Author of the novel WHEN YOU LOSE CONTROL

The corner Dunkin Donuts every Saturday And grape Bazooka Joe bubblegum on Sundays  Drives past Maki's and Nichols and Stone  Afternoons at the bank with the metal minute man That tiny yellow library with Memphis Design chairs  A hundred-year-old chocolate store  The pond where I learned to swim  And the theater where I saw my first movie  The Cumbys is gone, and so is Pleasant House of Pizza The chair remains, once the largest in existence Sometimes this little city felt like the entire world

"Holy shit, why is one of my grandfather's mugs missing!?" "What do you mean?" "I mounted my dead grandfather's irreplaceable, Giovanni DeSimone original, very-valuable,  and deeply sentimental mugs to the kitchen wall, and one is gone!" "Oh, I used it." "You fucking what!?" "Jesus, it's a mug that was in the kitchen, so yeah, I used it. And before you get pissier, it's in the dishwasher." "Those are not dishwasher safe, you fuckwad! And those mugs are wired to the hooks they're on! I spent like an hour mounting them so they couldn't be moved or used; what the shit?"  "Well, sorr-y."  "Oh yeah, you fucking sound it."  "Christ. Guess I can't make a mistake or use a mug in my house?" "As always, you're missing the goddamn point! And all your grandparents are alive, and fuck you! You don't understand!"  "It's a cup, so fuck you."  ...

How do you not see the breadth of what you are?  That would be like music not knowing why it needs a lead guitar. Or the sun not understanding its importance in the sky. You are everything and more; how can you not see why?  The totality of you leaves me in tremendous awe and wonder. Your eyes, your poems, your being, oh, the spell you have me under!  Your strength and kindness, your humble, gentle ways,  I have not one doubt you are my love, my companion, my always for all my days.

I often think about my grandmother's sun-drenched living room curtains. They were sheer and white and fluttered outwards in the summer when the breeze would float in through her second-story window. Gram washed the curtains regularly, but somehow, they always smelled of dust. In the summer, they'd absorb the smell of the window screen, and linen, dust, and thin metal would create a strange, light, aroma. I liked to sit in the sunbeams that would pop up on the cheap cornflower blue rug in that living room. Those little rectangles were perfect for a warm nap. The big desk between the windows would be my pillow, my knees would be against my chest, and the curtains would slowly dance across my side, wafting that scent, the one that became the smell I associate most with summer. Those sunbeams never felt as good in the spring, and I can't imagine napping on Gram's floor now.

"Are you mad at me?" came the ludicrous text from my mother. I had just replied to her with answers to her questions, and she took that as anger. Of course she did; everything was negative with her. Her job was too hard, her nights too short, and life was miserable, even when it wasn't. No one can play the victim like my mother. Well, anyway, Mom, let's see. Am I mad at you? I was mad at you when you laughed at my drawing, in front of my teacher, in first grade.  I was mad when you told me I could have a kitten and then weaseled out of that promise.  I was mad when you got mad at me, an eight-year-old, to the point that when we ate dinner that night, you sat as far away from me as possible and wouldn't even look at me. Wasn't I the child?  I was mad when you ignored me, called me a bitch, and openly, obviously, favored my younger brother, taking every chance to tell me I was a bad kid and horrible big sister.  I was mad that you were my mother, that I got stu...

The house I grew up in was cold in every sense of the word. My discount quilt was polyester and itchy and somehow provided no warmth. It was a hideous beige, trimmed with a solitary pink stripe and bow. It had been picked out by my mother, who didn't care that I craved comfort or that I hated pink.  When I'd cry out that I was freezing or needed a different blanket or just more blankets, for fucks sake, I was told, in an annoyed voice, "Just stick your hands between your knees or under your armpits." We moved to a colder apartment in a two-family house with frigid grandparents years later. The grungy dwelling was like an ice box, and my mother, now in menopause, really didn't care about the inhumane temperature. "You're old enough to put on a second sweatshirt."  After college, when the economy was trying its best to emulate the great depression, I eventually found work at a condo management company, working for two misogynists. They were such big, t...

In the 11th hour, my publisher (correctly) suggested that I rewrite my novel in the present tense. I am 18+ hours into this project. I have 25 pages to go. I unintentionally put myself to sleep while working on this edit this morning. It's the right direction to go in, but oh my god, this is the third time I've written this book. Well, third complete time, anyway. There's been quite a bit of editing and rewriting in the last 26 months. As I grow closer to finishing this (hopefully) final rewrite, I keep singing these Weird Al lyrics in my head; "Then tonight we're going to party like it's 1699!" I will have this done by tonight, and I will party like it's 1699! Loopily, Melissa 

  I am not graceful.  I like to think that if there was an Olympics for people who walk into walls and chairs or fall upstairs, that I would be more decorated than Simone Biles. If there is something accident-prone or clumsy, I've done it.  I do not like attention.  I wish I did; I've always envied people who could make eye contact without desperately trying to or talk in front of people without constantly misspeaking.  When my lack of coordination and fear of attention collide, my stomach churns like a washing machine of anxiety.  When I was in college, I had just finished a quick, in-between work and classes lunch by myself. I placed the empty cup, bowl, plate, knife, fork, and spoon on my plastic tray. I threw my purse on my shoulder and stood up, planning to drop my dishes on the conveyer belt and leave.  As I walked away from my table, I noticed two of my professors were sitting together in the cafeteria. One taught history of the 60s, and the oth...

Isn't it strange to be happy all the time? To have the comfort of knowing that, for once, everything is right. Anxiety isn't as anxious; lonely commutes aren't as dreadful. When everything is right, everything is  right.  How foreign to feel as if the best of you is constantly being brought out, not even intentionally; it just happens. Smiles aren't being faked; they're genuine. The lie of telling yourself that you're fine has become the truth. In fact, your ions past fine and well into bliss.  Wishes, dreams on paper, can come to life. Somehow, they can manifest into a reality you never thought was possible. But this doesn't seem possible. Everything that's ever been 'too good' before has crashed, burned, and ended. Happiness has been fleeting, if at all.  The how of it all may never be answered. Wondering how you could possibly be so lucky may never be answered. You have only now, only everything you've ever wanted. Life has become awe, has...

The man with the long, bushy ponytail that stretched down his back walked into the common room where we sat reading. He was dressed in shorts, an old t-shirt, and hiking shoes. He had that look of someone who probably spent his weekends camping and talked about the woods like they were palaces.  "What a gorgeous day!" he boomed. "Guys, yah gotta get outside!" "No," we replied in unison, neither of us looking up from our books.  The man let out a little 'hah' and followed it with, "But it's beautiful out! Yah wait all wintah fah this!" "I don't," you deadpanned, nestling your bookmark in place. "Me either," I agreed, rolling my eyes and shutting my novel. "Well, I love the warmth, but not going outside. I hate it." "Come ahhhhn," he insisted. "It's practically summah. It's days like these that were the BEST, back in school, yah know, when the teachahs would let yah have lessons o...

  I was little. I was scared of the dark. And dogs. I was terrified of the screams from my father, the drugs my mother consumed like water, being yelled at by teachers, monsters under my bed, and monsters in the garage.  I was afraid 'to stop breathing,' which were the only words I had to try and describe a panic attack. I was five. I feared time with my grandfathers. One pinched my hip as hard as he could and constantly walked around wearing too-tight white underwear. He made me go outside and walk on a decrepit bridge over a running stream with sharp rocks. The other babysat by means of sitting me in the smoke cloud of the VFW while he gambled and got plastered. He would drive me home after.  I didn't know how to speak up.  I was little. 

Her grandfather's name was Ralph. Just the name sent shivers up her spine. Who would give such a name to their child?  To make herself feel better and distance herself from the memory of that man, she'd replay Ally Sheedy's line from The Breakfast Club when the Allison character tries to make the Brian character think she's psychic- "Your middle name is Ralph, as in puke." Of course, Allison had no powers; she had simply stolen Brian's wallet.  Ralph wasn't just her grandfather; he was her tormentor as well.  Everyone thought of Ralph as funny and adventurous, but he was cruel and sexist. (And many other things, truth be told.) Apparently, only she could see these traits since her aunts made Ralph out to be a real-life Ward Cleaver.  But they hadn't been there the day she and Ralph walked to the pond.  Ralph loved the outdoors. She hated it. Whenever he babysat, she'd dread venturing outside and, inevitably, playing the game of which is worse- ...

 The grandmother, who was known to everyone- grandkids or otherwise, as Baybay, was always baking, whether it was muffins, pies, or fancy French breads from boulangeries she could only imagine.  Baybay had been born in Gardner and never left but had often envisioned herself as an accomplished pastry chef with a Parisian storefront to fill. It was a comforting fantasy for her after raising seven boys and having those episodes with her heart. She always thought she'd get to Paris one day but instead had happily settled on baking, now primarily for her grandchildren. More often than not, Baybay added blueberries to her creations, and the smell of homemade treats would waft out of her second-story apartment and out to the street. Ramona, Baybay's oldest granddaughter, liked it best when the blueberries came from Baybay's backyard. As soon as the berries were plump and ready, usually the third week of July, Baybay would have a feast of blueberry muffins with sugared tops prepare...

"I had to give a speech at my sister's wedding a--" "That sucks; I hate public speaking!" "Ugh, me too. It basically ruined the reception for me; I was afraid to eat or drink because I didn't want to be mid-bite or tipsy when they told me it was time to go." "Did it go alright, though?" "I completely sweated through my suit, but I managed to sound okay, I think."  "Nice." "Absolutely. So what's going on with you?"  "Same old. I've been working on my photography portfolio. I want to submit to some galleries this summer." "Good luck, Ruby."

A wealthy couple adopted my paternal grandmother in the late 1930s. I never thought to question this, as it seemed a rather straightforward narrative. However, this may not be the case. By way of accidental sleuthing, I noticed that Grammies 'adopted' father looked strikingly similar to her. They had the same face shape, the same smile, and positively identical eyes. I said so as I examined a picture of this man who died years before I was born. My father heard me and made the sort of face he often did when he didn't want to admit something. He told me later that it was likely the man in this photograph was Grammies biological father. From what could be discerned, this man had an affair, the woman got pregnant out of wedlock, and to hush everything up, my grandmother would be explained away as an adopted child. I was shocked to learn every bit of this (potential) story, and more so when, years later, a friend tried to trace her own grandmother's story, and it turned out...