Introducing My Girl, “The Phoenix”

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,

Yelling at Monsters is Cheaper than Therapy

The blog I wrote called, “90 Days to Follow Your Bliss” was my first post written after drinks with M and JC, a soulful night that inspired each of us to commit to a diet that included living in our joy and finding true bliss. We decided over clinking martini glasses that following your bliss has to be an authentic process, a choice to live from joy, an inner and very personal set of truths that needed to be rediscovered, a road map to lead us home. I listened to M and JC quietly and I knew I had called this experience to myself, that I was exactly where I was supposed to be. I never have been a girl who believes in coincidences.

I had been thinking a lot about my life lately, in the quiet moments of my day, driving to work, after the girls are in bed, at the gym. It was a process of becoming aware of things I had been hiding from myself, and it was hurting me, like waking to a raging hangover, searching for Advil only to find bright sunlight, irritating thoughts, and misplaced sunglasses. Truth became like water, and I was looking everywhere else to quench my thirst.
I am a lover of life, laughter, and fun. Inspiration calls me and when I am in my magic, I am fearless, creative and awake, my days filled with chill bumps, colorful characters, and a deep sense of peace that all is right, not because the people in my life say so, but because I say it. I am living in my truth and my cup overflows.
The hurting has come here to help me, while I have been cursing and kicking like a spoiled child. It is my way, this rebellion, and I don’t like its questions, assumptions, and my ego says it has no place in my life. And yet, even a rebellious prideful woman like myself eventually breaks, remembering that I am a lover of the light, a fact I never have been able to escape.

Embracing light means making friends with the hurting, asking it to show me what I am here to learn, a humble and desperate breaking indeed. I have been shown that so much of my life has become one of survival, a daily routine where all my decisions stem from fear and chaos. I will myself through long hours for cash tips, worry over car troubles and bills, find release at the gym from the daily anxiety of a family shattered, holidays that lost their joy, a mother who lost her will to live, a daily reminder that the woman I loved the most may never come back to me. There are days I watch her just disappear before my eyes. I had closed myself off to the real possibility of love, dating men who I knew would never break me wide open, a fact that made me feel safe, and yet, always alone. I had made the decision that my dreams for my life had lost their time, a life of hard work was what I must deserve, and the joy I have in my girls kept me going, their beautiful faces making it worth getting up to start all over again.

Until now.

I listened to JC and M describe what they need to follow their bliss. As they talked, a funny thing happened. The hurting stopped. I felt a wave of hope and relief, and my old friend inspiration was finally back, stopping back to ask me on a 90 day diet, asking me what makes me dream, telling me to be as selfish as I want, to not hold back, to be fearless, to remember who I used to be and always will be, to let these women witness what you have dared to dream, hoped to one day become.

My bliss for me meant writing every day, pursuing the Creative Circus for photography, which would take balls to even think I could be accepted, much less get the financial aid I need, the help for my kids, and to work. I would need to make daily goals and see them through, to stop seeing the closed doors and look for the window, to start believing my family will heal, to let go of the control I never had to begin with. To follow my bliss means to open my heart as well, to have spontaneous fun and believe in love, to be raw and honest, to face my fears, and have some overdue mind blowing sex.

I have been very surprised at what I have discovered, probably only 30 days into our 90 day diet.
I started writing this blog.
I have made a lifetime friendship with Clyde.
My family has supported me and missed me, revealing how easy it is to sabotage life when we make assumptions and sacrifices, believing it will bring approval.
I have had every ugly fear rear its head with full force, non stop.
I have a blind date.
I am being paid to photograph a wedding of a friend.
And lastly, with my stomach in knots, today I will be officially be handing in all the requirements, a process in itself, and will be waiting an answer from the Creative Circus, a two year program I believe will change my life personally, professionally, and financially.

I believe now that I am following my bliss, dreaming big, and I have absolutely no idea what I am doing, what will result, or how I will change. I am opening my closet door to the monsters, yelling at them to come on out from under the bed, waiting for the sky to fall and lightning to strike. As far as the hurting, I am amazed that the thing I hated and tried to kill always came from a place of love. I have tried to escape it, beat it, kill it, numb it, and may always will, but the beat only gets stronger, the message more powerful to deliver. When I feel it now, I try to place my hand over it, knowing it is part of me, a part of God, and the thing that I thought might kill me, well, it just might set me free.

It just might bring me home.

The Flip, the Switch, and the Crazies.

My intention with this blog was for me to write about my demons, the censored parts of my life that I need to purge to feel healthy, without judgment.

I wanted to be fearless in my writing, to bring all the dark places within me to the light, to throw the f bomb around if needed, to journal my deepest wants and needs, to write about all the people who have blessed, cursed, hurt, contributed, and loved me on the journey.

I’m not so sure it was a good idea to publish it on facebook. And yet, I’m not so sure it isn’t. For one, the blog I wrote titled “The One Who Got Away.” actually ended up being read indeed by “The One Who Got Away.”

I used to call him Hurricane as one of his many nicknames.

He had so much energy and power and enthusiasm for life that it was like he couldn’t help but start electrical storms every where he went. And so, the blog was published on facebook, which he read, and he asked me to please come visit him and he would pay for the plane ticket. I think I am a little bit in shock over this.

What am I going to do? I have no freaking idea.

And of course, there are issues surrounding my father. I want to write about him because he is my ultimate teacher, the catalyst of all that I have learned through pain and destruction, forgiveness, and self awareness.

He has taught me what I am made of, how much I love, how secretly I hurt, how deeply I give. He has forever changed me for the better but in sharing those details, I fear that I will hurt or anger people I love by putting the ugly details of our family’s dirty laundry on public display. I am still working this out by constantly reminding myself to trust the process. I tell myself often to stop asking for the acceptance and validation from people outside of me, to live and speak my own truth and ultimately, to trust that my good intentions do actually matter.

Clyde isn’t even close to being ready for a committed relationship, and on most days I am good with this, enjoying being in the moment with him, our friendship still feels like fresh air, and I am hopeful it always will. We have so much effin fun together.

I knew from the beginning that his heart does not belong to me, but to his ex, and I still find this to be a bitter pill to swallow. Love is absolutely ridiculous and unfair, isn’t it? The love one of us would dream of having another would just give away. He’s trying to let her go and meanwhile, I’m trying to let him go, all the while trying to remain fearless, unguarded, and hopeful. This to me is what I call the flip, the switch, and the crazies. On a high note, photography is coming into focus and I will be finding out soon if I got into the school of my dreams, if waiting tables will soon have its end, if I have the courage to go face everything that makes me weak in the knees and faint at heart. I believe I’m doing well on my 90 day diet to follow my bliss. Some days I think my heart may just break wide open, and what you see come out will look a lot like this: