Un-fiction.

When I think of my father I think about food. I remember looking forward all December to his special Christmas ham. It was brown sugar encrusted and pinned with cherries and pineapple rings. Every boyfriend I bothered bringing to his home, I would brag to about how my father made the best homemade spaghetti sauce in all the world. He would make me cheesecake every year for my birthday, and I swear his crust is still the sweetest I've ever felt crumble on my tongue. When he was in the kitchen, something would just happen right.

When I think of my father I think how my mother used to tell me we were alike. Both throwing in all emotion to every fight. To every love even. I remember how he would yell at her. And when I've done it myself--now, later, after the battle--it's because I thought she was weak. I didn't ever want to be the one at home alone or worse--cowered or crying. When she became a single mom, it's the one thing I swore never to be. Functioning alcoholics have an amazing capacity of giving the appearance of stability. And when my father walked away from our home, I thought it was because he was the strong party.

When I think of my father I think of his youth. How at the age of 22 he had a 13 year old stepdaughter. By 24, there was me. It must have been a lot to handle for anyone, and his life before it hadn't been easy. I wonder what kind of scars we all incidentally bring into our adulthood, even as we're making children and trying to follow dreams.

I turn 25 in six months. When my father turned 25 near my six month birthday, I wonder how much he felt like me.

Mark Your Calendar....

For the next Dr. Sketchy's in Denton. Jade Pearl and I are bringing in the New Year as the newest burlesque sensations to the area. So come out for the performances, the posing, and of course the pasties!


And if you've noticed I've been a bit quiet lately...there is a reason. I'm still mulling it over—this blog I feel I have to write but can't word yet. But I promise I will be back in all my bubbly, verbose glory with the New Year.


xoxo BvBB

One Question Interview.

Check this out to see what I had to say about the role of inner childhood delinquency in my story, "My Dead Isn't Dead." Remember...the anthology is still available for purchase in both print and online.

xoxo

Love Fool.

In a lot of ways, I feel as if I’ve never been married.

Let me share a timeline with you:

The October before I was due to graduate college, freshly turned 21, I was a hot mess. I’m not sure what set everything off. I know there was a lot that went into it. Between my nineteenth birthday in June to my twenty-first, I had undergone cancer treatment, lost a friend, lost a baby, and abandoned a lot of the trustful optimism in my eyes. Over the next few months I went out with few thoughts of consequence, and I fought to forget my losses. I did drugs beyond experimental or fun. I stopped eating and consumed many of my calories in bars after waiting tables into the midnight hour. The end of that mess saw me in a few different hospitals. I was in a lot of physical and emotional pain, but it would be months later that the fallout even concluded. Months of roller coasters, until I finally landed somewhat at the end of February—two months prior to graduating college.

But let me go back to that October. I met a guy at the highest tempo of my hot mess messiness. We had a drug-fueled (fully for me, partially for him), intensive affair full of little more than sky high musings, bathtubs, and bedrooms. We broke things off because affairs of that intensity are not meant to last long. I have no doubt it could have killed us.

A few months later, in early January, we met up for a drink or a greener errand. Perhaps both. Those details grow hazy. I had calmed down after a rather unfortunate incident at my favorite bar that left me less keen on the nightlife. That was for certain. We settled into an enjoyable if unremarkable little romance that involved lots of wine and wanting. But this fell through, too, because even though my outside life had calmed, the storm that brewed all the trouble in the first place was far from quiet, and I pushed him from me. We had a good four weeks, and then we were done.

He broke up with me on the phone. I recall feeling supremely angry about this. At that point in my life, I had seldom allowed anyone else to do the leaving, and I often preemptively struck just to avoid momentary loss of pride. So when we reconnected, yet again, at the end of February, I took it as a laugh and a challenge. I got involved with the idea that I would not for a second give serious consideration to this courtship.

By April, a month prior to my graduation, we decided to make a baby. By May, we had. In July we wed.

In less than nine months, with only five months of continuous togetherness, I had managed to meet, marry, and make a baby with a man I barely knew but really loved. It was pure insanity, and if I know me, the truth is, I would not have gone through with all of that had it not been jam-packed into a few short months. I love a good sad, love story, and the fact that we had parted and repaired so frequently seemed to shine as some sign of our true love fate.

I’m prone to obsessive fits of infatuation that burn brightly and dissipate within a few short moments or months. I feel fiercely, and I act passionately, and I tire myself out before I can even settle in. Even my writing, my longest love affair to date, has reincarnated itself again and again as I grow bored with one facet or the next. Temporarily, we meet only in secret trysts, in fleeting moments, as I’ve turned to dancing more and more to release me from the fatigue that seems to linger like smoke above my head. I’ve gone from linear, traditional fiction to poetic snippets of lust or tragedy. I’ve played with blogs and tweets—using the online comfort of eternal mutability as a means for practicing what I want to say—and floundered at both at various times.

Today I received a “Save the Date” card from a distant relative. It’s a tad cheesy (a full color magnet with their faces and wedding date), but I’m sure it made the bride happy, and I admire her for that. I never took part in such traditions. I culminated my whirlwind romance with a whirlwind wedding. I’d like to tell you, that I here I stand, on the ending side of a marriage that didn’t work, as I become more and more aware of the reasons we fell apart. That here on this dawn of awakening my relationship sensibilities, I realize the wedding part isn’t the important thing. And I do. But I also know I still want the silly things. The silly things I missed that might make that whirlwind dream seem more as if it really happened.

Today is one of those days where I can’t even seem to keep up with the flow of my wanderings.

I suppose what I want to say is this. More than ever, I have to remind myself of the long-term commitment I made to being a writer. I have to remember that even though I find my mind too tired to complete the types of works I know I can complete right now, if I just keep it always in mind, I can get this done. I can be the kind of writer that I want to be. Even if I’m not sure what that is yet. In my marriage, that may have been one of the greatest problems. As the relationship started to change, I forgot that commitment to passion that I had made. I gave up because the picture changed shapes.

There’s a few things that give me faith that maybe I’ve finally learned how to hold onto my initial enthusiasm and devotion. I’ve encountered two true passions the past year. (One has set my soul free and the other has shown me the possibility of deep romance. One is burlesque and one is not.) So I’m going to keep my faith that wherever my writing is heading, I just have to continue to love it, and we’ll both get there safely.

And as for that wedding I still want, I’ve begun to suspect that a traditional marriage may not be in my future. But I suppose the only way you begin again is by breaking tradition.

At least it will give me something to write about.

A Picture Recap of Gifts and Garters

Let me just start by saying that I want to eventually get around to a real recap of how wonderful everyone was at G&G. But right now I'm stoned johnson after a long day at work, so I'm just going to upload all the pictures I can't during the day.

As usual Mark Kaplan of the nakedlens.org showed up to take some super cool pictures, so check out the other ladies at his site.

But for now...a pictorial play by play of my striptease.

"I see you peepin' at my box."

"You're going to have fight me for these goods."

(OK, no comment. I just like my BonBon here. ;))

"I really want to...."


"I've been good all year." (Disclaimer: Claims of goodness only apply to stage scenario.)

(Wouldn't this be cute springing from a cake?)

"Santa sure takes care of girls who play nice. And to all a goodnight." ;)

Check out nakedlens.org for the full gallery of lovely ladies as well as a few more of me. Again hugs and kisses to Viv Vermuth for the makeup pretty. :)

House.

The other night during a photo shoot with Jade Pearl, she turned to me at one point and said, “This is like a grown-up’s house.”

And it was. Standing in his living room, I could survey the condition and contents of our photographer Halo’s house and tell without knowing him that an adult lived there. A real live adult who had finished decorating. Unpacked all his boxes. He had bought furniture. Cleaned house regularly. And I would be willing to bet all his light bulbs worked.

I feel like that’s the sort of place I should be at by now in my life. I have a daughter, a more than adult (as in boring but with salary and benefits) job, and I even bought my own car last year. I’ve graduated from college. I reasonably know some course I’d like my life to take even if I don’t know the locations or exact methodology yet. I’m paying off student loans, and I have a tolltag. I’ve been married and I pay all my bills online. This means I’ve arrived in the land of furniture that matches and dishes that are clean, right? Right?

As I finally begin unpacking today, after moving in over a week ago, I don’t feel like I’m an adult. I don’t have measuring cups. The two sets of matching glasses that I own both have three rather than four. And even though I have no proper cutting knives to speak of, I do have three bottle openers. My pots and pans are all wrong, and I’m now terrified to progress into the living room. Suffice it to say that my mismatched linens, hand-me-down bookshelves, and mess of lingerie and heels in need of a home are growing more daunting as the day progresses.

Every time I move to a new place, I make a new resolution. This is the time I’m going to actually decorate and stick with it until it actually occurs. This time, the dusting isn’t going to get out of hand, and I’m going to mop once a week. This time, I’m going to make my personal space somewhere I’m happy to be.

I don’t know that it will happen this time. But wish me luck. Just don’t send it in a box.

(By the way, Miss Jade and I were shooting for our upcoming session of Dr. Sketchy’s in Denton. More details (and pictures) to come! I'll also be pictorially recapping from Gifts and Garters very soon...I just need to make some space first.)

True Story.

I ran across this quote in the comments on Lost Plum's latest post (a post I relate to like whoa). Sometimes, Marilyn just really got it right.

“I’m selfish, impatient and a little insecure. I make mistakes, I am out of control and at times hard to handle. But if you can’t handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don’t deserve me at my best.” – Marilyn Monroe

For a Tasty Little Treat...

Head on over to Bewitching Burlesque for my holiday interview. Just one more day til Gifts and Garters....I can't wait to share my holiday surprise. ;)

xoxo BvBB