Lana Maryé Morelli

And by Walt, I mean Walt Disney.   That’s right, the one and only.   The creator of “Happily Ever After,” “Mickey Mouse Clubhouse” and the same guy rumored to be frozen in a capsule somewhere.   I blame him, not entirely, but to a certain extent for the unrealistic expectations of what “love” is supposed to be.  Last week I was asked to sit on a panel in Philadelphia called the “ Great Love Debate ” where myself and some very talented and experienced dating gurus try to answer the question “Why is everyone still single?”   As I ponder this question, in anticipation of our debate, I couldn’t help but think about a former theory of mine, which I coined; “The Disney Dilemma.” The Disney Dilemma developed after a debate with a very strong-minded 4 year old.   I was babysitting in college, one of my many side-jobs at the time, and I took the kids outside to play.   On this particular day, the little girl I was babysitting, 4 years old, asked me, “What do you want to be when

I wish I could sit home with my dog curled up in my lap and get paid to write whatever brilliant thought creeps into my head.   However, this is not the case.   I write for myself, as it is my passion; however, I also write to make a living.   Part of that “living” is being the Delaware Valley Reporter for a legal magazine.   So, in my daily travels for my full-time job, I found myself in Norristown, a city I frequent three times a week.   I always try and park as close to the courthouse entrance as possible; in hopes of having a short walk, so I can view my cases, and hit the road home.   There are three spots next to the courthouse that I frequently park at.   They take quarters at the “old school” meters, not the credit card, app scanning types that litter the rest of the block.   These particular spots are not only adjacent to the courthouse, but also directly in front of a church, that doubles as a soup kitchen every weekday at noon. Usually, I am able to avoid the line

I always thought Halloween was a peculiar holiday. As a kid you dress up and go door to door, taking hand outs from strangers—something that certainly defies all “stranger danger” rules. Nevertheless, the distraction of sugary treats can be enough validation to forget how weird the concept really is. However, as an adult, I find Halloween even more mystifying. Not because of the creepy music or spooky undertones. I really just find it odd that people make such a fuss about dressing up. Spending exorbitant amounts of money perfecting a costume. Making sure everything   is “just right,” because “it’s only one day a year you get to dress up.” Or is it? Aren’t we all “dressing up” everyday as adults? Wearing our “costumes” to work and in our personal lives. People call it “changing hats” or a “different face.” Whatever the cliché, the truth is that we’re all acting a certain way for our certain role. Employee, Professional, Child, Parent, Student…the particular role dictat

“I (squeeze), Love (squeeze), You (squeeze).” Hands have always held a bit of importance in our family. We have a code of “Three Squeezes” something we routinely do as we kissed each other goodbye. Something I did as I ran out the door with friends or my boyfriend. “See you later,” (Squeeze, Squeeze Squeeze). Something that I never paid much attention to. It was just a tradition, a habit, a routine for us. One of the many quirks that families have. But  everything turned upside down when my father was admitted to the Intensive Care Unit (ICU) fighting for his life. When change is anticipated, we welcome it—A graduation, an engagement, a new house, a new car, an arrival of a baby or a new job.  In those instances we celebrate change. But when change comes abruptly and unexpected, we want to hide from it, only to find out there is no where to hide. That’s how I felt anyway when my father was hospitalized and put into a coma. I wanted to hide. I wanted to sink into myself,

New Years Eve…the holiday we love to hate, and hate to love. It’s interesting though that it gets that much attention, considering it is such a low-maintenance holiday. Like Thanksgiving or Fourth of July it requires no gift-giving or card buying. Most people don’t have a signature New Years Eve dish or cookie. The only effort this holiday requires is showing up and celebrating…yet we still complain?! Although we don’t have a tangible obligation of something to; buy, bring, make or bake, there is an intangible stress that hovers around NYE. I remember when I turned 21, I had some innate need to go out every Friday and Saturday night. I had waited my whole life to be “legal” and go to the bar/club, so I made it my duty to get dressed up and hit the town every weekend. I felt that if I staying in I was acting ungrateful for the fact that I now had nothing holding me back. I built up the big 2-1 in my head for so long, that I had to make the most of it. At first, it wasn’t a

Another person falls victim to bullying.   This tragic and horrible epidemic is newly taking over the teen and tween population.   Spreading like wildfire amongst the most impressionable generation all because of the bastard internet. Okay, wait.   That’s not true. In fact, bullying has been around forever. I remember sitting with my grandmother.   A 5’ foot tall, Irish woman, who had the sweetest face, and the sharpest tongue.   She was cute as a button, but that was only a façade.   I must have been only 5 or 6 years old and I remember her teaching me a little song.   I sat on her floral couch, wide-eyed and singing along.            Here’s my pinkie… Here’s my thumb… Here’s my fist you better run! It was a silly little song, and with each line, we performed the corresponding movements.   We showed our pinkie, then our thumb, and finally raised our fist with a very serious look on our face (crinkled nose and all).   After the song we would laugh and laugh