tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-90214846867354387832024-03-13T02:42:12.386-07:00Melissa KantorMelissa Kantorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11202112053807278423noreply@blogger.comBlogger28125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9021484686735438783.post-51727786636916535042012-02-14T14:30:00.000-08:002012-02-14T17:21:47.327-08:00Is kissing overrated? Only sometimes...In honor of Valentine's Day, I give you this story. It's not candy or flowers, but if you're still waiting for that one great kiss, this is a promise: it's coming. <br />
<br />
In middle school, each time I kissed a boy I hoped I would swoon, just like a heroine in a romance novel who practically faints with passion the second the hero gently presses his lips to hers. <br />
<br />
Not once did this happen to me. In fact, my first kisses had more in common with the strep tests I routinely had to endure at my pediatrician's office than they did with the love scenes I read in books.<br />
<br />
First of all, there was no "gentle" involved. The boys I made out with during middle school seemed to have read an instruction manual in which the words "apply extreme force" were repeated multiple times. These boys should have been permitted to put their lips to a girl's only <i>after</i> informing her, "I promise, this will just hurt a little bit." What I remember about sixth, seventh and eighth grade parties was getting ready for them by applying lip gloss and recovering from them by wiping it off. Of my chin.<br />
<br />
And then came J. <br />
<br />
I'm only identifying J by the first letter of his first name because I'm pretty sure there are legal issues involved in revealing anything that would too clearly identify him, but if you ask me, he really ought to have a business card that says, "Want to learn to kiss? I can teach you." <br />
<br />
J was older than I was (a junior? a senior? who remembers? who cares?) and the truth is, I have absolutely no idea how we came to spend an entire afternoon back during the Reagan administration making out in an empty classroom of our high school. Didn't I have play rehearsal? Didn't he have track? Didn't we both have homework? And how did we even <i>know</i> each other? There is not a single interaction with J in my memory bank that predates our hours spent in what was not a brothel but my honors English class, the room in which I spent innocent afternoons memorizing "Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening" and taking fantastically difficult tests on Edith Hamilton's <i>Mythology</i>.<br />
<br />
And given my experience with kissing, wasn't it odd that I would have even <i>wanted</i> to meet a boy for a secret <i>rendezvous</i>? Surely I could have gotten just as much pleasure from a parentally approved trip to the orthodontist. But for whatever reason, I <i>did</i> meet J and there (no doubt beneath a poster of some RSC production of <i>Hamlet</i>), I kissed him.<br />
<br />
The joke when I was in college was that sex is like pizza: When it's good, it's great, and when it's bad, it's still pretty good. Well let me tell you something: kissing is not like pizza. When it's bad, it's horrible, and when it's good, it's mind blowing. Kissing J after kissing so many terrible kissers was like discovering that all these years, you'd been watching television <i>with the sound turned off.</i> Suddenly, this incomprehensible, frustrating experience that everyone's been raving about makes sense. You're like, "Oh, <i>Seinfeld</i> really <i>is</i> funny."<br />
<br />
J lifted the act of kissing to an art form. His kisses were just as swoony as the books had promised, and after we finished making out, my chin was as dry as it had been when we started. How we parted that afternoon, what happened between us the next day (were we even friends? were things awkward between us? did anyone find out what we'd done?) remains marvelously hazy. Only the blissful kisses are crystal clear.<br />
<br />
I wish I could say that all of my kisses after J were earth shattering, but unfortunately there were a few chin lickers here and there. I didn't mind, however. Having been to the mountain top, I knew the real deal when I found it.<br />
<br />
Happy, happy Valentine's Day. Here's to flowers, chocolate and (most important!) seriously swoony kisses.<br />
<br />
xoxo,<br />
<br />
Melissa<br />
<br />
To read the first chapter of <i>The Darlings in Love</i> (a book in which everyone gets at least one good kiss), click <a href="http://www.melissakantor.com/darlingsinlove.html">here</a>.Melissa Kantorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11202112053807278423noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9021484686735438783.post-62152651984782364482012-02-08T16:58:00.003-08:002012-02-27T11:33:30.561-08:00Why I write YAWhen people hear that I write novels for teenagers, they often respond with a question that I find ever so slightly disingenuous: “How can you remember all that stuff?”<br />
<br />
I really shouldn’t accuse complete strangers of lying to my face. After all, it’s hard to think of something to say when someone tells you her profession (“You’re a lawyer? That must be so…interesting”), and people might feel that a simple, “Cool” will make them sound un-literary. So “How can you remember all that stuff?” could just be a way of making conversation with someone whose occupation sounds dull or bewildering or, I don’t know, weird. Assuming one of these to be the case, I smile and shrug and say something along the lines of, “Just lucky, I guess.” Since I teach high school, acquaintances often assume I simply write about my students, and here too, I don’t disabuse them of their notions.<br />
<br />
But when people ask me, “How can you remember all that stuff?” what I really want to say in response is, “How can you not?”<br />
<br />
It seems to me that there is, quite simply, no more vulnerable, terrible, memorable time of life than adolescence. Burdened with many of the responsibilties of adulthood (complicated romantic relationships, demanding friendships, scholastic responsibilities that will impact your future), you have none of the perspective that adulthood brings—the knowledge that broken hearts heal, that friends who take without giving are not really friends, that there are many paths to happiness, that the life we live is rarely the life we plan. Before we learn these lessons, each setback feels permanent, each disappointment epic. <br />
<br />
It is one of the blessings of adulthood that this is no longer the case. A few years ago, I was invited to a party for a friend whose trendy radio show was launching a TV series. The party would be filled with people who (to me) are hugely famous, celebrities whose stories I’ve listened to and admired for years. I was giddy with excitement about being invited and spent the days before the party impressing (annoying?) my equally awed colleagues with my invitation.<br />
<br />
And then my son got a stomach virus. The day of the party he wasn’t deathly ill, but he spent the afternoon throwing up and by evening he was running a significant enough fever that I couldn’t see leaving him with a babysitter. I called my friend and wished her luck, told her I’d be thinking of her and asked her to call me the next morning to tell me all the details. Then I settled down to an evening spent nursing a sick pre-schooler.<br />
<br />
I was certainly sorry to miss the party. But it was a fleeting disappointment, and the next morning I was more relieved that my son was better than I was sad about not having gone out the night before.<br />
<br />
Had I been in high school and had the same thing happened, I think I would have died. I certainly would have wished for death, just as I wished for death (or at least a new life in the form of the witness protection plan) when boys broke up with me, when my mother wouldn’t buy me the pair of jeans I wanted (needed), when I had knock down drag out fights with my best friend.<br />
<br />
The beauty of adulthood, for me, is that while terrible things do happen (marriages break up, people get laid off, life-long friendships end), we are, for the most part, equipped to handle them. I’m not denying there exist horrors that lay low even the most capable of adults, but these are horrors. Real horrors, not parties sick children prevent us from attending or designer jeans our incomes prevent us from purchasing.<br />
<br />
Writing about teenagers (for me), means not just remembering but being willing to dwell in that place where life felt like walking a tightrope without a net. When the boy I liked was the last boy I would ever like, the friend I fought with was the last friend I would ever have, the college rejection letter was the finale of a promising academic career.<br />
<br />
I believe that while many people choose not to remember what those things felt like (and who would blame them?), few have truly forgotten. Sure, the name of the girl who threw the party where you first kissed some guy in the closet might have escaped you, but has the feeling of emerging from the closet (everyone knowing what you just did and wondering about it)? If it has, I guess you’re lucky.<br />
<br />
If it hasn’t, you might want to write a book.<br />
<br />
To read the first chapter of <i>The Darlings in Love</i>, click <a href="http://www.melissakantor.com/darlingsinlove.html">here</a>.<br />
<br />
xoxo,<br />
MelissaMelissa Kantorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11202112053807278423noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9021484686735438783.post-61156523674103490162012-01-16T12:59:00.001-08:002012-01-16T12:59:23.864-08:00There's no such thing as puppy love!Why do adults insist on telling teenagers they don't know what "real" love is? <br />
<br />
To find out what I think, click <a href="http://www.rachelsimmons.com/2012/01/guest-blog-its-not-a-crush-its-love-so-stop-calling-it-puppy-love/">here</a>.Melissa Kantorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11202112053807278423noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9021484686735438783.post-55819343352875954822012-01-14T12:58:00.001-08:002012-01-14T14:44:32.105-08:00Who Moved My Cosmetics Empire?Back in the dark ages (before Al Gore invented the internet, when children spent their unsupervised afternoons doing all manner of unspeakable things), I was a voracious reader of about twelve whose tastes had outgrown children's literature despite my being (for all intents and purposes) still a child. Nowadays, I could have gone to my local bookstore and spent days (if not weeks) perusing shelves marked "Young Adult," but at the time, once we'd read <i>Tiger Eyes</i>, <i>Flowers in the Attic</i> and the dirty parts of <i>Forever</i>, those of us who wanted to keep reading had to navigate the world of adult literature.<br />
<br />
Hard as it is to believe, parents back in the 1970s and early 80s really didn't care what their children were reading, so my mother didn't blink an eye as I tore through Danielle Steel's canon, a world in which beautiful women suffer life-threatening car accidents or the horrors of concentration camps only to be rescued from poverty and hideous fashion options by rich, titled men who cannot live without them. Later, I discovered Judith Krantz and learned that fat, awkward, poor girls grow up to be stunningly beautiful secretaries who catch the eye of their millionaire bosses and find themselves richer and more powerful than they'd ever dreamed possible. When I wanted a self-made heroine, there was always Barbara Taylor Bradford's <i>A Woman of Substance</i> (because it turns out being born into servitude can't stop you from building your own empire). And what girl who came of age during the Carter administration could possibly forget <i>Lace</i>, a novel that presented its readers with a question as profound and eternal as "To be or not to be?": Which one of you bitches is my mother? <br />
<br />
By the time I was a freshman in college, I'd not only lost my taste for the writers who'd entertained me through high school, I looked back on my passion for them with the kind of shame most people reserve for drunken, late-night hookups or spur-of-the-minute Vegas weddings. But now that I'm a little older (and a little less precious), I find myself thinking of those books with fondness. <br />
<br />
Nowadays all the books teenagers are reading are about teenagers, and I'm sure that's for the best. It's probably comforting to read about kids out there going through what you're going through. And really, why does a twelve-year-old need to know about day-into-evening wear or the demands of owning a winery or to believe, as I did well into my twenties, that your dashing boss putting his hand on your thigh is a good thing? <br />
<br />
Still, I can't help but think back on the pleasure of being a teenager who spent all of her time escaping into adulthood. Instead of being comforted by the thought that there were other teenagers out there who were as bored and self-loathing as I was, I was promised there was world awaiting me just on the other side of eighteen, a realm as glorious as heaven, where all my suffering would be rewarded and I would be rich and beautiful beyond my wildest dreams. <br />
<br />
It's not quite accurate. But it sure got me through the hard times.<br />
<br />
xoxo<br />
Melissa<br />
<br />
To read the first chapter of <i>The Darlings in Love</i>, click <a href="http://www.melissakantor.com/darlingsinlove.html">here</a>.Melissa Kantorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11202112053807278423noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9021484686735438783.post-36000195484570753222011-12-23T13:14:00.000-08:002011-12-23T13:14:32.894-08:00Why didn't Nancy Drew and Ned Nickerson make out more? (Or how I learned to stop worrying and love romance)The summer before third grade, I was obsessed with Nancy Drew. My mother had remarried, and we'd moved from Manhattan to Long Island. The town (in which I knew no one) was a fairly typical suburban one except for one thing: its tiny, old-fashioned library, a wooden building located about half a block from the train station. <br />
<br />
The lonely new girl on the block, every morning, I'd get on my bike and ride over to the library. There, I'd return the Nancy Drew book I'd taken out the previous day and check out a new book that would last me until the next morning. <br />
<br />
Those books were a life raft on which I floated all through the sea of that lonely summer. If you need a refresher course, Nancy Drew is the daughter of Carson Drew, a widower lawyer with an admirable sense of justice. Cared for by the family's devoted housekeeper Hannah Gruen, Nancy (amateur sleuth) is somehow utterly adored by both her father and Hannah but never told she cannot pursue evil criminals, even those whose nefarious activities extend to attempting to murder her. Nancy (a lovely red head) has two friends, Bess (pretty, plump, timid) and George. Lest you be inclined to make something of George's physical strength, bravery and boy's name, the author gave all the girls boyfriends who drop in and out of the story, occasionally serving as escorts to dances or joining the girls for picnics and outings, but inevitably standing on the sidelines when there's serious sleuthing to be done. <br />
<br />
I loved Nancy, Bess and George and I loved the books. Though I was a strong reader, I wasn't an especially talented detective, and this made me the ideal audience for a mystery. Each plot twist amazed me. The solution always came as a total shock. Every evening, I'd finish the last page shaking my head in awe. That Nancy Drew. She was so pretty. So clever. So perfect. <br />
<br />
When I grew up, I was going to be just like her. <br />
<br />
But despite my passion for the books and their heroine, there was one thing about both that nagged at me ever so slightly. Though only eight years old, I couldn't help wishing that Nancy was…well, more <i>into</i> Ned Nickerson, her "special friend." Ned was super into Nancy, that much was clear. He always wanted to hold her hand, to dance with her, to take her for drives. Just to be clear, this was all in good 1930s fun, so Ned never did anything untoward like grind against Nancy or ask her if she wasn't ashamed she'd be going to college a virgin. No, Ned was just a nice, wholesome boy who wanted to stroll by the lake with his girlfriend. Sadly for him, while they were walking in the moonlight, Nancy would inevitably spy something shiny and cry, "Oh! A clue!" and the next thing you knew, Ned would be cooling his heels in the car while Nancy, Bess and George discovered the whereabouts of a sunken treasure. <br />
<br />
Nancy Drew still remains one of my heroines. As a die hard feminist, I love a plucky female protagonist who's not distracted by a dazzling smile and a well-cut tuxedo. And why shouldn't Ned Nickerson stand aside when there's work to be done? If you have to choose between making out with a hot guy and saving an innocent family from being swindled out of its inheritance by a con man…well, I hope that none of us would hesitate to stop walking hand-in-hand by the lake and get down to some serious sleuthing.<br />
<br />
That said, I think my eight-year-old self was onto something. After all, why shouldn't Nancy get to make out with Ned <i>and</i> solve crimes? It's not like you can do either one twenty-four/seven. <br />
<br />
The same summer I was reading so much Nancy Drew, I was traveling into Manhattan every other weekend to see my father. He introduced me to another crime fighter, this one a man who seemed to have no trouble fighting crime <i>and</i> making out. In fact, he barely had time to save the world what with all the ladies he was seducing. Let me tell you something: If Ned Nickerson had been into James Bond instead of Nancy Drew, he would never have had to wait in his car. Not alone anyway. <br />
<br />
Maybe Nancy had something to learn from Mr. Bond. <br />
<br />
I know they've recently updated Nancy Drew for a new series. I can't imagine trying to wrap my head around an unfamiliar incarnation of my old friend, but from what I hear, Nancy's got a cell phone now. And I'm sure her roadster's been replaced with a razor scooter or maybe an eco friendly hybrid. While all those changes are certainly ones I can get behind, there's only one improvement I'd really wish on Nancy. And it's not that she'd start drinking her martinis shaken, not stirred. <br />
<br />
It's this: Now and then, when she and Ned are walking along or star gazing or just having a friendly chat, I hope Nancy puts a finger on Ned's lips, shakes her head and says firmly, "Stop talking and kiss me already!" <br />
<br />
It's what James would do. It's what I would do. And I like to think it's what today's Nancy Drew would do too.<br />
<br />
Happy holidays!<br />
xoxo,<br />
Melissa<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.melissakantor.com/darlingsinlove.html">Click here to read the first chapter of <i>The Darlings in Love</i>.</a> <br />
Boys come and go. Best friends are forever.Melissa Kantorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11202112053807278423noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9021484686735438783.post-32978110054467725782011-12-01T06:44:00.000-08:002012-01-02T16:56:07.235-08:00What's the craziest thing you ever did to get a boy to like you?Well, here's what I did: I moved to Zimbabwe.<br />
<br />
Okay, we've all done dumb stuff for love. Like maybe you've pretended to like Arcade Fire (whoever they are). Or watched the Superbowl. Or spent way too long trying to whip up the perfect batch of chocolate chip cookies. But getting your very own certificate of yellow fever vaccination? Seriously?<br />
<br />
Seriously. Only the story is even more humiliating. And complicated. But I'll try to be brief.<br />
<br />
All through college, I was completely in love with this boy (we'll call him S.) And S was completely in love with me, too. Only not in the will-you-be-my-girlfriend-and-walk-off-into-the-sunset-with-me way. More in the it's-late-and-we're-at-this-party-together-so-let's-hook-up-again way. Still, despite his never quite being able to commit to me, I know we were destined to be together. We had crazy chemistry. We were great friends. You know all those songs and movies where the guy doesn't realize that the girl who's been there all along is <i>the one</i>? That was us. It was only a matter of time. <br />
<br />
After I graduated from college, I got a cool internship in the middle east, and while I was there, I couldn't help noticing that my being thousands of miles away from where he was living made S. more interested in me than he had ever been before. In all the letters he wrote (this is all pre-internet, btw), he really <i>missed</i> me. <br />
<br />
And I couldn't help wondering: Does absence make the heart grow fonder?<br />
<br />
At some point during that year, I mentioned in a letter to S. that I might be going away again shortly after I returned to New York. He was shocked to hear this. He was really upset to hear this. He'd always kind of thought…well, in true S. fashion, he didn't come right out and <i>say</i> what he'd always thought, but you didn't have to read minds to know that what he'd always thought was: Someday, Melissa and I will be together. <br />
<br />
When I got back to NY, S. (after years of being unable to commit) became my boyfriend! He loved me. I loved him. And so, I began looking into doing development work in the third world. <br />
<br />
"<i>What</i>?" you shriek. Why would you do something like that? S. had finally confessed his eternal love for you. The two of you were happy together. Why would you do make plans to leave the country?<br />
<br />
Well, I'll tell you. I had the suspicion that a love like ours (so intense, so <i>real</i>) needed a little…something to survive. And I had an even stronger feeling that that something was distance. <br />
<br />
So I found a year-long position in Africa. <br />
<br />
I knew nothing about Africa. I mean, I could find it on a map. And back in high school I'd totally rocked out to "We Are the World" and everything. So I wasn't, you know, <i>against Africa</i>. But I wasn't exactly dying to go there either. Still, I had my relationship to think of. How could S. and I maintain our passionate commitment to each other if I remained in the continental US? <br />
<br />
When I left for Harare (capital of Zimbabwe), S was brokenhearted. He cried when we said goodbye. Though he understood my deep, enduring commitment to improving the lives of the people of Africa (?!?), he would miss me desperately. I was brokenhearted also. At the time (and I am wincing as I type this), the movie <i>Dracula</i> had just come out, and the tag line for the movie was "Love Never Dies." When a friend quoted this to me (in reference to my relationship with S.), I wept.<br />
<br />
Long story short, a year later I returned from Zimbabwe. Just as I'd dreamed, S. was more in love with me than ever. We made plans to drive across the country together to the west coast, where we would live happily ever after. We joked about getting married. We talked <i>seriously</i> about getting married. Those years of S.'s being unable to commit to me had become an amusing footnote to the epic story that was our eternal love. <br />
<br />
Except. <br />
<br />
Except now that he and I were in the same time zone, S. started to seem a lot less in love with me than he'd been when I was leaving on a jet plane. And over the next couple of months, the reason that he <i>seemed</i> less in love with me was revealed: it was because he <i>was</i> less in love with me. In fact, four months after I'd returned to the U.S. and six weeks before our planned road trip, S. confessed that he was having serious doubts about our relationship. It wasn't me. It was him. Or it was me. Or it wasn't me or him, it was us. Or at least us on the same continent. <br />
<br />
Bottom line: When he hit I-80 heading west, he'd be traveling solo. <br />
<br />
The takeaway from this should probably be: Don't try to get a guy to like you by doing something you don't want to do. But the thing is, I had an amazing year in Zimbabwe. I met people who changed my life, I got to spend time traveling around a really exciting continent, I learned (a little bit of) another language. And years later, I sometimes find myself narrating a story that begins, "Back when I was living in Zimbabwe…", which gives me some serious street cred with people who might be inclined to dismiss me as a vapid jap. I never regret my experiences there, and the fact that I only had them because I wanted to get some guy to fall in love with me…well, like John Lennon says, "Life is what happens when you're busy making other plans."<br />
<br />
So I guess what I'm trying to say here is that if you're thinking about doing something to get a guy to like you, by all means go ahead. Oh, not something dumb like losing your virginity to a jerk or lying to your parents so you can go to a party with a bunch of drunk kids. But if we're talking about downloading songs by a band you've never heard of or reading a book you think will make you look cool, I say, do it! <br />
<br />
The bad news is: It's not going to work. The good news is: You just might get to go to Zimbabwe.<br />
<br />
To read the first chapter of <i>The Darlings in Love</i>, click <a href="http://www.melissakantor.com/darlingsinlove.html">here</a>.<br />
<br />
xoxo<br />
MelissaMelissa Kantorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11202112053807278423noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9021484686735438783.post-36425465017617024552011-10-19T17:05:00.000-07:002011-10-19T17:31:34.385-07:00I hate you, you're just like me!Okay, so the other day I met a woman under circumstances I won't bore you with because the point is not how or why we met. The point is this: I hated her. She was pushy and nosy, and when she didn't get information she wanted by (strongly) hinting to me that she wanted it, she lingered in the vicinity of my conversation (with someone else) in order (it seemed to me) to see if she could learn what she wanted to know by eavesdroping. <br />
<br />
She was loathsome, and I loathed her. <br />
<br />
But (and here's where things get sticky), she wasn't completely unlike me. I mean, I hope that I am not <i>oppressively</i> pushy and nosy, but let me be honest. If someone were to complain about me, that person almost certainly would not begin by saying that I'm...oh, aloof. Or disinterested. <br />
<br />
Do you get where I'm going with this? My point is that if you were going to list my worst traits, you just might say that once in a while (and I'm sure this is only under extreme circumstances, but there you have it) I can be a <i>wee</i> bit on the pushy side. And while we're on the subject, I am occasionally interested in having information that is none of my business. I would like to believe that I would never go so far as to linger in the vicinity of a conversation that a) people had made clear they did not want me to hear and b) was none of my business, but if we are being completely honest, I must here simply say that one should never say never.<br />
<br />
To cut to the chase: I hated this woman and her pushiness and her nosiness because she was just enough like me for me to hate her.<br />
<br />
I don't know if you've had this experience. Perhaps you have. For example, say you are vaguely interested in being slightly more popular than you are and you meet a girl who is desperately climbing the social ladder. You might once or twice have ditched your friends for a boy and you meet a girl who's got her best friend's boyfriend on speed dial. And what happens is you see a grotesque reflection of yourself in the other person and you do not feel sympathy. You do not feel empathy. You do not feel compassion. You feel hatred.<br />
<br />
Empathy means understanding. Empathy means <i>deep</i> understanding. Ultimately, empathy means understanding that is so deep, it results in one's recognition of shared humanity with another person. <br />
<br />
Shared humanity. Versus, in my case, hatred.<br />
<br />
There is no word for the opposite of empathy, but a woman I know and respect recently provided me with one. Here it is:<br />
<br />
CONTEMPATHY. <br />
<br />
Contempathy: the strong dislike or loathing born of recognition of the self in the other.<br />
<br />
Here's hoping it makes the OED soon.<br />
<br />
xoxo,<br />
MelissaMelissa Kantorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11202112053807278423noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9021484686735438783.post-72744768133765792872011-04-25T10:40:00.001-07:002011-04-25T10:40:57.781-07:00Girlfriend Material trailerAs if I needed another reason to love the librarians of Texas. Here's a fantastic trailer one made for <i>Girlfriend Material</i>. Click <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=unbKsPw724w">here</a> to see it.Melissa Kantorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11202112053807278423noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9021484686735438783.post-37907693084199480242011-02-10T18:36:00.000-08:002012-02-14T17:32:42.284-08:00My first kiss (and most embarrassing moment ever)Let me set the scene:<br />
<br />
It's summer camp. A warm, breezy night. Clear, star-speckled sky. The boy I've been crushed out on for two summers has finally, <i>finally</i> asked me out, and now he's walking me back to my bunk after evening activity. We take a detour across an open field, supposedly (wink, wink) so he can show me how to locate the North Star (you find the Big Dipper, then draw a line straight up from the bowl of the ladle--but I digress). We find and admire it. Finally, he puts his hands on my shoulders and turns me towards him. My heart is pounding. <br />
<br />
This. Is. <i>It. </i><br />
<br />
But he hesitates. "Hey," he says quietly. "Have you ever kissed anyone before?" <br />
Truthfully, I answer, "No" before asking, "Have you?"<br />
"Yes," he answers. <br />
And then, before he can press his lips to mine, I quickly say, "Oh! I forgot. I have too." <br />
<br />
Oh. I forgot. I have too. <br />
<br />
I actually said those words. <br />
<br />
Like, <i>When you asked if I had ever had another boy's lips on mine I said no because I am soooo sexually experienced that I simply cannot keep track of all my romantic encounters. It's not that I've <b>never</b> kissed anyone before. It's that I've kissed <b>so many boys </b>I sometimes get confused about having kissed any. You understand how that can happen to a person. Right?</i> <br />
<br />
Oh. I forgot. I have too. <br />
<br />
Now that I am an adult, I sometimes say or do things that I am embarrassed about. Maybe I don't remember somebody's name even though we've been introduced multiple times. Maybe I claim to have read a book I only read a few pages of. Maybe I mispronounce a foreign word. <br />
<br />
But you know something? When that happens, I shouldn't bother to be embarrassed. What I should do is simply repeat the following six words to myself:<br />
<br />
Oh. I forgot. I have too.<br />
<br />
Because honestly, who could be embarrassed about anything after that?<br />
<br />
How about you? Tell me about your most embarrassing moment or your first kiss. (Or, if you're like me, you can tell about both at once.)<br />
<br />
To read the first chapter of <i>The Darlings in Love</i> (a book in which there are several non-humiliating first kisses), click <a href="http://www.melissakantor.com/darlingsinlove.html">here</a>.<br />
<br />
xoxo,<br />
MelissaMelissa Kantorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11202112053807278423noreply@blogger.com28tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9021484686735438783.post-39077151169179632272011-01-28T07:58:00.001-08:002011-01-28T07:58:17.634-08:00Can I join your book club?If you live in the New York City area, I'm going to be visiting book clubs in the spring! So if you have a book club that's reading "The Darlings Are Forever," and if you'd like me to join you for the discussion, let me know the date and time of your meeting. I will try to get to as many of the book clubs as I can. Spread the word!<br />
xoxo,<br />
Melissa<br />
<br />
Haven't read the book yet? Check out the first chapter <a href="http://www.melissakantor.com/darlingsareforever.html">here</a>Melissa Kantorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11202112053807278423noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9021484686735438783.post-14463227057831035032011-01-23T11:11:00.001-08:002011-01-23T11:11:34.722-08:00Enter to win a free copy of "The Darlings Are Forever"I have so much to write about. Down at the American Bookseller's Association I met tons of excited and exciting independent book store owners and staffers. These are amazing people with a real love and deep knowledge of books. Also, I got taken out for dinner, which I have to say is one of the greatest things that can happen to a girl, don't you think? <br />
<br />
But what I want to quickly blog about before I go get the baby up from her nap is that goodreads is running a contest. You can enter to win one of four copies of <i>The Darlings Are Forever. </i> So if you're in the mood, click <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/8428049-the-darlings-are-forever">here</a> to enter.<br />
More later.<br />
xoxo,<br />
MelissaMelissa Kantorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11202112053807278423noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9021484686735438783.post-49370908154384032152011-01-07T12:16:00.000-08:002011-01-07T12:16:40.782-08:00"The Darlings Are Forever" has a video!Click on<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x-navsoTVk4"><i>The Darlings Are Forever trailer</i></a> to see the fabulous movie they made about the book! Feel like making a movie of your own? Send me a clip of you and your friend talking about why you're BFF, and I'll post it!<br />
xoxo<br />
MelissaMelissa Kantorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11202112053807278423noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9021484686735438783.post-76434036546337932512011-01-04T07:05:00.000-08:002011-01-04T07:07:36.966-08:00"The Darlings Are Forever" is out TODAY!At last, <i>THE DARLINGS ARE FOREVER </i>is out! It's the story of Jane, Victoria, and Natalya. Together, they are the Darlings. Best friends forever. They have matching necklaces, their own table at Ga Ga Noodle, and even a shared motto: May you always do what you're afraid of doing.<br />
<br />
When the friends begin freshman year at three different high schools in distant corners of New York City, they promise to live by their motto and stay as close as ever. The Darlings know they can get through anything as long as they have each other. But doing scary new things is a lot easier with your friends beside you. And now that the girls aren't spending all their time together, everything they took for granted about their friendship starts to feel less certain. They can't help but wonder, will they really be the Darlings forever? <br />
<br />
You can order it on <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Darlings-Are-Forever-Melissa-Kantor/dp/1423123689/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1294151782&sr=8-1">amazon</a> or buy it at your local independent bookstore.<br />
<br />
Hooray and happy new year!<br />
xoxo<br />
MelissaMelissa Kantorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11202112053807278423noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9021484686735438783.post-47511888849948524272010-12-14T17:54:00.000-08:002010-12-16T17:21:34.375-08:00What is a best friend?My new book, <i>The Darlings Are Forever</i>, tells the story of three best friends who go off to different high schools. It's about a lot of things (parents, fame, boys, homework). But ultimately, it's about being best friends and staying best friends. No matter what. <br />
<br />
Writing the book made me think a lot about my best friends, which made me think of the story of Sharon and P. P is the first boy I ever kissed, the first boy I ever went out on a real date with and the first boy who said he would call and then didn't. And for a long time, I thought the following story was about him. <br />
<br />
But it is really about my best friend. It is really about Sharon. <br />
<br />
When I was in middle school, I was hopelessly in love with P, who went to camp with me. P was dashing and literary and could quote movies I had heard of but never seen. I don't know that P was objectively handsome, but he had a certain wry smile that a certain kind of girl (ie. me) found desperately attractive, and when he called me up one January and asked if I wanted to meet him for an afternoon at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, it was clear that my life (which up until that point had been pretty average) was about to become fabulous. <br />
<br />
I won't bore you with wardrobe (I went old school--jeans and a t-shirt) menu (Chinese food) or which exhibit we saw (no idea). Suffice it to say that by the time he was kissing me goodnight at my father's Upper West Side apartment, I knew I had passed the afternoon with my soul mate. When he promised, "I'll call you tomorrow," visions of future dates (not to mention a future) danced in my head.<br />
<br />
Tomorrow came and went. So did the next day. And the next. But P didn't call. Now that I'm older and wiser, I understand that P never intended to call, that he'd said, "I'll call you tomorrow" because he didn't know what else to say. But at the time I didn't understand anything. I just knew that he'd said he would call, so he must have meant to call. My best friend Sharon and I discussed his not calling for a long time. We tried as best as two eighth-grade girls could to make sense of his not calling. But we just couldn't do it. So we did what any sane best friends would do: We called P.<br />
<br />
"Hi," I said. "It's Melissa." <br />
"Oh," he said, the painfully awkward monosyllable followed by an equally awkward pause. "Hi." <br />
<br />
Up until I heard P's voice, I'd really believed that there must be an explanation for his not calling. That he'd suffered a terrible accident or been in a coma. That his parents had filed for divorce. That he'd been trapped in a parallel universe. But that single word, that "Hi," told me the real story. P hadn't called because he didn't want to call. Our afternoon hadn't been his dream date. It had been something he'd had to extricate himself from with a polite promise that he'd never intended to keep. <br />
<br />
"So, um, hi," I repeated. "So, what's up?"<br />
"Not much." Pause. "What's up with you?"<br />
"Not much. I…" hating myself but unable to stop, I said, "I just thought you were going to call me." As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I would have done anything to take them back. If I'd had to erase myself from the universe, to have never been born, I would have done so just because it would have prevented my living to see the moment when I asked P why he hadn't called. <br />
"Yeah," he said. Then he didn't say anything else. <br />
I didn't know what to say. I was so embarrassed. To make matters worse, I could feel my throat closing up in that way that meant I was about to cry. <br />
<br />
I may not have known enough not to call P in the first place, but at least I knew enough not to let him hear me cry. The silence--along with the lump in my chest--grew. Panicked, I handed the phone to Sharon. <br />
<br />
Now, if you don't have a best friend, this might seem like a strange thing to have done. After all, <i>I </i>had gone on a date with P, not Sharon. And P had kissed me, not Sharon. It was me P had promised to call, me to whom P had been caddish. <br />
<br />
But Sharon was my best friend. And when you're best friends with someone, it's kind of hard to know where you end and she begins. So when I couldn't speak, I turned to Sharon. Who had no trouble finding her voice.<br />
<br />
As soon as her fingers wrapped around the receiver, Sharon launched into a blistering attack on P. She told him what he'd done was pathetic. She told P that she hated him and that he was a total loser. She told him he was a sorry excuse for a human being. She told him she hoped they never saw each other again (which was kind of a funny thing to say given that they'd never met). When she ran out of insults, she hung up on him. <br />
<br />
When I look back on what happened with P, I can barely remember why I cared about him so much. It was kind of a cheesy date, and he was always more interested in himself than he was in me. <br />
<br />
What I do remember is how awesome it felt to listen to Sharon tell a guy who had hurt my feelings what a jerk he was. I remember the determined slam of the phone hitting its cradle and feeling like Sharon's hanging up on P was my hanging up on P and both of us hanging up on P was exactly what P deserved. I remember thinking that P had messed with the wrong girls. <br />
<br />
On the phone with P, I felt lame. Lame for liking a boy who hadn't liked me back. Lame for thinking he'd call just because he's said he would. Lame for getting my hopes up about something that turned out not to be something after all. <br />
<br />
But after Sharon told P off, I didn't feel any of those things. I felt amazing. <br />
<br />
For a lot of my adolescence, I thought life was about boys, whether you liked them, whether they liked you, whether you liked them more than they liked you, whether they liked you more than you liked them. I thought my friendships were background noise and that the real story of my life was somehow tied up with the boys I was important (or not important) to. <br />
<br />
But now I know the truth. Best friends aren't background noise. They're your theme song.<br />
<br />
xoxo <br />
MelissaMelissa Kantorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11202112053807278423noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9021484686735438783.post-44973746052026662512010-12-11T11:51:00.000-08:002010-12-11T11:53:37.734-08:00What do you charge for babysitting?So I have these three children, and they're pretty young, which means when my husband and I go out for the evening, we need to hire a babysitter. With one exception (a really nice boy who was extremely tall and who used to babysit my oldest son, which was basically the cutest thing ever), all of our babysitters have been teenage girls. And let me tell you, they are the most patient, loving, generous girls you could ever hope to meet. I know this to be a fact because never once have we returned home to find all of our children tied to their beds with no babysitter in a sight and a note tacked to the front door that reads, "You have GOT to be kidding. I am SOOOO out of here," which is what always almost happens when I am alone with my three children.<br />
<br />
My point is not how...challenging it is to be with my little angels. It is that our babysitters are miracle workers. They are evidence (to me) of god on Earth. But despite the fact that every single one of our babysitters is worth her weight in gold, whenever a girl comes to watch our children for the first time, she and I have the strangest conversation you can imagine. It goes something like this:<br />
<br />
Me: (slipping on my coat) We never talked about what you charge. <br />
Babysitter: (shrugging, smiling awkwardly) Oh, you can pay me, you know, whatever.<br />
<br />
Now, I don't think these girls really mean I can pay them "whatever." Like, if I came home four hours later and handed over a quarter and said, "Thanks so much," I think they might complain. Or maybe their moms would. Or maybe they'd just never babysit for my children again. <br />
<br />
But here's what I'm wondering: Why won't they set a fee?<br />
<br />
These girls are performing a service. They are doing a job. (A really, really, <i>really</i> hard job). They deserve to get paid a fair wage for doing this job. But they don't feel comfortable demanding it.<br />
<br />
Because I am a teacher (and therefore forever in search of "teaching moments"), I used to respond (when the girls told me I could pay them "whatever"), by saying, "Can you tell me what you were expecting to be paid?" But after a few awkward exchanges thus begun, I realized I wasn't exploiting a teaching moment so much as I was completely embarrassing the poor girl, and that she would prefer to change a million of my children's dirty diapers than to talk about money with me. Now I just pay the babysitter what I think is a generous amount and hope she's not counting her money on the way home and rolling her eyes at how cheap I am. <br />
<br />
So I'm wondering, all you babysitters out there. How do you handle talking about money with your employers? No need to tell me what you charge, but I'd love to know how you settled on the amount, and if it was you, your employer, or some combination of the two who made the decision.<br />
<br />
xoxo <br />
MelissaMelissa Kantorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11202112053807278423noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9021484686735438783.post-22234973390922269512010-11-13T10:05:00.000-08:002010-11-14T17:18:50.299-08:00Boys who don't call backI have a friend who recently went out with a boy who then did not call her back. I do not mean to say that she sat by the phone and waited for him to call her back after their date. I mean that after they had gone out a few times, she invited him out on a date and he just…never got back to her. <br /><br />In general, I am opposed to the death penalty, and I do not want to be an extremist here, but I think that this is very, very bad behavior. It is worse than putting your elbows on the table or forgetting to thank your grandparents for the birthday check they sent (it's not too late! run, do not walk, to the phone to call them). If you go out with someone (even if you just go out with someone ONCE), and that person invites you out on another date, you must tell the person that you do not want to go. I know that this is a horrible conversation to have. Actually having to look someone in the eye (or, you know, hear his or her voice on the phone) and say, "I do not want to see you again" is awkward. It is uncomfortable. It makes me cringe just thinking about it. But it must be done.<br /><br />Here is where I must come clean and admit that once I went out with someone several times and then stopped returning his phone calls. I also made the sister of my friend (I was living at her house at the time) tell him that I had moved to Africa. This sounds like an exaggeration made for comic effect, but it is not. It is true that I was <span style="font-style:italic;">moving</span> to Africa. But at the time of his phone call, that move was still a month in the future and I was, in fact, not only in the continental United States but actually sitting on the bed next to her and hissing, "Tell him I've already left!"<br /><br />It was, to say the least, not my finest hour.<br /><br />And it makes me sympathetic to people who do things like delete a voice mail from someone who has become nothing but an awkward conversation needing to happen. I have been there. I feel for you. But the truth is, the cringe factor of remembering times when I was rude or inconsiderate or (ugh) outright mean is really, really high even years later. Sucking it up for a few unpleasant minutes really beats regretting, for decades, having been a jerk.Melissa Kantorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11202112053807278423noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9021484686735438783.post-78678539611943942002010-10-07T17:38:00.001-07:002010-10-07T17:52:53.164-07:00Check out the cover of The Darlings Are Forever<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1OgtYqKj5IgsMmpDT_9VsIbFRsWwDeuyynINOo6S46Q8CJiHiO8B1EruxRumPLJA2IqrIrRVn9YsgG0JQ2fzgO_7OkEdmHFFVmyY5n67MzmyHC44-SKII5Svbiy2XL0DRIVIxUivuYKf-/s1600/DarlingsCoverA.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 209px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1OgtYqKj5IgsMmpDT_9VsIbFRsWwDeuyynINOo6S46Q8CJiHiO8B1EruxRumPLJA2IqrIrRVn9YsgG0JQ2fzgO_7OkEdmHFFVmyY5n67MzmyHC44-SKII5Svbiy2XL0DRIVIxUivuYKf-/s320/DarlingsCoverA.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5525469070267788850" /></a><br />It's crazy, but it's true: We have a cover for <span style="font-style:italic;">The Darlings Are Forever</span>! It's the story of three best friends in New York City who are heading off to different high schools after being at school together since <i>forever</i>. Soon you'll be able to read the first chapter on my website, but for now, you can at least check out how it's going to look when it's in your local bookstore come January. Or, If you want to order it now, you can go to: <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Darlings-Are-Forever-Melissa-Kantor/dp/1423123689/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1286498394&sr=8-1">The Darlings Are Forever.</a>Melissa Kantorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11202112053807278423noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9021484686735438783.post-48268140821960842272010-08-08T14:21:00.000-07:002010-08-08T14:25:16.448-07:00Remember your first time (falling in love with a book, that is)?My older son has discovered Harry Potter. He's listening to it on my computer, and all he wants to do is be left alone to hear the next chapter. Last night, I let him listen during dinner (he sat at his own table outside on the deck at the house we're renting in Vermont for the month). I'm totally jealous; I remember the first books I dove into and didn't emerge from for anything. It was the summer before third grade, we'd just moved, and the wonderful librarian (Mrs. Distler) watched me check out a new Nancy Drew book every day and never asked why I wasn't playing outside with my friends (what friends?!?). <br /><br />How about you? Can you remember the books that first let you shut out the world? Or maybe a more recent and beloved read is what's on your mind. Either way, tell!Melissa Kantorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11202112053807278423noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9021484686735438783.post-22621839187310028012010-08-04T10:48:00.001-07:002010-08-04T11:03:05.249-07:00"What's this, Mommy?" (Baby's first squeezable jelly!)So I'm on vacation with my family, and we just went food shopping. Normally, when we're home in Brooklyn, we shop at a food coop where everything (well, almost everything) is organic and they sell a lot of locally grown produce and everyone who is a member has to work once a month so prices can stay low and people can get that warm, co-opy feeling. While I love the food coop, it can be a little intense; once I walked in holding a can of Diet Coke and a member said to me, "Where'd <span style="font-style:italic;">that</span> come from?" as if the food coop is located not in a city where you can buy a Diet Coke on every corner but on a special planet where nefarious multinational corporations simply do not exist. <br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Anyway</span>, the point of that long introduction is that my daughter has never been in a real supermarket, and my younger son has no memory of the last time he was in one (last year, when we were also on vacation). And what I want you to know is that at the sight of sugared cereal and Welch's squeezable jelly he <span style="font-style:italic;">completely lost his mind!</span>. It was like he couldn't believe universe was kind and generous enough to have provided him with such bounty. He ran down the aisles with kool aid pops in one hand and Scooby Doo mac and cheese in the other screaming, "Mommy! Mommy! Look at this, Mommy!" And then he would show me each item, stroking the box or jar reverently as his older brother (who knows his way around a Stop and Shop) nodded, a sage expression on his face.<br /><br />Ultimately, I failed in my attempt to convince my husband that every child should have the chance to try Skippy crunchy peanut butter for himself. But we have a long month ahead of us. I may triumph yet.Melissa Kantorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11202112053807278423noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9021484686735438783.post-19372207073810383152010-07-28T18:05:00.000-07:002010-07-28T18:08:48.628-07:00Follow me on twitter. No, reallyI am now on twitter. I honestly have no idea what I'm doing on twitter. There's a line in <span style="font-style:italic;">One Hundred Years of Solitude</span> where someone explains why he's come to Macondo. "We came because everyone is coming." That's how I feel about Twitter. And I sent out a tweet. I don't even know exactly what a tweet is, but I sent one anyway. And Rachel Simmons, who I now love more than anyone in the world, wrote back. Or tweeted back. Or retweeted. It's all a beautiful, technological blur. <br /><br />The <span style="font-style:italic;">point</span> of all this is that I would like to invite you to follow me on twitter. Whatever that means. And also that I would like to invite you to do something you're not sure you can do. Because you probably can. And when you do, some very nice person just might tweet you back. <br /><br />xoxo<br /><br />MelissaMelissa Kantorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11202112053807278423noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9021484686735438783.post-4402041672601970052010-03-17T09:38:00.000-07:002010-03-17T09:46:39.983-07:00Let's Meet at the NYC Teen Author Festival!Hey! Are you heading to the New York City Teen Author Festival? It's a week-long extravaganza of authors from all over, and we're talking to teens (and each other) signing our books (and reading from them). We're even singing in bands! For more information and schedules, <a href="http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=56488781586&ref=search&sid=630680701.2295245793..1">click here!</a><br /><br />I'll be at Books of Wonder signing copies of "Invisible I" on Sunday, March 21 starting at about two o'clock. Hope to see you there!Melissa Kantorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11202112053807278423noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9021484686735438783.post-28245051667019208792010-02-28T17:36:00.000-08:002010-02-28T17:39:47.596-08:00It's time to PARTY like you're a teenager (or maybe you actually ARE a teenager!)Without a doubt you want to check out the New York City Teen Author Festival. I'll be signing books at Books of Wonder on Sunday, March 7 at about 2:30ish (it's a HUGE signing with over seventy authors!) Want more information? Check out the festival's facebook page. <a href="http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=56488781586">New York City Teen Author Festival</a>Melissa Kantorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11202112053807278423noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9021484686735438783.post-16123597957276613702009-12-30T11:44:00.000-08:002009-12-30T11:46:08.068-08:00I say Charlie's Angels, you say...Hello, teen girls. Do you guys know about the ORIGINAL <span style="font-style:italic;">Charlie's Angels</span> (the tv show from the 1970s)? LMK here or email me at melissa@melissakantor.comMelissa Kantorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11202112053807278423noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9021484686735438783.post-30524812610232834272009-11-02T11:17:00.000-08:002009-11-02T11:19:15.903-08:00What's Your Totem? I'm a…Have you taken the "What's Your Totem?" quiz at <a href="http://theamandaproject.com">theamandaproject.com</a>? You should take it! I'm a deer. I wanted to be a tigress, but a deer's okay, too. Check it out and post your totem.Melissa Kantorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11202112053807278423noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9021484686735438783.post-57761296462087026922009-09-22T06:32:00.000-07:002009-09-22T06:35:18.273-07:00OMG, today's the day!!!! <a href="http://amazon.com/Amanda-Project-Book-invisible/dp/0061742120/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1253626449&sr=8-1">Invisible I</a> is in stores now! If you have time, check out <a href="http://theamandaproject.com">theamandaproject.com</a> and create a profile. In honor of the book's publication, please write about a friend who TOTALLY CHANGED YOUR LIFE.Melissa Kantorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11202112053807278423noreply@blogger.com2