"You really could afford to talk more."

The same guy that once said to me: "You're really pretty, but it's because of your personality," also once told me: "You know, you really could afford to talk more." I wanted to tell him that he really could afford to talk less. But he was my boyfriend's best friend, and I didn't want to start a fight, even though that boy was the King of back-handed compliments. Nevertheless, that comment has always stayed with me.

To this day, I often wonder if I'm expressing myself enough, or if I really could "afford" to say more. I used to be a shy kid, but I'm pleased to say that the more life I've experienced, the more confident and emboldened I've become. These days when I have something to say in a social or classroom setting, I generally say it. I have even reached a certain level of confidence where, although I'm not clever enough to do this often, I'll say something slightly off - that will, at the very least, make one person in the room smile to themselves while purposely avoiding eye contact. It feels good.

I am very aware that on occasion, things I say aren't always as hilarious to other people as they are in my head. But that awareness, I've decided, is just the price of individuality. I've discovered that it's extremely satisfying to knock my own socks off - everyone else is just a bonus. I also seem to have unconsciously made it a goal to become really good at witty banter. I'm still working on it, but paired up with the core personal belief that I'm actually really quite hilarious, I'm sure I'll go far.

The fact of the matter is, if you think I'm less than mildly entertaining, then it just means you don't know me very well. I am most definitely more than mildly entertaining. In fact, I constantly remind my husband that he is severely missing out by not staying abreast on every word I type on my various stay-at-home-mom social outlets such as Facebook, Google Talk and Twitter (follow me, if you dare: melbohn). When he finally catches up, I do declare he is never disappointed. Neither am I.

It's time to make a change.

I'm trying to change my approach to blogging. I feel I've fallen into a trap of using my blog to entertain others rather than to express myself- which isn't necessarily a bad thing, depending on one's goals for keeping a blog. I've decided my goals, however, need to be more personal. I need a creative outlet, and writing is a good one for me. Writing is also something I'm ok at it; whereas I totally suck at making things (such as blogs and crafts) look good. Therefore, I'm done with posting just for postings sake, and I'm tired of trying to meet my own silly criteria, such as these:

1. I must be cute, cute, cute. I only feel this way because a majority of my friends' blogs are so stinkin' cute and creative that feel like I have to try to keep up. Cute blog templates. Cute fonts. Cute, chic pictures of attractive family and friends or adorable discoveries. With cute and fun things to say about said beauties. It's all very impressive and admirable, but also a lot of work. Believe me, I've tried. I've come to accept that as much as I'd like to, I just can't do cute.
2. I have to talk about something fun or exciting. My blog is titled "The Salad Days" after all, an idiomatic expression referring to my enthusiasm for these early years in my life. I feel like I'm supposed to stick to the theme... and entertain... as well as show off a little.
   
3. I have to like something. That statement may sound odd, but I feel pressure to be positive. I think about my audience here (the 5 of you know who you are) and wonder: Wouldn't people get bored if I complained all the time? Or if I were really sarcastic or ironic? (I really can be.) But then, what's the point of posting just to post? Do people really care what Amazon's top books are or if Erich bit the shape of a slug into an apple? Who am I trying to impress? And why?

All I really want to do is write about stuff - completely random and whenever I feel like it. Without feeling like I need to impress, or rate myself on the quality or quantity of comments I receive. I sometimes wonder if I should turn the comments off, and if that would relieve any pressure to post, or to impress anyone. Whether it would make writing more enjoyable and personal. I've also thought of creating a strictly anonymous blog, but I've decided that I don't really have anything to hide, and that I'd really like to keep an honest dialogue with my friends.

I'm revamping my blog. Very soon, I will no longer be The Salad Days. I may even delete some old posts that mean nothing to me. We'll see. At any rate, I hope this results in a blog that I'm proud of, a lot of randomness, and some better quality writing.

Keep it real,
Melbo

20 Reasons Why I Suck

Even though I'm not an Anderson (honestly, I don't know if I'm cool enough, and I certainly don't blog enough to even apply, but I sure do love watching from the sidelines), I've decided to join the revolution. I've made a list of 20 reasons why I suck, and in the process I've decided that I really do suck. Was that the point?

Now I don't feel really great about this, but I'm going to post my list anyway -- all under the assumption that admitting my weaknesses will only make me stronger. So here's to a tougher backbone:

1. I feel like I never come across as sincere even when I am. I just get the idea that the person I'm talking to thinks I'm full of crap. I am sometimes, but definitely not always.
2. I have a terrible attention span as a result of putting too many things on my plate. I can't finish anything quickly because I constantly feel the need to move on to and work on other projects. This is also why none of my million-dollar ideas have come to fruition. (This is also explained by the fact that I haven't put any effort into any of them.)
3. I have a lot of trouble remembering things that I don't write down. Tasks to do, groceries to buy, promises I made, lines from movies, names of movies, if I've ever even seen a particular movie, where I put the keys... And then I often forget what I wanted to write before I get to a piece of paper. I'm amazed some days that Marc trusts me alone with our child.
4. I yell at Jaeger for whining when I know perfectly well that all he needs is a walk. And on the same note, I wanted him because I knew he would force me to exercise every day, and I often resent him for it.
5. I usually don't even try to remember the names of people that I don't think I'll see again. Which makes things a little awkward when I do see them again.
6. I don't wear sunscreen, like, ever, except for the piddly amount in my face lotion. I never burn OR tan, so I don't even think of it. It's just plain stupid of me, really.
7. I'm terrible at keeping in touch with people. If you don't live within a 10 mile radius of me, consider yourself special if I've called you once so far this year.
8. I only have about 5 stations on Pandora and they all play basically the same music, but I still listen to them interchangeably because then I feel like I'm getting something new. I'm perfectly happy with this.
9. I forget to wash Erich's hands before feeding him meals most of the time.
10. I'm one of "those people" that got a Chinese symbol tattoo and didn't know exactly what it meant.* This is only embarrassing every time the conversation turns to tattoos, because you can always count on someone scoffing at "those people".
*Sidebar not intended to demonstrate my suckiness: The tatoo is really small and I got it when I was 18, but the actual meaning ("someone who doesn't fight") is very close to what I originally thought ("peaceful"). I still like it and I'll never get it removed. And rather than wish I'd never gotten one, I only wish I had gotten something else.
11. I don't like like being Poked on Facebook because I think it's a cry for attention, and I feel like I'm obliged to poke back. I don't respond well when I'm forced into playful aggression (like tickling for example, just ask my husband). But, ironically, I haven't removed the application from my page, because I still like knowing that people are thinking of me, even if they'd rather throw an Obama at me than initiate a conversation.
12. I leave clean clothes in laundry baskets throughout the house, and I only put them away when I need the baskets for more laundry. And the cycle goes on and on...
13. I'm an aggressive driver. I cut in and switch lanes at the last second. I'll even run the occasional red light if the coast is clear.
14. I can't stand basketball and complain whenever it's on TV. This makes Marc very sad.
15. I slouch while giving massages and then tell my clients to watch their posture.
16. I'm really picky about my chicken, especially in soups and Chinese food. If it looks remotely fatty or twisted, I'll pick it apart or give it to the dog.
17. I'd estimate that my grill cost $10,ooo, and yet I will still open anything with my teeth. I'm also a lazy flosser.
18. I almost always fall asleep reading something non-fiction - even when I'm not tired.
19. I don't really like listening to classical or jazz music (with the exception of live performances) and I'm afraid that means there is something wrong with my soul.
20. I censored this list. There are at least a dozen things I could've put on here but ultimately decided that they were either too embarrassing to share, or that I don't want to be encouraged to be better. Besides, now you all know about my tattoo and that's more than enough honesty for me.

There, I did it. And I dare you all to do it, too.

VOTE!!

... for my new diaper bag!

I really like these Reese Li bags, but my husband is NO help. (He hates them both.) Help me!

Flashback

It took us two years to finally realize we could (and should) store stuff in our attic. Now, whenever I can get my rear in gear, I'll pack up a couple tubs of junk and leave them on the landing for Marc to throw up there. (I've never actually been up there myself-small, dark, musty spaces weird me out.)

My latest project has been organizing the closets in Erich's room, better referred to as the old attic. After packing numerous tubs of baby clothes, I reached two forgotten boxes on the top shelf with my name on them. My theory is that they got there when my mom drove down from Wisconsin after Erich was born. I don't remember seeing them or putting them up there, but then again I was on a lot of Percoset back then...

I realized these were memorabilia boxes encompassing my middle through high school years. Sweet!! Naturally, I took a break from organizing and indulged in this unexpected treat. Right away though, I found something a little, um, "sweeter" than I'd expected. Tucked under the lid of the first box was a bottle of Royale Deluxe Chambord Liqueur! The bottle was pretty dusty and sure, I had some wild times in my youth, but I certainly didn't remember this keepsake! You had better believe I have my suspicions, though. (Um, did you forget about something, little brother?? We'll chat later!)

This was truly a blast from the past, complete with diaries, pictures, cards, yearbooks, awards, trophies, art projects and bulging bag of notes folded into every geometrical shape possible. I got quite the kick out of it all. I had love notes in there from a guy I refused to date until I was 16, and journal entries about how much I "loved" the guy I secretly dated when I was 15. I know, I was quite the heartbreaker. I even got emotional when I found a printed copy of a virtual "Happy Hanukkah" bouquet my best friend Dave sent me saying "Did I make you smile? If so you should put this on your list of things that make you smile." Apparently I was making a list.. I wonder what happened to that?

I made a crazy chair in art class my senior year that was symbolic of the dueling good/bad angel on each shoulder. My good/bad angels were represented by Oscar the Grouch in a black can and Elmo in a flower pot (I had something of an obsession with Elmo for about a year); they were attached to each "shoulder" of the chair and each half of the chair was painted and "decorated" to match (interpretation: glued on flowers and garbage). A lot of people didn't "get" my art, but I was really proud of it so I saved the Oscar and Elmo. Erich had a blast playing with them.

Then there was the journal entry I wrote about how my friend and I stole our teacher's AOL password (because my parents wouldn't give me theirs) and chatted with a bunch of guys, and one kept emailing us. I was convinced that we'd get busted because the emails took a few days to delete; now was that true or was I on crack?

There was so much more, but I decided to pack things up and postpone the rest of the flashback a little longer. At least it was nice to reconnect with the old me and see how I've grown. I'm proud of myself. I did a great job of documenting the shy, skinny, four-eyed, headgear wearing brace-face I was and the myriad of emotions that came with finding myself, making choices, and puberty in general. And although I still cringe when I remember it all, there are a ton of valuable resources in that box to help me deal with my own daughters' (because we'll have at least one if not more, Marc!) awkward adolescent stages. I'm hoping that by then I'll be able to completely shake off any embarrassment about who I was and just laugh about it. Because I think I turned out pretty good.

Not a “Housewife”: a “Woman on Vacation”

So am I the world’s most undependable blogger or what? At least you can’t say I didn’t warn you all I would take another hiatus someday… Suddenly, though I feel the need to express myself more, and I’m pretty sure it’s a direct result of recently switching my day job from a full-time Rubber to a full-time Mudder. (Hey, it almost rhymes.)

I love being home. I have a theory that some women need to spend most of their time around the home and some need to spend most of it doing anything else. My sister and I are perfect examples of this. She’s home with her 3 month old and losing her mind. She loves one on one time with her little boy but the down time is killing her. She actually said to me: “I mean, how many more drawers can I organize before losing my mind?!” I told her to get a dog or write a blog. She decided she’ll try to start a business.

On the other hand, I have every minute of my day planned to maximize my home time. This does NOT mean I’m lazy, People. I still work Saturdays - to keep life interesting and the hotel discounts coming – I’m taking a 5 credit German class, and I keep up on chores and errands. (Okay, okay, so I called a maid. But I do run the errands.) I just love to be at home. I leave for class at the last possible second and come home right after. I run with the dog so he’ll sleep and cuddle with me while I do my homework. I run errands with Erich while he naps so I can let him crawl around my feet while I clean. I fold laundry in front of the TV because I want to watch TV curled on the couch without feeling guilty (so what if it takes twice as long :P). And best of all, I get to see and catch up with friends. I can go out to lunch, chat online, pop over to the neighbors, make phone calls, etc. I didn’t notice how anti-social I used to be while I was working. My worn out line was: “Oh, I can’t, I have to work.” Not anymore! And although I do plan on going back to work or school again, it may be from home and will certainly be on my own terms.. because this freedom deal is addictive. *

*Of course, behind every woman with freedom is a man without it, so this post is dedicated to my Sugar Daddy. Ich liebe dich, Husband, esq.

Propagating the Species

God has a plan for new mothers. It’s called memory loss. By overloading our systems, eventually all the pain and turbulence morphs into bliss and becomes one big blur. This is how the human race continues to thrive.

My final week of pregnancy I could have run a marathon to force thiat child out. Then while I was in labor, the pain was so bad ahat a shovel to the head would have felt better. I opted for the epidural over the shovel, but I waited long enough to guarantee the contractions were a pain I’ll always remember, not only to rub it in my son’s face one day, but so I don’t fool myself into thinking that a natural birth might actually be a good idea. (It’s not.)

The hospital stay was traumatic in its own right. Dozens of strangers shoving their way in my room at all hours to fill out forms (those were Marc’s guests), to poke and prod Erich and me, to throw off the sheets and examine how things are going “down there” and ask when my last “pee pee” and “poo poo” was (like, they do know I’m not the baby, right?). Don’t even get me started on the Nazi lactation nurses fondling me every two hours while smashing Erich’s face into my breasts. The only person that didn’t wake me up was the food lady, and she was the only one I waited up for.

It didn’t take long after settling in at home to have my first emotional/mental/physical breakdown. I lasted 24 hours before I sent Marc out in a blizzard to fill my prescriptions. I stayed home with a body that wouldn’t function, a baby that wouldn’t nurse, and breasts that wouldn’t stop growing. (Normally I wouldn’t complain about the last one, but I wasn’t thinking rationally at the time.) Another epidural would’ve been welcome, but I settled for an ocean of tears and the beloved Percoset my darling husband brought home. Ice packs, heating pads and oxycodone saved my life. I spent the next month healing, sleeping, nursing and trying not to poop. At least my kid is freakin’ adorable.

Now that my 13 week old sack of potatoes is sleeping through the night (10 hours last night!), babbling through his huge gummy grin and keeping his once 2 hour feeds at less than 40 minutes now, I’m starting to forget. My higher power is putting His Magic Eraser to work, obliterating traumatic portions of the past few months. Forever recording my experience in the blogosphere wasn’t likely part of God’s plan for new mothers, but He has a special plan for me. I’m beginning to forget what it felt like, but I hope by writing this, I don’t forget what happened. I propagate the species by accidental fertilization. It’s happened once, and it could happen again. At least next time I’ll know what to expect.

Don't Know Whatcha Got 'Til it's Gone

Toning up a post-pregnancy body is like reassembling a cake that’s fallen on the floor. Some pieces fit back where they belong but there are ultimately chunks leftover, and you really end up wishing you had swept the dog hair from the floor before baking. Right now my stomach looks like I pushed my thumb into a ball of playdough (thumb print = belly button). I’m hoping I can get at least some definition back, but I’ll have to accept the fact that some of my cake/playdough might be forever laced with last nights stuffing: Lumpy. Discolored. And maybe a little salty.

The realization came last month, about a week after giving birth to my little baby boy. Looking in the mirror, I noticed several red marks across the top of my bum. These mysterious painless “scratches” came out of nowhere. Jäger hadn’t jumped me from behind any time recently, and they definitely weren’t Marc's handiwork (for as beaten up as I was, I wasn’t letting that poor guy anywhere near my booty.)We had been dealing with a bit of a mouse problem at the time, but I think I’d remember a giant rodent clawing at my ass. That left only one dreaded explanation for these unsightly blemishes: stretch marks. I had survived my entire pregnancy without a single one... or so I thought. Truth is, while in my “enlarged” state, I purposely avoided checking out my bare backside out of sheer terror. Well, that and I didn’t have enough mirrors to look at it anyway; twisting in any direction certainly wasn’t a feat I could manage without assistance. In any case, I’m told these lines too shall pass, or at least fade into “flat silvery streaks.” Great. With any luck I’ll have a tinsel butt by next Christmas. Though be it a rock hard tinsel butt! Bounce a quarter off that, Santa.

Why I Took a Blogging Vacation (and why it’s likely to happen again):

I haven’t blogged for a while (news flash) and the time has ripened for me to make my comeback. Perhaps now I can find the time, means and motivation to expand on the hundreds of ideas I’ve come up with. I honestly could write something every day if I made the effort. I am chock full of random thoughts, ideas, annoyances, etc. Not convinced? Well, in my computer I’ve created a Blog Idea file. Here I have a list. A list where all my grand ideas are typed, sometimes outlined, occasionally begun, and rarely completed. Marc likes to say my Blog Idea file is where all my blogs go to die. Sadly, there is immense truth in this.

My problem is this, folks: I’m a worrier. Specifically on the subject of time. This is where I have issues with blogging, an inconvenient "single task" task. Writing doesn’t always fill my voracious need to cross out "to dos". When I write I can’t do much more than eat, watch tv, or poo (not that I would ever do the latter - girls don’t poo. It’s true, we don’t. We’re always constipated.). I have admitted in the past that blogging can actually be therapeutic and satisfying, and I still believe this; however, every time I write, read or make a comment, my relief and pride in my work soon develop into a twinge of guilt over lost time. I don’t suppose they make a morning after pill for that…

I speak as though productivity is the cure, but it’s not. No matter how much I accomplish, I frequently feel like I’ve lost precious irretrievable moments from my already too short days. The cure is finding a balance - it's prioritizing - something I’m sure we all could improve on.

I suppose this post has been a good therapy session for me. Instead of ironing or doing work, I just spent a record breaking 6 hours online doing nothing of note. I was a lazy bum and it feels pretty good. I only hope I don’t regret it in the morning.

The Blog Tag

I guess I'm it.

Four Jobs I've Had in My Life:
Pizza Delivery Girl in a Bowling Alley
Dairy Queen
Manager at Polo
Massage Therapist

Four Movies I Could Watch Over and Over, and Have:
Babe: Pig in the City
Notting Hill
Night at the Roxbury
The Man Who Knew Too Little

Four Places I've Lived:
Monona, Wisconsin
Park City, Utah
Las Vegas, Nevada
Alexandria, Virginia

Shows I Love to Watch:
Lost
24
The Apprentice
Grey's Anatomy

Four Websites I Visit Daily (and more than once daily):
Gmail.com (Almost Daily)
Epicurious.com (If I'm cooking)
MyFamily.com (Sometimes)
Perhaps a blog or two... How DO you all find time??

Four Favorite Foods:
Cheese Fondue
Whipped Cream
French Fries
Chocolate

Four Places I Would Like to Visit:
Rome
New Zealand
Denmark
Thailand

Four places I'd rather be:
Tanning with a book on the French Riviera
Snuggly in Bed with my Boys
Getting a Massage
Accepting my $22 million in Powerball winnings

Four albums I can't live without:
Jack Johnson - ANY
Black Eyed Peas - Elephunk
Dashboard Confessional - ANY (he kept me alive on the loong drives to/from Vegas)
Ben Lee - Something to Remember Me By (he carried me through my teenage years)

Four People I am Tagging:
Shelly
TigerFoxBear
Gargantus
Marc

Honorable Mention Tag:
Vern

Peas in a Pod

It’s not easy looking like a celebrity. I have one of those faces that always remind people of someone else. I get stopped at least once a week by a stranger frantic to tell me who I look like. I stop to talk because after all, I couldn’t disappoint a fan. The conversations usually go something like this:

Crazed Fan (CF): “Hey, do you know who you look like?!?! That girl from Fried Green Tomatoes! You know, the one that died. What’s her name?”

Me: “Mary Louise Parker.”

CF: “Is that her name? Hmm. Oh! Or that girl from Boys on the Side! You know, the one that dies? No, wait, is that the same actress? What IS her name??”

Me: “Mary Louise Parker.”

CF: “Yes! Mary Louise Parker! You look EXACTLY like her!”

CF’s Friend: “No, you know who she looks EXACTLY like? That girl from Princess Diaries! What’s her name?

Me: “Anne Hathaway.”

CF: “Oh, yeah! Anne Hathaway! You look EXACTLY like her!”

I say thank you and that I’m flattered, and I guess in some ways I am. At least these aren't Rosie O'Donnells I'm being compared to. The thing is, it's never kinda/sorta, I'm always told I look EXACTLY like someone else. In my dating years, guys said that stuff all the time. Now, everyone knows any guy you meet in a club is full of s-h-i-t, but I still wonder… how many celebrities can one person look EXACTLY like? Does everyone fool me with flattery or do I have a special chameleon gift? Did we go skinny dipping in the same gene pool or do we all just have brown hair? Anyway, I'm starting to consider a job as a professional body double. So just for fun, let's see which starlet I could "be"...

Oh, if only I could be Sarah McLachlan. American Idol would never knew what hit it! Fortunately, the guy who told me I looked like her never got to hear my singing. Why spoil the illusion?

This princess seems a little high maintanence. Even though she's starring in the biggest gay cowboy film EVER, I'm not dying to hob-nob with this drama queen. That is, unless she were in another film with Heath & Jake. Mmmm... brokeback ranchers...

This is the only picture of Alanis I think looks even a little like me. She's amazing live and I dig Canadians, but I don't think I'd fool anyone sober.

I can't remember who called me Winona - some guy in a bar somewhere. He didn't get far.

When my roomie's cousin told me I looked like Ashley Judd, I swooned. It got scary when he would only call me Ashley, and when he would call just so he could call me Ashley, and when I realized he probably didn't even know my real name. It kind of turned me off, but I still think she's cute.

I don't know something (or anything) about Mary, other than she is always playing a dying lesbian. I could stand in for that role.

Yes, the Virgin Mary. A man once gazed into my eyes and told me I resembled the Blessed Virgin. Apparently he didn't know I was a dying lesbian. Sure fooled him!

So, I'm sure I'm not alone in this. I know at least one person has been told they look like Britney Spears. Anyone else?

Curse These Blogs!!!

Why the frustration? I’ve been thinking about writing a blog for a while now. Problem is, I come up with all these great ideas and trash them once I see the mess they become on screen. But this is my forum, so screw all the rest, right? Heck, the crazier the better. Understand though, I’m the one who can dance anywhere, but I hate raising my hand in class. It’s like baring your soul, this blogging business. Then again, this is finally my outlet for sharing the secret obsessions, thoughts and eccentricities that make me tick. And boy do I have those. However, I’m afraid that maybe over time the sweater will unravel and there I'll be, bare-chested to the world. And instead of the buxom bikini model I’d like to be, I’ll be reminiscent of an 11 year old boy. You don’t have to tell me, I know it’s scary.

So what the heck, I’ll give it a shot. Even if it turns out my secret desires aren’t as juicy as I give them credit, at least I can say I sank my teeth into the succulent fruit of blog-dom. Hop on the band wagon, Melbo, it could be a bumpy ride.