Betrayal Sucks

Betrayal seems to be the theme of the week. Nothing sucks like feeling you have been stabbed in the front, in the heart, which is the very place that decides who to let inside and who to politely ask to step aside, a place guarded by experience, and so I struggle.How do you know when to trust the heart when it has failed you over and over?

For my entire life I dreamed of having a sister. When Baby Bro was announced, brother number three, I cried.

I fulfilled that dream in college and at work, a group of young girls I love like my own, all my little soul sisters make me smile just writing about them. When I saw a new class of younger girls at school I thought for sure it would be twice the fun, even more colorful young beautiful girls to love and know.

It didn’t turn out that way at all.

Somehow, I became the center of a lot of drama, something Divorcee even marveled at, a place I rarely land, a pride I have in seeing everyone’s side, usually the diplomat, but this time, that role exploded in my face. It did not take long for the harsh realization to occur that this was not the setting to nurture anyone, that it is not needed nor wanted, the words of girls filtering through many directions, some truths, many fabrications, and some lies, some washed over me and some landed, the words unjust and hateful, attacking me as a mother, a person, accusations that left my mouth open, my breath taken. It has been since middle school that I can remember feeling this vulnerable, a shame that fills me because of course, being 32, I thought I had learned this lesson.

Betrayal sucks.

Defending the very people who betray you is humiliating as well, the shame of being in the position to begin with even greater, the decisions as how to go on exhausting.
Kat was very calm but extremely sure that the lies I had heard came from some one who did not know how to be a good friend, and that it was time for me to have the DEBUG lesson.

She got out her little black marker and wrote out the rules for me, in a big black marker.

Her face teeny and serious, she pointed them out as she read them aloud.
“DEBUG” means:

#1. IGNORE
#2. Exit SLOWLY, Move Away.
#3. Use Kind Words.
#4. Use Firm Words.
#5. Get Adult Help.

The last one she scratched out and put YOURSELF to replace “Adult” since she pointed out with hilarious sincerity, I was an adult.

She said these lies could never take away the fact I was her mother, and so I know, at 32, that betrayal comes for us all, but I had not anticipated the pain of tonight, the betrayal of Lola and Kat. I let them play with new friends and when I picked them up, Kat was strangely quiet, and she said Lola had told her she wanted a different sister, to leave the room, a new girl had won both their hearts and Lola had won with triumph, Kat left in defeat, so two girls sobbed all the way home.

I am acutely aware that I am just beginning the road of this sister heartache, one sister jealous and in pain, the other being punished for being the star everyone picks, an effortless role she can not help to be, and I demand nothing less, and yet I see her character being strongly questioned with this gift.

I see her discard with little effort the very thing her sister desires with all that exists inside of her, and yet, they are madly in love with one another, and this night, is the very first time they betrayed one another.

I have lived to see betrayal kill families, shred friendships, destroy marriages, force wedges that never can be removed or destroyed, bitter angry words can take years to mend, and sometimes, all that was real in a lifetime can be in just one revelation of a betrayal, lost forever.
And so I cry, wondering if my dream for sisters was just a protective shield for me, a desperate covering that no matter who lied or betrayed them, they unlike me, would have each other.

I have vivid memories of finding out Lola was a girl, her little heart beating inside of me, and I felt relief. Having a sister meant someone could hold her if her Dad ever hurt her, that the burdens of having an emotional broken mother would be shared, that when mean school girls chewed them up and spit them out, a sister meant they would be okay.

I didn’t see that a sister would not have saved me from this pain, and so I have sought out my own sisters for healing, a hard lesson that in fact, I am only responsible for me.
I preach that illusions need to fall, are far better than the lies they hold, but tonight, if I had a wish, it would have been to let me have one more day believing that a sister could protect you no matter what, take out your enemies, sit next to you on the bus.

But just for tonight, all I ask is to please, please just lie to me.

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Junk in the Trunk

Auntie Sage once said something to me that she has no idea how it has carried me. She is not a fluffy person, nor does she throw compliments away which is why when you receive one, it lands with a bulk of weight tied to it.

Clyde and Divorcee are both like that, my own compliments are far more like Lola.

I once heard her make a woman gasp when she said she had lovely eye lashes.
I think I congratulate every one in sight I see who has a pretty scarf or a tired look, the thought that I should keep my sparkly thoughts to myself come after I am stuck in a two hour conversation with a stranger, a fact that is either painful or wonderful. It is the best and worst of me.

Anyway, Auntie Sage said she could see clearly in front of me a day I was photographing and writing, living and being, and no one on earth would believe where I had come from, the life lessons that I have overcome.

I would love to believe that is true, and so here I am, not eating Chick fil A to save on gas, opting for crackers out of the vending machine, my stomach eating itself, my heart grateful to have made it the week with two bucks to spare.

I can not complain for I am sitting in my dream, no longer looking at it, but touching it, living it, seeing it form around me, enormous bold bright miraculous shapes of love healing and strengthening me.

I sit in the parking lot of this school and weep sometimes, not sure how I will pay for a color checker passport or light meter or if I will have the money to get contacts, but I know the anxiety will not kill me, or so I hope.

If it does, I went out in flames, so burn me to a crisp, put me in little jars to spread around like party favors, go find a great live band, and let’s have a huge party.
Until then, I will hold on to my dream, to Auntie’s words, to the day I will walk onto a shoot, equipment my own and paid for, art directors that respect and love me, my children waiting at our own house that Divorcee is waiting to drop them off for me.

I will have fluffy pillows, hard wood floors, windows that sun beams through during the morning. I will not even remember the days of being on the side of 285, exhausted, weeping, broken, texting strangers to get me to class.

I will pick out my favorite pair of boots out of many to choose, make art and meet people, laugh a lot, and when someone asks me about the story of life upon meeting, I will smile, say I am blessed, that with God and love, all things are possible.

And I will remember today, as I cry on my bed, my glasses being switched around with my last pair of contacts, my hair streaked whitish orange from a CVS hair dye, the heartbreak I feel over missing my children to go close down a restaurant, the weight of it all I will remember.

It will break me open, humble me, and my soul will shout in just living that anything is possible, that as deep as one can feel pain, one can also feel joy. I choose joy.
I love Junkyards, always have, even as a little girl, I would come home with things people had thrown away, crafting projects and tree houses, believing you can make anything beautiful if you see it differently.

I have been thrown away myself, tossed with mighty force as well as happily owned, captured and treasured for all the right and wrong reasons.

Despite it all, I have never been anything else.
Junk lets other people’s ideas of them believe they are worthy.
Art is already worthy and that is why it stands apart from all the other shitty pieces of creation.
It laces up its shoes, chooses joy when people are pissed the chips are soggy, believes in faith because miracles have paves its way, and doesn’t way to be discovered.
It is already found.

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The Creative Circus, a School for Photography

In all my years of schooling, all the years of rushing to turn in college papers, to solve basic Algebra problems, discuss Philosophy and sit through countless boring lectures, it took till this week at this school to solve the basic riddle of the Universe.
All of our genius forefathers did not know shit if they could not make perfect white lines appear on glass edges in photographs. You can have the high end equipment, have taken great photos for years traveling all over the world for years, but the real genius can take an incredible photograph of a spoon.

That shit is not easy.

I think I am prouder of surviving this week than I am over 3 1/2 years of college, maybe because I don’t remember them, or maybe because I saw a grown married man cry by a teacher who can prove Photoshop is incorrect in its percentages of what a Raw image file can contain, that JPEG is for pussies, and I shake now when burning dvds, a trauma now I may never recover seeing as my Macbook can not burn a flippin dvd, for God’s sake.

I have managed to create a new disorder.

DBF. DVD BURNING FAILURE is a disorder I now recognize by blood rushing to my head, rooms starting to spin in slow motion, people’s mouths opening and closing while I feel a deep hand around my throat choking, blood pounding to strange beats any time I hear the sound of any cd or dvd being ejected, even away from school.

I think I may have to start listening to mix tapes from the 80s until I recover.

Yes, besides the disorder, the fact I haven’t slept in days and have complete memory loss have been worth the shitty photos I have taken, the zillion lessons they have brought me.
I also have learned that showing up unannounced to do work alone will put you in the company of hot art directors and copywriters, and so, on top of the shitty photographs, I at least was invited to drink off the pain.

I saw a guy dressed with a scarf and jacket, a rare thing in an art school, gazing up at the sky. He looked like he was memorizing data, mouthing words, his face breaking into confusion, his other hand oddly holding a pen, his body in between these moments would crumple, his head in between his arms.

It was a pattern, and yes, I saw it clearly in five minutes.

“What’s up?’ I asked over the rim of my DVD failing Mac, wondering if he were gay, which when you meet a hot man with a pen in his hand and a lovely scarf, women know to guard their hearts immediately.

“I am obsessed with words.”
Snap. That is the come on line of all time for a girl like me, and so here I was, talking to a copywriter, which I had been wanting to get in their heads, always wondering if my personal ridiculous tales could translate into the advertising world.

I had thought the answer to that would be “NO WAY IN HELL.”
He said he had an ad campaign, that he had to convince with 3 statements how to convince people to START smoking, and so he also had a blog as well, but his was about ridiculous pointless dorky thoughts.
I find late night break rooms to be my favorite place, people hurdled around discussing book bags for children from the village assignment, the ones that will free the child in the tribe to do more homework.

The people all have different backgrounds and ethnicity, even there dogs, yes, dogs are allowed, as long as they look like they just dropped acid. Creatives are the best. And so, here I brain storm with a man asking me about his kid in the jungle, if he could possibly use netting, while he helped me find Barbie sized adult beverages.

My concept of taking Barbie and making her bad ass, turning the good girl image around has gone a little far with the help of art directors, walking by and laughing, turning around to tell me to get needles, coke, rolled up dollar bills, smeared make up.

“Oh, and DEFINITELY get teeny tobasco bottles from Hobby Lobby,” a guy said, barely stopping but rolling past me as I smashed glass to look like barbie had fallen from a chandelier while partying.

Nothing hesitates these people when you need Barbie porn ideas, which is why I belong there. The men of course had great ideas, like to put the video camera in, to tie her hands behind her back in the bath tub scene, since she was obviously into dominatrix, her tiny little pink slippers elegantly next to Kat’s barbie toys I stole.
And so it has been, one adventure after another, laughter in between meltdowns, teachers that inspire or terrify, and the basic promise to myself to just do what is next in line, that I will have an emotional break down if I think about next week.

And so, I shall go finish my homework, my blog missed dearly for its grounding emotional quality it brings, so let the heart pounding begin, which when you hear what I do for homework, it is freakin hilarious.

So far, the assignments for shutter speed and aperture have had me decorating cars and grocery carts, having people spin them or slowly tap them, while a guitar lighter I found that makes sound and lights up has been the silent weapon to help me understand aperture and night settings. I have laughed watching people shoot pumpkins, offer up hand made potato guns, and I have turned my girls into lamps, covering them in lights, asking them to put on ski uniforms to be shot in the tub, for the irony, I said with irritation, Kat not getting the concept.

But, all of this is bullshit, you guys, until I take the perfect spoon, and so, I guess that is when I will be able to break the rules. You have to know them to break them, the only inspiration to do that tedious frustrating lighting to begin with, proving to myself I finally have the right to do what I want fearlessly, instead of happy accidents occurring from time to time.

Until that day, I shall make Barbie porn, dump naked people and shoes into big tanks of water to understand the perfect way to shoot something frozen in action, a creative answer that fuels me like gasoline because this is what I love, and nothing says that like Creatives, up all night writing curse words with sparklers and glow sticks, hoping to capture them perfectly on camera.

A spoon genius.

Whips, Lamps, and Cages, “OH MY.”

I can’t remember the last time I raged it, my days have quickly turned into weeks overnight, my life one revolving door of school, problems to solve, photos to edit, no sleep, a fist to my gut as my photos are put on projectors to be examined and critiqued.

I had a meltdown over Divorcee buying Halloween costumes which has always been my job.

I find myself crawling into Lola’s bed with her, just to touch her skin, begging for an extra hour with Kat on a school night, her little arms grasping on to me like I might disappear at a moment, a fact I am sad but proud as well to admit, is our reality. Life is quickly passing and there are not enough hours I have found, my head pounding the pillow at night with three hours at max, my floor indicating sleep is better than a clean room.

I suppose this is why I surprised Clyde and myself, accepting an invite to a throw down in Midtown, decided to put on six inch leather boots with heels and a red wig, and of course, go as a mechanic.

No one the entire night guessed my outfit.

I guess redheaded mechanics in six inch heels carry more than a wrench around.
And like any best friend and wing man would do, we made a pact.
Under no circumstances were I to be left.

Under no circumstances were I to go home with anyone but Clyde.
Under no circumstances should I throw up in his car.
We would however, pick our top three, hope to make out with maybe one, use WATER!! when being humped by anyone we considered shady on the dance floor.
I found out that WATER being yelled at the top of my lungs while a Man Cub dressed as Frank Sinatra did not send Clyde to save the day. He laughed hysterically, said I was on my own, casually watching me ask for i.d. with a man who looked like he just left his mother’s breast. Clyde laughed and watched.
Bastard.
I cursed him with my eyes.

And then, like heaven opening up and light shining down, I saw my number one. Well, it was kind of hard not to, considering he had a lamp shade with a number 1 on it, way above his head and he had to be over six feet tall.

I pointed him out to Clyde, marched my little mechanic self right up to him, his costume a big box dressed like a side table, two drinks in his hand.

“Hello, and what do we have here?” He looked me up and down, rubbed his perfectly shaped jaw line, his eyes the color, well, I don’t exactly remember the color, but I do remember he was hot.

He snapped his fingers, which looked painful, seeing as a metal rod was coming from his back, holding the lampshade in place. “I got it. YOU, are HOT GIRL.”
Yes, it was a douche bag line.
And ladies, don’t judge, but this time, I didn’t really mind.
I noticed change all glued to his shoulders, a wallet, and then three knobs, the second had a tiny black string hanging from it.
“Is this a thong?” I asked, and at this point, I felt his hands burning through my back as he pulled me in closer to dance.
“Yes,” and he got quiet, leaned down to whisper, “I thought there might be a costume contest. Do you think there will be?”
I rubbed my chin. “No, but I do think I am wearing that exact thong.”
And so we made out. And it was great. He even pulled off my wig at one point, said he had no objection to blond hair at all, and where was I going, and when was I leaving with him.
I knew that was my clue to locate Clyde, schmoozing with a hot kitty, a Mafia dude, and Rainbow Brite.
“I’ll be right back,” I said, my hormones raging, my wing man waiting.
But, I had forgotten to ask what exactly the hell he was. Out of all the men, hundreds, I had chosen him, and I wasn’t leaving without an answer to the costume.
He pointed to the ONE, saying it slowly, pointed to the knobs, the change, the thong.

Of all the men I found, my number ONE, was no other than a “ONE NIGHT STAND.”

Clyde and I laughed about it the entire ride home, which I did not puke in, nor did I break a single rule, and despite even the Jager woke up feeling great, but with one small issue.
I had a bright red hickey on my lip.
Harpua said he hadn’t even heard that word in 11 years.
Kat said I had must of being chewing a lot of gum.
Lola said it must have been double bubble, that you have to be careful with that stuff, and according to her, she doesn’t call herself a child genius for nothing.
I love Halloween. It may bruise you, fool you, disguise you, and as my brother says, “It is the only day in the year all women can get away with dressing like a slut.”

The Ghostbuster guy with the 30 pound back pack was my Number Two, so I think I did alright, making it out with just a small injury, really sore feet, and a wing man that rocked, even if he did not go for THING 2, who was clearly in to him.
There is always next year, Clyde.

Good night and Peace Out, my blog peeps. I have missed you dearly.