2016: Year in Review

Ran my second half marathon. Injured. Again. Surprised my best friend after a 4 year drought. Scrapped a writing project. Questioned my writing ability. Started a new project. Celebrated my 27th birthday. Panicked that I'm almost 30. Went to Florida. Went to Michigan. Went to New York. Went to South Carolina. Finished school. Swore to never ever go back to school ever again. Ever. Contemplated a move to NYC. Wrote this. Went blonde. Again. Quit my job. Packed up my entire life. Moved to NYC (!!!!). Started a new job. Questioned my sanity. Welcomed my nephew into the world. Went on some shitty dates. Then had some pretty great ones. Saw Mat Kearney live. Saw NeedtoBreathe live. Met Robby Hayes. Fangirled. Stayed out too late. Woke up too early. Stopped saying no when I should say yes.

So 2016 wasn't all bad. 

A Letter & a Birthday Wish

Dear 17-year-old Melissa,

The first thing you're going to notice about her - after you stop staring into her gorgeous blue eyes - is her mouth. Brace yourself. She's going to tell you when you're wrong. Especially when you're really wrong. She's going to tell you that your hair looks like shit and you can't possibly meet the man of your dreams if your hair looks like shit. She's going to have opinions. She's going to have opinions about your opinions. So make sure your opinion is also her opinion. She's going to make you laugh. The kind of laugh that will make strangers stop and turn to see what's so funny. The kind of laugh that makes you cry and wheeze and your abs sore the next morning. And that's not even with the aid of alcohol. Oh god, the alcohol. You guys are going to drink so. much. alcohol. Don't drink the Four Loko. Actually, do. Because some pretty great memories happen from Nights of Four Loko. She's going to be late to everything. Literally. Everything. You're going to cancel on her to hang out with a boy instead. You are going to argue. A lot. But my god, she's going to love you. And that kind of love you just don't want to pass up. She's going to save your life. She's literally going to be the phonecall that keeps your life from ending at the age of eighteen. She's going to be your soulmate. Your person. She's going to tell you all the things you want to hear when you need to hear it most. She's going to cry with you when you cry. She's going to celebrate when you celebrate. Hold on to her and never let go.

Happy Birthday, Nanners. Cheers to your 28th year.

Love,
Meemo

What Makes a Woman Nasty

At sixteen years old, at my very first job, a co-worker three times my age groped me because we were alone together and he had gotten away with it before so he thought he could do it again.

When I was seventeen years old, my biology teacher in my Baptist private school verbally sexually harassed me. The pastor of the church and dean of the school called me a liar and a few months later I was kicked out in the middle of my junior year.

At my first job out of college, at a very prominent global law firm, I was continually told I needed to smile more, that I needed to "look pleasant."

The next year at a different law firm, I was repeatedly sexually harassed by a lawyer I worked with. I finally got the courage to tell him to stop when he asked what color panties I was wearing. 

Last year I was raped by a man who is currently "serving our country" as a soldier and secret service agent on the Secretary of Defense's detail.

At the age of twenty-seven, when I asked for a well-deserved raise and title change, my male boss told me that I was "very bold" and that I wouldn't be getting the promotion.

Throughout my career I have been called "sweetie" and "honey" by men who didn't see me as anything more than a pair of tits and a skirt and certainly not anyone with a brain.

Almost every day I'm whistled at while walking to work by men who think I'm there for their viewing pleasure, by men who think I should be grateful that they find me attractive.

You tell me not to take this election personally. You tell me to sit down, shut up, and get over it. I've been doing that for twenty-seven years and I'm fucking done.

You tell me that it wasn't about gender; gender had nothing to do with it. Gender had everything to do with it. Hillary Rodham Clinton was the most experienced and qualified presidential candidate we have ever had and she lost the job to an inexperienced white man who wouldn't have even passed an HR screening for a job as White House janitor.

I'm taking this personally because I have a niece for whom I would gladly give my life if it meant she would never be touched by a man who thought he was entitled to her body. I'm taking this personally because Hillary represented me and every other woman who has had to listen to men say "the boys will take it from here."  I'm taking this personally because having a Madam President would have propelled us light-years into the future, past oppression and into an era of acceptance and equality for women.

You think you've silenced us. You're wrong. You've united us. You've strengthened us. And you've made us even nastier.

16 Feet and 220 Miles

Let me just preface this post with I don't own a car and I haven't since 2012. I've probably driven three times in the last year. My driving ability can be best described by the below:

So when I went to go pick up my moving truck from the rental company and they told me that they didn't have any 12 footer trucks available, only 16's,  I thought to myself - this is it. This is how it ends. I'm going to die on the New Jersey Turnpike and I won't even be able to will any of my clothes to my sister because they are going to go up in flames along with my body.

So on Monday, October 3rd at 5:15AM I put that sucker in D and slowly merged onto 95N. You guys, I made it. Obviously. And I only hit two things - one parked vehicle (no damage) and some road barricades (they were plastic). Nobody died.

I am never moving ever again. My body is still covered in bruises and I'm pretty sure my entire back is just one big knot. Somebody get this girl a massage.

For those of you thinking about moving, don't. Also, if you think you don't have that much stuff think again because shit will just start coming out of cupboards and closets like it's Narnia.

The next time I have to do this I will have to be heavily medicated or drunk or both because this sucked. But then again it might have all been worth it because check out this view. You guys, NYC has already stolen my heart.

On to the Next

I'm sitting on an air mattress in a completely empty apartment right now - it's my last night here. There are scuffs on the floors and countless nail holes on almost every wall. This place has been lived in well. This place has been a home.

I moved to the DC Metro area almost exactly five years ago. The 10 hour drive from my tiny hometown to here was full of Coldplay songs and ugly cries.  I hated leaving a home where my initials were written in cement in my backyard. Where my best friend lived just down the dirt road. And where you waved at strangers passing on the street. Most of all, I hated leaving behind the comfort of everything familiar and safe.

Living in a place like Washington, DC has taught me more things than even I probably realize right now. But the most important lesson this city has taught me is that I am fiercely independent. In the last five years here I've severed ties with relationships that I had outgrown and I've seen myself heal in places I thought would always be hurting. I've never before felt so wonderfully whole and content. I've never before felt so....me.

And now I'm changing things up again - this time, just for the hell of it.

This place will always have a piece of my heart. Yes, I grew up in Holly, Michigan. But I also did quite a lot of growing up here too. And for that I will always be thankful.

NYC - I'm coming for ya.