Category Archives: Friendship

The light that polarizes one in dark, the gift on the search, the hope on the horizon.

The Second Funeral

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I have several topics rick racking my brain today. I want to post about my first angry comment to a blog, and what it provoked, what changed as the result. I want to post about Lola and I moving in to bunk beds, no “roomie” is more comical, every day I have a better story.

 

Then, my job, my therapist, the first assignment of having to put my picture in a frame, to “say nice things” to the little girl within.

I have been assigned to bring her treats, people.

I want to draw a mustache, give her a bottle of jager, tell her to sleep it off, but even that I have been procrastinating. Thelma and I can’t let the jokes go long enough to be serious.

But, what lies in the pit of my stomach, aching to be expressed, scratching my inner thoughts like a claw to a kitty pole, is my sister by soul, Heather Murphy.

She asked I use her real name.

You see, this woman, a friend of mine by a year or so, although sorrow tells time in a different way, if you ask me. Time is measured by the stories we share, the pieces we let strangers see, the depth of us that loved ones may go to the grave never shown. They can know all our traits, but pass right by us, strangers to the stories we hold locked..

It is a key we share, and so time becomes marked by who is given a key, and who is hidden as we hide the key away, under the mat of our hearts.

Heather’s child, Olivia Garcia, at one years old, was murdered by her best friend, involuntary manslaughter, the details horrifying, and to make it even more ghastly, extremely public.

Her once dear friend, Oliva’s Godmother, Amanda Brumfield, is the estranged daughter of Billy Bob Thornton, so my stomach sickens as I watch my cursor spell his name, blink and wave, my thoughts on this blog run rapidly through emotions, on a time belt I can’t control the speed.

Olivia, who died the day before her first birthday, I revisited a year ago in a blog, “Olivia Maddy Marie, a “Tribute” for Heather Murphy“, being careful to not disclose any information that might affect her trial.

Now the trial is over, Heather’s reality is a hell not only she had to revisit on stand, not allowed to cry, having to see this woman who hurt her baby, witness photos no mother can imagine, swallow guilt that no person should have to endure, not by media, not for this.

I have a new outlook on life because of her, on what we read, on money and fame, magazines, news feed and journalists. It makes me sick.

Divorcee casually discussed the trial while reading People Magazine on-line, my knees giving out, blood rushing to my head, forcing me to sit down. I had not yet known the verdict.

“Wow. Thirteen to Thirty years for Involuntary Manslaughter,” he gasped.

I blurred the news with my hands, hoping to filter anything I could not handle in the moment, when one teeny thing caught my eye.

A fucking Facebook “Like” button, that’s what.

What have we come to? I could piss fire on this moment alone, much less the public misinformation, the reality of her nightmare, her agony that Baby Liv is googled, and all her name shows are Billy Bob Thornton photos and media accounts of this woman, this daughter of a celebrity, estranged.

Heather Murphy, a victim, is a person, real to me, your sister, friend, boss. To see her agonized if she should do “Inside Edition” for they will ask her God knows what, for news, while she worries she will be seen as a mother wanting her moment in the public eye. Then, she feels sadness and anger, Baby Liv is not even seen as a little girl, her girl, a sissy lost forever, and the sentence Heather received will never end, not ever. She wants her baby to be seen, her voice heard, to matter.

And so, she is asking me to help her with the day she does speak, to the jury, to the world, and so, “Will I take photos of her baby things, her little keepsakes only a mommy can cry upon knowing the importance, the ashes, the memory book?”

I cry at just the thought of what it must feel to be her, and fear it just as much, then my own wretched hope that she be heard is an aching tunnel, a hollow echo, a dark hall I know she walks every day, but will people turn, look, turn on the light?

I don’t know.

Maybe not, but I will light a torch, for Olivia Garcia, will use my keystrokes, my camera, my voice, my outrage. I will burn the hall behind me, no father or a platform, nothing of importance to offer the public, no dirt to offer the media to eat, a dry dust in my mouth is the Ribeye steak they drool for, and yet, always hungry, never satisfied.

No one wants to be famous for this, and Olivia is gone, a discussion for people over breakfast, her pain raw as an unbeaten egg in your blender, the details of her dead child a passing discussion, while passing the butter.

I do know what I don’t have, but there is one thing I got.

I have love.

In the end, it is all life is worth.

For Heather, I will always answer “yes,” her wedding to a man I saw her meet, I am so thankful to photograph, even if it is heartbreaking to watch her plan, the details Bridezillas go nuts over, she hasn’t the energy to even care.

While I was thinking of this, this song came on, chilling me, her words etched in my heart over the phone, “You know,” she said.

“It will be the sentencing, but really, it will be my arrival to her second funeral.”

If you will, repost, stumble, and most of all, pray.

I strongly believe prayer is the bullet on which our voice rides, and this woman needs ammo, the only kind love is made from.

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Hope, a Mid Life Crisis Discussion

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I met up with Clyde for dinner last night, had a long talk with my Lovely Phoenix, Melissa Brown, and the theme of the night was heavy, all of us in our own individual ways exploring hope, the loss of it, the desire of it, the sting of having it and losing it.

Clyde talked about the old days, not divorced, debt free, the bitter loss of a dream yet to be discovered.

“Do you know who I used to be, Katie? I mean I was fearless, really fearless,” he said looking into space, his face registering shock at what life once was without the layers of disappointment that have now become part of him.
It broke my heart.

The Phoenix spoke of a spiral, the very bottom, and we finished each other’s words about the climb, the unbearable climb of one foot in front of the next, the daily life of putting one foot in front of the other.

Survival, I was once told, is the way you live a crisis.
It is not the way to live a life.

And so, I look back on my own life, the last ten years marked by excruciating pain, fear, shock, and survival. I feel the tremblings of fear all the time, every day, and I feel the rush of anxiety crushing down, pressing, my heart pounding and the blood rushing to my head as I lay down just to breathe, checking and rechecking my breath, slowly letting air in and out of my lungs.

Those days used to be marked every day, many times a day, and now are so far in between that they annoy me, an awareness something has triggered me, that fear is not even real, that trauma is part of me.
I see it now as my friend asking my help to heal it.
I ask it to look around me, at my girls, my life, my health, my dreams being restored.

And it fights for survival but I eventually win the argument, and when I don’t, I spiral, but I do come back. I always come back.
The only thing we have to fight fear is hope.
I hope for so many things that my heart might burst wide open in the wanting, the beauty, the possibility of what and who I might become.

It is a tricky thing to hope. I have hoped for things that have been harmful for me, the weight of my own lies crashing down on me, on my illusions, on my fear. When you hope to be free, there is usually a door to a long flight of stairs going up wide open and yet my eye is drawn to the blinking exit door to the left, the word EXIT flashing in bright bold colors, tempting and taunting.

I have taken that door and it led to bondage every time, and I am not sure when I decided to take the stairs, my make up smeared, my breath shallow, my body and spirit in pain. I was certain the journey was too far gone and impossible to take, my resources as short as my desire was tall, one more defeat to add to the long accumulating list.

The journey always starts with one step.

http://sevencitys.wordpress.com/2010/12/17/the-gift-of-friendship-zuko/

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Katie and the Tectonic Plates

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I have asked Clyde, Divorcee, the Phoenix, and anyone who has been written about to please write a blog about me. I decided this mainly because I recognize how hard it is to be loved by a writer, how intimate and private the issues involving them are, how scary I feel writing and how sadly unfair it is that they do not have a voice in response. I wanted them to write the dirt, or give an argument if they have one, to share a perspective because I never want to be the kind of writer that does not require of my subjects if I am not willing to require the same of myself in response. The phoenix wrote of me and now here is Clyde, sending this to me when I needed it more than ever, to be seen in a dark place, shedding light on me when my face is covered by my hands, walking a new path yet to be seen. This is what he wrote and for the first time, a hilarious irony, I have no words in response. Lightning has more chances of hitting twice than for me to have my mouth open wide, with nothing to say. Leave it to Clyde to leave me for the first time, speechless….

“Katie and the Tectonic Plates”
by my Best Friend, Clyde….

Not all the time, but I’ve often wondered…where would my life be without my current BFF. I only say current, because BFMFF is too damn long. She came to me at a stage of my life filled with sadness only second to my divorce. It was a time that I realized shadows can do more than block light. Before ever meeting Katie I had an idea of who she would be. She’s attractive, blonde, curvy and about as sweet as acid laced sugar.

She says our first meeting was more of an interview, but to be honest I don’t remember much about it. I remember she went to the wrong restaurant, a form of foreshadowing that I should have seen before we ever even met. She says I asked a lot of questions about her…favorite color, best qualities, passions. At the time, I was lucky to lift my head up to even see anyone. We had sushi…talked the night away….laughed at lot, some at each other. As the evening came to a close I do remember hugging her and thinking, this girl is so nice…so real…and as wounded as me. I didn’t realize it then, and we’ve both talked about it a lot since, but we both felt safe in our weakness. She too afraid to even think of dating, just leaving the hibernation of a winter from men, and me getting over losing my soul mate. Tough company…us together.

When leaving dinner, I thought selfishly about how amazing it was to meet someone as fucked up as me in my current state. I didn’t know where we’d go from there, but I felt confident that I’d been lost, but taken the wrong turn in a city of turmoil to find a street sign for the exact highway I was looking for to leave.

Since then…we’ve sort of dated, sort of stopped, gone up…come down forceful on the hard concrete only to dust each other off and look with a “You okay?” look…and go arm in arm on to the next adventure. And every moment spent with Katie Susan Marsh is nothing short of an adventure. She is the girl that comes into a room and everyone stops what they are doing to see what she will say and do next. People gravitate towards her because of her inner beauty, empathy, truth, love and you never know what her brain will concoct. Crazy in a question everything dream big kind of way, always with a plan. To know her is to put to rest whether there is a God as nothing like her comes from chance. Whether you like her at first or not, I’ve seen her take bitter enemies and through only a way she knows…make them fiercely loyal allies. Caesar didn’t have shit on Miss. Obvious.

After 9 months of growth, love and recovery if I had one word to describe her now…it would be fearless. She wasn’t always that way. When I met her, I think she was afraid of her shadow. We’ve talked about her winding story called life and how she got to where she is. I’m continually amazed by single moms and what they overcome on a regular basis. I don’t know that the men I know could do what they do and still be normal, myself included in this company. What she’s been through is….well, bad.

One of the key’s to Katie’s recovery tools have been her blogs. It was the begging of her letting baggage drop by her side with a thump, like someone dropped a lawnmower engine on wood floors. She does things differently than anyone I’ve seen. Instead of hiding things, she pulls it out on the table with blood still dripping on some of the topics. “Here it is, now what?”. The rawness is un-nerving at first, holding your hand up to your eyes with space enough between them to look through. You can’t help but be drawn in, think, sometimes laugh… sometimes wipe your eyes. They ring so true…there are no questions afterwards, only lessons. I used to initially question her on everything, now she just pulls it out before she hits publish.

Katie has a lot of ideas, lots of them. I tease her and say she throws more spaghetti on the wall to see what will stick than an Olive Garden. She links things together that I don’t know how they happen, calling herself a miracle magnet. I don’t know if it’s all an answered prayer or an amazing coincidence…my life is driven by a fine line of logic and karma. My mom doesn’t like art, pets or history. My dad sculpts, sings opera, and has seen more ghosts than Indiana Jones. I try to be the best man I can, but I sometimes fail. Katie calls this spirituality, I call it humanity. We don’t agree on everything…her and me.

One thing we do agree on is that having a shield against the world doesn’t help you. Deep dark places need light more than any others. Dropping your arms…opening them, tilting back so your chest is out does not expose you…it frees you. She has taught me that and it’s because of her that at 40 years old, the Immovable mountain I call myself is now a tectonic plate, shifting. I’m questioning more about myself and life than any time since my early 20′s.

As she moves forward with her new education in photography, her time will get more and more precious. I’ve already seen the fallout in some carnage she’s dropped from her life. She is destined for greatness personally, professionally and spiritually. In the beginning…I questioned her a lot, the questions steering her in a direction leading to her own answers. We’ve both agreed that when talking about her life “What if you do nothing” was the question that rose above all others and became a beacon. As she rises up to her calling now, long weeks with short sleep are in her future there aren’t words in this language I know that can describe how I feel about her in my heart. With all her bravery, she will need support to over come her next few years with what lays in front of her. The pull of motherhood, a grueling school schedule, work, family, life, technology and her new found challenge for a creative person….logic, will all take their toll on her. She is the kind of woman, that if you meet her for five minutes…you’ll route for her like she was your childhood friend. You’d give found money too, even though you needed it. As she’s leaving from a conversation…you’d pull her back and not let her leave without a hug. She needs them, she deserves them…almost as much as you do from her. I love her.

Olivia Maddy Marie, a “Tribute” for Heather Murphy

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When Kat was barely two, my boss at the time had a little boy named Alex, her favorite playmate, a child so full of life and contagious joy, there were no walls, counter tops or couch cushions that could contain him. He was a flaming spirit of play and laughter, a lot like his mom, and nothing he did could not be instantly forgiven.

One of the hardest moments of my life was going to his funeral, his mother bathed in unimaginable grief became no longer my boss, but part of my soul as I worked with her every day, my greatest teacher to date. She taught me that being in grief with someone made you not weak, but strong. I will treasure her for life for all the moments she allowed me to practice the art of loving someone who is drowning in grief, and the realization that there is no life jacket to throw, nor did she need or want one from me.

She taught me to look at life, death, love, loss, God, and motherhood through a whole new lens, but the ultimate lesson she gave me, is that you can not say, pray, wish, love, or cry the pain away. You have to just be there, sit in the devastation with her, and just be. It is the hardest and most important lesson I have ever learned.

When I left her and that job, there were lessons yet to remain. I quit to have Lola, to divorce, to grow, and in a full cycle, to return to the same job, changed, irreversible, yet so incomplete.

I had yet to meet Heather Murphy.

My first day back on the job, I found myself in the office with this beautiful young blond mother who in small talk about our girls, took out a picture of her incredibly beautiful Isabella, the perfect vision of brown springing curls and big eyes that would melt the hardest of hearts. Then, she took out a photo of Liv, her baby who had died not too long before we met, just a year old. I thought I could die of heartbreak at that very second, flashbacks of the same office, the unforgivable grief, all the details entirely different, the horrifying reality absolutely the same.

My new boss was a part of my soul now too, in an instant, like someone in heaven were snapping their fingers at me, to wake up, to realize she and I were strangers no longer, but together in that moment, for a reason.

It was bigger than me. It was bigger than us.

I don’t know if she knew it, but I knew it.

I watched that woman outside of my body for months, waiting, asking, praying, wanting. She is a spitfire, a hilarious person full of playful energy with a sneaky smile, sarcastic humor, kind gestures, motherly instincts, strength, and has an uncanny ability to do her job amongst men not just well, but incredibly well. She had walls as tall as Berlin, a tough exterior of strength and professionalism, calling me out when I needed it, running the place when I wanted to fall over from fatigue, but she remained. She exhausts me, sometimes mowing the grass at night, just because it needed to be done.

I believe it is her greatest strength and weakness, this strength, because everyone believes she is capable of everything, and sometimes I wonder is she just wants to sit in a chair and be rocked, mothered, taken care of, a realization that no one is there for her, but her, and she is responsible for everyone else.

Slowly, she let me in, and it took time, and the right moments of listening and asking, to hear her stories of Isabella and Liv, the moments moms exchange with knowing looks and hysterical laughter over what their children do and say, the joy that light us up and the acts that put our heads in our hands with worry. After time, I got to see and experience what happened behind the office door closing, the truths I was ready for, the job I wanted, fearfully, but qualified. I knew the job I had been trained for was not in counting money and doing side work, but in listening, crying, staying, and being.

No money can account for that kind of work, the work of one soul inviting another in, the exchange of pain so unimaginable and unreachable, it is what I believe, the very hope to see life each day as priceless, to approach death in humble awakenings, the thing we fear the most, the loss we never want to imagine. It is a gift and she let me unwrap it, the images of Liv and the stories, her chest of toys and lasts, her journals of letters she writes her, the guilt and horror, the daily hell of waking up to a nightmare you can not numb or escape.

I wrote of Alex, back in the day, and I still have those memories on file, an imprint on my soul, but I was too afraid to share his story and life, the fear and pain a choking sensation around my neck. But, I am ready for Liv.

Alex changed me but Liv freed me. Becky taught me to be in the mud, in the dark, in the grief, and she shown like a star so bright, it was too painful for most to witness. Heather has shown me in your vulnerability, you are invincible. She walks the line of greatness and destruction, a beautiful mess, a tragic disaster, and I know she is afraid of going crazy with her own fear, but I know it will be the arrow to show her the way home.

I am waiting for that day she knows. I wonder what will happen when she arrives, the arrow slicing her heart open, her blood a price will become her gift to herself, to the world. It is a miracle what the human Spirit can endure, that every bit of pain of her loss is giving the world a different lens, a price too high for any mother to pay, and for that, I am so very sorry. That line is almost too pathetic to write, how sorry I am to even write it.
What the hell kind of word is sorry for the price you have paid?

I still will not be sorry to hope, to cry, to endure, to give gratitude, because that is just a piece of what you have given me. I hope to share her with the world, through her mommy’s eyes, her life so big and full and immeasurable in moments not only a mother can understand, but all who have seen angels, walking or not. Her Spirit is too beautiful to have gone anywhere but here, and I feel her now, as I write, and I feel it every time her name is breathed, every time I see her mother cry.

…..I hope you will feel her as well, the anniversary of a year since she left, published on the hour she took her last breath, and I ask that today, you say a prayer for Heather, light a candle, release a butterfly balloon, open your heart to the life you have been given, and remember.

http://buddhathepig.wordpress.com/2011/06/23/the-second-funeral/

Introducing My Girl, “The Phoenix”

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This is my mirror ball friend.
Life gives us sign posts, disguised as people, directing our inner traffic, regardless if we are aware or not. There is a speed dial for all of them, so in honor of the entertainment and growth of this blog, I have linked with a force far greater than me, a woman that I have been so excited to link this blog and write this introduction, but being the crazy neurotic writer that I am, have NOT been able to figure out her blog name. Don’t get me wrong, she has many nicknames, blog names, mostly over how hot or crazy she is, but I won’t have any of it. It has to come from inside of me and really touch that core, a place so deep I thought of naming her “she- she,” since that is what she calls her coochie, seeing as she hates the word vagina.
Just letting you know how deep my thoughts are.
A mirror ball friend is a disco ball on speed, its lights and special effects are spinning in different directions at lightning rates, changing with loud brilliant colors, mirrors blinding you to find yourself one moment in heels on a dance floor, a breath later, to be sobbing over an ex boyfriend, one turn later, laughing over a child horror story, a flash of colors leaving you with 90 day goals, or to be ultimately, humped by strangers, you never know. The ball could reflect greatness, drop and become destruction, but always, for a writer, is a great story.
I called and discussed natural disasters for her name, which I firmly believe there aren’t really enough disasters to name either of us correctly. I asked Clyde and he said I would be a tornado, that goes through a forest fire, picks out a warehouse of supplies, and spits out all the nails on its path. I am sure he meant that in a good way.
So, I then decided she had to be a Goddess, the closest I came to was Hathor, the goddess of dance, joy, and drunken behavior, loved by women and communities. Damn Hathor didn’t seem to have a lot to do with men, which is a total FAIL for a blog name, seeing as the truth of this soul sister, is that she has been on the quest of love her entire life. She is breathtakingly beautiful, has mojo and game I love to watch in action, men drawn to her dangerous magnetic web, which in her eyes is the most disastrous part of her, a dream she can’t wake up from, the place she never can find that peace she so desires.
I am sure many blogs to come will discuss these issues.
It has to help our friendship, a perfect balance, that I love women, but as loud and forward as I am, I don’t like to be the center of the room, swarmed by douche bags, even if they are hot. She does it with charm and flirtation, holding the drinks they bring in her hand, like the lady she is, while I want to hide and watch her from under the table instead. She is my equal in that she is the only woman my AGE who has been through the trials of divorce, has three beautiful kids, one little girl with special needs. She has been on the dating war path, far different yet the same, her stories are as hilarious and unbelievable as my own, something I find astonishing, seeing most people look at me like I have four heads when I tell them I went to Moe’s and a guy bought me a car. With her, she nods with understanding, and tops it, and get this, she is funnier than me. I know, I KNOW, hard to believe, and maybe arguable, not by me, but she is in fact, funny as hell. I fell in love with her though the day I saw she wrote a blog, sometime ago, a writer, not just any writer, but my kind of writer. Her blog had every ugly, scary, real and exposed part of her laid across the page for all to see, for all her destruction, failures, and mistakes. And one day she found my blog, back then unpublished, and she said, “You and I have the same heart, just different words.”
Perhaps it was the first time I felt seen, by a woman, by a writer, my favorite part of her was her gift of imperfection, something I believe to this day is the best gift you can give the world.
How did we meet?
Nothing out of the ordinary, seeing as I was going on a date I believe, asking around for a pair of black boots to my knees, with really high heels, not skanky, but more for the sexy classy stripper look, so on a friend’s page, in two seconds flat, a comment from this unknown girl gave me the perfect boots down to the shoe brand, where to find them, what type leather and color, and pole if I needed, which made me laugh on cue.
Our mutual “friend” said, “Katie meet Melissa. Melissa meet Katie.”
When stripper boots pulled off with class bring you together, only love remains.
What happens when a tornado and a earthquake meet? This is the fluff, the hilarious part of us, which honestly, she she brings out the wildest in me, no matter how determined and usually responsible woman I really am. I don’t do morning hangovers with kids well. I don’t do peer pressure, always leave after a tall blue moon, but I see her, and that bad girl part of me comes out full force, responsibility flies out the window, and in total shock, at four in the morning, I realized it was I that had trusted this woman to be in control of me. She did put me in time out for making out with a stranger at the bar, but had failed to remain sober and not drink jager like she promised, reminding me I got the man with braces, no ordered him, to buy the jager bombs to begin with, so I digress. I have to remain four miles away in distance, or as Clyde says, both of our parole officers will be notified, a joke, of course, I hope. For all of our similarities I have mentioned above, she is my alter ego, polar opposite as well.
She can not stay away from men, usually assholes, for less than 3 seconds flat, and she is the eternal flame for the desire of love, linking in and becoming destroyed over men who make her feel unbearable pain, her heart destroyed, a relationship woman, barely able to pick herself up from the destruction of it. Her grief over one break up nearly broke my heart to watch, so we decided to spend 90 days in recovery, meaning she had to go on man diet. As far as me, for my turn, well shit. Relationships make me want to puke, and I am a single girl at heart, love my freedom, my side of the bed, the fact I don’t owe any man shit, when it comes to where I am, what I’m doing, who I’m with. I like to flirt, if I feel it leads nowhere, love sex, if its unattached and safe, with a man I can easily turn into my best friend. I want to dig and know someone deep, and when I have found all there is to know, I lose interest, ready for the next adventure.
No man has met my girls except one, who wouldn’t you know it, lived in Italy, for God’s sake. No wonder I thought he was the “one.” So for my 90 day diet, of course, it was her, who introduced me to Clyde, the only man I have ever met who after months never even tried to sleep with me, infuriating, saw me in the most vulnerable place in my whole life, a scary awful experience that led me to fall so deep and far off the edge of a cliff, but who is now my closest friend in the world because of it. I think it was my first taste of unrequited love, a humility that I needed, brought up all my issues that have changed me, making me realize I had a hard shell that needed to melt, just like she needs to be alone, something I love, easily do. When it comes to men and love, we are on two different quests, but our pain is real, seen, and felt. She also has a posse, and I am serious people, when I tell you I have never seen anything like it. NOTHING like it. The girl is not adored, but worshiped, by a group called the ya yas, women who make me even more bi-hopeful than ever, a name I gave for the hope I will one day meet the perfect woman, become gay, and live happily ever after. People try to steal this hope, shake me out of it, and yes, I do realize boobs and the soft lips of a woman’s kiss make me feel a little nauseated, that a man’s hands and broad chest force me to come out of the closet as a straight woman, but I will never lose hope, not ever.
Her friends throw parties when she leaves for a month, with gifts and themes, and at her “Little Yellow Dress Party,” I actually heard a lady say, “What are we going to do without Hot Melissa Brown for three months?” Seriously? Really? It wasn’t even her birthday people. She was going on a road trip. Another woman replied, “We’ll just have to plan a party for when she gets back.” This is what it is to be my friend, which is what makes her fascinating, complex, fabulous and unique, and I am here for the ride, and for all the people who put her on a pedestal, I do not at all. I see her sensitivity, her desire to live her life to inspire and uplift, and I think she feels a great amount of responsibility, which comes from being so loved. For the ones who see her hit the ground, the pavement, make the same mistakes over and over, who wonder if she will ever learn, I have a message for them. I have decided to name her “The Phoenix,” from a place
where I believe this woman is capable of everything, will overcome the impossible, can be alone, will find the right one, is going to sit in the mud and is going to do it her way, the only way she knows how.
That is why I have decided to name her “The Phoenix.”
I found the facts to support my heart on Wikapedia which states, “The main feature of the Phoenix is that it is reborn through fire: when it gets old it will make a nest (sometimes of myrrh) and set it on fire. The phoenix will be consumed in the flames, but will be reborn out of the ashes. There is only one Phoenix at a time; it lives for many years (accounts vary from 500, 540, 1000 or 1460 years.) No person has ever seen this bird eat, and people would try to throw rocks or shoot arrows to dislodge the nest. Some claim the Phoenix came from the sun, it is the bird that is sent to earth to perform extraordinary works and to help the development of man. It appears in different stages of the world’s progress, and then returns to heaven.”

I feel satisfied now, my search for a name found, and so I hope you embrace her journey as I have, as we blog our lives together, I am certain to watch her burn herself to the ground, only to rise from the ashes, for the development of herself, without an awareness she is here for even a greater purpose, for me, and for you.

From us, a favorite….Oh, and go read her fabulous blog, http://elbowelbowwristfaceplant.wordpress.com

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“Booty Calls and Chips, Who Knows the Difference?”

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When it comes to work, I have something to be grateful for.
I believe Chips N Salsa are responsible for a booty call.
He said he wanted them from the restaurant I work, heated in his microwave, and so I brought them, pretty sure he was ordering me into his house for a night out, or at least my ego would like to believe that, for God’s sake.
It was a random malfunction of untimely events that the two most spontaneous people by nature would collide, Harpua being the only other person I know who doesn’t know what he is doing from one hour to the next. I am notorious for this so it makes me laugh to ask, “What you doing tonight?” to be returned with the obvious text being, “I have no idea.” I laugh because that is what I am supposed to say, and do, so our attempts to meet up never happen, until last night.
At once, the ingredients of getting off work, the girls not having school linked Harpua’s unplanned chain of events to me, an episode of “COPS” just waiting to happen.
Here are some of the highlights.
Harpua orders Oatmeal Cookie shots, ignoring the fact I say, “ABSOLUTELY no JAGER,” signaling back to me that a “teeny” bit of jager doesn’t count.
His local bar, and by local, I mean we walk to it as if it were a trip to the basement from your living room couch. Ridiculous.
No one should be that close to liquor, or a jukebox, at any given moment.
It gets him banned for playing too much Phish, which I love him for that, and me screaming Alanis Morrisette at the top of my lungs with a random older black dude. That guy was awesome.
We bonded at the jukebox, him stumped still over that one song where she starts off slow and has lyrics that have to do with her headed up stairs, just to jolt into shouting rage. What is the name of that damn song?
We never did find it, but I would love to know who invented the jukebox, a genius move, so on top of chips, I am thankful for jukeboxes.
The elevator taking him back to his apartment was suddenly stopped by a ridiculously drunk dude. It is rather precarious to be in a stunning Buckhead tower, elevator adorned with mirrors and touches of gold, unbelievable views, and front desk security to be interrupted by a stranger stopping the door on his floor with his hand in dramatic flair, yelling, “SNORTING OXYCONTIN IS THE WAY TO GO!”
Of course, a friend of Harpua.
So, we were informed of a mission, to find the DVD, “The Last Waltz” because the INXS party had to be stopped.
The INXS party, hosted by a woman with three inch cowgirl boots and no pants with a thong, was happier to see me than any family member I have ever known, yelling and hugging me, her first words to me were, “I am going to be a fat bride.”
The adorable man that reminded me of a Koala bear kept telling her to put some fucking pants on, who I soon pieced together was her fiance, the two of them were in a week getting married in Vegas.
He was apologizing for the mess, cigarette in hand, upset that it was going to smell like cigarettes the next day, in attempt to clean, dumping a whole box of Chinese food all over the floor.
I laughed, noticing one guy on the phone in intense conversation on the couch, with his eyes closed.
Harpua was being humped by Cowgirl, a fact that was cool with Koala bear, except that she had no fucking pants on, he said over and over, asking for advice as to how he was going to marry a chick who wouldn’t wear pants.
This just made her slap her own ass, fall over, and pass out, face first, next to me on the couch. Koala, the fiance, pulled her shirt down a half inch, patted her back, motioning the control towards the t.v., people shouting at “Chatty Kathy” to stop talking, his eyes still shut.
No one hesitated. Let “The Last Waltz” begin.
It WAS awesome. The wasted commentary made my sides hurt from laughter, the music was incredible, the singing along horrific, the night ending by me begging Harpua not to let anyone stop our elevator door.
I had a blast, not being the Circus for once, but coming to visit it, Harpua in town. We had breakfast with fluffy french toast and bananas surrounded by cages of exotic birds, all saying hello and goodbye.
It was then I found out that Cowgirl was a playboy centerfold, but even more entertaining, a rocket scientist, some kind of brilliant engineer of chemical formulas she works to find solutions for lubrication, or something like that. The Koala fiance, a lawyer.
Who knew?
I told Harpua not to text or call me, EVER, which is what I always tell him, who laughs in response, a total agreement.
Of course it doesn’t make sense.
It is just our way, two childhood friends colliding, mysterious chemistry drowned by bold statements made to each other, both our fingers pointing to lines clearly made in the sand. I was certainly not the woman for him, unable to produce six kids and undo my divorce and two offspring, which I agree as well, pointing out I could not live like a circus monkey, his life ridiculously absurd and beautiful, but just for a visit, not for a stay.
But there is a spark that somehow keeps it rolling, a text floating here or there, landing, a chemistry I can’t see, but feel, an illusion, but not. “If I’m inside your head, don’t believe what you might have read,” I hear him singing on his balcony, in his tower in the night sky, his glass of wine next to his bare feet.
It is good advice, in perfect tune, and so I try not to read his mind, but instead close my eyes. He is inside my head, and I may be just a memory fading away, a disappearance on a long list of short lived acts, but I hope I am wrong. I want to believe the reality I will always visit his tower, waste my time, and when he sings, I will always dance to his songs.

Clyde’s 40th Birthday “BEAR HUNT”

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I just recently took Lola on her fifth birthday “Bear Hunt,” a term used for waking up, finding out you are going on an adventure, being surprised all day long, notes and clues leading you to magical locations, familiar faces, and unopened treasure. Clyde just turned 40, and he has been taking it pretty rough, his phone calls consisting of deep sighs, his hilarious self barely there, so I decided desperate acts call for desperate measures. It was time for me to kidnap my first adult for a “Bear Hunt.” We were going to walk the edge of darkness into the wilderness of 40, only to return with my best friend laughing, a fact I was determined to make happen, by any force necessary. I suddenly had a realization I was just going to have to make 40 my bitch, but how?
So, during my plotting, I got a call from my mom about this lovely single woman who casually began talking about her love obsession with bees. Are you kidding me?
First of all, Clyde is a bee keeper.
In fact, I got to be the lucky photographer of this lovely picture:

I did not know he was a bee keeper until I was in the position of transporting thousands of bees one Saturday afternoon. We met the bee man, along with his kind, one man in a “LONG LIVE THE QUEEN” t-shirt, all over the age of fifty, from the country, and I’m shocked most of them didn’t need walkers. I had originally thought I was staying in the car only to be taken by complete surprise, the damn bee man kindly offered me up a suit, Clyde laughing at me while I cursed him under my breath, giving him my best “DIE, ASSHOLE, DIE!” stare. The old people talked about the lovely blooming flowers as we came to the the hive where the instructor began smoking bees, to make them less “angry,” repeating warning signs of swarms, aggressive behavior, how to locate your Queen, a very important thing, her tail marked blue or yellow, a detail if you miss, is an instant FAIL. Clyde didn’t seem to worry about any of these details, his mission to make his own honey the driving force behind this insanity.
What kind of nut job brings thousands of bees home?
After seeing them all caged in these trays in wooden boxes, my skin felt like breaking out into hives just listening to them buzz. I suddenly realized I would have rather been transporting Cocaine. I did my breathing exercises as he chattered away about the crazy shit that bees do, the Queen, how they make her exercise, how each bee functions, how no bee is originally from America. That’s great Clyde, bees rock, but I was deep in thought over our smoker not working, which is supposed to make them drowsy, a fact that made me want to smoke myself first, just to make sure.
So, back to Bee Girl.
What kind of nut job says in passing to MY MOM the fact she has always loved bees, wants to know a bee keeper? What if Bee Girl met Clyde on a Bear Hunt? What if Bee Girl were the question and Clyde happened to be the answer? I just happened to stalk her out at my mom’s work, to find with absolute joy that she was a breath of fresh air, beautiful and very natural, her energy kind and authentic, plus she was single, around his age, without kids. I told her about a friend of mine that keeps bees, and her eyes lit up like Lola when she sees lip gloss. She was just like Clyde in her amazement over bees, very much his equal in every area, and I wondered if he knew the Honey Bee was responsible for watermelon. I tucked that fact away for later.
I was beginning to think I found the perfect girl to take back to his hive, which by the way, is a great pick up line, so the Bear Hunt took on a different life, mainly my mom and I orchestrating this crash meeting. They met in the aisle, and my mom and I left for the cafe, him not taking my “out,” too deep into discussing the African bee, and I could tell by his body language, he was in to her. Thirty minutes later he found me, and I was right. He thought she was great, felt a connection, then asked if I was ready to go. “WHAT? Clyde, if you leave, do not get her number or ask her out, she will think you are not in to her.” He tried to argue a case, but I went to the hive of the matter, bees my only resource. “The Rogue Bees, the ones that go out of the hive, the aggressive ones, are what you must be, my friend.” He groaned, threw his hands in the air, shuffled his feet nervously.
I put my drink on the table.
“I’m not leaving until you ask her out.” I put my chin in the air, and he laughed, waited for her to be done with a customer, finally writing her a note, suggesting dinner with his number, my work here finished, and we spent the rest of the day with the maturity levels of maybe a five year old. My mom said when she told Bee Girl about the Bear Hunt, she asked shyly, “They don’t really hunt bears do they?” How adorable, so content I am, that in a first attempt to find Clyde a Queen, I see how the hive only works when everyone involved plays their roles. I wanted him to be happy, feeling him finally ready to be someone’s goodnight kiss, companion, and for the first time in our journey, I saw him open to love, afraid, but most importantly, open. In the hive, he says only female bees help the Queen, the worker bees, doing all the details that allowed her to go out, mate, choosing any bee she wanted. Sigh. I want to be the Queen.
That day will come for me, but this is Clyde’s hive, not mine, and my assignment is in perfect order, the working bee, the female traveling to any length to assign, interview, and tap into all her creative resources the exact formulas that will make the hive successful.
Maybe I’m not even a worker bee. If I assigned all days of adventure and fun the name “BEAR HUNTS,” what are bears known to love more than anything else?
Honey!
If I am a bear and Clyde is a bee, well lets find him a Queen, and watch them produce some honey.
I can’t wait. I have a big empty jar with my name on it, waiting.
Happy 40th Clyde. I can’t wait to taste what you find in your year ahead, but may it be from the best pollen, and rather you mate with multiple Queens, or be chosen by your Queen at first glance, sweet or sticky, I will be around, most likely in your cupboard, knocking over jars, making a big mess, my scent always leading to great honey or really big trouble.
I wouldn’t have it any other way.

“FRENEMIES”

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“Fear is like an explosive device, and thought is the missile on which it rides.”

So, I have this “FRENEMY” in my life.
When I was growing up, I moved around a lot, was constantly the “new girl,” sometimes in the middle of the year, shifting in and out of public and private school systems. Some of my most shameful memories lie dormant to those early school years, one in particular where I would sneak into the bathroom with my lunch, sit and eat and sob on the toilet, begging the clock to move faster, rather than face the mean pack of private school girl wolves.
My first day of walking up to them, putting my tray down quietly, my little fingers trembling, one girl I remember her name to this day, made a nod, and they all got up and left me there, alone.
I can’t decide which is worse about this story. On one part, I see that this story has been all of our stories, especially as women, the separate and hateful energy that has been used to destroy each other and ourselves since time began. On another part, I see that in this moment, I heard a destructive voice that called out to my spirit.
It said, “You are unwanted.”
“You are unlovable.”
“You are not accepted here or anywhere.”
“You are not enough.”
Those are powerful statements for a little girl to hear, and in that moment, I made a choice to believe them. Maybe I could have said to the voices, “No. You are all lies. Those girls are missing on something great, something worthy and beautiful.” But, the fact remains, I didn’t.
I see now as an adult woman that voices come like this all the time, for us all, and I watch my girls confront them, I see myself in them, trying to decide if they should align with the lies, or believe what is real.
My mother decided to move me to a different school, a small Christian school, and for reasons I am sure were never intentional to cause pain, put me and my brother back a grade, placing me in the exact class my younger brother had been in, half way through the school year. That was so shameful to me, to be amongst classmates who had made friends with him, who asked where he was and who was I, answers that brought up all the horror I did not want to examine. The voices got deeper and deeper, settling in to my soul, defining my self hatred to an even greater degree. It is a very interesting thing to be where I am today and look at it from a different perspective, as a witness, rather than a victim.
As all children do, when placed in situations where they have no idea how to cope or where to turn, they develop coping mechanisms to deal with the trauma. What I did was develop a mask, a face I sold with absolute brutal force to myself, so that I would never feel that pain again. My mask became my alter ego, the face of popularity and acceptance, and from that moment on, I believed that my worth was in direct proportion to how many people adored and loved me, no matter what the cost.
My mask became my force, and it got me what I wanted. I became popular, with endless supplies of friends, phone calls, invites, and I did anything and everything to be what I thought everyone wanted me to be. I became bulimic in middle school, believing being skinny would gain the attention of men. I dated the right guys, pursued all the people that would validate my belief that I was “somebody” no matter what self destructive behavior it cost. I had to be the loudest, the most charming, the most lovable, and the mask became more and more strong, validated by my relief I felt that in not being an outcast, I was finally lovable, worthy, accepted. It is a tricky thing to wear a mask for so long, my humor and love for people a real part of me, and I became swept away by my own false image of myself.
As I have grown throughout the years, in facing the pain I used so many things to escape with, drugs, sex, working out, painful relationships to name a few, I have touched on this issue, but not to the depth of where I am today.
It is a beautiful thing to be in pain, because it is the arrow if we follow in faith, will lead us back to our authentic self. I thought pain was here to kill me. I found out this year that pain is here to free me.
So, at 32, a grown woman with two children of her own, I went to work and as I always have, made friends instantly and powerfully, covering all the self hatred that I did not even know still was dormant, waiting, watching to be seen.
I was instantly aware of one girl who did not seem pulled into my charm, and no matter what I did to assure her, humor her, love her, embrace her, she did not respond. The fact is for whatever reason, she did not like me.
For me, that was impossible. I fought myself every day, my internal self at war with what I was doing to excuse and win her over, aware that this was not healthy, that it should be something I should let go of easily, but I couldn’t. She said things like, “I have no idea why everyone here loves you so much.”
It was the arrow, and the work of my own healing knew to watch it, to follow it.
One night, Fathers Day to be exact, she said I was evil, screamed at me, and I ended up in the cooler of the restaurant, shaking, sobbing, broken. The cracks of my mask began to open, the little girl left alone sat in a cooler, in an adult body, terrified, empty, full of self loathing and pain. It was an immediate trigger, and I saw myself light a cigarette, something I had not done in ten years. I saw myself do everything to escape, my claws coming out of the water, trying to paddle up, knowing I was drowning, but I just did not know why.
I thought it was about my father, confrontation, so I did that, my manager and entire restaurant involved in my own private war, and I felt the shame and judgment of my inner self crack my mask open more and more, revealing to me the very thing I had convinced myself I would never again feel.
“I am not wanted.”
“I am not lovable.”
“I am not accepted.”
“I am not enough.”
The arrows of these voices that formed the same mask resurfaced, but just that much more powerful, but I chose to address them differently this time. I said to them, “You are a pack of lies. I chose to believe the voices that say I am a beautiful and loving woman, full of compassion and joy, a gift to the world. I am enough.”
Something magical happened in allowing my mask to fall, to realize that I needed all these people to love me not because I was wonderful, but because I was a little girl who had been wounded. I began to see how self serving and inauthentic I had become, believing that I had been a friend for all the reasons my mask wanted me to be, not because the friendships were true. I began to ask for guidance as to who that girl was, the real one, and in asking, it was amazing to watch my relationships change instantly, the ones that were not real did not appear, the ones that mattered poured love to me, and back, showing me I was becoming who I really am, not the illusion I sold to the world.
I realized I didn’t really care anymore about the girl at work, the one who I could not make love me. What shattered me didn’t even cross my mind and the other day she said to me, out of the blue, “You’ve changed.”
“No I haven’t.” I said it without a defense or a cover. I just didn’t see she was showing me.
“Yes, you have.” She stared at me, aware, alert.
“I am meaner to you than I ever have,” I said, giving her examples of the ways I did not try to help her or praise her, withholding myself, believing I had been protective and defensive.
“No, you don’t treat me the same way.” This made me laugh at the irony.
She followed me around that night, my nemesis, and I stayed late with her, seeing for the first time, the person that had hurt me was responsible for the best thing that ever happened to me. She had been the arrow to my mask, the arrow to puncture my heart. She had been the arrow to find my way home. I couldn’t believe the power of the energy of what became of me shifting inside myself the voices, the mask still there, but I am working on it, healing through forgiving that little powerless girl, the one who sobbed every day, and I try to hold her, send her love, and remind her she is safe now. As for the girl at work, she ended up, for the first time hugging me, and we laughed, making the agreement to be “Frenemies.” I see now she was sent from the light, a shadow of what was inside of me, begging to be free, to be healed. I think “Frenemy” is the name I should have given myself, a long time ago, a 32 year battle of acceptance, worth, and joy waiting to be found. Here is to you Frenemy, a perfect song, for a perfect woman.

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George, Ronald, & an Apology to the Kids

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So, about George.
He got married this past weekend, which makes me lose my spot on the miracle magnet list. It was when we lived together, however, that my life literally became a Seinfield episode. He is George, but a little funnier, as obnoxious, with as bizarre belief system only he operates by, the most eccentric, lawless, absurd man I know. I have compiled a small list to give you an idea of what I mean.
He has had more jobs than any human being possible. I stopped counting after 30.
As a pizza delivery man, if you did not tip him, he stole plants and furniture off your porch to bring home.
For years, he confessed he would come into our house, in the middle of the night, eat our food, and leave.
Every morning we argued, blaming each other, LP furious if you touched her cereal or Cheetos.
He laughed his ass off, while our mouths remained open, shocked. He once put his hand in our fish tank and ate one of our goldfish for a six pack of beer. He jumped off a bridge, naked, and was fined by the judge fifty bucks for endangering his life. He wasn’t relieved to not be hauled off to jail. Oh no, George was pissed his life was only valued at fifty bucks. Notorious for blacking out, he once pissed on my work clothes, my neatly pressed uniform, set our place on fire because he used his lamp as a coat rack. The most infuriating part of that is he is a hoarder, so he refused to throw away the lamp, decorating it, because he argued it still had a purpose, ugly burnt wires with a plug he used to hang objects from, proud of himself, which the angrier I got, the harder he laughed. If that weren’t bad enough, check out his feet, a replica actually, because they are his brother’s who I just met, and keep in mind George had it much worse, nor is the bottom represented. Even worse, he is brilliant. George is a lawyer, actually graduated from college and law school. I swear his proudest moments involve his black penis putter he plays golf with, his skateboard he just recently had Larry David sign.
I’ll give him that is cool. I love Larry David. He gave me the putter, saying I needed a date. Asshole.
It is sick how I love George. I miss dancing to reggae midday for hours, just because, or on a road trip, his ideas and humor endearing and charming, our conversations have yet to be matched. I must be Elaine or need serious therapy. Probably both. And here it is, the story I can not die having left untold….
George is responsible for an entire group of us being wanted, suspects in a crime, and back then, we were all wild and crazy, but none of us wanted to be suspects, our actions being the opening of the five o’clock news.
I am certain the details are blurry, mainly because my entire college life I spent starving and drunk, which if that were a crime, just take me in handcuffs. Take a burger and cheese fries from this girl drunk and you might need a taser. I don’t know how we ended up at McDonalds, especially since it was not open. Pizza was our normal route so how we ended up at the golden arches really is a mystery. Ronald McDonald, the huge life size fiberglass clown was pointed out by someone who shall remain nameless, because I don’t remember. That dude is scary looking, the big red lips and striped panty hose. Seriously? I personally think it is weird kids even like him.
It was game on. We were sliding on him, dry humping him for pictures, doing things to Ronald we should have been in fact paid for, sitting in pairs on his lap, posing and laughing. The Duke, a hilarious soul, did things to Ronald I can’t help but belly gut laugh at, even now. Our tight group of male friends were amused but were busy trying to figure out how he fit into the cement, attached to a bench. I remember seeing kicking, getting objects to mess with the bolts, which seems pointless and stupid then and now, an impossible act.
it was early in the morning, and I remember a bar or maybe Norms, which was across the street from our house anyway. I remember opening the door to see Ronald, bigger than any man I knew, with his arm out, sitting on our couch, chilling with a beer and a pipe, shock turning into hysterical laughter, to the point I couldn’t breathe.
We tried to ask the logistics but the moment had us on the floor, rolling in pain. He was too big to fit into a car, and we lived far from McDonalds, and the task had seemed unreachable.
Not for George.
He had gone back, with tools, a dude with no athletic skills motivated by purely semantics and alcohol consumption, a smoker, had carried him for probably at least a mile, sweat beads pouring down his forehead.
George is too lazy to do laundry but had managed to break him from steel and concrete, a part of the chair still attached to Ronald’s ass, having been forced off a bench, in the middle of night, then carried Ronald piggy back, all the way to our house.
It was genius.
It always is until the morning news comes on, a pounding headache in place, to realize you had not been at McDonald’s, but a charity house for children. Some group of sickos had stolen from children, the community was outraged, wanting information, looking for suspects.
Uh, oh. We told George to get his ass over here, to do something, to get this Ronald back to the kids.
George had a better plan. He and the boys spent hours, put on gloves, bought tape and newspapers, cutting out tiny letters, taping them to a big sheet of paper. It was not an apology, people.
They made a ransom note.
It said if Ronald was to be seen again, they wanted 80 cheeseburgers, 40 orders of fries, apple pies, a proud piece of work they skipped class to design.
When the five o’clock news came on, the boys started to get nervous, finally, for the love of God.
“How were we going to hide him?”
“How could we possibly not be seen taking him back?”
“What if security was installed?”
“How are we going to explain him off OUR couch?” He was too big to even pick up!
We were NOT going down for lap dancing on Ronald McDonald. I had plans for my life, thank you very much.
So I believe the boys decided the body had to be dumped. They got saws, some not even big enough.
My personal favorite mancub at the time, a good friend, a little skiddish, very sensitive, a dreamer, a lover, and highly ADD, was the one man in the group most likely to cry upon watching “Dances with Wolves.” He was designated the job of dumping off parts.
I wanted to hug him, or at least make him a mix tape.
So they began the process of cutting him into pieces, bagging him, putting him in the trunk slowly, every night a routine, and he would toss an arm, then a hand, one by one, out the window, fast and in a hurry, so no one would notice him.
George was too busy going over the body parts, wondering how to make the head and foot into a lamp.
So, last weekend Duke reminded me of the news saying some group of sickos mutilated the Ronald McDonald charity bench, and I laughed until my sides ached. I reminded her I had picts of her, and when I went to find them for this blog, I almost had a coronary. I don’t even think now, at 32, I could look a soul in the eye, much less the anxiety of kids around to witness me scan the evidence of Duke’s head in Ronald’s lap, their mother draped around his body like a hooker, my skirt over his head, at the same time giving a thumbs up to the camera.
The panic of having being caught by them is far more dangerous now then being put in jail back then.
My girl I shall blog Unibrow, now a lovely professional who operates by blackberry only, used to be a hippy without two even brows said, “Remember when my brother still in high school came to visit?” I didn’t. Out of nowhere, he said, “Hey, sis, what in the hell is Ronald McDonald’s head doing in your freezer?”
Everyone yelled at him to be quiet, the fear of what we were hiding made me gut laugh. I saw George coming out of his house then, thirteen years later, with what I was pretty sure looked like Ronald McDonald’s foot. The group around the fire in his back yard began laughing hysterically, and I knew I had gained two lessons, something I probably stole somewhere.
Confusious says, Time and life pass like the wind, but the wise will know this one truth. He knows, “Once a hoarder, always a hoarder.” Or something like that, okay?
I missed class that day.

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