Lana Maryé Morelli

I was in 1 st grade when I remember losing my first grandparent. My “Grandma Leik,” my mother’s mom. A tiny lady, no taller than 5 foot (with shoes on) who had a thick Brooklyn Accent, ate yogurt, read the newspaper, loved lady bugs and always took my side. “She doesn’t have to finish her dinner, she has a tiny stomach like me, leave her be..but there is enough room for dessert.”   She was the only person who my mother retreated from. She was small, soft, but incredibly strong. She passed away from end-stage renal failure and I do remember she also has stroke. A "TIA" they called it. She said not to worry, it was just for a moment. “My tongue got twisted around my eye and I couldn’t see what I was saying.” She had the ability to make everything seem light and approachable. Even the scary parts of life. Her husband, my grandfather, passed away when I was an infant. I don’t remember him. So when it was just her in the house, she moved from New York to Pennsylva

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,