested in contributing concert reviews, becoming a credentialed concert photographer, interviewing top-name artists, writing features on artists and all things music related, becoming one of our blog corespondents, or working on posting daily music news, please fill out our application, here:
About us:
Our goal is to become Pittsburgh's #1 site for all things music related. We already review many concerts, interview top-name and up-and-coming artists both over the phone, in person, and on camera, maintain a concert calendar that previews upcoming shows, film live concerts for streaming on our site, and more!
With the launch of our new site, we will have an incredible site featuring state of the art design and layout and having more features and functionality then any other music site in the Pittsburgh area. In addition to what we already do (and improving upon it!), we will be adding social networking features, fully integrating our site with both Twitter and Facebook, becoming one of the top news sources for music news, both on a national and local level, offering a state of the art concert calendar, photo gallery, video section, a weekly newsletter, a state of the art blogging system for both our staff and site visitors, a detailed guide to concert venues in the Pittsburgh area, album reviews, a "MySpace" music like app (minus the ugly layouts and being littered with irrelevant ads) for our hard working regional bands, and much more!
We are very excited about all of this, and very excited to start assembling a quality team of people to help us out.
Concert tickets, photo credentials, arranged interviews, albums, etc. will be provided to our staff! We do have paid positions available, which will be based per assignment. After careful review of your application, we will contact you if we think you have what it takes to meet us for an interview before attending a show with us so we can see firsthand a sample of your abilities to critique shows, do interviews, etc. Full guidelines on what we expect as well as examples of "good" work will be provided prior to having you produce any material for us.
Again, if you think you have it takes to join our team, please fill out our application, here:
http://pittsburghmusicauthority.com/app/
Serious applicants only, please. This will be a VERY DEMANDING position, but well worth it. The fringe benefits of this job are amazing :)
Any questions about the application? Pleas feel free to contact us via the "Reply-to" email at the top of this posting. Please be patient with us getting back to you in regards to your application. While we appreciate your enthusiasm, please allow us at least three weeks before contacting us in regards to our open positions.
* Location: Pittsburgh
* Compensation: Monetary compensation based on assignement. Awesome Fringe Benefits!
* Telecommuting is ok.
* This is a part-time job.
* This is a contract job.
* This is an internship job
* Principals only. Recruiters, please don't contact this job poster.
* Please, no phone calls about this job!
We are looking for a new team of people to join our growing music website based in the Pittsburgh area. We are currently operating in a "beta" stage with a full launch scheduled for February or March 2011!
If you are interested in contributing concert reviews, becoming a credentialed concert photographer, interviewing top-name artists, writing features on artists and all things music related, becoming one of our blog corespondents, or working on posting daily music news, please fill out our application, here:
About us:
Our goal is to become Pittsburgh's #1 site for all things music related. We already review many concerts, interview top-name and up-and-coming artists both over the phone, in person, and on camera, maintain a concert calendar that previews upcoming shows, film live concerts for streaming on our site, and more!
With the launch of our new site, we will have an incredible site featuring state of the art design and layout and having more features and functionality then any other music site in the Pittsburgh area. In addition to what we already do (and improving upon it!), we will be adding social networking features, fully integrating our site with both Twitter and Facebook, becoming one of the top news sources for music news, both on a national and local level, offering a state of the art concert calendar, photo gallery, video section, a weekly newsletter, a state of the art blogging system for both our staff and site visitors, a detailed guide to concert venues in the Pittsburgh area, album reviews, a "MySpace" music like app (minus the ugly layouts and being littered with irrelevant ads) for our hard working regional bands, and much more!
We are very excited about all of this, and very excited to start assembling a quality team of people to help us out.
Concert tickets, photo credentials, arranged interviews, albums, etc. will be provided to our staff! We do have paid positions available, which will be based per assignment. After careful review of your application, we will contact you if we think you have what it takes to meet us for an interview before attending a show with us so we can see firsthand a sample of your abilities to critique shows, do interviews, etc. Full guidelines on what we expect as well as examples of "good" work will be provided prior to having you produce any material for us.
Again, if you think you have it takes to join our team, please fill out our application, here:
http://pittsburghmusicauthority.com/app/
Serious applicants only, please. This will be a VERY DEMANDING position, but well worth it. The fringe benefits of this job are amazing :)
Any questions about the application? Pleas feel free to contact us via the "Reply-to" email at the top of this posting. Please be patient with us getting back to you in regards to your application. While we appreciate your enthusiasm, please allow us at least three weeks before contacting us in regards to our open positions.
* Location: Pittsburgh
* Compensation: Monetary compensation based on assignement. Awesome Fringe Benefits!
* Telecommuting is ok.
* This is a part-time job.
* This is a contract job.
* This is an internship job
* Principals only. Recruiters, please don't contact this job poster.
* Please, no phone calls about this job!
Job Opps -- Sports Writer and more
AFC North Sports Writer gig here.
Repost: FNN Media and FootballNewsNow.com have a rare opening for somebody to join our staff to cover the AFC North.
The position requires a minimum of five posts per day with at least one post being dedicated to each team in the division per day. It is critical that fresh content always be available on the site.
The ideal candidate will also be given the opportunity to appear on radio shows to grow their name and gain experience in the world of sports reporting.
This is a part-time position that is ideal for individuals who want to cut their teeth in journalism.
Initially, compensation will be gas money at best. However, it is PERFECT the person who eats, breathes, sleeps and loves the NFL. As the company grows and expands so too will your opportunities.
You will be working out of your home with the occasional team meeting over the phone in the evening.
.:: Qualifications ::.
* Strong writing skills
* Ability to frequently update the website throughout the day
* Ability to follow directions
* Ability to gather and report on your own
* Basic knowledge of AP Style a plus
* MUST be a huge football fan and live for Sunday afternoons!
* Commitment and desire to succeed are a must
* Familiarity with WordPress a huge plus
.:: About FootballNewsNow.com ::.
Our articles have been credited in some of the nation’s top newspapers including USA Today and the San Francisco Chronicle as well as on ESPN.com.
.:: To Apply ::.
Email resume and sample article to email address listed above with the subject line “AFC NORTH WRITER”.
Sample article should be 200 – 250 words. It can be on any recent AFC North news item.
Please stick to facts and do not insert opinion.
Repost: FNN Media and FootballNewsNow.com have a rare opening for somebody to join our staff to cover the AFC North.
The position requires a minimum of five posts per day with at least one post being dedicated to each team in the division per day. It is critical that fresh content always be available on the site.
The ideal candidate will also be given the opportunity to appear on radio shows to grow their name and gain experience in the world of sports reporting.
This is a part-time position that is ideal for individuals who want to cut their teeth in journalism.
Initially, compensation will be gas money at best. However, it is PERFECT the person who eats, breathes, sleeps and loves the NFL. As the company grows and expands so too will your opportunities.
You will be working out of your home with the occasional team meeting over the phone in the evening.
.:: Qualifications ::.
* Strong writing skills
* Ability to frequently update the website throughout the day
* Ability to follow directions
* Ability to gather and report on your own
* Basic knowledge of AP Style a plus
* MUST be a huge football fan and live for Sunday afternoons!
* Commitment and desire to succeed are a must
* Familiarity with WordPress a huge plus
.:: About FootballNewsNow.com ::.
Our articles have been credited in some of the nation’s top newspapers including USA Today and the San Francisco Chronicle as well as on ESPN.com.
.:: To Apply ::.
Email resume and sample article to email address listed above with the subject line “AFC NORTH WRITER”.
Sample article should be 200 – 250 words. It can be on any recent AFC North news item.
Please stick to facts and do not insert opinion.
Pittsburgh Lit Mags: Weave
Check out Weave magazine. Another nice local joint. Also a nice list of Pittsburgh literary events and more.
Hemingway's Paris Review Interview
Read this as a companion piece to Lillian Ross' profile: Hemingway Paris Review interview.
Quiz on Tuesday on both the book and the interview.
Quiz on Tuesday on both the book and the interview.
Interview with Lorin Stein, the editor of The Paris Review
On editing, the state of literary publishing and more. Read it here.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Assignment: Lillian Ross' Portrait of Hemingway
Post your hands-on reportage pieces here
In the comments section. Below. Thanks! (For my hands-on experience, I petted a Madagascar Hissing Cockroach. Apparently, these make nice pets. And look ma -- no wings!)
Monday, October 25, 2010
Extra credit opportunity!
If you'd like extra credit for our class (say you've missed class over the limit or are behind on an assignment -- that kind of credit) -- or if you'd just like to enjoy a great night with wonderful writers -- please come to tonight's Written/Spoken reading. It's at 7 p.m. in the coffeehouse. We're celebrating Alumni Night, so all the guest writers will be graduates of Pitt-Greensburg's Writing Program.
The line-up includes opening reader Corey Florindi. Guest writers include nonfiction/memoirist/poet Adam Matcho; poet/fictioneer Carrie Smith; and Dave Newman, whose novel Please Don't Shoot Anyone Tonight was just published by World Parade Books.
The reading is free and open to the public. Village credit. A reception and booksigning will follow the reading. We'll also have a raffle -- you can win signed copies of books by Pitt-Greensburg's faculty authors.
Hope to see you all there!
The line-up includes opening reader Corey Florindi. Guest writers include nonfiction/memoirist/poet Adam Matcho; poet/fictioneer Carrie Smith; and Dave Newman, whose novel Please Don't Shoot Anyone Tonight was just published by World Parade Books.
The reading is free and open to the public. Village credit. A reception and booksigning will follow the reading. We'll also have a raffle -- you can win signed copies of books by Pitt-Greensburg's faculty authors.
Hope to see you all there!
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Class canceled for tomorrow, Thursday, Oct. 14
I'm out with the flu. We won't have class tomorrow, Thursday, Oct. 14. We'll pick back up on Tuesday.
Thanks!
Thanks!
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
For Tuesday, Oct. 5 and Thursday, Oct. 6
Tuesday:
Review proposals
Story dissection
Thursday:
Workshop short pieces (500 words; based on story-idea/proposal for long piece)
Assignment:
Find a long piece in a magazine you love. Dissect the story. Mark it up. Use a highlighter or whatever works best for you. Indicate the following:
* Writer's use of scene/place
* Vivid dialogue/quotes
* Sources -- kinds of sources, variety of sources, purpose of sources
* Evidence of background research
* Presence or absence of the writer ("I")
* Transitional phrases and moves that make the narrative seamless
Bring your dissected story to class on Tuesday.
Review proposals
Story dissection
Thursday:
Workshop short pieces (500 words; based on story-idea/proposal for long piece)
Assignment:
Find a long piece in a magazine you love. Dissect the story. Mark it up. Use a highlighter or whatever works best for you. Indicate the following:
* Writer's use of scene/place
* Vivid dialogue/quotes
* Sources -- kinds of sources, variety of sources, purpose of sources
* Evidence of background research
* Presence or absence of the writer ("I")
* Transitional phrases and moves that make the narrative seamless
Bring your dissected story to class on Tuesday.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Thema Magazine's Upcoming Themes
Each issue of Thema magazine is organized around (you guessed it!) a theme.
Upcoming premises (target themes) and deadlines for submission:
* One thing done superbly (November 1, 2010)
* Your reality or mine? (March 1, 2011)
* Wisecracks & poems (July 1, 2011)
The premise (target theme) must be an integral part of the plot, not necessarily the central theme but not merely incidental. Fewer than 20 double spaced pages preferred. Indicate premise (target theme) on title page. Be sure to Indicate target theme in cover letter or on first page of manuscript. Include self-addressed, stamped envelope (SASE) with each submission. Rejected manuscripts unaccompanied by an SASE will not be returned. Response time: 3 months after premise deadline.
College Magazine Looking for Writers, Editors, Interns
A nice market for you: College Magazine. Click for application and submission details.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Class canceled for tomorrow -- Tuesday, Sept. 28
Our class for tomorrow -- Tuesday, Sept. 28 -- is canceled. We'll pick up where we left off on Thursday.
Thank you!
Thank you!
Pendulum, UPG's Literary Magazine, Accepting Submissions
Pendulum, the literary magazine of Pitt-Greensburg, is now accepting submissions for the Fall 2010 issue. The editors are looking for poetry, prose, artwork and photography. Multiple submissions are fine (no more than three please). All writing submissions should be kept to 1,000 words or fewer.
Submissions can emailed and attached as Microsoft Word documents, then sent
to UPGPendulum@gmail.com.
Submissions can emailed and attached as Microsoft Word documents, then sent
to UPGPendulum@gmail.com.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
New Novel from UPG Writing Program Graduate (Our First-Ever!)
Dave Newman, a 1993 graduate of the UPG Writing Program, has a new (and first) novel out now. His novel, "Please Don't Shoot Anyone Tonight," is a crime and coming-of-age story set in nearby Irwin, Pa. It's the first-ever book by a UPG Writing Program grad. Ever. Check it out here. And for more about Dave, visit his website here.
National Undergraduate Lit Mag Seeks Submissions
Here's a great chance for you lit-writer types. The inaugural edition of Catfish Creek, a national undergraduate literary journal based at Loras College, needs submissions. The details:
Catfish Creek, the national undergraduate literary journal of Loras College, is pleased to announce the release of its inaugural edition, slated for Spring 2011. Catfish Creek is intended as a showcase for undergraduate writers from across the country and around the world. We are welcoming submissions of fiction, poetry, and literary nonfiction.
Any student currently registered in an undergraduate program is eligible to submit. If we accept your work, we will ask for proof of your current enrollment.
Our reading period is September 1-November 15. Any manuscripts received outside of that time will be deleted unread. Simultaneous submissions are welcome as long as we are informed if the work is accepted elsewhere.
Submission Guidelines:
All submissions should be sent electronically, as MS-Word (.doc or .docx) or RTF attachments, to Catfish.Creek@loras.edu. Please specify the genre of your submission (poetry, fiction, nonfiction) in the Subject line of your message.
Ex: Fiction submission—“Story Title”
For more submission guidelines please see our website:
We are excited at Loras College to be starting a new tradition, and equally excited to read the incoming submissions. Welcome to Catfish Creek!
Catfish Creek, the national undergraduate literary journal of Loras College, is pleased to announce the release of its inaugural edition, slated for Spring 2011. Catfish Creek is intended as a showcase for undergraduate writers from across the country and around the world. We are welcoming submissions of fiction, poetry, and literary nonfiction.
Any student currently registered in an undergraduate program is eligible to submit. If we accept your work, we will ask for proof of your current enrollment.
Our reading period is September 1-November 15. Any manuscripts received outside of that time will be deleted unread. Simultaneous submissions are welcome as long as we are informed if the work is accepted elsewhere.
Submission Guidelines:
All submissions should be sent electronically, as MS-Word (.doc or .docx) or RTF attachments, to Catfish.Creek@loras.edu. Please specify the genre of your submission (poetry, fiction, nonfiction) in the Subject line of your message.
Ex: Fiction submission—“Story Title”
For more submission guidelines please see our website:
We are excited at Loras College to be starting a new tradition, and equally excited to read the incoming submissions. Welcome to Catfish Creek!
For Art and Everyone -- A Clothing Op-Ed Model: Adam Matcho's Cow Suit
The Reason Cows Do Not Like Halloween
by Adam Matcho
The one-piece cow suit was a little short in the legs. The elasticized ankles barely met the top of my socks and the cheap, black-and-white polyester made my neck itch. This would be my work uniform for the next month. Management thought it was a festive Halloween marketing plan. I tied the cow-bonnet strings under my chin, and knew I had to get a new job.
My ears were now pink and floppy. My tail was fringed and hard to control. I could deal with this. The udders, though, were a problem. They were convincing and flesh-toned and hung right at my midsection. I’d spend the month of October with my bellybutton, hips and pelvis tucked behind four shiny pink udders that jiggled when I walked.
This was still, of course, American retail. In the spirit of seasonal democracy, management allowed employees to pick their own costumes. We could wear whatever we wanted, as long as our store sold it. The only condition was, once we picked our costumes, we were stuck with them. Much like the store’s return policy, all selections were final.
I liked cows. The cow costume had realistic, squirting udders. I thought, how lucky. Then I studied myself in the bathroom’s dirty mirror and remembered luck had never been kind to me.
The customers weren’t kind either.
“That is udderly ridiculous,” some man in a Steelers sweatshirt said. His whole family thought it was hilarious. His fat, little son thought so too and went through the store yelling “That is udd-er-ly ridiculous.”
After the fifth time, I thought it wasn’t so funny.
“Dad,” the boy yelled. “That is udd-er-ly ridiculous.” Then the boy, who was probably eight or nine, knocked a bin of body parts on the floor. Hands, feet and arms were all over the aisle and his dad grabbed him by the shoulder and whispered something in his ear.
The boy stopped yelling and got down on his hands and knees and began putting the appendages back in the bin.
I stood there and tugged at the legs of the cow suit, which were now working their way up my calves. I watched the boy. When he looked up at me, I stuck my tongue out at him. I thought he would think it was funny. He gave me the finger.
After they left, I told my coworker, who was dressed as a fairy, about the incident.
“I don’t believe it,” she said.
“It’s true,” I said. “He whipped me off. His dad was right there.”
“Well that is just udderly ridiculous,” she said and laughed.
I decided I hated my fairy coworker and walked to a back corner in the store. I figured maybe I could stay away from people back there among the fake flaming lights and fog machines. My cow suit glowed under the blacklights and I was trying to see if my tail was glowing, too, when I felt a tug.
“Cow. Look mom, a cow,” said the blonde, pigtailed child as she once again pulled on one of my udders.
“Oh, wow,” the mom said as she rounded the corner. “It is a cow.”
The little girl squealed and laughed and started jumping up and down. I smiled and tried to step backwards to free myself from her grip. It was starting to get uncomfortable. She readjusted her grasp on my udder and kept repeating the word cow.
“She just loves cows,” the mother said. “Her pappy has cows and she just loves to help take care of them.”
The woman’s voice became animated as she finished the sentence, as if she was speaking to her child rather than another adult, as in me, a six-foot-tall guy in a cow costume. Her small daughter continued to yank and jump and repeat the word cow.
“Ouch,” I said insincerely, almost like it was a question. The mother looked down at her daughter and gasped.
“Oh sweetie, leave the cow alone,” she said and pulled at her daughter’s arm.
Between the two of them, I thought I would be pulled off my feet. I forced my weight in one direction and the mother and daughter tugged in the other. It was some vile game of tug-of-war with my poor udder caught in the middle.
“Honey, no,” the mom said.
“Cow! Cow!” the little girl yelled.
I looked toward the front of the store for the fairy, but she was ringing people out at the register.
Finally the mother wrenched her daughter’s hand free.
“I’m sorry,” she said three times.
I assured her it was okay and smiled and waved goodbye.
As the little girl fanatically waved back and yelled, “Bye, mister cow,” she knocked over the bin of body parts the boy from before haphazardly placed on the edge of the shelf.
I rushed over.
“It’s okay,” I said and quickly bent down and began cleaning. “I got it.”
“Thank you,” the mother said.
The little girl waved again and I stuck my tongue out at her. She laughed.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Assignment: For Thursday
Find at least five professional sources in your chosen field/subject area. These should be sources you'll interview. (Consider access and relevance. Consider target audience/magazine.)
Bring your list to class on Thursday.
We'll review interviewing and research techniques.
Bring your list to class on Thursday.
We'll review interviewing and research techniques.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Internship Opportunity: Social Media Writer
Technology Publishing/Paintsquare is seeking a motivated student intern to assist with social media initiatives. Obtain hands-on experience while earning college credit in a fun and casual environment at our office in the heart of Pittsburgh’s exciting South Side neighborhood. Interested candidates should send cover letter, resume and 1-3 social networking profiles to Pam Simmons at psimmons@paintsquare.com.
Duties:
• Monitor postings and interactions on social media platforms
• Comment and contribute to the growth of our current social media tools used (Twitter and Facebook)
• Measure and enhance the impact of our online social media strategy
• Develop creative ways to promote the company utilizing social media
Qualifications:
• Completion of at least one year of undergraduate studies desired
• Must be self-starting and able to work independently
• Excellent written and verbal communication skills
• Creative thinker
• Experience with Facebook and Twitter is required
• Experience with MySpace, Orkut, LinkedIn, blogs or mobile apps is a plus
• Experience in communications, marketing or journalism is helpful.
Benefits:
* Build your resume
* Letters of recommendation upon successful completion of the internship
Compensation:
Unpaid and for academic credit(s) only
Hours per Week:
Flexible
Duties:
• Monitor postings and interactions on social media platforms
• Comment and contribute to the growth of our current social media tools used (Twitter and Facebook)
• Measure and enhance the impact of our online social media strategy
• Develop creative ways to promote the company utilizing social media
Qualifications:
• Completion of at least one year of undergraduate studies desired
• Must be self-starting and able to work independently
• Excellent written and verbal communication skills
• Creative thinker
• Experience with Facebook and Twitter is required
• Experience with MySpace, Orkut, LinkedIn, blogs or mobile apps is a plus
• Experience in communications, marketing or journalism is helpful.
Benefits:
* Build your resume
* Letters of recommendation upon successful completion of the internship
Compensation:
Unpaid and for academic credit(s) only
Hours per Week:
Flexible
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Query for Clothing Pieces: Fashion Week
Here's a format:
Dear Editor (Name):
I hope you'll consider my op-ed piece, "Title" (Word Length -- a.k.a. 500 words), for possible publication in (Publication Title).
This clothing-centered piece is timely for Fashion Week, which runs through this Thursday in New York.
(Include any bio information if you've been previously published. Otherwise, go right to...)
Thanks very much for your time.
Sincerely,
You
Contact Info
Dear Editor (Name):
I hope you'll consider my op-ed piece, "Title" (Word Length -- a.k.a. 500 words), for possible publication in (Publication Title).
This clothing-centered piece is timely for Fashion Week, which runs through this Thursday in New York.
(Include any bio information if you've been previously published. Otherwise, go right to...)
Thanks very much for your time.
Sincerely,
You
Contact Info
Art's "Wow I'm Fat"
Wow I’m fat
By Art Lindsay
I could feel the sweat begin to bead on my forehead as I shifted through the clothing on the rack. “I hope no one sees me. Just pick something and get out of here,” I told myself. The people in the store looked at me strangely. Things weren’t going well. I had no clue what size would fit. A size ten seemed big enough.
I walked toward the fitting room and I could feel the heat coming off my face. At this point people had to be suspicious. The dressing room attendant directed me to an open fitting room. I quickly tried to put the skirt on and to my dismay it didn’t fit. It was nowhere close to fitting. And at that moment I knew things would be much more difficult than I had imagined they would be.
It was Halloween and I had decided to go as Sarah Palin. I thought it would be a simple costume. I would just get a skirt and a blouse, and find some cheap heals at the local discount clothing store. Little did I know that finding these items would leave me self-conscious about my looks and weight.
When I got home I was shocked at the size difference between men and women’s clothing. The skirt I had bought was a size 14. Four sizes larger than what I thought would fit comfortably. My blouse was a XXL. This was a leap from the usual medium I wear in men’s sizes. The heals were a size 12. And the make up? Don’t even get me started on the price of make-up, girlfriend!
I looked at my costume in disgust. I remembered multiple shopping trips with my girlfriend and her complaining about her weight and looks. After every shopping trip I had been on with her she would be filled with anger about her looks and weight. And she was a size ZERO! I had always thought that she was being ridiculous and selfish. But now I knew why she was so upset all those times.
“She’s a size zero and upset with her weight. I’m a size 14!” I thought to myself as I looked in the mirror. I began to obsess about losing weight. The knot of anxiety grew in my stomach. When I put on the clothes I never thought about how ridiculous I looked. All I could thing about was my weight and if I looked proportionate in the clothes I was wearing. I eventually told myself to have fun and to not hold myself up to these ridiculous standards.
It was easy not to hold myself to the standards of what a woman should look like. I am a man, and women’s clothing doesn’t fit me well for mainly that reason. But the experience did enlighten me to the standards our culture places on women and their looks. Every magazine in the grocery store check out is full of images of slim, slender, beautiful women. How could a woman not look at these magazines and think, “Wow, I’m fat.”
As fashion week starts, and the hip and wealthy around the world celebrate wafer thin freaks of nature strutting down the runway. For the first time I can see past what is being presented on the surface. Presenting women with images and standards they can never live up to is good business and the prices on vanity items continue to go up.
The last time I went shopping with my girlfriend things went better. As she became disheartened about her looks I actually understood what she was going through. Instead of dismissing her frustration as ridiculous I asked her about the unrealistic standards women face in our culture. It sparked a good debate and in the end she looked at me as though I wasn’t just a caveman that merely cared about sex and football. I just hope she doesn’t judge me for being a size 14.
By Art Lindsay
I could feel the sweat begin to bead on my forehead as I shifted through the clothing on the rack. “I hope no one sees me. Just pick something and get out of here,” I told myself. The people in the store looked at me strangely. Things weren’t going well. I had no clue what size would fit. A size ten seemed big enough.
I walked toward the fitting room and I could feel the heat coming off my face. At this point people had to be suspicious. The dressing room attendant directed me to an open fitting room. I quickly tried to put the skirt on and to my dismay it didn’t fit. It was nowhere close to fitting. And at that moment I knew things would be much more difficult than I had imagined they would be.
It was Halloween and I had decided to go as Sarah Palin. I thought it would be a simple costume. I would just get a skirt and a blouse, and find some cheap heals at the local discount clothing store. Little did I know that finding these items would leave me self-conscious about my looks and weight.
When I got home I was shocked at the size difference between men and women’s clothing. The skirt I had bought was a size 14. Four sizes larger than what I thought would fit comfortably. My blouse was a XXL. This was a leap from the usual medium I wear in men’s sizes. The heals were a size 12. And the make up? Don’t even get me started on the price of make-up, girlfriend!
I looked at my costume in disgust. I remembered multiple shopping trips with my girlfriend and her complaining about her weight and looks. After every shopping trip I had been on with her she would be filled with anger about her looks and weight. And she was a size ZERO! I had always thought that she was being ridiculous and selfish. But now I knew why she was so upset all those times.
“She’s a size zero and upset with her weight. I’m a size 14!” I thought to myself as I looked in the mirror. I began to obsess about losing weight. The knot of anxiety grew in my stomach. When I put on the clothes I never thought about how ridiculous I looked. All I could thing about was my weight and if I looked proportionate in the clothes I was wearing. I eventually told myself to have fun and to not hold myself up to these ridiculous standards.
It was easy not to hold myself to the standards of what a woman should look like. I am a man, and women’s clothing doesn’t fit me well for mainly that reason. But the experience did enlighten me to the standards our culture places on women and their looks. Every magazine in the grocery store check out is full of images of slim, slender, beautiful women. How could a woman not look at these magazines and think, “Wow, I’m fat.”
As fashion week starts, and the hip and wealthy around the world celebrate wafer thin freaks of nature strutting down the runway. For the first time I can see past what is being presented on the surface. Presenting women with images and standards they can never live up to is good business and the prices on vanity items continue to go up.
The last time I went shopping with my girlfriend things went better. As she became disheartened about her looks I actually understood what she was going through. Instead of dismissing her frustration as ridiculous I asked her about the unrealistic standards women face in our culture. It sparked a good debate and in the end she looked at me as though I wasn’t just a caveman that merely cared about sex and football. I just hope she doesn’t judge me for being a size 14.
Melissa's "My Mom's Fur Coat"
My Mom’s Fur Coat
by Melissa Marullo
It hung there fancy, sophisticated, and mature, teasing me with its beauty. The blended shades of brown and white with brown buttons that could barely be seen underneath the fur overwhelmed me every time I looked at it. It hid between a blue pant suit with silver embroidering and a red heavy winter coat, both of which resided in plastic garment bags for protection.
Against my face it was soft and itchy. Against my arms and body the beige lining was silky and smooth. Anytime I pulled it out of its spot in the closet, I’d get a whiff of my mother’s perfume mixed with its natural smell that I can’t recall enough to put into words other than objectionable. You couldn’t wash it or else it would be ruined.
My mother’s rabbit fur coat was my favorite thing to try on. I liked to pretend that I was getting ready for an upscale party, all dressed up, keeping warm with my real rabbit fur. Young and naïve, it didn’t bother me that it came from an actual rabbit, and I didn’t realize what someone had to do to get the fur, so excuse my ignorance. It was definitely expensive, and I know this because anytime I put the oversized coat on, my mom would scold me and tell me not to ruin it.
I would never do anything to destroy it. The coat was too elegant, exquisite, and precious. Not to mention, I knew I would grow into it one day. I would be old enough to go to a fancy party, and the coat would be appropriate to wear. It was something I wanted but couldn’t have, not yet. My mom doesn’t know what happened to this article of clothing that I adored so much.
I last remember wearing it when we lived in my house on Beech Road in Plum. We moved twice since that house, my mom assumes she lost it in the move, or threw it away since it was older. I only wore the jacket once when I was finally old and tall enough, and I can’t remember where I actually went in it. I do recall though, after that one time of use I didn’t desire it as much. I didn’t feel the yearn or the need to wear it. Maybe it was because I didn’t have anywhere special enough to go. Maybe we thought by that time it was just too old to wear. Or maybe it was because once I finally had it in my possession, that I no longer craved it.
I might have realized that it wasn’t that great. It didn’t make me fancier, it didn’t make me rich, and it didn’t make mature sophisticated parties appear for my attendance. It was just me in my mother’s old rabbit fur coat. Looking back I wish that my expectations were met. In my eyes, it was and always will be beautiful. I’d like to have the coat back as a memory of what it was like as a little girl playing dress up, without any worries, and wanting to be older.
by Melissa Marullo
It hung there fancy, sophisticated, and mature, teasing me with its beauty. The blended shades of brown and white with brown buttons that could barely be seen underneath the fur overwhelmed me every time I looked at it. It hid between a blue pant suit with silver embroidering and a red heavy winter coat, both of which resided in plastic garment bags for protection.
Against my face it was soft and itchy. Against my arms and body the beige lining was silky and smooth. Anytime I pulled it out of its spot in the closet, I’d get a whiff of my mother’s perfume mixed with its natural smell that I can’t recall enough to put into words other than objectionable. You couldn’t wash it or else it would be ruined.
My mother’s rabbit fur coat was my favorite thing to try on. I liked to pretend that I was getting ready for an upscale party, all dressed up, keeping warm with my real rabbit fur. Young and naïve, it didn’t bother me that it came from an actual rabbit, and I didn’t realize what someone had to do to get the fur, so excuse my ignorance. It was definitely expensive, and I know this because anytime I put the oversized coat on, my mom would scold me and tell me not to ruin it.
I would never do anything to destroy it. The coat was too elegant, exquisite, and precious. Not to mention, I knew I would grow into it one day. I would be old enough to go to a fancy party, and the coat would be appropriate to wear. It was something I wanted but couldn’t have, not yet. My mom doesn’t know what happened to this article of clothing that I adored so much.
I last remember wearing it when we lived in my house on Beech Road in Plum. We moved twice since that house, my mom assumes she lost it in the move, or threw it away since it was older. I only wore the jacket once when I was finally old and tall enough, and I can’t remember where I actually went in it. I do recall though, after that one time of use I didn’t desire it as much. I didn’t feel the yearn or the need to wear it. Maybe it was because I didn’t have anywhere special enough to go. Maybe we thought by that time it was just too old to wear. Or maybe it was because once I finally had it in my possession, that I no longer craved it.
I might have realized that it wasn’t that great. It didn’t make me fancier, it didn’t make me rich, and it didn’t make mature sophisticated parties appear for my attendance. It was just me in my mother’s old rabbit fur coat. Looking back I wish that my expectations were met. In my eyes, it was and always will be beautiful. I’d like to have the coat back as a memory of what it was like as a little girl playing dress up, without any worries, and wanting to be older.
Monday, September 13, 2010
Rachel's "If the Shoe Wins"
If the Shoe Wins
by Rachel Kuskie
I’m superstitious about shoes.
I don’t collect shoes, or compulsively buy shoes, or feel that “the shoes make the outfit.” I drive, and the most important thing I wear is not my shirt, not my helmet, not my seatbelt. It’s the shoes.
When I race and lose, I blame my shoes. I couldn’t feel the pedals well enough. My left foot slipped off the break and I left too soon. My right foot didn’t hit the gas soon enough and I left too late. I shifted wrong. I was watching the lights but got distracted by a bug flying across the windshield. When anything goes wrong, when anything goes right, when I see the other racer’s win light go on, I blame my shoes.
The red New Balance had too much tread, it felt like there was 6 inches of rubber between my foot and the pedals. The black and pink Nikes were shaped wrong, they pushed my toes too closely together. The pink Pumas were obviously made for walking, not driving. The plaid Converse were the wrong color. Basically, they were all bad luck.
After collecting too many losses it became a ritual. I would come home and think about the day of racing, run through every mistake, every possibility, and every ten-thousandth of a second during the day, the weeks, sometimes the months of losing. Then I grab my “racing shoes” and throw them in the garbage. The next pair will make me win.
Then, I found them. The perfect shoes. They don’t match my outfit, just my car. A pair of bright yellow Converse All Stars to match the yellow of my Corvette. In those shoes I can feel the pedals just right. Feel the vibration of the engine from the tips of my toes to my hands gripping the steering wheel. Feel just the right time to go. In these shoes I don’t think about the twist of anxiety in my stomach before the race begins, or my hands slipping on the steering wheel from nervous perspiration, or the piece of hair I can’t get out of my face before every race. In my shoes I don’t need to think about what to do or how to race. I get in my car, do my burnout, stage the car, watch the yellow lights drop, and go. Watch my yellow shaped “W” win light turn on. Watch the yellow flash of the camera go off while I stand in the winner’s lane. Collect some green cash. Go back next week and do it again, in the same shoes.
And after several years of drag racing experience I have learned: if the shoe wins, wear it.
by Rachel Kuskie
I’m superstitious about shoes.
I don’t collect shoes, or compulsively buy shoes, or feel that “the shoes make the outfit.” I drive, and the most important thing I wear is not my shirt, not my helmet, not my seatbelt. It’s the shoes.
When I race and lose, I blame my shoes. I couldn’t feel the pedals well enough. My left foot slipped off the break and I left too soon. My right foot didn’t hit the gas soon enough and I left too late. I shifted wrong. I was watching the lights but got distracted by a bug flying across the windshield. When anything goes wrong, when anything goes right, when I see the other racer’s win light go on, I blame my shoes.
The red New Balance had too much tread, it felt like there was 6 inches of rubber between my foot and the pedals. The black and pink Nikes were shaped wrong, they pushed my toes too closely together. The pink Pumas were obviously made for walking, not driving. The plaid Converse were the wrong color. Basically, they were all bad luck.
After collecting too many losses it became a ritual. I would come home and think about the day of racing, run through every mistake, every possibility, and every ten-thousandth of a second during the day, the weeks, sometimes the months of losing. Then I grab my “racing shoes” and throw them in the garbage. The next pair will make me win.
Then, I found them. The perfect shoes. They don’t match my outfit, just my car. A pair of bright yellow Converse All Stars to match the yellow of my Corvette. In those shoes I can feel the pedals just right. Feel the vibration of the engine from the tips of my toes to my hands gripping the steering wheel. Feel just the right time to go. In these shoes I don’t think about the twist of anxiety in my stomach before the race begins, or my hands slipping on the steering wheel from nervous perspiration, or the piece of hair I can’t get out of my face before every race. In my shoes I don’t need to think about what to do or how to race. I get in my car, do my burnout, stage the car, watch the yellow lights drop, and go. Watch my yellow shaped “W” win light turn on. Watch the yellow flash of the camera go off while I stand in the winner’s lane. Collect some green cash. Go back next week and do it again, in the same shoes.
And after several years of drag racing experience I have learned: if the shoe wins, wear it.
Lauren's "Bird Has Flown"
Bird has Flown
By Lauren McCloskey
My mother is an Avon consumer. Through her, I am also an Avon consumer. When I was twelve I started to browse the small magazines in search of the perfect clear lip gloss. Yes, clear lip gloss. I never understood make up until after high school. Nonetheless, one winter evening during the eighth grade, my mother came home with three of the newest Avon catalogues. She told me I could pick out a few things for my Christmas stocking. In the final catalogue, I found a ring. It was silver, wrapped around the finger and at each end there were wings. Two beautifully crafted wings that hug the finger for the low price of $19.99. Thanks to my mom, the winged ring was in my stocking that Christmas. Unfortunately, the ring was too big for my finger. Disappointed, I placed the ring in a jewelry box and forgot about it for years.
Now fast forward to 2009. I moved into my first apartment and took everything I owned. Every single trinket, all plastic Wal-Mart bags of random oversized t-shirts and each Rubbermaid storage containers took the five hour car trip from eastern to western Pennsylvania. Once it all reached my room, I sorted through it all. In a faded white ring box there were mismatched earrings, broken necklace clasps and the winged ring! I reunited the ring with my finger and it triumphantly fit perfectly.
That afternoon, my jewelry staples were made; three rings for each hand. The lineup was as follows; left hand: ring finger graced by a spoon ring, middle wore an intricate design with a diamond in the middle then pointer finger donned the winged ring. Right hand: ring finger protected by my high school class ring, middle dressed with a Celtic knot and pointer finished with a wrap around heart ring.
This gang of rings was a family and even traveled overseas with me. Summer 2010 they all made their European debut. Along with holding on to hand rails and Euros, they also held the hand of a Spanish man, Ish. Ish liked my rings but he liked the winged ring most of all. He told me in Spanish with his fantastic accent that the winged ring was most beautiful and rare. He had seen nothing like it prior to our encounter. He called me his pajarita, or little bird because I was always excited to go out, talked a lot and ate like a bird. Though I completely and utterly disagreed, he liked the nickname.
One night in June after a series of cervezas, bright lights and dancing, Ish walked me home. Down one of his shortcuts, I caught my hand on a chain gate down in an alley way. My winged ring was bent off my finger and fell to the ground with a tiny crash. Ish picked it up and handed it to me. In my attempt to bend it back around my finger, the two wings snapped directly in halves and again fell to the ground. I was devastated. Ish knew I was heartbroken. He lifted up my hand and kissed the sun tanned print of the two wings on my finger. I looked at him, smiled and told him in Spanish that it was okay because I am happy where I landed. In a foreign country with a beautiful man.
By Lauren McCloskey
My mother is an Avon consumer. Through her, I am also an Avon consumer. When I was twelve I started to browse the small magazines in search of the perfect clear lip gloss. Yes, clear lip gloss. I never understood make up until after high school. Nonetheless, one winter evening during the eighth grade, my mother came home with three of the newest Avon catalogues. She told me I could pick out a few things for my Christmas stocking. In the final catalogue, I found a ring. It was silver, wrapped around the finger and at each end there were wings. Two beautifully crafted wings that hug the finger for the low price of $19.99. Thanks to my mom, the winged ring was in my stocking that Christmas. Unfortunately, the ring was too big for my finger. Disappointed, I placed the ring in a jewelry box and forgot about it for years.
Now fast forward to 2009. I moved into my first apartment and took everything I owned. Every single trinket, all plastic Wal-Mart bags of random oversized t-shirts and each Rubbermaid storage containers took the five hour car trip from eastern to western Pennsylvania. Once it all reached my room, I sorted through it all. In a faded white ring box there were mismatched earrings, broken necklace clasps and the winged ring! I reunited the ring with my finger and it triumphantly fit perfectly.
That afternoon, my jewelry staples were made; three rings for each hand. The lineup was as follows; left hand: ring finger graced by a spoon ring, middle wore an intricate design with a diamond in the middle then pointer finger donned the winged ring. Right hand: ring finger protected by my high school class ring, middle dressed with a Celtic knot and pointer finished with a wrap around heart ring.
This gang of rings was a family and even traveled overseas with me. Summer 2010 they all made their European debut. Along with holding on to hand rails and Euros, they also held the hand of a Spanish man, Ish. Ish liked my rings but he liked the winged ring most of all. He told me in Spanish with his fantastic accent that the winged ring was most beautiful and rare. He had seen nothing like it prior to our encounter. He called me his pajarita, or little bird because I was always excited to go out, talked a lot and ate like a bird. Though I completely and utterly disagreed, he liked the nickname.
One night in June after a series of cervezas, bright lights and dancing, Ish walked me home. Down one of his shortcuts, I caught my hand on a chain gate down in an alley way. My winged ring was bent off my finger and fell to the ground with a tiny crash. Ish picked it up and handed it to me. In my attempt to bend it back around my finger, the two wings snapped directly in halves and again fell to the ground. I was devastated. Ish knew I was heartbroken. He lifted up my hand and kissed the sun tanned print of the two wings on my finger. I looked at him, smiled and told him in Spanish that it was okay because I am happy where I landed. In a foreign country with a beautiful man.
Megan's "The Gray Shirt"
The Gray Shirt
by Megan Stewart
I lent her a bag of clothes. I didn’t mind because 9 months earlier, I had lost all of mine to fire. So, the selfish desire of keeping them all to myself didn’t faze me. They were only things and they wouldn’t last. They were all larges and some were donated. They would hang off my back or flow from my waste, so that I never needed to suck in, which always felt uncomfortable. But, I figured she would need them to cover herself more than I did. She had a brace wrapped around her torso and circling her neck.
“Wow, Meg. I’ll probably wear these every day,” she said with this overly cheesy smile, which almost distracted me from her ocean blue eyes.
She threw her shirt off quickly to try them on. The mobility was shocking for a girl in a body brace. She had a sports bra over the brace because her breasts were pressed down and pushed to the sides. It must have been made for an old woman. It was huge and clipped in the front, so she could easily get it on and off. She threw on a gray, short sleeved shirt with a hood that was on top of the pile. The gray was swished with black in a horizontal direction. This was her favorite. I laughed to myself. This gray shirt was donated to me after my house burnt down. It was my favorite.
For four months, Britt must have worn that shirt twice a week. It was big enough around her body so that the large bulks of plastic from the brace were barely seen in the back. The front came down into a wide V. She would wear tank tops underneath because she didn’t want the metal bars to show in the front. Even though her body was oddly hidden, everything about her face was clearly pleasing. Her hair was a bright, shining blonde that hung oddly over the bulkiness on her back. I always noticed the thickness of her pretty hair before I noticed the brace. Her eyes were brighter than “pretty blue eyes” and more noticeable than anything else about her. She had an unspeakable joy and never spoke of the pain. She had fallen fifty feet from a rope swing in September.
She puts the bag of clothes back in the back of my car, which was filled with junk. I was in the process of a move into a secure home for the first time since the fire. It was December now and the brace was off.
“I won’t need them anymore and they were too nice to keep from you,” she said.
I peeked into the brown shopping bag and saw that gray shirt sitting on the top. I wanted it now. I hadn’t cared in September if I had any of the clothes or not. But now, even though it was already big and possibly more stretched out, I wanted it back. It may have smelt like hospital from all of the visits she took.
Maybe it would smell of bandages and ointments from the wounds she had healing underneath. It didn’t smell like donated clothes or smoke anymore. I wanted it back.
by Megan Stewart
I lent her a bag of clothes. I didn’t mind because 9 months earlier, I had lost all of mine to fire. So, the selfish desire of keeping them all to myself didn’t faze me. They were only things and they wouldn’t last. They were all larges and some were donated. They would hang off my back or flow from my waste, so that I never needed to suck in, which always felt uncomfortable. But, I figured she would need them to cover herself more than I did. She had a brace wrapped around her torso and circling her neck.
“Wow, Meg. I’ll probably wear these every day,” she said with this overly cheesy smile, which almost distracted me from her ocean blue eyes.
She threw her shirt off quickly to try them on. The mobility was shocking for a girl in a body brace. She had a sports bra over the brace because her breasts were pressed down and pushed to the sides. It must have been made for an old woman. It was huge and clipped in the front, so she could easily get it on and off. She threw on a gray, short sleeved shirt with a hood that was on top of the pile. The gray was swished with black in a horizontal direction. This was her favorite. I laughed to myself. This gray shirt was donated to me after my house burnt down. It was my favorite.
For four months, Britt must have worn that shirt twice a week. It was big enough around her body so that the large bulks of plastic from the brace were barely seen in the back. The front came down into a wide V. She would wear tank tops underneath because she didn’t want the metal bars to show in the front. Even though her body was oddly hidden, everything about her face was clearly pleasing. Her hair was a bright, shining blonde that hung oddly over the bulkiness on her back. I always noticed the thickness of her pretty hair before I noticed the brace. Her eyes were brighter than “pretty blue eyes” and more noticeable than anything else about her. She had an unspeakable joy and never spoke of the pain. She had fallen fifty feet from a rope swing in September.
She puts the bag of clothes back in the back of my car, which was filled with junk. I was in the process of a move into a secure home for the first time since the fire. It was December now and the brace was off.
“I won’t need them anymore and they were too nice to keep from you,” she said.
I peeked into the brown shopping bag and saw that gray shirt sitting on the top. I wanted it now. I hadn’t cared in September if I had any of the clothes or not. But now, even though it was already big and possibly more stretched out, I wanted it back. It may have smelt like hospital from all of the visits she took.
Maybe it would smell of bandages and ointments from the wounds she had healing underneath. It didn’t smell like donated clothes or smoke anymore. I wanted it back.
Charles' "The Hat"
The Hat
by Charles Simpson
I wake up every day and my routine is always the same. I do the 3 S’s (Shower, Sh*t, Shave) and then I get dressed. I usually grab whatever shirt is the closest, and cleanest, combined with my baggy blue SilverTab jeans or shorts, depending on the weather. I put my black Nike no-show socks on slowly as I adjust to my new state of mind. I search my disheveled room for my all black Nike Airmax LTDs and then make my way to the kitchen for breakfast. After a big cold bowl of Frosted Flakes and chocolate milk, it’s time for my day to start. Before I walk out of my place I grab all the essentials like my SlimClip wallet, my keys, my Blackberry, and my cherry Chapstick. Finally, as I make my way through the door I’m always reminded by the bright sun that I almost forgot the most important thing: My hat. Every day I do the same little routine and every day I always almost forget my beloved hat.
It’s weird that something so crucial to me is almost forgotten, but once I put my favorite hat on I remember why I love it.
When I was twelve, a homeless man once told me, “There’s nothing like a good hat, sonny!” Well, okay, I never actually talked to any homeless people, but I can imagine that would be the kind of wisdom a homeless man would give. His advice would be a seemably useless statement that I would initially laugh hysterically at, but then the more I think about it the more I would realize that his statement couldn’t be any more true.
My favorite hat is a simple fitted black hat. No crazy brand names on it, no stupid logos or symbols, no goofy hippie-tastic designs, no frayed brims, no Velcro or plastic fasteners. Just a plain black ha, PBH, size 7¼ that I’ve worn any time I’ve done something good or life altering. I won my first paintball tournament, I went to my first days of high school and college, I went on my first date, I met my best friends, I met my current girlfriend, and I’ve taken every final in the past 7 years in my plain black hat. If I’ve done anything significant, and I like to think that I have, I’ve done it in my plain black hat.
If I were Popeye, my spinach would be my plain black hat. Anything that is impossible becomes possible, anything big and scary becomes small and funny, any challenge turns into an accomplishment, Pepsi turns into Coke, smelly things start to smell like freshly cut grass, and anything lame becomes awesome whenever I have my PBH on. Even as I write these words, PBH is at work. This article would have normally been just okay, but now my hat has made it super cool! Well, at least I think so. And now as I gaze and reflect about my experiences with PBH, I realize it won’t last forever.
Will I be able to wear my hat when I propose? Will I wear it when my first child is born? Will I have it when I finally get that nice six-figure job? Will I wear this hat while my kids grow up? Will I wear this hat when I die? I realize now that it isn’t the hat that makes things happen, I make it all happen. I make my life what it is and I control what I do and how I feel. Do I really need this hat? Or does this hat need me? I make my own way and my hat is just on my head enjoying the ride.
Maybe I won’t wear my PBH today. Then again, you can never be too sure. Let’s go hat, we’ve got things to do!
by Charles Simpson
I wake up every day and my routine is always the same. I do the 3 S’s (Shower, Sh*t, Shave) and then I get dressed. I usually grab whatever shirt is the closest, and cleanest, combined with my baggy blue SilverTab jeans or shorts, depending on the weather. I put my black Nike no-show socks on slowly as I adjust to my new state of mind. I search my disheveled room for my all black Nike Airmax LTDs and then make my way to the kitchen for breakfast. After a big cold bowl of Frosted Flakes and chocolate milk, it’s time for my day to start. Before I walk out of my place I grab all the essentials like my SlimClip wallet, my keys, my Blackberry, and my cherry Chapstick. Finally, as I make my way through the door I’m always reminded by the bright sun that I almost forgot the most important thing: My hat. Every day I do the same little routine and every day I always almost forget my beloved hat.
It’s weird that something so crucial to me is almost forgotten, but once I put my favorite hat on I remember why I love it.
When I was twelve, a homeless man once told me, “There’s nothing like a good hat, sonny!” Well, okay, I never actually talked to any homeless people, but I can imagine that would be the kind of wisdom a homeless man would give. His advice would be a seemably useless statement that I would initially laugh hysterically at, but then the more I think about it the more I would realize that his statement couldn’t be any more true.
My favorite hat is a simple fitted black hat. No crazy brand names on it, no stupid logos or symbols, no goofy hippie-tastic designs, no frayed brims, no Velcro or plastic fasteners. Just a plain black ha, PBH, size 7¼ that I’ve worn any time I’ve done something good or life altering. I won my first paintball tournament, I went to my first days of high school and college, I went on my first date, I met my best friends, I met my current girlfriend, and I’ve taken every final in the past 7 years in my plain black hat. If I’ve done anything significant, and I like to think that I have, I’ve done it in my plain black hat.
If I were Popeye, my spinach would be my plain black hat. Anything that is impossible becomes possible, anything big and scary becomes small and funny, any challenge turns into an accomplishment, Pepsi turns into Coke, smelly things start to smell like freshly cut grass, and anything lame becomes awesome whenever I have my PBH on. Even as I write these words, PBH is at work. This article would have normally been just okay, but now my hat has made it super cool! Well, at least I think so. And now as I gaze and reflect about my experiences with PBH, I realize it won’t last forever.
Will I be able to wear my hat when I propose? Will I wear it when my first child is born? Will I have it when I finally get that nice six-figure job? Will I wear this hat while my kids grow up? Will I wear this hat when I die? I realize now that it isn’t the hat that makes things happen, I make it all happen. I make my life what it is and I control what I do and how I feel. Do I really need this hat? Or does this hat need me? I make my own way and my hat is just on my head enjoying the ride.
Maybe I won’t wear my PBH today. Then again, you can never be too sure. Let’s go hat, we’ve got things to do!
Friday, September 10, 2010
Examiner.com jobs
Check here for hyper-local writing opportunities with The Examiner.com/Pittsburgh:
Become An Examiner.
And check out one of our UPG writing program grads, Rachel Lipko, who's a Travel Examiner at Examiner.com and a travel writer for CollegeJolt.com: Rachel's Bio
Become An Examiner.
And check out one of our UPG writing program grads, Rachel Lipko, who's a Travel Examiner at Examiner.com and a travel writer for CollegeJolt.com: Rachel's Bio
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Class Follow-Up
Remember when we were thinking up new ways to spin the how-to-lose-weight story? Here's one: The Easiest Diet In the World.
And remember when we were thinking up possible markets for Meghan's piece? Try Lemondrop. There's also a list of demographically-appropriate blogs in the Lemondrop (a service of AOL, btw) blog roll.
And remember when we were thinking up possible markets for Meghan's piece? Try Lemondrop. There's also a list of demographically-appropriate blogs in the Lemondrop (a service of AOL, btw) blog roll.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Assignment for Tuesday, Sept. 14
Re-read Sharon Olds’ “My Father’s Shirt,” and Patricia Hooper’s “Wearing My Son’s Shirt” plus selections from Brevity (see post below).
*******
Assignment for Tuesday: A short (500-700 words), essay-ish vivid piece about wearing someone else’s clothes. Or about your favorite piece of clothing. Or a piece of clothing you always wanted and never had. Tie in to Fashion Week/season for possible publication. E-mail to lljakiela@gmail.com by Monday/11 p.m. Workshop Tuesday.
*******
Assignment for Tuesday: A short (500-700 words), essay-ish vivid piece about wearing someone else’s clothes. Or about your favorite piece of clothing. Or a piece of clothing you always wanted and never had. Tie in to Fashion Week/season for possible publication. E-mail to lljakiela@gmail.com by Monday/11 p.m. Workshop Tuesday.
For Next Week's Writing Assignment
We'll go over the assignment in class. For now, prep by reading Chapters 1 & 2 in Jacobi (if you haven't already) and two pieces from Brevity magazine -- "The Watch" and "I Can't Stop Thinking About That New York Skirt."
Yes, it's fashion week. :)
Yes, it's fashion week. :)
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
How To Get a Job Writing How-2s: Blogs
Looking for your perfect audience? That ideal demographic?
Visit the blogosphere for new publishing opportunities.
Today's tip: Check out Lifehacker -- a site loaded with how-to tips to make any life better. They take post/submissions.
And check Problogger for a current list of blog jobs. Note how many of these are desperately seeking HTEs.
That's right. How-To Experts.
Like this one for a house-and-garden expert at eHow, for instance.
Perfect!
Visit the blogosphere for new publishing opportunities.
Today's tip: Check out Lifehacker -- a site loaded with how-to tips to make any life better. They take post/submissions.
And check Problogger for a current list of blog jobs. Note how many of these are desperately seeking HTEs.
That's right. How-To Experts.
Like this one for a house-and-garden expert at eHow, for instance.
Perfect!
Megan's How-To Piece
Megan Stewart
Magazine
9/5/10
How to Wait for Sex
Are you tired of laying face down, wondering why you gave it up again? Guy
after guy, and you still can’t get it right? Try to just wait. Does that
sound impossible? It’s unheard of to wait to have sex because it’s the
20th century. But, if you’re tired of looking for love in all the wrong
people and body parts, here’s how to get it right.
Consider it in the beginning, the getting-to-know each other period. Maybe
you’re at the bar and he just bought your drink. Maybe you’re at a school
function or activity. Try to sneak it in the conversation…after the “I’m
studying English Writing” and before the “I had a rough past
relationship,” say you are saving yourself. This way, you will filter out
the jerks (Warning: there may be a lot of them, but they are worth
eliminating). A guy that wants you for the evening …out.
Think STDS. If you happen to fail on the first step, and the guy is having
drinks at your apartment, or he’s inviting you to his tiny dorm room after
class, remind yourself that if he’s trying to take you easy, he’s probably
taking others easy. Guys that are blunt to get you alone at night are not
ammeters. Who knows who they may have been with and where they have been.
According to the American Social Health Association, one in five people in
the United States has an STD and two-thirds of all STDs occur in people 25
years of age or younger. Write those statistics on your hand.
Think babies. Okay, so condoms are not 100% effective. According to "Facts
on Reproductive Rights," from the National Organization for women the pill
fails 6.2% of the time, the condom fails 14.2% of the time, the diaphragm
fails 15.6% of the time and spermicide fails 26.3% of the time. So, if
this guy is taking you home on a one night stand, he’s probably not ready
for a baby. And are you? Now tattoo those statistics next to the writing
on your hand.
So, if you got through the first three steps, and now you are in a
relationship with a man who respects you and wants to wait too, it’s time
to really practice some self control.
Focus on the solid part of your foundation. Instead of putting sex in the
midst of this new relationship and letting it consume you, focus on other
things. The illumination period will come. He will burp and fart and he
may notice the hair on your face or the stretch mark on your hip while
you’re in your bathing suit, will you still be attracted to each other
now? If he still loves you, with every character defect and physical
defect, he may be a keeper, and this could be beautiful.
Show your love in a different way. Things are really going good. You can
live with him and he can live with you. So, focus on showing each other,
without sex. After all, if you want something serious, after a long
marriage, you better have more than physical desire because things start
to hang a little too low when you get old. Try going out golfing and to
the drive-in, instead of movies at his apartment till 2am.
Think of a reason not to wait. In the moment, you just want to. It’s just
like when you are trying to lose weight. In the moment, the cheeseburger
and the fries look like they would just hit the spot, but in the big
picture, is that the best decision? The reasons to wait to have sex will
outweigh the reasons to do it. You’ll meet you’re perfect man, so why not
wait?
Magazine
9/5/10
How to Wait for Sex
Are you tired of laying face down, wondering why you gave it up again? Guy
after guy, and you still can’t get it right? Try to just wait. Does that
sound impossible? It’s unheard of to wait to have sex because it’s the
20th century. But, if you’re tired of looking for love in all the wrong
people and body parts, here’s how to get it right.
Consider it in the beginning, the getting-to-know each other period. Maybe
you’re at the bar and he just bought your drink. Maybe you’re at a school
function or activity. Try to sneak it in the conversation…after the “I’m
studying English Writing” and before the “I had a rough past
relationship,” say you are saving yourself. This way, you will filter out
the jerks (Warning: there may be a lot of them, but they are worth
eliminating). A guy that wants you for the evening …out.
Think STDS. If you happen to fail on the first step, and the guy is having
drinks at your apartment, or he’s inviting you to his tiny dorm room after
class, remind yourself that if he’s trying to take you easy, he’s probably
taking others easy. Guys that are blunt to get you alone at night are not
ammeters. Who knows who they may have been with and where they have been.
According to the American Social Health Association, one in five people in
the United States has an STD and two-thirds of all STDs occur in people 25
years of age or younger. Write those statistics on your hand.
Think babies. Okay, so condoms are not 100% effective. According to "Facts
on Reproductive Rights," from the National Organization for women the pill
fails 6.2% of the time, the condom fails 14.2% of the time, the diaphragm
fails 15.6% of the time and spermicide fails 26.3% of the time. So, if
this guy is taking you home on a one night stand, he’s probably not ready
for a baby. And are you? Now tattoo those statistics next to the writing
on your hand.
So, if you got through the first three steps, and now you are in a
relationship with a man who respects you and wants to wait too, it’s time
to really practice some self control.
Focus on the solid part of your foundation. Instead of putting sex in the
midst of this new relationship and letting it consume you, focus on other
things. The illumination period will come. He will burp and fart and he
may notice the hair on your face or the stretch mark on your hip while
you’re in your bathing suit, will you still be attracted to each other
now? If he still loves you, with every character defect and physical
defect, he may be a keeper, and this could be beautiful.
Show your love in a different way. Things are really going good. You can
live with him and he can live with you. So, focus on showing each other,
without sex. After all, if you want something serious, after a long
marriage, you better have more than physical desire because things start
to hang a little too low when you get old. Try going out golfing and to
the drive-in, instead of movies at his apartment till 2am.
Think of a reason not to wait. In the moment, you just want to. It’s just
like when you are trying to lose weight. In the moment, the cheeseburger
and the fries look like they would just hit the spot, but in the big
picture, is that the best decision? The reasons to wait to have sex will
outweigh the reasons to do it. You’ll meet you’re perfect man, so why not
wait?
Monday, September 6, 2010
Flashback: Orwell's Tips for Good Writing
In his essay "Politics and the English Language," George Orwell offers six simple rules for good writing.
These rules are as essential as looking both ways before you cross the street. Memorize them. Live them. Love them. Post them on your fridge. On your mirror. On your forehead. Everywhere.
1. Never use a metaphor, simile, or other figure of speech which you are used to seeing in print.
2. Never us a long word where a short one will do.
3. If it is possible to cut a word out, always cut it out.
4. Never use the passive where you can use the active.
5. Never use a foreign phrase, a scientific word, or a jargon word if you can think of an everyday English equivalent.
6. Break any of these rules sooner than say anything outright barbarous.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Pittsburgh's Small Press Scene
Check it: New Yorker coverage of last year's Pittsburgh Small Press Festival.
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