Magazine Writing

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.
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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.

Magazine Writing

Thursday, December 9, 2010

Some places to look for internships, writing gigs, jobs n'at

Thursday, December 2, 2010

Melissa's Cupcake Moments Preview

Guidelines for Final Pieces

Pittsburgh Markets for Your Work

Tuesday, November 23, 2010

Let It Snow -- Snow-sports writers wanted

Bike and snow experts: here's one for you!

Monday, November 22, 2010

Post-Turkey Joy: Written/Spoken Reading Tuesday, Nov. 30 features Stacey Waite