Someone Once Told Me

Someone Once Told Me…

“If you go back to waiting tables at a certain age, you never come back.”

“Going to school is for people who have important dreams, not people like us.”

“If you go to school, the most important aspects of your child’s life could slip through your fingers, moments you can never get back.”

“Going to school is the stupidest idea to earning an education.”

“If you do not go to school, you will become a second rate photographer, another one of million amateurs who lowers rates for the higher paid non ignorant working professionals.”

“If you go to school, you will be in so much debt that it is illogical and frivolous, an idea built on an illusion that you could possibly make any money freelancing.”

“If you quit waiting tables while in school for gas and food to assist for a new friend, you are walking on a tight rope of financial irresponsibility.”

“If you go to school and continue not sleeping, you will go crazy and possibly are bipolar as it is.”

“You can not get a job without learning how to be a cord bitch first, and you, can never efficiently handle wires or cords.”

“Mommy, if you fail school, I will not be sad because I will see you more.”

“The only thing I regret about The Circus was not quitting sooner.”

“You can not pass first quarter without a light meter, a failing computer, a color checker, or a tripod. This computer is absolutely unacceptable.”

“In 100% pie chart, only one percent will make it after going 40,000 dollars in debt, an impossible equation to overcome no matter how good you are at hustling. That will never pay the bills.”

“You may be terrible at Photoshop, but I must say, you write great emails.”

SOMEONE ONCE TOLD ME….

“Go with your gut, because it is always right.”

“I believe in you.”

“I don’t know how you create the things you do, but when you say it is going to happen, I get the joy of sitting back and watching it unfold.”

“You should be charged more, yes you, the first quarter student with no technical skills.”

“Do not walk behind me and carry equipment. Take this Canon 5D and put it on your neck. You are the only one not believing you are a professional.”

“You will be the last one standing, no matter what anyone else thinks. I have seen you prove it again and again.”

“Only one in a million are made like you. No one can say what to do but you.”

“Here are the keys to your car we had fixed. I may not be getting out of Chilis, but I’ll be damned if you don’t for me.”

“You, the students, are responsible for your own education.”

and my favorite, “Mommy, no matter what happens, don’t cry. I love you just the same..”

And so, my dear readers, after one quarter, you have read and supported this journey of my one broken tripod, my longing for home, my tears from the endless nightmares of problem solving, all of you along the way supporting and cheering me, have awakened with me, coffee in my hand, tears on my keystrokes.

Feel the weight of your love.

It has taken all that I am, has not been easy, and almost cost everything, and is nowhere near over, but the statement in the school auditorium that brought me chills then, still has taught me the most invaluable lesson of my life.

“Forget your perfect offering. There is a crack, a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.”

And I’m tired of being perfect at failing, so tired, my dearest friends, and so I must learn that failing was never my problem, but success was always the excruciating dream crushing my existence, asking me if I was worth it, what I valued in order to obtain it, who would I need approval from and why to claim it? It has been here all along, knocking, whispering, asking, and today, I finally cry out, is finally for me to seize it.

I have been offered a nice salary, way above what I am qualified, being paid by check now, have a budget I almost choked at the dollar amount, a number my imagination didn’t quite know existed, my checking account is at 12 bucks. I have a respected opinion into how this budget is managed as far as business, marketing, clients, and goals. I “get” to be in charge of learning lighting, with brand new equipment to play with at my disposal, have the Canon 5D, workshops fully paid and booked in the areas of growth I need including Photoshop, Marketing, and Lighting.
I am working for and with a professional who has asked me to share her vision, her dream, believes in the magic of my own marketing, my loyalty, my passion, aware the skills to photograph are coming along much faster than what I am aware of.

It was I who made the decision to quit school, and in that moment I looked at her and said, “It’s time. We don’t belong here.”
She did not hesitate, but went to the car, handed me my job requirements, our vision statement, the goals we had been discussing for hours while supposed to be doing homework. She had known all along, that Thelma, all along, and had waited for me to see it for myself, that I was worth it, deserved it, owned it. But, she, my new partner not just in crime, but business, had always seen what I was too afraid to.
Here I had been, worried about a tripod.

This one is for you, Thelma, the song you thought of me for, the one that played the day I changed my own mind, the day we made a commitment to not just business or each other, but to ourselves, a cohesive force of two creatives with fearless drive and ambition.
I dare anyone to say you can’t.
I will die fighting for what we build, who we hire, how we create, and nobody is worth the bumps, falls, failures, and defeats along the way more than you. No one has supported or pushed or believed in me without a doubt, with such fierce loyalty and surmountable support and non attachment to the outcome like yourself.
I thought it would be a man, but I was wrong.
I have finally met my equal.
And that has made it all worth it.

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Goodbye 32

Have you ever gone to the drive thru window expecting chicken but ended up with four cheeseburgers, a large fry,
two shakes, a coke and two apple pies?

Me either.

But, that is in a nutshell what 32 felt like, except they dumped five opened sauces in the bottom of the bag without a single napkin.

I have been cleaning up some major messes, met Clyde on Valentine’s Day, left waiting tables to go to the Circus, one car died in the parking lot of work but was rescued, pushed, a collection taken to have it fixed for me.

I sobbed my eyes out that day.

Before it was returned to me, the car I borrowed began to smoke and I thought it might blow up, and I cried pretty hard that day too.

I was on the side of the road off 285, sobbing and texting perfect strangers, two photography girls I had to ask to take me to class, two cars destroyed, but a lighting demo in front of me. They picked me up and I put my head between my legs, ashamed, tired, aching for longing for my babies, terrified of Tungsten lights, ready to be critiqued for images I hated.

I showed up with a borrowed camera and a laptop that failed me, putting me in Kevin’s studio with a girl I thought hated me.

Divorcee predicted I would win her over.
I never doubt that, but with this one, I was sure.

Not only did she like me, but she hired me, so I quit waiting tables which led me to the day to rent a tripod only to meet a man.

That freakin tripod. It attracted men like flies so I bought my own, from him actually, The Collector, to go on and discover that my photography was definitely improving, but more than that, I knew I had started the school with fifteen bucks, no gas, a borrowed tripod and camera. I ended the quarter with a job, a personality disorder, a fat lens, a new Macbook, a BFF, a passion I had ignite me for the love of the craft and this school.

Nothing was going to compare to first quarter. We were certain.

Whenever you believe that, watch out. First week of 2nd quarter my car had an expired tag, so we had a run in with the law, two outlaws ensuring we had to start Kevin’s class completely over because a little thing like jail kept us from turning in our burned DVD‘s.

I look back on 32 like a wart that is being removed.

I don’t know who that person was, in her apron, chatting all the time with best girl friends about life, dreaming of maybe one day going
back to school, maybe for photography.

I had no freakin clue I was putting my hand in a blender, with teachers who meant business, a work load literally impossible to handle and sleep as well, not to mention I became very familiar with hate mail, all my best friends furious I had abandoned them.

My mom worried until I thought she might be sick, my keys falling through 15 foot drains, my breath held while I wondered if anyone would notice the way my stomach growled but I said “No thanks” to the waitress, asking me if I were ready to order.
I couldn’t.

Kat and Lola needed Halloween outfits.

I see that all these events were perfect in their imperfection, driving me to a place I didn’t know could even be possible to go, the black hole of fear like a vacuum, swallowing me hole, taking me down in short suffocating breaths.
But I found something.

I found me.

I have become something I don’t know how to describe, a strength I did not know exists, a passenger to life no more, I put my ass behind the wheel, decided crash or burn, I was driving.

It has resulted in an unbelievable partnership with Thelma, a deep sobbing goodbye cry with Divorcee, both of us aware our time here is ticking, tick tock tick tock.
The hourglass is turned and we see the end in the horizon, my connections ridiculous in proportion to what I ever imagined, my life a testament to what it means to burn to the ground, face my haters, be pulled in and out again by my supporters, all the while, knowing if I could just get through this day, the next would come, and one baby step later, I am here.

Saying goodbye.

I have had to say goodbye so many times in my life for all sorts of reasons, but this is bittersweet. I am saying goodbye to the woman I was, the woman I thought I deserved to be, poor and broken, terrified of failure and love.

My dreams have been handed to me, a note attached asking, “Do you deserve them?”

The answer is yes.

Endings come with beginnings, fear vanishes with love, and beauty is only skin deep, but I no longer apologize or question my abilities, the power inside of me swelling like a hot air balloon.
It has been a lonely terrifying incredibly beautiful year, but I wonder who I would be without it, the losses gave me the strength of resolve, the people who have surrounded me have brought me to my knees. I have been humbled, loved, supported, forgiven.

Goodbye 32. Thank you. Thank you for reminding me what it is to be truly alive, lit with fire from within, powerful and weak, confrontational and hiding, looking for monsters in my closest, hoping for one more day to see hope.

I will never forget you nor will I miss you.

It is time to bring in 33, a new year full of new adventures to be had, lessons to be learned, a constant reminder that indeed,

“Normal is a Setting on the Dryer.”

“Thelma and Louise, but in the Buff”

What happens when you and the girl you mutually do not like get paired up for studio lighting?

One of you is bound to get naked.

When I heard the announcement that we were partners, I groaned, my stomach tight and uneasy. I had many judgments, ruthlessly believed I was nothing like her, had talked about her behind her back which she called me out on. I was pissed I had not said it to her face to begin with, putting that lesson in my back pocket which I hope to never relive again, mad I had not said the words to her face from the very beginning.

The worse thing about gossip is that the thing you wanted to say translates to nothing you said therefore what you really wanted to say never gets heard.

Gossip sucks.

I didn’t blame her for not liking me either, content to leave it there, and so of course, an intense portrait and lighting class where concepts and meetings, hours of styling and modeling for each other takes course, our photographs depending on our partner’s collaboration.

I was screwed.

I thought about how I was going to handle this partnership, my photography and work a fierce passion for me, and I knew it was my work or my ego that was going to suffer, or perhaps both, and so, I decided I had to package and sell the worst product ever.

I had to figure out how to make this girl tolerate me.

We met at a Starbucks, both noticeably on guard while I pitched her the idea of taking all the judgments we had of the other and making fun of them through our photographs. I thought she would be defensive and disagreeable, but she laughed, surprised me by jumping right in, our love to photograph suddenly started wearing down our defenses, and after many hours, I found myself surprisingly adoring this girl I had thought uptight, crazy defensive, and incapable of being actually real.

Second huge lesson to put in pocket is to never judge, not just because you may be their actual model for a shoot critiqued by everyone in class, but because most likely you will find you are always without a doubt, 100% wrong. And so, I fell in love with her actually, not in the bi-hopeful way, but the really amazing way, an unfolding of trust that happens when a person decides you are worthy of it.

She was nothing like I had imagined, fearless and fun in a feisty determined way, not to mention a far better photographer, an actual working one, with nice equipment and years of experience already on her belt.

I had not thought her an artist until she began pushing me as hard and harder when I pushed her, a broad slap to my confidence, asking me to require myself of exactly what I had once accused her of not being.

She wanted me to get real.

As a lover of fashion photography, she wanted me out of my converse sneeks and jeans, my comfort zone peeling away with a sick vomit feeling replacing it. I hate being photographed.

No, seriously. I really really hate it.

And so, she argued, she hated it too, and if I were making her be a trophy wife, raw and revealing in low light and maybe smoking to make fun of her uptight attitude I had once imagined, she wanted me to be sexy.

She picked out my wardrobe, dove face first into the shot gun wedding bride I had imagined in my mind, her passion for my photos just as important to her as her own. We talked and laughed a lot, argued even, and I suddenly couldn’t remember what in the hell I ever disliked to begin with, remembering only when she opened her mouth in class, like the time she discussed all the books our teacher had written in class.

I wanted to smack her and here I was drinking in her passionate energy, and at three in the morning in her basement, had a tight dress, a make up artist, and before I knew it, was cold and naked in a coat waiting for her to decide what to dress me in next, our idea as a logical IT guy would be a certain irony.
I know when she gets an idea in her head, the way her head tilts, her eyes sparkle, the fast way she moves and directs, crazy to get the idea out of her. Now I also know the next time her eyes sparkle to run like hell.

“Don’t move,” she said. I was confused, thinking I was watching her grab her camera to actually shoot me, right at that moment, which I knew couldn’t be it. I looked over my shoulder.

“I said Don’t MOVE,” she barked, her eyes darted right through me.

“FUCK YOU,” I at least think that is what I said, but I will just wing it for the story since I do get a little grouchy at 4 in the morning, cold and tired, in heels with a fan on me. It had not yet hit me.

And then it hit me.

“YOU want me to look like this, for IT GUY? ARE YOU NUTS?”
She told me to look up at the wall and back at her in three.

“FUCK YOU.” I know I said it then, but actually laughing this time, because she was dead serious.

“Just shut up and do what I say, cause that is hot, and that is what I want.”
I give her props for not giving me time to bail, cry, or even think, and I realized she had just pulled off the impossible. I was modeling nude in a coat for an audience.

How did she get me to do that?

I realized I needed to shut my mouth more and watch what I think I can’t learn from. It also helped the basement studio has no mirrors, the inability to not see myself was vital, and so fuck it, I thought.
And so Thelma and Louise were born, her being Thelma she demanded, because of the obvious brown hair.

We worked tirelessly, and I learned more about photography in those early hours of listening to her direct me than any snapshot I called art. Anyone who can get me in front of a camera much less take off my clothes is someone I have a lot to learn from.
Well, that was my attitude until the day of class, the adrenaline and moment were over and I was now seeing the projector I had forgotten was as big as the coming back of Christ, my heart pounding, my head suddenly feeling slightly dizzy at the realization of what I might see.
I think I thought it was going to be the worst moment of my life, but it actually was interesting to hear myself critiqued in her photography by people I respect, the person in the photographs seemed distant and foreign, an actual vision of a painting or piece of art in front of me.
I didn’t really have a lot of thoughts about it.
We had key and low light, three different backgrounds, great concepts, and had learned a lot about each other, the best part of the assignment.
No, by walking away with each other, I say we nailed it.
I hate it that I can’t show off my work, but she is nothing like me, Thank God, and I would like for that not to change. Not everyone can be a perfect failure, an imperfect duality of having the highs no one can touch, the lows no one dares to imagine, the life everyone wants to visit, but not stay.
There is only one Miss Obvious.
I doubt I even need to point that out, which is an irony, of course, coming straight from the woman who owns the name.

Speaking of Mini Series Blogs

The events of the past weekend have been above and beyond bizarre, hilarious, and insightful.
I know you must be sitting there, if you are, totally shocked.
That was sarcasm. I always have wanted a sarcasm button to text. Think about it. A sarcasm button over texts could have saved me an unwanted conversation or two, much less think of the relationship issues that could be avoided. Then there are all the times you want to be sarcastic, but worry the other will not realize, so you hold back, that inner sarcastic edge irritated to have missed a great opportunity. Just saying.
Anyways, I have decided I must blog the weekend events as a mini series, which is perfect, a mini series seems so daytime Soap Opera, or Lifetime, the silliest soft porn for women on the planet.
I know because I was addicted to Lifetime while pregnant with Kat.
Nine months of Lifetime, over and over, every freakin day.
Hmmm. Perhaps I should have been nicer to Divorcee, looking back, when he would walk into the other room and I would scream for him to come see what was going to happen to Jenny, who really was adopted by another family, and had been stolen!!!! It used to irritate the fire out of me that he would groan, quickly distract me or mumble he had to do this or that, or talk loudly, not caring about the plot. I think I was just hormonal, looking back.
If you catch this one Divorcee, I am sorry about that.
A mini series blog is like asking you to stay tuned to see if Marlena is really possessed by the devil, a clip from the next week showing you John doesn’t even care, coming to rescue her from Stefano without his shirt on.
Yes, I actually watched “Days of Our Lives” in high school. I was shocked to see years later I still knew the plot.
Actually, I take that back. I smoked cigarettes with a girl who watched “Days of Our Lives” when I would have been beheaded at my house for chillin in a bed, smoking, watching Day Time soft porn.
I just realized why my mom refuses to read my blog.
If you are reading this, my smoking “Days of Our Lives friend,” you better recognize.
I doubt she is. She doesn’t read. She lays in bed and watches horror films, or at least she did, until I saw thirteen years later, she had a relationship on face book. Maybe they do it together, rent three horror films a night, watch recordings of “Days of Our Lives,” during the day, before work, recorded by VHS.
I get people evolve, but not her. I bet she smokes Marlboro Lights, drinks Bud Light ONLY from the bottle, has dark lipstick and big breasts, rents movies, and hates the sun.
If you know this person, please guess below in the comment section!
I love getting and giving shout outs from these random characters in my life, especially when I have no idea if anyone reads these blogs, much less catches a clip of part of themselves while doing so.
I didn’t wonder ever, until recently, when people I don’t know very well would ask about Clyde, or how Lola did at school, and I give them this bizarre reaction, wondering if I have been stalked. I thought I was going nuts, a little,
especially with the Clyde thing.
“How the hell did he know he kept bees?” I would wonder about a coworker, asking how the dude I wasn’t screwing was doing, you know, the one you are in to, the one who kept bees. First of all, I can call myself out on not having a sex life, about to go off on him, but then I thought, stopped, dropped, and rolled.
Just kidding. I was too speechless. I had this unbelievable thought.
“OH MY GOD. HE READS MY BLOG.”
I went from anger to pure love and my heart felt physical joy go through my body that someone had even cared to read, especially a dude, and I even wondered if it had been forced upon him, so young, and then panic struck.
I know now why Auntie Sage has been quiet about my dating life.
It was my own mother who reminded me all the dirty details are all over the world wide web.
I forget this, seeing as I blog quickly to get it all out of my system, hit publish, go on with my life until that one moment when someone at work, who I know does horrible at side work, may be a good person but a liar about having been rolling silverware, will throw a line at me like, “If I were you at Dairy Queen, I wouldn’t have left until I got the right drink. You should have thrown it in his face.” I thought, “What an idiot.”
Wow. That guy has got to get off drugs was my next thought.
Then, it started happening a lot more. “Only You,” my friend D would sigh, dipping her chips like little flowers into her chip basket. The rest of us crush them in. I would think, “Only Me, What?”
Then, I had a girl from high school hunt me down to tell me about what to do about Clyde, or this, and then she asked if I minded writing about her. I still thought I was missing something, that people were acting strange.
Then D would respond with irritation when I would tell her very important information, which she would say,
“DUH, I read that one,” walking away like she is the Boss, which she is.
So, then, I started getting requests, and even old friends had been angry that they had not been acknowledged, all the time, I thought after I published my blog, with the new understanding it would connect to your face book and Twitter accounts, that I would delete it later.
I was certain no one would read it anyway.
To the people who acknowledge I am not writing to myself, out of pure release and therapy, thank you.
Thank you for showing me how much it means to have poured my life onto a blank page, raw and vulnerable, and being sent responses, for taking your own time to read my nonsense.
Thank you for showing me how much it means to me, to write, which I always have done, but to have an audience is the most blessed part of my life right now.
Oh my God. I totally got off track.
What was I writing about?
That is not going to be happening today, my plan, which I usually never have one.
Oh, so the point was that I went to a wedding of an old dear friend, met with my closest soul brothers and sisters from college, had the time of my life, and almost died there, stranded.
Almost being the key there, but even my family admits, it was definitely an option.
So, to truly capture the best material ever, a fact that life is stranger than fiction, I will have three blogs, I have decided. One on WHY I WENT to New Jersey, by plane, train, and automobile, completely alone, for the first time ever. The second blog will be about HOW i GOT to New Jersey and HOME, a blog that depending who you are or how well you know me, may be funny or strange.
Most my family members were mostly anxious, knowing what was possible, praying, with a sense of dread.
The third blog will be WHAT HAPPENED while I was in New Jersey, a dedication to my most beautiful friends I have loved since I stepped foot in Charleston, who have known me personally at a level no one else can.
And until then, it was nice chatting with you, I mean myself, because I totally sat down to write about a guy named George, a blog I was certain was going to be the best ever.
If you are reading George, you shouldn’t be. It is about your wedding, and I hope your wife has not killed you yet, and no, I refuse to give you a black pornstar blog name.
You are George, and I guess even I will have to wait to find out why.

Harpua

I met up with a childhood friend of mine, a man I shall call Harpua, an explanation of that name I wonder how I can even attempt to explain. We had been trying to meet up for awhile, and I was only going for one drink, which now that I see it written down, would be the perfect title of my first book.
“I Was Only Going For One Drink” on this day would open to me thinking it really strange I was meeting him at the same Sushi place I had gone to meet Clyde on our first blind date, except that Clyde was in a different location that night. I had gone to the Buckhead location, of course, the wrong freakin restaurant, which is why I felt suspicious of this suggestion, the second time at the same bar, probably twelve years since I had seen him last, so I must have asked a few times if he was absolutely sure this was where he wanted to meet. He was sure.
The history of how I know him I am split on if I should write about, the writer in me loves the story of it, unheard of, fabulous actually and authentic, but the little kid in me knows that would blow his cover entirely, and I kind of want to keep him a secret. I am the worst at keeping secrets, especially good or fun ones, and I still at 32, a grown ass woman, find myself wanting to blurt out the gift I bought, too excited to wait for the very person to finish opening my own gift I wrapped to disguise.
I had been on somewhat of a binge of going out, especially for Phish, so I set up my own clear cut boundaries and rules, satisfied that by meeting up in Buckhead, a location far enough from my house, I calculated one beer, maybe a tall one, since I am a light weight, and a terrible driver, facts that would inevitably lead to me being in my bed by midnight. I needed the sleep, to save money, and by meeting him there, I would not have much of a choice but to drive home responsibly.
I had no idea his home was located on top of the Sushi bar.
Seriously, though. Who would? I know this answer would normally sound like an excuse, one I would give my mom as a teen, “But, mom, you don’t understand. He LIVED on top of the Taco Mac. SERIOUSLY.”
I figured he was a regular, the bartender grabbing him a beer, sliding two shots of some clear blue liquid in front of us, her eyes not coming off the computer screen, him thanking her like a friend, not a customer.
That is not unusual, but when he stood up with the beer still in his hand, asking me if I were ready to go, I thought it was strange we were walking towards the back, and she yelled at him to put his beer in a paper cup. I ignored that and said, “Why were we walking towards the back?” a question he laughed at, like I were being a smart ass.
No, but seriously. Now we were heading up concrete stairs, and he looked at me funny, the thought not occurring to him I didn’t just KNOW most people don’t walk to the back of Macaroni Grill, fall through a rabbit hole, and land in their house.
21 floors higher, the last one, and a corridor of rooms reminding me of a hotel I stayed at in the Blue Ridge Mountains led us to his home, with a view of Atlanta that physically took my breath from me, and I was stunned to silence at the beauty of the very city I had never believed beautiful.
Things are never what they seem these days.
It was even cool, with a breeze, the lights of Atlanta lighting the sky, blinking, flashing, the little cars moving like tiny ants, and I was beside myself, pointing out this and that, my excitement unable to contain.
“WHO LIVES LIKE THIS?” I yelled to him, feeling like I had been one of Oprah’s surprise guests, thinking I was getting a 3.00 draft, but being put on a balloon ride by her crafty producers, feeling certain an audience would be clapping at my shock by Skype.
He smiled. He looked exactly the same as I remember at seventeen, but what I realized was that I didn’t know him at seventeen really, just his family, our joint friends and siblings, all thrown together by our religious background. There is something sweet about reuniting with anyone who shared your own backdrop though, like being part of a club, and ours was certainly unique, and I wondered who he was now, what he thought about all the things we had witnessed growing up, if he had any idea about my father, if he remembered me differently or found me to be the same.
What I found is that what I am passionate about is the evolution of people, however that appears for each one of us is vastly different, and that to realize yet again, nothing is what I expect, but that to listen to how people evolve in the world in this human experience thrills me.
The guy I remember was quiet, passive, stoned or perhaps checked out, in love with his girlfriend, in a way I felt certain would mean marriage the way his life revolved around her. I was now looking at someone passionate and even radical, his eyes on fire as we discussed politics, religion, our love for our family, how and where all of our relationships with our siblings had gone and grown. He was exciting, smart, authentic, and we were practically yelling over each other, the conversation endless and timeless, and in the tiny breaths of the night, I wondered why he never looked at me. He always looked up, away, down, or to the side when he talked, and on one hand, I thought it a breath of fresh air to be with a man who spoke to me like his equal, a friend, with a great deal of respect. On the other hand, I am a woman, and I hope not that hard to look at, felt the warmth and subtle ease of chemistry, and had brief thoughts of not minding being too respected.
That being said, it was a low blow, for him to grab his guitar and play Waste, his glass of wine by his feet, his hat turned a little to the side, his voice confident and beautiful, to all things Phish, another passion we have in common, and I sang along, dancing in total ease, sharing the stories of where we were behind them, what the messages meant beneath them. That is part of the reason why I call him Harpua, a song about a man who lived in a great tower, a man who seethed in anger over what civilization had become, while my friend pointed over all the lights of Atlanta, fuming over Bank of America, the only unlit castle in the sky, the symbol of greed and bankruptcy. The story of Harpua goes on to explain how a friend equal in his wrath came to join him, as my friend told the story of the fury and triumph one friend of his played in him coming to buy the great tower he lived in. It was a huge business risk, one that no one believed could happen, and just like the story of Harpua, he sat up there watching his view change, pointing out all the tiny details of the city, his thoughts on our country and financial state powerful and provoking.
Yep, I went out for one drink, and did not come home by midnight.
I rolled up that next day, without an hour of sleep, with a UFO tshirt he had pulled out of his closet for me, groaning over having to go to work, my girls running to hug me, all my work clothes cleaned and dried, by the lovely Divorcee, who laughed when I walked in the door.
“One drink, huh?” He was reading in his meditation chair.
“BUT YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND!!! I said. I met HARPUA, climbed his tower, on top of a Sushi bar, looked over the city, and danced to music, all the while, uncovered the mysteries of the universe. I did have to smile, seeing that one night of being completely blown away by me could be viewed to him as just one more typical Saturday night.
“At least it was worth it.” He said it in amusement, asking me if I realized I had only one work shoe on, Lola bringing me silly bands, Kat asking the same hundred questions she had left me with from yesterday, my phone buzzing somewhere in my car.
One drink is always worth it.

My Craig’s List Search for a BFF

First, why would I be willing to go to Craig’s List for a BFF?
My soul sisters are scattered all over the place most of them married or engaged, having babies, exhausted. They are pumping milk, yelling at their husbands to have sex with them while ovulating, praying not to pee when they sneeze, all fat and pregnant. Its exhausting. I remember.
I did that at 22, and now at 32, am divorced, single, have two beautiful girls independent more by the day, am about to go back to school, wait tables, and have an agenda here.
My best friend is a man, 39 with no kids, and I love him. In fact, I have fabulous men in my life, my ex husband, my three brothers, great guy buddies.
But none of them have vaginas.
I am sending out a message to the Universe. Paris Hilton did it so why can’t I? All qualified BFF women please apply.
QUALIFICATIONS
1. A woman in late 20s to mid 30s who is Single, Dating, Divorced, Hot, and most importantly, a loving Mom. It would be great if she were as confused as me to what the hell all that means.
2. She has to be hilarious. Even better, she has to think I am hilarious. Dry wit, the ability to laugh at herself and me openly and often, sarcastic, and a blast to be around.
3. She has to be soulful. I need a friend who has no energy for drama, but has a passion for life, its lessons, has a humility that is beautiful, someone I know I can seek great wisdom and advice.
4. She has to be open. Is it possible there is a friend out there who has been through divorce, horrific dating phases, gone through it and has passed into the forgiveness stage of life? I can’t be around bitter, angry, revengeful women who hate men, a necessary stage, but one I have passed through.
5. She has to be tough. I want to have fun, get advice on kids and men, but I want someone who loves me enough to call me out on my bullshit, and who can take the same thing back, without it costing our relationship. I want her to require of herself what she requires of me. I love honest women.
6. She has to love women. Bitch, whore, and slut should all be names we use as terms of endearment. I have so many friends in their early 20s who are messes, but so was I. I have to have a friend who is so solid in who she is, gorgeous women don’t intimidate her, jealous girls make her feel compassion, psycho girls she can sniff out, warn me in advance.
7. She has to have a sense of direction. I get lost in grocery stores, would not leave the house without a GPS. Responsible but laid back would be great, enough so she doesn’t get pissed when I break, change, or make plans at last minute. If she can’t be spontaneous, she’ll hate me. If she isn’t organized, we will never go anywhere.
8. Takes photos nicely since I am going to be needing a good model, cooks while I clean, reads constantly, goes out in heels dressed up occasionally. Mostly, we’ll take the kids places, check out men over our sunglasses, text, make beach trips, oh, and she must love music. SHE MUST LOVE LIVE MUSIC.
9. Oh, and a boundary chick for sure. I can’t deal with needy black holes or someone who doesn’t have a life outside of me, a person who makes bad decisions over and over, clingy, or jealous. I want to be in her life and her to be in mine, a perfect fit, someone who loves me as I am and vice versa.
10. Lastly, if she loves to drive and lets me go shot gun, that is the icing on the cake. Hopefully, she will be the kind of girl that puts the window down, lets me put my feet out, and sings as loud as she can to the radio. I hope she is beautiful, fearless, and a complete nut, just like me. A nut, mess, or completely lost, at least she will be real, and I will love her forever.
Thats all I can think of at the moment. If you know this woman, drop her off on my doorstep. I will owe you for life….