This is Where I Write

It's so simple really.

2010-04-06T16:03:00.000-07:00

New post at my new url: www.thisiswhereiwrite.com

Thanks for the patience in my absence. Alice has left her cube and it's all wonderland wandering from here on out. ;)

I'm in Pinup Perfection Magazine!

2010-03-11T08:01:00.000-08:00

The kitchen issue, darlings. Mama may be useless when it comes to domestic duties...but I sure look hot faking it. ;)

Check, check, check it out! Flip on over to page 24 to see what's in store!

ALSO!

2010-03-04T11:37:00.000-08:00

In addition to boobs and fun, we are doing a fundraiser for the Greenville fire. 102.1 the Edge, with some extra help from DJ Jesse, has graciously provided us some kick-ass items up for raffle.

Prizes include:

An autographed guitar from 102.1 the Edge's Egdefest 19, signed by ALL the bands.
Tickets to Coheed and Cambria, Alkaline Trio, Angels and Airwaves, Aaron Lewis of Staind, and more.
Season Passes to Bewitching Burlesque's 2010 season
2 two-hr sessions of tattoo work (300 value each) from Hold Fast Tattoo
3 sessions of laser removal from Allen Falkner and a tattoo cover-up from Suffer City
An original painted skateboard from Kira Leseman
Original art from Vera Voodoo, Daniel Driensky, and more!

This is a great way to help out while indulging your voyeurism.

It's Showtime!

2010-03-04T08:06:00.000-08:00

So I REALLY want to send you kittens to my new blog later today, but for right this moment, I only have time to tell you this:

Come see my next show! It's going to be lots of fun with burlesque coming to the legendary Trees in Deep Ellum. Tickets are $15 online or $20 at the door...so get yours now!

And here's a little teaser for you about what you can expect from me: I'll be performing a song from a VERY well loved band originally from Dallas that really highlights my best features. ;)

xoxo BvBB

I Can't Even Say Your Name.

2010-03-02T12:24:00.000-08:00

There is someone I miss very, very much so. It doesn't work. Not that we don't work, but it doesn't work.

I don't like missing people. It makes me feel so vulnerable and insecure. A constant barrage of wondering if they miss me, too. And if they don't...then what am I doing?

But this secret missing, it's tugging on my mind, until I can't even seem to write straight.

I breathe in. I breathe out. I feel your name in my lungs and in my throat, and I wonder how I can release you without speaking it aloud.

Quick Wino Post.

2010-02-24T19:39:00.000-08:00

I'll make this short...mostly because I'm drowning my sorrows in a bottle of wine right now. But I must say...I find it so funny. My ex. My Duckie daddy. My one- and- only- person- I'll- probably- ever- agree- to- marry- because- it- all- went- so- horribly- motherfuckin'- wrong.

It's so funny how he doesn't know me at all...not this me. The pretty fairy bitch who emerged from the cocoon of the wreck that we called marriage. So many times...I asked him to check my blog. Here I am ready to move, after nineteen months at this URL, but he won't even notice. So many times...I told him where I was published. He received the first, the only thus far, printed copy of my short story collection. The one that I glanced around my cube farm, as I printed, certain that this was the time I would be caught...printing all 120 pages of A Whore Like Me. So many times...I told him about when my first Dallas burlesque debut would be. The one where I made friends that will mean the world to me forever after.

He never read any of it. He never showed up for my show. He never bothered to try to explore the person I had become while holding our child deep within me. Some days it makes me cry. But other times...it's ever so funny. How could you not wonder about the woman you had helped create from the girl you had fallen in love with?

Another of many differences between us.

I'm a Liar.

2010-02-23T08:29:00.000-08:00

So you know how I absolutely swore that I would release my new blog name last week? That was lies! All lies! I do have a new name for things...sorta ;). However, it's still under construction, and I don't want you peeking ahead of time.

My very-best-very-good buddy over at Posthip is sweet enough to be making my blog for love and not money, so I'm not going to make any promises about when the new site will be good to go.

But I'm looking forward to moving forward—and I hope you all are as well.

xoxo

PS Back with a for real deal post later today or in the morning.

Things That Didn't Happen.

2010-02-15T06:06:00.000-08:00

I told him that I loved him more than anyone I had ever maybe loved before. I sat on my knees in bed while he packed, and I thought of how his hands now busied with zippers were better used between sheets and sighs. I think he knew I would always be full of maybes because I never seem to settle on anything too long.

When he looked at me the blue in his eyes made me remember what it felt like the first time I could meet his eyes at all, but maybe it's just that some days it seems my whole life has been a series of blue-eyed men telling me that it's time for them to leave again.

I realized a week ago that my father's eyes are like mine though and not theirs, so it doesn't hurt as much as it once would.

Moving Time Again.

2010-02-11T05:56:00.000-08:00

Well moving time for the first ever for this little blog. Next week I will announce where you can find my new blog. The URL doesn't fit this any more, and it's time to pick where my blog does belong.

Which is a good damn question.

You see....I have no idea what you would call this blog. I talk burlesque. I talk writing. I talk about love and sex and sorrow and self-discovery and hopes and dreams and fears and follies. You won't find my blog on many burlesque lists in their sidebars. I can't blame the girls; I talk too many other things to just be called a burlesque blog. Often times, I find myself vacillating between who is listed as the writer over there in the right hand corner. Do I put my writing name or my stage name? (A similar issue I faced when picking my credit line for a piece I did for Pin Curl recently--it will be in the March issue.) Even though there's a lot of real me on here, I'm sure as hell not going to put my real name, just as Duckie's name will never appear. Or anyone else I really know and love in real time life. So it's not quite as personal a blog as would be considered a personal blog.

Thus, I have been afraid to move my blog. Terrified of picking the wrong thing again. But it wasn't really wrong when I picked where I would be originally....things were just much different then. Burlesque was nothing in my life. I hadn't even thought or heard of it yet, I suppose. I knew who Dita was, but I assumed she was just one star in a sky all by herself. I had no idea about all the other burning lights in this rhinestone atmosphere.

My fiction was operating at the time I guess. I can't remember how well I was doing with all that really. I know I was frozen in purpose. I never sent a thing out and then hated myself for not being published. All through pregnancy even I had worked hard on writing fiction and submitting. (Well. I submitted to three contests and if you know my inability to ever do something as practical as trying to get published, you realize that was quite the feat.) But when I began writing this blog, I wasn't doing anything. I had no space to write at home, and writing from work killed me.

The personal stuff...well it came in spurts back then. Around the time I began this blog is around the time I separated from my husband and life was a very different place. I had time to write fiction, and time to dance and start to dream about burlesque. I had time to be the creative girl I'd always wanted to be. Because if I could spin away from this planet with one thing intact, it would be that I had made something pretty for other people to see. Each of these things I've wanted time to make will always be a part of me. Things have been lost because of all this extra blessed time, but hopefully it will all land the way it should when we get on the other side.

So there has been no ranting here really in quite some time. I haven't been angry often lately, and even if I have it's really been something else, so let's just cross that off the list. Not drugs? If you're a regular reader...I think you know my thoughts on what's right and wrong ;). And I was trying to be clever to impress someone! Isn't that silly? Rants not drugs....like hugs not drugs? It may be the dumbest thing I've ever written. Thank you for reading anyway.

So I am giving myself a deadline to pick a new place to live. Next Friday, I'll be back. I've been thinking a lot about what I want to go for, how to get there, what kind of creative girl I want to be. There's so much I want to explore in other areas of artistry as well. It can be overwhelming trying to pick the framework through which you want people to see your writing. Titles might be the hardest thing I ever write--when it should be so simple! But I'm going to figure out what I want and what this little blog is. I'm going to pick a place and a label and I'm going to stick with it.

If I outgrow that one, well, we'll just have to pack our bags again.

xoxo
Alyssa Cennedy Cooper
Bubbles von BonBon
....whoever I may yet turn out to be ;)

Oh by the way! As someone pointed out, I have been Facebook lazy and not announced my show this weekend on there. Well, I'm still going to be Facebook lazy because I just don't really enjoy it. But, you sweets, should check out the flyer in my sidebar. This weekend I will be in one of my favorite places--Austin, TX. I'm performing in what might end up being one of the coolest variety things I've ever done. We'll have drag, queerleading, burlesque, belly dance, and a really good time. Come on by, ya'll.

Two years ago today, Princess Duckie was born. Fairies fell from the sky to rejoice.

2010-01-29T03:17:00.000-08:00

Amen. <3

Semi-Spoiler Alert.

2010-01-28T11:40:00.000-08:00

If you haven’t gotten your tickets for my show tomorrow night, leave this blog now , and go take care of it. We’re definitely selling out for the show. Plus, you look cooler when you pick up tickets under your name.

Ok…you back now? Let’s proceed.

I’m incredibly excited for the show tomorrow. After visiting the venue yesterday, I am absolutely enchanted. It’s just the sort of place that feels like burlesque is at home there. Simultaneously intimate enough for us to share a secret wink yet providing enough distance for me to charm from afar. The furniture is lovely and meant to be admired. Antiques and vintage and handmade everything. The dressing rooms have space and mirrors and seating and everything! Luminarte Studios may have trouble getting Bubbles to leave ;).

But it’s not just the setting that already has me all starry-eyed for the show though it’s still 31 hours away…it’s the dances I’ll be doing and the way they felt completely right last night. To let you know I’ll be doing old and something new (in nothing borrowed and a few things blue).

Let’s go back a few days, to my magical workshop with Catherine D’Lish. I feel literally transformed from it. It wasn’t dance technique (Lucifer knows I can NOT dance in a setting of five people) or new music knowledge or information on costumes that I walked away with to cherish. I walked away remembering what it was that intrigued me about burlesque from the onset. And I’m happy to say this week has been a swirl of figuring out what it is that I need to be happy here in my art.

It is for these reasons that I will not be performing the number I originally thought I would be debuting tomorrow. I had planned on something a little more extreme. A little less bubbly. A bit more bad girl.

And completely not what I like to do when I like to do burlesque. When Ms. D’Lish asked each of us what it was that we set out to accomplish when we imagined doing our best performances, everyone’s answer was a little bit different. For some, they wanted to leave their crowd thinking. Others loved the thrill of a perfectly executed pose.

For me, I’ve realized this week, it’s very simple:

I want to look pretty. I want to have fun. I want to catch the attention of everyone. I want to be flirty. I want to just tease. I want to only share what I want to of me.

As Ms. D’Lish said in one of the MANY interviews I’ve read with her since falling head over sparkly heels this past weekend, I have a duty to entertain you. And that’s exactly what I’m going to do. I’m going to make you forget the things you don’t want to remember in the moment, and I’m going to sparkle with a smile for each and every one of you (and of course when I say everyone, I’m only talking to you… ;) ).

So for now, my bad girl (and I do have some bad girl) is going to stay in the bedroom. Because that part’s just for me and (_______).

See you tomorrow night, lovelies. I’ll be the sparkly one in your dreams.

(Now when I said spoiler, you didn’t think I was going to tell you what’s in store, did you? Darlings, this is the art of tease.)

Update.

2010-01-25T06:27:00.000-08:00

This is short and sweet with something longer to follow soon. I just wanted to let everyone know that I'm okay. The good news? I don't have cancer! Although the good doctor does want to see me back in four months rather than six (because I did not want to get an expensive scan unless he truly thought it necessary), I am mostly one hundred percent good to go.

The not-bad-but-sorta-bad-but-relatively-good-compared-to-having-cancer news is that there is indeed a reason I've been so tired. I have a sleep disorder, but not the kind that keeps me up all night. I have been diagnosed with severe idiopathic hypersomnia. What does that mean? It means I'm excessively sleepy for no apparent reason. The doctor reached this conclusion after a night and day observation that included brain monitors, cameras, and all sorts of unpleasantries. Fatigue can be a common long-term side effect of lymphoma and its treatment, so I'll take my sleepy life and be grateful for it. During the studies, if I had reached REM cycle sleep during the day just one more time, I would have been ruled an official narcoleptic. As it is, I've had to start taking narcolepsy medicine, but I don't have to worry about losing driving privileges or any of that sort of thing.

So I should be back full strength soon, kiddos. Just give me a few days to get over these medication jitters. :)

Nerves.

2010-01-15T10:36:00.000-08:00

The entire time I underwent treatment for cancer, never once did I worry about dying. I was upset about things, of course. But most of that revolved around the aesthetics of being sick, feeling sick, looking sick. Death was never really a concern.

Something changed about that once I got better.

I get nervous all the time now of a recurrence. Even though this May will be five years since I went into remission, the timeline of which most certainly signals your official cure for lymphoma. Here's the funny thing: the more nervous I am of a recurrence, the less likely I am to get checked.

Perhaps it's a fear of the unknown. Perhaps I don't want to do treatment again and ignoring the issue seems the easiest way to ensure that. Perhaps this fear, this paranoia of death, came to the surface after my friend died. I'm not sure really.

I made an appointment today for a checkup. I'm actually long over due. My last came in December of 2008. When my appointment came around last year in July, I missed it on purpose, angry at the billing mistakes from the previous year that cost me so much for a scan that I'm told I need annually (and probably do). When December rolled around, I just decided it wasn't worth doing...that if something was wrong I would know it. Recently, however, being so tired and generally feeling not my best, it seems smart to get a checkup if for no other reason than to reassure myself.

I'm running about eight months late on my checkup, but I'm getting past the nerves to get it done.

Let's all be happy when it's over and I was unjustifiably worried yet again. :)

(P.S. The appointment isn't until early February, so I'll keep you posted then, but I'm sure I'm just fine as a dandelion.)

What Happened to My Blog?

2010-01-06T05:39:00.000-08:00

Well, boys and girls, to be quite blunt, I'm fucking exhausted. This new year is going to call for some new prioritization. Going out has interfered with burlesque. Burlesque has interfered with writing. And everything has interfered with my general health and well-being. But I love the new start feeling of a new year, and that's going to be changing.

This may call for a bit of a hiatus from blogging as I work on things that need to be done in order to get my life settled, i.e., finally fucking unpacking and figuring out where I want both my burlesque and writing to go.

So expect me back sometime toward the end of February in full force. This doesn't mean I won't be around at all, but it will be mostly show announcements and that sort of thing. The better blog posts will have to wait until I get some rest and meditation in.

So while we're at it, on to to those show announcements. :) Following Dr. Sketchy's on the 17th (see post below for flyer), here are some other places you can expect to see me.

This is the very first production for Broads and Panties, a burlesque and sideshow collective, and you should be ready to expect some great things. I'll be there in all my bubbly sweetness, and you can expect some real variety to this show.

Next up, I am freaking thrilled beyond words to let you know that I will be performing in the Dallas Burlesque Festival. As of February 2009, this was the very first burlesque show I even attended. Needless to say, I was hooked. This year, the lovely Angie Pontani will be headlining, and the whole affair will be even bigger and sparklier than last year.

That's all for now, sweets. Trust me. I really do miss my blog affair, so I will be back. I just need some rest and recuperation.

Love and lingerie,

BvBB

Un-fiction.

2009-12-30T17:18:00.000-08:00

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....

2009-12-28T08:24:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-12-16T10:41:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-12-14T13:24:00.000-08:00

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

2009-12-10T17:44:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-12-09T11:56:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-12-04T10:26:00.000-08:00

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...

2009-12-04T07:36:00.001-08:00

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

New Picture. Old Show.

2009-11-30T12:44:00.000-08:00

I was just sent this yesterday, and I thought I would share....just in case you're still looking for incentive to come to my next show. Remember, Gifts and Garters is this Saturday. A voyeur's holiday if you will. ;)

Thanks to David McGhee for the wonderful shot.

For A Fiction Fix....

2009-11-17T09:11:00.000-08:00

I am very pleased to announce that my short story "Tin Man Tick-Tock" has received the Orlando Prize for Sudden Fiction. You can check it out on the website for A Room of Her Own Foundation. This is a competitive prize so I am very proud and very grateful to say the least. (Don't forget to look for it under my fiction guise—Alyssa Cooper.)

A very short excerpt (it is sudden fiction):

You think of your lover and how he loves your red hair, burying his face in it and breathing in deeply as if the smell of your hair has the power to wash his sins away.

That's all for now. Be back with a real post any day now. ;)

xoxo BvBB

New Show Announcement.

2009-11-16T07:21:00.000-08:00

This weekend I will be performing in Little D to benefit the Texas Equal Access Fund. This is an organization I really believe in, and I hope you can come help us to help others. (And as an added bonus, as usual, sparkly tatas are a promise!)

From the TEA Fund website:

The Texas Equal Access Fund believes that being pro-choice means more than just taking a political position. It means making reproductive rights a reality - and the legal right to abortion isn’t a reality unless women can pay for it.

That’s why we provide financial assistance to help low-income and disadvantaged women pay for abortions they can’t otherwise afford. Most of the women we help are single mothers struggling to make ends meet. Some are college students, high school students, or just kids. And some are battered women, homeless women, women who are ill, incarcerated, or fighting addiction.The TEA Fund provides assistance that lets women make their own reproductive choices.

That's all for now. I'm feeling rather fiction ambitious this week, so I may not be posting anything more. In the meantime, please miss me ;). And if you can't make it to the show this weekend, but want to help, check out the website for more ways you can contribute. We all deserve an equal opportunity to make the choices we need in our lives.

xoxo BvBB

Gifts and Garters Welcomes Toys for Tots!

2009-11-13T07:33:00.000-08:00

There was a very exciting announcement today over at Bewitching Burlesque.

From the blog:

Bewitching Burlesque and Through The Looking Glass have been very fortunate this year and we decided we wanted to share out fortune with others. In order to accomplish one of our goals, we have teamed up with Toys For Tots to collect toys for kids in need.

There will be a collection station at the door, complete with Marines (in uniform!!) to collect your generous donations.

You can read the rest of the entry here with details of prizes and other fun stuff.

So come on out. Bring a toy, and I'll show you my bubbles ;). Ok. So I'll show you my bubbles no matter what, but wouldn't it be nice to indulge your voyeurism in the name of charity?

Remember, girls and boys, Christmas can be a very sad time when you don't feel a part of it. Let's do what we can to help prevent that.

xoxo BvBB

ANNOUNCEMENTS!

2009-11-09T06:09:00.000-08:00

Ok...if you're looking for anything of substance on my blog today...see below. Meanwhile, I have two very happy things to share with you!

First off, I am very excited to announce my next show.

From the Bewitching Burlesque blog:

Here it is, the BIG announcement you've all been waiting for, the full line up for Gifts & Garters!!

Special Guest : Perle Noir - Queen of Burlesque

Featured Performers : The Jigglewatts, Ruby Joule & CoCo Lectric

Also performing will be :
Miss Malicious Erin Go Braughless Angi B. Lovely Rose Darling Vivienne Vermuth Honey CoCo Bordeauxx Glam'Amour Pixie O'Kneel Scarlett Switches Vinny Velour Bubbles Von BonBon Jai'L Bait

We are so excited to bring you fabulous entertainers not only from the DFW area but, Austin and New Orleans. Pre-Sale tickets available for $15 at www.giftsandgarters.eventbrite.com. Get yours today!

That's right, lovelies. Just in time for caroling and dreidling and apple cider libations, a little holiday treat. I am so excited to have the opportunity to see Perle Noir perform, and you won't want to miss her either.

Second, in non-tassle news, I am officially available in print. You can check out my story, "My Dead Isn't Dead" in An Honest Lie: Volume I, available here. You'll notice that my page at the site says some hoopla about voting. Well, kittens, buy the book through my page and it counts toward a contest being held for a writing contract. Or if you aren't ready to commit, leave a comment letting me know what you think of the excerpt. (But I can promise you the story is much better in full. ;))

There are a ton of great stories in here besides my own. So go give things a gander!

That's all for now. But so far...what a wonderful week. Hope yours will be as well.

xoxo,

BvBB

And The Rest is Silence.

2009-11-09T05:17:00.000-08:00

My marriage made its ending remarks yesterday.

It was a long time coming. We haven't lived together in over a year. A while back now, when I told him I wasn't ready to coexist under the same roof again yet, he said he couldn't wait. So we moved out of each others' lives, and it's been for our best. All of us. Although Princess Duckie may not get her parents together all that often, I think she gets the best of both of us when we have her.

We tried. We really did. That's what I find so unfortunate in people's cynicism regarding the term of a marriage. The tendency to act as if you didn't try. Maybe we didn't try our best, and maybe we could have tried differently, but we did try.

He always had a funny way of putting things simply that really made sense. So for once yesterday, I let him talk. I told him I would listen. I cried silently, but not with regret. Just a kind of release. A goodbye to the trying.

Here's what he told me. He told me that as much as he loved and missed me, there comes a point when you realize that waking up lonely is better than waking up next to the person you love angry.

I remember that anger we had. The way it would sometimes swell in our throats in the morning. Suffocating the love we might have made or the sleepy small talk we might have cuddled over. I remember feeling something close to hatred when our fights would reach their fever pitch. I remember holding each other in love that was tinged with sadness that we couldn't stop the fights.

He's right. Waking up lonely is much preferable to sadness that just paralyzes you in an awful cycle of finding ways to be disappointed with each other.

He told me when he saw people—people we both knew, people who ask about our baby and how things are—he always said the nice things about me. When it came time to answer how our relationship was faring, he said that we just aren't doing as well as we hoped we would.

There was a lot of hope with that trying. When we wed, I was just out of college and happy to fall in love for a real, live good guy who wanted to make my secret little dream about being a wife and mother come true. He was older and happily surprised to find a girl so carefreely loving. I made him silly presents and called him sweet nicknames. We really hoped this was going to work. But something just couldn't quite connect between time and space to bring us to some space of common ground, like we hoped for.

I try to keep the idea in my head that hope cannot be destroyed...only converted. I'm hoping now that the friendship we once shared within our relationship will be enough to get us through these proceedings with some grace and dignity and even love still intact. We do have fun together still at times, and I'm hoping that can be more of the case as Duckie gets bigger and wants us together more often for various rites of family. I hope we can both find the long-term situation we thought we had found within one another and be happy about it. Because we do still have a long-term relationship. Just not quite the way we planned.

One of my girls took me out for drinks last night for the bereavement and celebration of the passage of one life for the enhancement of the next. As luck ordained, I ran into someone that knew me as part of a couple that had shared many mutual friends. He asked how we were, and I said we were friends. And I meant it.

Marriage is sorta like jumping off a cliff and trying to hold someone's hand. You don't want to let go, but sometimes the winds just prove too much. Before you know it, when you land on the ground, you don't even recognize the person you leaped with. You lost touch with the turbulence, and there's just this distance left that is finally too far to cross.

We had a moment, and it couldn't last. But I've got some real faith that our friendship can make it longer, and if there's any sort of method to the mayhem, this whole thing just might make each of us stronger.

Conversion can be a tedious process, but I'm hopeful about what's on the other side.

Mean Girl.

2009-10-30T08:57:00.000-07:00

I'm a much nicer girl when I'm single. I become friends with most girls instantly, and most the time, I'm the first one to make the move toward said friendship. I grew up with all girls—my mom and my sister—and I relate to women really easily. Even when we don't seem identical from the onset, there is always some underlying current of sweetness that I find easy to grasp within other feminine souls. Unless you are just a huge mega-bitch, bad person, chances are if you're a chick, we can get along and make the best of friends.

Unless I know you within any context wherein you knew my boyfriend before you knew me. In that case, you must be an awful, horrible girl who I will absolutely never like because I'm afraid my boyfriend likes you better, you slut-ass, dull, boring bitch!

Oops. I really like being that other girl better. I mean...have you seen my glitter pumpkin? That's the sort of girly shit I adore doing with my friends, accompanied by a bottle of wine and giggling. I love having my work BFF to half a scone with. I love texting one of my chicas about the awful weekend I'm having and hearing her first response be: I'm buying you a shot! I love discussing costumes and tatas with my burl-y girls in ways that I never could with the general public or anyone in possession of a dick (any potential boylesque friends excluded). I fucking love being the girliest girl on the block and having girl friends around me who get a kick out of being sexy, hot, smart chicadees as much as I do.

So what changes? What is it that clicks in my brain and causes this tragic chain of events where I'm consumed with jealousy and dislike for anyone who may or may not have liked the guy that I currently like before he even knew me? I don't know really. I know it sucks. I know I hate the way I conjure up the most absurd notions that don't hurt anyone but myself (and occasionally...and very unfortunately...these misled thought missiles land on whomever I might be seeing at the time which is incredibly, all-together unfair of me). It's terrible. It contributed in so many massively awful ways to my unhappiness during my pregnancy (and marriage). This all consuming, raging jealousy I feel about other women when I'm seeing someone. My crazy straw thoughts range everywhere from the typical (Does he think she's hotter than me?) to the absurdly convoluted (I bet he would prefer to fuck a girl who knows the name of more than one current president.) to the categorically insane, mundane (He'd probably rather a woman like her who wears flats in rainstorms.). It's fucking exhausting.

I don't know why I do this. I don't know why I assume that when I meet someone he is secretly in love with every other girl he knew before me. That I'm somehow not good enough or pretty enough or smart enough or interesting enough to hold the attention of a boy who clearly didn't have his attentions engaged elsewhere too much—else I could not have swept him off his feet. I don't know why I can absolutely adore almost every woman I meet to some degree, so long as the boy I call my own isn't around to possibly like her better than me.

Mirror, mirror on the wall, why can't I see anything clearly at all?

But I think I'm tired of asking why I do this. I think I'm just going to stop. Rumor has it, I'm a lovely girl but you're only as pretty as what you give to the world and the positive space you create around you. So instead of wondering why I do this—why I miss out on having new people to share my adoration of all things girl talk with and why I make otherwise beautifully, happy relationships into battlegrounds—I think I'm just going to stop. I'm hoping it proves to be one of the most freeing resolutions of my life. I'm praying to anything that can help that I'll be able to maintain it.

Because life is too short to not sit in bars talking about corsets and cupcakes, and Snow White didn't get her Prince by acting like an Evil Queen.

Loverly Things.

2009-10-27T06:17:00.000-07:00

I danced around my kitchen in an apron this morning, cleaning and almost in tears. I was listening to a song about love ending and I was searching to discover who my first love was. What time that I fell was it so real and so complete that I would consider it to be my first? The time that had topped all others and would from thereafter be regarded as the standard to which all future loves would be measured.

Well…when I put it that way—all of them.

For the purposes of the song bringing me to tears, some cases came to mind more accurately than others. I do tend to be the one to break things off, and here was a girl singing in pleading tones for forgiveness for her need to move on. (If you don’t know Adele, you really should.) But even the times when my lover left first, those were first loves, too.

Each time I’ve fallen in love, I’ve sworn it’s better than the last. And it has been. Not always because of the new love entirely though. With every relationship I’ve had, I’ve learned something new. Every time I’ve fallen in love, it’s been for the first time because I’ve never loved like that before. It’s a new person that I’m loving, and it’s a new me—freshly healed wounds from my last lover’s battle, etching teachings on my being.

I got to thinking about what I had learned from each of them. Each of these men who had shared some part of their lives with me before one or both of us realized it couldn’t continue past a certain point. The men that I’ve missed, sometimes never seeing their lessons until I was far, far away from the occurrence. The men that I can look back on and remember that I loved, with no recollection of how it felt when I did. No memory of the desires and the longing every dawn. Just vague shadows of what they came into my life to teach me. The affinity there once was.

I think I’ve been missing the point of relationships and their place in our lives. I’ve dismissed anyone I used to love as not being genuine because it came to an end. Feeling concern when my current lover once loved another because if that was real, then perhaps he can’t really love me. I’ve felt this need to reject that I have ever been in love because if it was real love I wouldn’t have stopped. It was real. But being real doesn’t mean it was meant last. I think instead of assuming it’s real love I’m still looking for, I should accept that all love can be real. It’s just a matter of sustainability.

I have a tendency to run ahead in love. I rush, rush, rush things, anxious to see the ending in sight—often causing my own crashing because I become so concerned with whether things are meant to last or I’m wasting my time. But maybe if I accept that love doesn’t have to have a happy ending to mean something, it will be much easier to slow down. To not miss all the pretty pictures along the way because I was too busy trying to zoom my focus in on what lay ahead.

I guess only time will tell.

Life Munchies.

2009-10-20T05:13:00.000-07:00

I've been really hungry lately.

Hungry for writing. Starving for time to work on things. Cursing the way my mind tires after hours of mundane editing. Desperate to remember that otherworldly elation that comes from laying an entire story down on a page without hesitation and knowing it is good. I've been aching to remember what it was like to have the time and energy to feed my writing fairies. Have them buzz about me like hummingbirds, feeding from my free-flowing soul. I spend my days searching for ways to clear my head by the time I arrive home. But it's never quite enough and I leave every blog and every story that I do manage to sputter out with a hungry feeling that if I could have just had a little more to give...that last sentence would have been golden.

Hungry for learning. Craving the pleasant swell of your brain when it gets to know something it didn't before. The pleasant tingle that can occur when the something you find out is very, very interesting. I miss reading others' words. Will I ever get to go farther in those Hemingway stories began elsewhere? A dear boy bought me a book that I love yet have barely started. I'm still reading a book borrowed this time last year. But it's not for lack of want that I haven't been reading or learning. The want rumbles through my insides making me imagine food hunger pangs. Until I eat a cracker and listen to a podcast while I edit.

Hungry for sex. Always thinking of sex. On desks. In chairs. Outside hotels. In a dressing room. While driving. While eating. During the rain. Early in the morning. After a bath. Before bedtime. Quiet and safe. Restrained and frustrating. Sweet and soft. Hard and frantic. I want to rise with sex every day and sleep in it every evening. I want to taste it on my lips and feel it in my thighs. I want to baptize myself in the holy, forgetful bliss it brings, and look at every day of my life as if I was just reborn again in sexual salvation.

Hungry for dancing. More and more, I want to look back on the dance I loved before I even knew what burlesque was. I want to explore the ways that a human body can feel when it gives itself over entirely to the experience of physical movement—outside of sex. I want to stretch for hours and have each day to discover another way I can move that opens this part of my spirit or heals that emotional wound. I want to dance through pain and revel in it through pleasure. I want to return to burlesque every evening, even more capable of twirling like a muse and taunting like a siren because I can feel all the way down to my pointed toes just how much I can control. I want to own my body and set free my spirit with the crescendo of a song.

But don't you worry now—curious cats never go starving. And this little kitten gets what she wants.

Burlesque and Babies and Bubble Floating Dreams

2009-10-12T16:46:00.000-07:00

Motherhood has not come easy for me. Most the time, it has felt like some exclusive ass club I somehow didn't get my pass into. Were they handing those out at conception or first introduction? In both cases, I may have been too fucked up to catch the angel or spirit or doctor who was supposed to be giving me my glittered and waterproofed pass into being one of those moms that all the other kids wish theirs would be like. (Drinking in May or epidural-ed in January--pick your poison.)

But it's not my little Duckie that poses the problem. I love that little girl and I will defend to the day I die that she is the best baby born in all of time ever. She's so mighty damn pretty we were told of her beauty while at the ER with her 104 fever this weekend. She's so fucking charming she can melt your soul to liquid candy with one glance. She's so freaking smart, I'm pretty fucking certain she's going to be all kinds of trouble in traditional class settings. (Have I told you the story of how I got kicked out of an English class? My last year of high school was done in my third year. I couldn't be in both gifted/AP/honors-whatchacallit English 3 and 4 at the same time. So I was placed in my very first ever regular English class. I was sent to a different teacher when the first accused me of being racist because I did not feel his assignment of coloring our pictorial interpretation of Beowulf on gridded paper was an appropriate assignment for high school seniors. The class I transferred to was an improvement in quality at least. But it was also led by a pompous, Mark Twain disciple. Thus my hatred for the author today. That and thinking Samuel Clemens at least was sort of a misogynistic bitch. I didn't end up reading much of his work, though, so don't quote me on Mark Twain and misogyny. Sorry. My blog should come with a warning: Prone to digress.)

So back to my point. I love my baby, but pulling this mom shit has not been easy. My BFF can tell you I never wanted children. Everyone was freaking shocked when I told the news. That I was pregnant and I had tried to get that way. Despite what I thought to be a very conspicuous Mother's Day floral arrangement and card I sent stating my desire to be a mom "as wonderful as mine" that year, nobody suspected a thing. We weren't even living together yet. I was working in a bar just graduated from college, and I didn't even have a rough estimate of how hard it would be to find a desk job...or even how much my baby's daddy made a year. We were trying to get pregnant though. People were shocked when I told my news to friends and loved ones. To say the very least.

I'm not sure how to tell this story at the moment because my writing fairies are evidently having pie slinging contests in my mind, splattering their different shoots of creativity all at a time. So bare with me. (Is that supposed to be bear? I just think bare is a cuter spelling. Wonder why ;).)

I never wanted children. That is what I told people.

I say a lot of things I don't mean out of fear of people seeing who I really am and not liking it. I think that's why burlesque has been so good for me. Because for once I'm actually showing who I really am. My playful thoughts and daydreams that I dance through throughout the day. Costumes I put so much care into. Even as a character, it's really me up there, and at times, it can be very scary that people who are important to me won't like it. But I keep trying at it because being myself feels like a cold rush of waterfall falling freedom down through my spine.

So if I did sort of want children and I actually had had names picked out for a good portion of my life, why did I say there was no way I would have children in a bazillion yonder years? I was afraid of what might happen if I committed myself to another person that much. What would happen if the person I made children with did not stay with me and I ended up alone? You can see where your father issues kinda blend with your mother issues at this juncture. I was afraid of never being as pretty as I once was and being too strapped for cash and time to achieve the sort of appearance and creative enterprise that I really desired to have in life if I thought about it. This is where eating disorders and parent issues collide and you create a big, ugly beast that stomps through your brain and appears at nearly every corner you turn in your life. I was afraid to ever be pregnant because I did not want to left bedraggled and sad to die without a mate. Pregnancy seemed like such a binding thing to me. Something that would make me want to stay with someone forever and hoping they didn't leave me because I wasn't pretty enough any more.

So on that hand, you have my bizarre insecurities that I am trying to stamp out like grease fires popping up in my kitchen. Let me tell you what the dream was though.

I was torn between wanting one child or two because it seemed with one you might be able to travel more and give her (hopefully) more of the things that make girls happy. But a boy could be fun to temper the hurt feelings that so often arise during a girl's teenage "I'm going to be a bitch because I just learned how to and got female hormone rages" stage. But really I love just having a girl and it would be hard to litter that with increased boy presence. I like men, not boys, and I can't stand the thought of dirty, nasty gym clothes being left about. But I really wanted to be a mom with creative little outlets that could become more full time once she was old enough to attend a school. When Duckie gets older, I would love to have the ability to have tea parties for her where I bake awesome vegan cupcakes from coconut milk and put lovely pastel frosting on top. I wanted to be pretty when my husband got home and be able to tell him I had gotten writing or costuming or whatever done that day. I wanted aprons and cardigans and pearls and cute dresses and kitchen-cooking heels. I wanted to be a Stepford wife channeling the spirit of a sweet little sex kitten. That's right, my loves, I wanted to be somebody's wonderful housewife with a twist. I wanted the time to do things that made me happy and in return I would give the people I loved a very happy home. I wanted to be a charming, well-read, very loved wife to a man that I could adore and trust.

So my fears were battling my dreams. Why then...did I decide to have a baby?

One time I made a very hard decision that not many people will admit to others. I'm not sure there's a wrong or right to the decision which is why I think putting laws in place regarding it must be done very carefully. It's hard to make a law regarding something that most rationally minded people would say might defy the boundaries of where right and wrong belong. For me, if I were to answer the question, I would say that it was right for the timing, but wrong for my soul.

I went through a very hard time my last year of college following that decision. I went through periods of basic substance abuse and experienced months of overwhelming sadness. I didn't eat until I was sick from not eating and I drank more alcohol than should ever be consumed. I was a drunken, emotional, sad mess. I was in graduate level classes seeking stimulus that was lost by that point for most my undergrad work. I watched my stupid 4.0 that was fucking hard to achieve because of the grade point rules in place at my school slip to a 3.7 and I felt disgusted with my inability to control my life. (Sigh. An A- does not count for a full 4.0 credit. It's hard to always stay above a 93.) I was a mess and if it were not for my ability to take both acting and yoga and aerobics those semesters due to my abundance of electives left to pursue, I might have not graduated. But I did.

And I grabbed onto steady ground as fast as I could. Steady ground that would allow me to carry out something I felt in my body I shouldn't have stopped initially. Think whatever you like, but when Duckie was born she emerged like a dove of baptism. She's just special and is meant to be here in the world with me.

So back to where you manifest your fears because you have to walk through them. In the throes of pregnancy, I asked a man to marry me sooner than we had planned on and it was done in a way I would always secretly be sad about no matter what I was saying. Because I was afraid of him leaving me and my baby.

Pregnancy was rough. I've had an eating disorder, and I knew it would be. Accepting weight gain. I had different potentially complicated risks that caused me to attend more doctor's appointments than usual while working a full-time, but hourly-paid job and take shots twice a day. (A word of warning for any of my lymphoma-survivor ladies--dependent on how long it's been since your treatment times I would suggest checking in with your oncologist just in case. Trust me...I know more than anyone that there is no need to rush a baby when her soul needs to come into your life. If she's meant for you, the timing will arrive.) I found my marriage wasn't what my heart really wanted in very many ways that I don't want to discuss here yet. I was miserable and depressed.

Well, of course things couldn't last in that state. My marriage came to a standstill of sorts last year, and in my head at times, even though I pushed for the separation and he just complied with it, I felt all my worse fears had come true. And no man would again ever want to make love to me for the rest of our lives because I already had a baby with me. It was around this time I turned to paying attention to burlesque, and I'm thankful I did. It has been the most sensually-sweet, sugar-covered surprise of a distraction, and I'm thankful for that. I know I wouldn't be feeling nearly as okay as I do if not for its debut in my life.

I'm certain that I have been battling postpartum sadness in slight degrees since the end of my pregnancy. When I felt strapped for time and love and was missing both in my life. Times are changing though which makes me wonder if standing my ground might just be the best plan to see how things go. I've been so scared of not having one thing in my life that I've neglected to realize I have a chance to have a different kind of just as wonderful experience with what I do have. Yes. I'm tired. Yes. I feel like I can never work long enough and hard enough to balance my editing position and my fiction and writing and my dancing and costuming and my beautiful baby girl and her time with me. Yes. I get really overwhelmed. But the more she looks at me and we see eye to eye on things, the prettier the view gets.

Someone who really likes to see me happy got me a session this week to see an amazing spirit helper who can help with energy. She was the first one who could see what I had been afraid to say aloud to anyone but the writer journal that got stolen: that my baby is a strong beautiful spirit that flits into lives like a fairy and leaves love dust for all the world to feel after she leaves. I'm hoping I might figure out some more insight into what kind of mommy I can happily be if my dreams don't turn out the exact color I thought they might be. How to learn to trust people when they are talking to you close enough to let you know everything will be okay if I just give a little faith in what I want my fate to be. When the energy-spirit you can't define but just know to be brings a sign into your life, you can't hesitate with the question of what everything means.

And there's still a chance yet, I'll find myself settled with with a holy trinity in my life living my girlhood secret wishes to be a Sweet Ass Housewifey. Some sexy Messiah to fall asleep next to me and bless the daydreams in my head into being. You just never know where things might go when you let your bubble-cased dreams float up and out to the sea.

The Weight of The Matter.

2009-10-07T18:58:00.000-07:00

What can I say? I'm a lucky girl, and my pregnancy did my body good in the long run. Motherhood has had a rather fortunate effect on my figure. (And my soul as reflected by my smile, but we're not tackling that here.) I'm not the only to experience this phenomena: many women state they are in much better shape after having baby and having to really work to get themselves there. I am at least 17.3 x hotter than I was pre-baby. (And I was none too shabby to begin with.) And I know this.

Logically.

Logically, I know what size clothing I wear and that it is smaller than I ever was before Princess Duckie arrived. Logically, I am aware that a great many sweet burl-y girls tell me how great I look--and their amazement at my baby bounce back (Miss Vermuth comes to mind easiest but I know there have been others). Logically, I see myself in pictures captured of my performances, and I know I have been blessed by a lovely figure. You could say all my thoughts are in line.

This is where the logic stops.

It isn't the end of good intention, however. I have the best hold of my eating problems that I have ever had since that fateful moment when I truly slipped into it. I know now, for an absolute fact, that someone is looking to me for body image guidance. Someone is looking at how I act when I look in the mirror or see pictures of myself. Someone is going to notice the times I don't eat. Someone will hear the awful things I can say if I eat things I don't approve of.

That someone is my most important, cherished responsibility in my life.

Because just as Princess Duckie may have in fact saved her Mommy from going down some very scary track of digestive abuse--I now have someone else to protect from that kind of pain. The type of pain that doesn't allow you to enjoy meals out. Or the holidays. Or the person making love to you.

When you have that type of pain, even laced with enjoyment, there is always a tinge of self-doubt and criticism. Beacause eating out in public turns to terror when a skinnier girl passes by. Because the holidays are already painful enough at some points without the worry of looking fat all day because you ate the slice of pumpkin pie--with whip cream. Because even though he means it with all his heart that you're beautiful, you can't help but wonder if he's foolish or a liar.

So I've done well for the most part. I've made myself behave like a normal person does when they regard or encounter eating. I've done it because I'm not sure when it is exactly when she becomes aware of what people are feeling and how they are acting.

But if I have my logical thoughts...the smaller size and the compliments. The recognition that for the first time in my life, I know I'm hot. For the first summer since age 9, I wore shorts. Slutty shorts! And I've been on stage in pasties and a g-string. I've figured out people like looking.

And I have my actions...because relatively speaking, I'm existing in a remarkably healthy state for someone who had known nothing but starvation polluted periodically with purging and binging for many years prior to pregnancy. Really, guys. I've been behaving myself.

If I've got all that going for me...what are these currents of negativity still floating to my surfaces? It's not the thoughts. It's not the actions. It's something I can't name. Some overwhelming doubt about being happy with myself. I can present that happiness so well. I can get on a stage and be Bubbles and feel bubbly and mean it with all my mind and body.

But my heart, I think, may be the problem.

The person who guards that problem closest--that pesky, doubtful heart of mine--knows of the outrageous number of pounds I think I should lose. Perhaps he knows me well enough to realize I have no concept of what that amount of weight means. That I pick a new number as I see fit as punishment for whatever ways I don't stack up in life. Perhaps always having this crazy straw of self-criticism will leave me inevitably alone because it's very hard to keep calling someone pretty when they just say (and feel): no.

But.

I have good news for this post. It's not nearly as sad as you may see.

1. Princess Duckie is here. I see how pretty I am everyday in the brown of her eyes and the persuasion of her smile.
2. I have beautiful burl-y girls around me on the regular which have me wondering what I think would be so awful if I wasn't skin and bones--because I know how beautiful these girls are. (They don't suffer from the unfortunate disadvantage of me judging me.)
3. I have some people on my life that care enough to put up with my difficult moments and my stumbling ways. And at the end--still think I'm beautiful.

I don't know what polluted my heart with the misconception that I needed to starve myself away from love, from people, from happiness. But I know I've got enough good going to make sure that damage is undone.

And because I now know you can't shimmy without a little shake.

So Sorry, My Lovelies

2009-10-05T13:56:00.000-07:00

Life has been one big heap of crazy busy, crazy happy, and learning oh so many things. Unfortunately, that work place has been wanting things as well. I promise I have about four blogs in store for you...if I can only get a moment. In the meantime, please take a look at my interview with Bewitching Burlesque.

And as a quick little side note: My big sister told me this weekend how much she had been enjoying my blog. I'm sure on occasion I've said some things here that might make her pause a bit coming from her baby sister. (We have fifteen-ish years between us.) But hearing that the woman who probably influenced my interest in all things written above any other in my younger years likes my stuff....well, it's just wonderful. It's probably my proudest "fan" moment and will remain justly so.

Ok. Back to the grind...and not the good bumpin' kind. I'll be back as soon as sparkly, stripper-ly possible.

Look What You Missed!

2009-09-25T09:54:00.000-07:00

Just in case you needed some extra incentive besides my seductive writing skills to get you out to my next show, here are some pictures from Nouvelle Burlesque. All images are courtesy of Mr. Mark Kaplan of NakedLens. And if this just isn't enough Bubbles to satisfy your dirty needs, you can check out more in my gallery on NakedLens. Hope to see you next time...or at least be seen by ya. ;)

"And if you shake her hard enough she will appear."
Coconut Records—"West Coast"

Let's Get Physical.

2009-09-22T05:18:00.000-07:00

I find that my happiness is intricately linked to the level of physicality I am experiencing. That sounds way stoned (which I'm actually not currently), so let me try to explain.

Dance brings out this whole writer side to me that wasn't there before. Laugh if you want to, but I really believe there's some high-volume validity to the idea that my Kundalini snake is workin' her magic at my creative core when I'm dancing. Whether I'm at home doing belly, on stage doing burlesque, or (soon) re-learning ballet with the help of Ms. Jade Pearl, something gets released allowing me to uncover stories I didn't even know I held deep down in my spine.

I'm also a huge proponent of PDAs when I'm really into someone. Seriously—I'll jump in your lap in public if you don't stop me. I play sexy footsie at dinner and I lean closer in bars. I like feeling like I can feel someone's thoughts. I like walking away with a sensation of looking forward to returning. I like being over the top affectionate on dates in public and slyly touchy-feely in social interaction situations. There are many times I cannot recall the scenery of where I've been if I'm there with someone I really tune into. I just don't look away from their bodies (not necessarily direct eye contact—but I've always got them in my sights). In a way, I love having every moment of being out feeling like a lead up to when you can find yourself alone again.

This leads us to what I really was thinking about since I got up today. The thoughts of dancing and public closeness only came out as supporting evidence.

I really like sex.

I woke up this morning with a funny question in my head: Am I a sex addict? (Now this really seems odd for what I would wake up and wonder if you knew how my night went. I first woke up at 2:40 with an email to write that I had to get out of my head. I engaged in some late night texting as well. Then, I went to sleep and promptly had nightmares about how the world had come to an end and we were all stuck in some vacuum-type dust bowl where there was no air outside and sandstorms in the sky. Fucked up shit, right? Then I wake up wondering if I'm a sex addict. Which then led me to wondering why it is I am now an eight-year-escape survivor from the Christian church and yet I still have a semi-sorta fear of going to hell for really liking some good-time fucking. But that is just way too much blog thought for me to handle right now.)

Eventually, after about two minutes of non-dust bowl awake thinking, I decided I am not a sex addict. I don't engage in dangerous activities to procure sex or any of that dirty dealing. But I do really enjoy it. A lot. Interestingly enough, I have now had more than a few relationships where I want sex much more than the other party. (At this point, all of my relationships have been with men. Perhaps, a woman could better keep up with my appetite?) This doesn't necessarily mean I just lay around with my partner waiting for another sex session to begin again and again (although sometimes that is nice). But I really do enjoy having a build-up and release that builds and releases through constant touching with the possibility of sex.

Unfortunately, the guys I've been involved with don't always share my insatiable sex cravings. I mean I'm not really the sort of girl you kick out of bed, so I think a lot of people might kinda enjoy the fact that I'm very happy feeling like a sex doll (well, a sex doll you have teasing, sweet talks with in between fuck fests). But this isn't always the case—at all. In fact, one guy went so far as to tell me I was obsessed with sex. At the time, it really fucking got to me. No girl likes to hear that she wants sex with her boyfriend so much more than he wishes to provide it, that he considers her sex-obsessed.

Well, maybe he was right. When provoked, I can spend hours sex texting. I can be content rolling around in bed for days, rising occasionally for food and some distraction activity, then falling back into bed because I can't stand not being intimately intertwined any more. It's not just the sex though. I mean, finally getting to the sex is amazing, but it's everything in between. I just love touch. I love feeling the heat from someone else's blood rising against their skin until we match temperatures. I think breath on skin could be the most erotically charged and under-utilized forms of tantalizing tease. (It's funny how knowing the pattern of someone's breathing is like feeling the flow of their life.) I love laughing and touching and feeling that sexual energy rise to your surfaces, but not giving in—not just yet—because you know in twenty minutes it could be even more intoxicating.

And then yes, I love giving in and feeling all thoughts concentrated into fucking and making love and having sex and every other term there is that really never explains what it is that you feel. Because it's just feeling and touch and forgetfulness of all the outside stuff.

I'm not sure what I've figured out since awakening with my silly fear of sexual addiction. But I do know one thing. I need lots of sex and lots of touching and lots of dancing. And I'm very happy with being obsessed with any (and all) of them.

Muse Fairies High-Jacked My Thought Bubbles

2009-09-18T16:46:00.000-07:00

I have an issue with maintaining responsibility when I am being really creative.

Take this week, for example. I forgot to pay my rent. Not because I couldn't due to finances. Not because I wouldn't due to some form of protest against the paint job. I forgot to pay my rent because I am oblivious.

And this oblivious comes from being deep in some creative shit right now. Nouvelle Burlesque is tomorrow, and I've been dancing my ass off. I keep getting story ideas and I'm adding on to a previously written piece as well. Oh right, and I've been treating Twitter like my fuck slave. Calling her over any time I want for any random thing. Okay, maybe Twitter should be filed under distraction to the creative shit (just like you, little bloggedy-blog).

Laundry also hasn't been high priority. I mean I've kept things tidy so my thoughts can move. But laundry goes in a hamper, and then you do not see it. But who has time to sort colors when there is music playing and whispers to hear?

I'm super fucking happy about life right now. But when I float, I really fucking float, and I find it real hard to see the ground below.

Just wish me a happy landing when I finally come back to earth to pay the rent and do the laundry.

STFU

2009-09-16T09:47:00.000-07:00

There are days when my hearing is damningly acute. Everything I can hear at once literally starts to steal my energy until I am a puddle of others' words and the ticking of clocks.

Take today for instance.

There are four conversations going on in the room and I know what every single one is about: vacation, lunch, IT complaints about Course Development, and Course Development complaints about IT. None of these things interest me, and yet I know all the filthy fucking minutiae because I can't fucking ignore it. (Disneyworld with the kids for Christmas, Thai, Course Development is high maintenance, and IT is incompetent.)

I know that my most irritating cubemate just took eleven steps to throw away his fucking pansy-ass diet soda bottle in the recycling bin.

Right now my boss's space heater is on but she is not in there. I know she is not in there because I can not hear her three middle fingers rubbing against the arm of her chair as I could all morning when she edits.

The new guy is listening to Led Zeppelin on his headphones.

The guy I always say hi to yet never remember if his name is Daniel or David is across the room sucking on a mint and chewing on his bottom lip simultaneously. Such an odd fucking sound that I'm not sure anyone else on this side of the room is remotely aware of.

The reason I know all these things is because I go on three day periods of time when all I can do is hear the whole world. I should be out somewhere interesting, listening to the birds or the rush of traffic or conversations that I don't already know all the answers to. Writing down all the beautiful things outside this cubicle that come into my ears and play dress-up games with my imagination. I should be dancing right now—when the music has different sounds I could swear weren't there before. I should be making love with my eyes closed, listening to the shifts in weight and the fusion of skin.

Instead I am in my cubicle.

I think it's official—something has to give. This sedentary job with these sedentary people and our fucking sedentary purpose is suffocating my creativity muses. When I can't even manage a blog, life is in a bad place.

A cubicle is just no way to live.

(Goddamnit if I hear one more fucking thing regarding video games or Inglourious Basterds, shit is about to get ugly.)

Nothing to Say.

2009-09-13T09:06:00.001-07:00

I've been trying to figure out a lot lately. I tend to not discuss my decisions until not only are they firmly made, they're basically irrevocable. Done deals. Nothing undoing what I have done. It is one of the few ways I show resolve in my life.

So until I figure a few of these things out, I've been at an odd loss for words. And I can't even seem to focus hard enough to say something intelligent not involving my life. (Though I did get some needed fiction revision done yesterday. Perhaps I have to offer a few blog weeks as sacrifice?)

I think something will give one direction or another before too long. Worrying this much isn't doctor or drug dealer recommended.

In the mean time, please write fun blogs for me to read. Or fan mail if you know me real well.

This is Me Having a Torrid and Tender Love Affair with Jack White's Voice.

2009-09-02T05:24:00.000-07:00

Let's just call it JWV for short. Because that is truly in essence what I am talking about. That fucking voice. It makes me want to just take all my clothes off and dance in hedonistic rituals that culminate in wine and sex and blackberry cobbler. I can literally go from zero energy to crazed out of my mind with lust and delirium within just a few verses of the right song.

You can see why JWV is a dangerous venture on the way to work in the morning. However, today I am feeling particularly under the weather with a bit of illness I maybe postponed for a sunny weekend. It's been real downhill since Monday. So today, as I made my way in to work wearing (I'm not kidding) scrub pants and an old t-shirt from a restaurant I once worked at (complete with a hoodie for that definitive I'm sick at work look), I thought I was pretty justified in picking JWV to partake in on my way. (Seriously, it's like morning drug usage.) And that's when it occurred to me I wanted gentle Jack.

I remember when The Raconteurs came out with their first single—or at least their first big one—and I thought it was the White Stripes. Driving to work this morning, feeling JWV pulse reassuringly through me, buying myself just a bit of time to sit here and dream before I return to earth and get to work and back to feeling bad, I have no idea how I might have mistaken them for the same band. Yes, it's still my JWV...but he's a different type of lover with the Raconteurs.

See Stripes JWV is darkly sexy. Hiding something beneath his words that you can't quite tune into because you're too mesmerized by his aggressive way of grabbing hold of your attention. Sure, some songs are sweeter...every bad boy has some soft sides...but for the most part Stripes JWV is just demanding sex where you get taken along for a ride and you're lucky if he lets you pause to catch your breath before engulfing you in another lyrical lashing of lust. You just have to trust for all the fire he won't let you burn.

But maybe that's just me.

But Raconteurs JWV? That's another kind of lover entirely. He's still strong, but in a way that soothes your every fear before taking you confidently by the hand and leading you into some secret shared. He's blankets on the grass and staying out past your bedtime because you can't stop talking and kissing and kissing and talking until there are words in mouths and tongues in conversations. He lets you lie against him after making love before taking you again because he knows you could just inhale him all day. Raconteurs JWV is as reassuring and endlessly pleasing as your favorite poem—the one you enjoy best away from the eyes of others.

Once again. I have a tendency toward getting caught up in the sound of a song.

But...really...truly—I love them both. JWV may in fact be the world's most perfect lover—able to show that range of attention to my various needs. Whether it is the real stripper stripping I only do at home and never for a crowd (just the audience in my head). Or a day I'm forced to go to work sick and I really wish I had someone to pet my head and massage my aching neck. Whatever the call of duty, JWV gets it done. And I find that versatility to be ecstatically irresistible. I tend to be a greedy, little girl and I just want it all.

I'm glad JWV can give it to me so good.

(A note: Although I am not opposed to Dead Weather JWV, I'm really still getting to know him. It's too soon to label our interactions. It takes me the longest to really love music. But once I decide to, I really, really do.)

Intense.

2009-08-26T05:22:00.000-07:00

I'm bad at keeping my emotions to myself. Even if you don't always know my exact reasoning, you can always see the way I feel all over me. Maybe my fair skin lends itself well to transparency. Maybe—deep down—I don't wish to hide anything I'm feeling. I don't know. I do know it often leads to trouble. Or happiness.

A man I believed for a moment would be around a while once wrote a story about how I never manage to keep the lid on any sort of boiling emotion I have. I just fully commit to every whim I suppose. And the same goes for my art making. I never know from one week to the next what I have to do to avoid that familiar ache I get in my hips and back when I'm not making something. Stories or striptease costumes. Blogging or bump and grinding. The one thing that is for certain is I become part of whatever I engage in fully. Sometimes so fully I come out of a long, creative hypnotic state looking as if the cat first dragged me in, then forced me to stay outside in the cold again.

I love totally the same way I make art totally. If I'm not exhausted after a spell, then I'm not doing something properly. When I care for someone, I throw in as much energy as I can. But that means sometimes, I exhaust. And instead of retreating from art to love--it is back to art I go again to refresh my soul. In the most life-altering relationship I've ever had, I once told him that when I wanted him around, I wanted to be all over him in love. And when I wanted to be alone, to be with my art whatever it might be at that second, I wanted him completely away. He told me when he left that was the reason why--he couldn't understand needing those sorts of extremes of companionship. I can't say I blame him. But I also can't say I can change me.

I think there will always be this certain level of conflict between my art and the people who try to love me—or rather those that love me who need to maintain the traditional pattern of how we always assumed adult relationships should behave. I decided four years ago, though, that I needed to create beautiful things. Rearrange pieces of myself to spawn new works of art in any form I could conceive. I've made a commitment I plan to keep.

Art is my love. I love so intensely I exhaust myself to retreat at times. But I need both desperately in my life...even if I'm only giving and not receiving—as is often the case in both love and art. I think balance is something we achieve in lifetimes.

Frienemies (Or Trying to Drag Myself Out of The Bitch Hole)

2009-08-23T20:07:00.001-07:00

A girl I was once very mean to is having a baby.

I've contacted her to offer any help that I can give, and she graciously accepted.

Now how was I mean to this girl? I completely pretended to be her friend and silently detested her.

Why did I do this? Because she had once kissed my boyfriend. And because I was judging her instead of loving her. I was sending out hateful fucking energy about someone who really thought I was her friend. Not BFF's, but friendly enough she had no reason to think I said awful things about her to my then boyfriend.

I was jealous, and I was a bitch. And I'm happy for both of us that I might be able to help her along with some things that not all her friends can empathize with. I'm even more happy to give her a pregnancy-empathizer friendship because women can be awful about sharing scary experiences in an already intimidating situation.

Sometimes when we fuck life lessons up, we end up having to go back through them. The universe is giving like that, which I find intensely reassuring.

The Kiss-Off.

2009-08-21T07:16:00.000-07:00

When I lose interest in a relationship, I don't stop fucking people. I stop kissing them. Kissing is personal and if I've signed out mentally or emotionally if not physically, then it really just disgusts me to do it. Sex comes from animalistic place where urges are based on instinct. (Did you know women can often get physically aroused even if their brain signals no signs of arousal? Scientists think it may be some evolutionary response to forced sex to protect the woman from further injury due to lack of lubrication. No—I don't remember where I read this mess, but Google is like God.) Kissing—conversely—is like telling you my darkest secret and then asking that you still look me in the eyes the next day and the next day.

Now please understand—this doesn't mean that I do not respect the times that kissing is inappropriate during certain times or types of sex. During some whiskey-fueled fuckFuckFUCK fest, the last thing I want my partner to be reflecting on is the fact that I consistently find my way to a cigarette when fueled by said whiskey. Instead I want him or her to be focusing on how I've got a dirty mouth like a sailor's wife when I'm whiskey fucking. I digress.

Kissing is inherently genuine. I believe it may be the closest we can get to reading each other's thoughts—or the closest most of us can expect to get. It's using our instrument of communication to tell the person exactly what we are feeling, whether it's playful or shy or pulsing with desire that pumps through our blood and into the spots where our bodies are meeting. I can promise you everything I am feeling during a moment of intimacy can be felt when my lover comes closer for a kiss. The way I nibble for more or just melt back and let it take place. If I am so wrapped in passion I can hardly keep my kissing still and I go from neck to ear to mouth and back again. When I wrap my arms around them or lie softly waiting for them to hold me there. Everything I feel I say with my mouth. It's just sometimes those feelings are too much for words to contain.

And that is why, when all the chips are cashed, and I'm ready to go back home shoeless and empty-handed, I simply cannot bear a kiss goodbye. Because just one more kiss might stop my soul.

My Very First Blog Criticism.

2009-08-18T11:09:00.000-07:00

This means I've made it right? After my initial shock at the need for such criticism, I wrote back what I felt was a fairly accurate response and one that I wanted to share.

The gist of said criticism was basically an attack on the sexually-tinted blogs I write when I do. In essence, I was accused of using my personal sexual escapades to sell myself as a sexual package.

This is what I said:

I have not ever written specifically involving any particular sexual escapade. And despite what you may think, I do not sell sex. I sell me. And my sexuality is a beautiful, integral part of me. A part that I know longer wish to deny exists. That's feminism for me, baby.

I love burlesque and I adore all the activities I do related to it. And I love sex and occasionally it finds its way here to the pages of my blog—even more often it comes to the pages of my fiction. But sex is not all there is to me, and not all I represent as a writer or dancer. It's just one piece of my (im)perfect whole. So if it's sex that sells me, I would say that some of my buyers will wind up with a lot more than they bargained for.

But I'm also willing to bet that the people who do want to buy what I've got to offer have enough sense to realize that when I consider sex, it is on much more than a physical basis. It's with the understanding that sexual relationships help form who we are. This is something I will never deny to one of my characters in fiction—or on this blog, to myself.

Here's to hopes of more criticisms that make me look at and really consider the places I'm going, the things that I'm writing, and the people worth exploring.

Psst...

2009-08-18T08:49:00.000-07:00

My next show! I am very excited to say that I will be performing at The Lakewood Theatre with an amazing group of ladies. Yes...this is a competition. But I must say I feel very much like I've already won just being able to share such an awesome stage with such a talented group of performers.

Joining me for the evening's festivities:

Courtney Crave
Vivienne Vermuth
Honey Cocoa Bordeauxx
Aviva Voila
Iris La' Mour
Angi B. Lovely
Sasha Dahl
Zamra
Betty Bloode (Duet)
Jade Pearl
Scarlette Switches
Lily Wilde

I am really excited to be a part of the cast and competition. So come out to support your favorite tease. And may the best stripper win ;). (But when pretty girls take their clothes off, really everybody wins.)

Growing Up.

2009-08-17T08:40:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I met a young lady who talked a lot. I mean a lot. Not to say that what she was saying wasn't interesting or that the girl was unintelligent. But at 22, I suppose it's hard sometimes to understand how much you can learn by just being quiet.

Now there are a few things that make this New York chicadee slightly unique. 1) She is a sex worker. She is not a prostitute or strip joint stripper (are those considered sex workers or is that just entertainment industry?). Honestly, I'm not even certain if what she does is considered sex work exactly. But I think it is. 2) She is a writer.

Now I'm not going to lie to you. At times, this young self-assured woman touched upon a few topics that I felt she rather flippantly dismissed. Things that perhaps if she had a better understanding of, she wouldn't speak so authoritatively on. Because I can promise you that going through any type of storm as the ones she spoke of, you seldom come out with your thoughts and opinions so firmly in place. In retrospect, I find it rather unfortunate that I let these few comments get in the way of me seeing why I met her last night, at the time. Because young people talk—that's what they do. Moreover, it made me think of my own tendency still, when talking close with someone who makes me nervous and uncertain, to talk too much myself. Finding that I'm terrified that a silence will leave that person certain of my absolute ordinariness. Convinced that I will be remembered a bore if for one second the conversation turns to silent stardust. So truly, I should have empathized more with this girl. Looked past the seeming composed persona and remembered that people only talk that much when they feel they have something to prove. I've been there myself and still go there in certain company. (Goodness knows what maybe I've missed out on learning because being quiet seems so scary.)

But looking back, there was no real need to be upset. I've really tried to remember lately that we meet people designed to teach us something. Given the present state of my personal affairs, that's something I have to believe in—that there's a reason for every person that enters into our lives even if we misunderstand their purpose at first.

So perhaps I misunderstood this girl's purpose for entering into my life at the moment.

Sex work is something that fascinates and confuses me. Without a doubt, I agree to someone's right to offer whatever they want of themselves for sale. I mean—is a prostitute really giving more by sharing her body than a writer does by sharing her words? Because I would consider both rather sacred parts of us. And I find that as a writer, the more I give to the page, the less I find myself able to offer at the end of the day. So my issue with sex work (I suppose I am including exotic dancing a la lap dances and physically interactive stage work in this) is not whether it should be legal or any of that jazz. My issue is my own personal feelings about it—how I feel interacting with people who perform these services as well as my reasoning for not engaging in said professions.

Sometimes no matter how many years you've been gone from church, you find traces of its effects on your thought processes. I've always felt there to be something just innately wrong about sex work for my life and I guess at times this has led me to avoid relationships with people involved in the industry. Simply because something I can't understand makes me uncomfortable. As I've become more and more involved with burlesque, I have definitely started to release some of these boundaries of meeting people involved in selling sex—whether it be at a strip joint or in a hotel room or on the internet in porn or fetish. But as I met and talked with this girl—as I've gotten to know people involved in various alternative careers—really there's just a lot of envy in a way. Not only is she financially secure in a way that my college degree and nine to five position have yet to secure me, but she also seems really happy with her life and occupation. Similarly, I've met many women who used to be involved in a sexual type industry that seem a heck of a lot more together and happy with themselves than I ever have been.

So what does this all mean? I really have no fucking clue. I guess the lesson I'm trying to learn at this point is why I feel this ambivalent animosity when I first hear that someone is involved in the sex industry. This slight repulsion mixed with traces of jealousy. When I know that on paper I do not deny someone's right to sell themselves—any part of themselves whether it be their body or their minds. When I know for a fact I have met many individuals involved in different industries, including the young lady I met yesterday, that are intelligent and beautiful and well put together.

Perhaps it is their ability to say, "Fuck it, I'm embracing this ability of myself—to secure economic stability and freedom with my own body. Something gifted to me and meant to share as I please." I mean here this girl was touching on a few subjects that I felt were somewhat like war—don't talk about them unless you have experienced them. And I couldn't even open my mouth to say, um, excuse me, I've been there and I object. I can't even embrace the power of my own words. How on earth can she embrace her power every day to take control of her sessions and clients? To work on her own terms and have ample time to write and travel. That's a pretty cool power, and I guess in a lot of ways it does strike a chord of envy in me.

Maybe it's the appeal of knowing that you are wanted. That people will actually pay money to partake in you physically or sexually in some way. That's also a pretty awesome prowess. A confidence that I have yet to really carve out for myself—knowing that I'm desirable and demanding respect for that desirability.

I'm mighty confused on the details, but I think maybe the general lesson is I need to figure out that confidence. Find that self-assured-ness. Without actually partaking in those types of occupations. Because although I respect anyone's right to do so, even find myself envious at times of their ability to do so, sex work just isn't for me. I share enough of my thoughts. I don't want to share my full sexuality as well. Or even part of it really. Although I do love to tease ;).

But here's why I'm really grateful to have made this young lady's acquaintance. There is perhaps nothing else like the stories of another writer's success to light a fire under me. It kinda goes in phases. First, there is that overwhelming fear that because this person is being published, I will never find success of my own. Absurd, I know. But also true. Once I calm down a bit, settle back into reality, and realize that my own success is not prevented by someone else's success, I generally turn to wondering what is wrong with my own writing. Why it hasn't caught enough eyes yet.

But the final incarnation of this writer's jealousy I find myself so susceptible to (thankfully it never appears when it is people I already know and love that find success), makes it well worth the feeling of panic and inadequacy. It is when I realize, my words are good because they are not my own. And that when the timing is right everything will come out. For now, I just have to keep working toward being the best instrument I can for the writing muses that I firmly believe ink my pen for my long-handed love-making with words.

And with that, I've got a few stories to get back to now.

(Funny how a good night's sleep can completely rearrange your thought processes. I swear at times my Gemini twins work in shifts; bringing optimism to my mornings and sorrow to my evenings. I'm hoping to get them on some sort of new sleep schedule ;).)

"I Love It When You Call Me Big Poppa."

2009-08-12T09:13:00.000-07:00

I like being submissive in bed. I like playing (gentle) roles of power where someone can tell me what to do. I like feeling helpless. Safe and helpless. Under someone else's guidance where for once I don't have to fucking think Think THINK all the time.

I like using appropriate power-type nicknames during said waves of just being taken care of in bed.

However, this is definitely not something I bring up with everyone. It takes a major step in comfort and trust for me to start calling anyone by anything that might seem...daddy-like (not that that's the word I use or I have one word I use in particular...trust I'm a girl who loves variation). Because I certainly know the way it might seem. Yes. I've admitted I have father issues. Yes. I have a thing for older men (and women for that matter). Yes. It could certainly be misconstrued that my sexual desires are somehow unfortunately intertwined with my unfortunate childhood.

But that's not it. Not even a little.

I'm drawn to older people because quite honestly I'm just not your average twenty-four-year- old. I'm not saying I have some all-knowing wisdom of someone beyond my years. I'm saying I've had sort of a string of things occur in life that perhaps give me a different outlook than most people my age. A new friend really seemed to get me last night when he said that I hadn't seemed any age when he met me. Just sorta ageless. (Obviously we're talking about things outside appearances.) There could be a lot of truth to that, I suppose. In some ways, I've lived a lot of life. And in many others I don't know a damn thing...kinda puts me in a unique place. So I do tend to relate to people older than me with much more ease than a lot of my friends my age.

So the daddy thing...I like being submissive in relationships and often times I have been younger than my obliging partner. Here's the difference though between what I crave in sex...and what I hold against my father. With sex, I'm desperate to just be in the moment with someone guiding me along. A benevolent master type who allows me to just be a little plaything. A plaything my partner wants to please and take care of— allowing me to just have some peace in my head when I'm wrapped up in bed.

There are so few times my mind doesn't have to be going a million times a minute, and when I really and truly trust someone, I like to be able to just ask them to take care of me. To be my sugar daddy in the non-money sense of the term.

Because if I'm trusting someone enough that I can say the things and do the things that really turn me on, then that person has already proven that they respect and care for me. By the time I trust someone that much, we don't have any issues of me feeling afraid of being abandoned or betrayed or hurt.

My father and I have never reached that type of relationship. He does not know me because I think if he did he wouldn't like it much. So we just don't speak about anything real. Ever. We keep it surface because at this point I'm too old to want him to be a father and too young for us to really have all our wounds healed up. Because I'm sure he could tell you in my later years, as the anger grew, I inflicted plenty of my own. What I mean is, when it comes to my father, it's an issue of wanting him to respect the woman I became—whether in spite of him or because of him or maybe a little bit of both.

But by the time I can call someone by a name that really shows what I want, it has nothing to do with my past and everything to do with what that person is doing right at that moment in my present. And honestly, I've recently decided I'm kinda through with not just being me. It's a delicious freedom like I've never tasted.

Inspiration.

2009-08-06T17:12:00.000-07:00

So on a day that I have cried like demons were grabbing at my soul all the live-long day, I had the most gorgeous epiphany as I prepared to dance.

I recently asked a new friend to read some of my fiction. My real real fiction. The stuff I treasure as being part of a whole. At any rate, I'm going to be entering a fiction contest within the next week. My dear friend, Matthew Limpede , along with one of my spirit sisters--who probably doesn't want me just dropping her name on the internets...let's call her Munzies...she'll enjoy that nickname--helped me narrow down the stories I should enter. And although they agreed on one, I needed some help picking the two winners for sure.

So I asked my new friend to help me out. And then she said something to me that really brought home what Elizabeth Gilbert was talking about the other day...if a slight variation. My new friend commented on the maturity of my writing. I guess this is something some people have suggested about my writing (ahem...commenting on what other people think about my writing makes me incredibly uncomfortable...good or bad). I always take this as a super compliment because I suppose relatively speaking my academic training is slightly limited. So coming from my new friend, it meant a lot. Yet it wasn't until specifically she said it to me that I realized why that might be.

It wasn't until she said this that I realized I might have been blessed enough to inherit someone else's creativity fairy.

I'm going to tell you a story. The details will be vague because discussion of all this just tends to make me even more incredibly uncomfortable. It's actually something never discussed in my fiction as of yet.

At one time in my life I was rather sick. I mean I don't know if I'd say it was life-threatening. I will say people die from it, and it's a bit of a rough situation no matter what course it takes (within reason). Point is, I was sick. And I was pretty fucked-up sad and fearful when I found out I was sick.

(Not at first you realize. At first I snapped at my mother in the doctor's office to not cry. That she had no right to cry when I wasn't. My words become this box of nails when I'm truly sad. At first I held my best friend while she cried that she couldn't lose me, too (grown accustomed to people dying or not even existing at too young of an age--she loves me like a sister). At first I didn't cry and at first I didn't think.)

But all of this hit me like a case of bricks in the middle of my beginning painting class (beginning of my junior year of college). I was bad at painting. Maybe someone wouldn't call my beginning paintings bad--but I don't believe they would call them promising. But I was in painting class to understand the toil of the artist before further studying my actual interest--art history.

So I'm in this painting class and I'm none too impressive and I don't mind one bit. Until three days after I find out I might be really sick. When my professor comes by and suggests some help for creating a straighter line and I burst into tears. He took me in the other room to talk...just leaving the class behind.

As it turned out, something I hadn't quite grasped though he had touched on it in his introduction, the professor was a survivor of a similar form of illness. I guess at the time because I wasn't familiar with it myself, I didn't realize the severity of the situation...medical wise. Now don't get me wrong. Please. His illness was more dangerous than mine...they're just rather similar.

But something happened that day when he talked with me. He turned around my whole way of thinking. He told me I could cry for the day...but then the next I was going to have to pull myself together and get better. That I was my only real resource out of the situation. And I decided on that day to not think like someone that wasn't going to get better. Quite honestly, I just decided that day that the world hadn't seen enough of who I might fantastically become. I just wasn't done.

So I got better. And about a month out before I was going to be all done with having to do medical things to get better, something very sad occurred.

It was in April. And it really was fucking cruel to feel.

This professor who had helped me know how to see. This artist who had written me e-mails of well wishes even as he got sick again. This inspiration who had been a real friend without any type of ulterior motive and hardly knowing me. He had died. His song was done and it seemed there was perhaps no music left in the world.

I was very sad. I suppose at times I'm still really sad. Part of this is the fact that I didn't allow myself to even mourn his death for so long. Not really. I felt foolish for grief over a man who I hardly knew. A man whose family would not know me and friends would not recognize. My sadness felt overwhelmingly stupid and the only thing worse than sadness is shameful sadness.

One month later I began my first college creative writing course because I needed to create. I couldn't bare to just keep staring at other's creations. I couldn't paint, but I had to make something beautiful.

I started writing very pretty words to describe some often times ugly things. (And I don't mean necessarily what I do with my words is pretty. I mean I pick words that I find beautiful in visual form. I guess I sorta pick pretty colors to paint with, but I'm not saying my pictures are pretty.)

Let me tell you something about my friend, the artist's later works. He started painting his illness prior to diagnosis. And then after it was a rather sad or rather mystically ordained irony. I have stood in an art gallery and listened to a man critique the colors of my friend's work. (The colors he said!) I have sat on the floor and heard others say it was pure light beaming from a background. The thing is...he was making something very ugly into something very beautiful.

Just like he told me to do the day I found out life doesn't always last as long as you think it might. He told me to take that ugly possibility of dying and use it to make my life sparkle. I guess I might have made a few fast and not necessarily sound decisions since I turned out to be okay. But life does move quicker sometimes than you expect it to.

But realizing today that maybe I had someone else's fairies on my side. That maybe he left those behind for me. It was the most beautifully reassuring thing I've felt in a while. You see I was always a lover of the arts...but actually doing it...actually trying to say this is what I'm going to do because I think I'm good enough to make it on my creative merit....that was fucking scary. And I'm incredibly fortunate to have been gifted with guardian angel fairies. Because really, it would just be incredibly arrogant of me to think I have any sort of gift on my own. It is a gift...but only a fleeting one given to the fancies of the muses and fairies and spirits out there facilitating creative existence. And that it is why every day I try to remember to be grateful that I have ever written anything good at all in my life.

And I guess that's what it really means for an artist to have creative legacy. Leaving that feeling in someone that they were born to create. I hope maybe that's a bond I don't have to feel ashamed for mourning.

xoxo

(Extra x's and o's to my story tie-breaking friend. She's a bit of a secret and I liked to keep her that way...but I do hope she realizes how much I needed this little pick-me-up. Because it also made me realize a few further things. But that's for later thought.)

My Love Life as Described by The Dresden Dolls at Present

2009-08-06T14:22:00.000-07:00

The Dresden Dolls have just really been doing it for me lately...and two songs kinda stand out as part of my new determination to not "need" love...especially when it's not the good kind of love. If you only listen to one, then I would go with the second. It's a little more funsies. (And the video is just fabu enough I had to include it.)

Good Day

Good Day - The Dresden Dolls

Coin-Operated Boy

Dresden Dolls - Coin-Operated Boy | Music Videos | SPIKE.com

(P.S. Ms. Amanda, your voice is just sex. Angry vulgar sex where we finish off by shooting whiskey and writing poetry all over your bedroom walls. Kisses.)

Those Gemini Eyes

2009-08-05T07:36:00.000-07:00

Geminis are flirty little bitches. I don't just mean romantically...although now and again I might be accused of flirting even when I don't mean to. No, I mean Geminis are known for an inability to stick with one passion. Let's explore my list of childhood activities, shall we?

Ballet
Tap
Jazz
Ice Skating
Art Class
Creative Writing Workshop (Turns out I just didn't like the cheese dick featured authors...writing wasn't the problem.)
French horn
Choir and Voice Lessons (Some of my most memorable acts include a duet to Aladdin's "You Ain't Never Had A Friend Like Me." You know you want some of this.)
Tennis

I am excluding any exclusive to school activities.This is just the list of outside of school. Clearly, I'm not a one-track mind kind of gal.

I think that's why burlesque is making me so happy. The total lack of commitment to a concrete theme or character. A lot of ladies like to stick within certain guidelines—whether it be classic or political or overtly theatrical—and I think that is very cool. But that's the beauty of burlesque. You don't have to stick with one thing. For my first performance, I was really all innocence and sugary-sweet...with a little peep of mischief. I won't give any details for my next performance, but I will say that there's definitely a bit more mystery involved—dark, romantic Hollywood and lovers secretly entwined. And for my next piece I have started work on, it is all classic with just the slightest splash of sass. Of course in each and every instance, I'm still Bubbles and bubbly. But I get to play dress up. And looking the part (or showing up as some bores would say) is often all you need to convince the world of a different you—recycled into something new.

When I step into those sequins or feathers or petticoats or pearls—whatever the costume, whatever the case—I believe that I am who I want to be for those three minutes. And when it's done I can go back to being me...or maybe an extra bubbly me. The point is I love the fact that I can give myself wholly, fully, fanatically to a character during the planning and performance. And then just step away. And if I don't want, I never have to revisit that character but the possibility is always there.

Yes, that's what I really mean when I say Geminis are flirty little bitches. We have an addictive penchant for possibilities.

It's funny I got to thinking about my Gemini eyes within the context of burlesque. But then I realized they sorta hold the key to my writing. And it's so obvious, I'm not certain how I never figured it out before.

I only write short stories. I always said it's because I believe in the immediacy of the short story, the amazing impact it can have in a short space and time. And this is true, but it's not the whole truth. Really, I can only commit to each character for a short time. I like knowing everything about this one thing in their life. That one moment, one look, one dream, one love. I don't want to follow their full life story because once I create them and get to know them, I'm ready to move on. I don't like my vision to stay so concentrated for such a long time. Not my writer vision exactly...what I see when I'm in my narrator's head. (Yes—I am a true lover of first person narrative (with occasional second person intricacies). To put it best, I'm not an objective individual. I have to step into characters, and I don't know how to do that while playing god or some bystander. But that's another blog perhaps.) I will never write a novel because I feel no need to know everything. I just like finding some piece of truth in some snapshot of fiction—the glimmer from other worlds that exist in our dreams.

This is all rather rambling and rather representative of my life right now...and the fact that I can only tell you half the story.

But for today, suffice it to say. I'm pleased as peach pie that my Gemini eyes have found the forms of art that keep me from going blind from boredom. Hopping from character to character while performing on stage or dancing on the page.

And for now, I may just have to try and trust that everything else will fall in place.

Yay!

2009-08-04T10:56:00.000-07:00

Check out my very first interview. Please send all press requests to my secretary ;).

xoxo Bubbles

A Letter of Love

2009-07-28T08:29:00.000-07:00

Dear Miss Bubbles,

Hi there—it's me. Your best friend. Some days your worst enemy. But either way, you're stuck with me, so let's make the most of it. I wanted to let you know that this has been an extraordinary year for you. I mean, really, I scarcely recognize the girl who has emerged. Let's review, yes?

1. Writing

You've really accepted your fate as a writer. Like it or not, writing is your destiny....and you happen to be pretty darn good at it on a fairly consistent basis. I know there was a time you were considering other grad school paths—trying to find something a tad more practical for a future money-making career. But then you realized the only way to succeed as a writer is to (1) have an unwavering devotion to and belief in your own writing and (2) to embrace the impractical. You can do this writing thing. You write beautifully. But your most important accomplishment over the past year is believing that you are a good and worthy writer. From this blog to Twitter to (of greatest import) fiction, you can do this. You're amazing and that's why people are here to read you.

2. Dancing

Wow. Just wow. For a girl who quit ballet because you were terrified of performing—because you had learned to hate your own beautiful, healthy body so much—you have come a long fucking way in a very short amount of time, lady. Let's break this down:

July 2008—Six months after having baby, you begin belly dancing—grown weary of exercise just for the sake of fitness that does nothing for your mind or confidence.

September 2008—You begin dancing on your own at home, not following any sort of instructional guidelines. You start to remember how beautiful it feels to create enchanting forms with your own body. You begin to re-embrace your love for costuming, concocting silly and sexy little outfits just for your own enjoyment of dancing at home.

December 2008—Your interest in burlesque begins. Thanks in part to the charming Bad Girl of Burlesque, Miss Cherry Bomb.

January 2009—You consider auditioning for a troupe. You inevitably convince yourself you aren't good enough, that there's no sense in trying when getting on a stage is frightening and accepting your body is truly petrifying.

February 2009—Instead of just determining that you must be an epic failure at burlesque, you begin taking lessons from Miss Ginger Valentine to learn the art of the shimmy.

February 2009—You start taking pictures. Art nudes, pinup, just plain sexy—you name it. You know that burlesque is for you and it's time to start seeing yourself through other people's eyes because your own critical eye has done enough damage.

March 2009—You break down crying trying to perform in front of four people. FOUR!

March 2009—Following a workshop with the beautiful Ms. Michelle L'amour, you realize more extreme measures are needed to tackle this stage fright/self-doubt monster.

April 2009—You take a part with the Fort Worth Opera in Dead Man Walking. No turning back now.

May 2009—You appear nude onstage at Bass Performance Hall, playing the victim of a graphic rape and murder scene. Hardest thing you've ever done. Absolutely what you needed to start to reconcile your insecurities.

June 2009—Your first burlesque show audition....and success!

July 2009—You make your premier in Austin, TX tomorrow. Good lord, you've come a long way, baby.

I mean, really...does this need explanation? You walked away from being another sad story of some sad girl who could never believe in herself and therefore never followed her dreams. You're paving your own way in rhinestones and love, and no matter how far you get, that's accomplishment plenty. (But I've got a feeling you can make it all the way to the sequin stars above, darlin.')

3. Mothering

You're a good mom. A great mom. A loving entity in your daughter's life—and sure to be the partial catalyst for many of her academic, creative, and spiritual endeavors. You aren't the most conventional, perhaps, and there are certainly some rough spots ahead. But where are all these super well-adjusted people who had perfectly traditional mothers and have therefore gone on to be the greatest successes the world has ever seen? They don't exist—that's where. Because in all honesty, the extraordinary is not born out of the ordinary. You love her the way you best know how, and that's what works for you both. You've learned to ignore the judgmental stares cast upon your stilettos when you enter the daycare. You've learned to mute the critical comments from family. You've learned to be happy being her mother. Just her mother. Not the world's most perfect mother. Just you and your love for her. That's all you need to make her life a little more complete.

Listen, sweetheart, you're not perfect. But you are a beautiful, intelligent, creative, and loving person who tries to bring a bit of happiness to everyone you meet while trying to carve out your little niche in this chaotic world. You show up every day, trying to be the best person you can be with all that the gods above and below have given you (and perhaps a few creative fairies in between). Just remember, you don't have to be perfect to be awe-inspiring—which is what makes you perfect just the way you are. I love you dearly, and I look forward to a lifetime of continual improvement of our relationship.

Love,

Me

This "Love, Me" project was spearheaded by the amazing Miss Cherry Bomb. In her words, "Hating yourself is easy; what would truly be subversive and challenging is admitting to loving things about yourself." I love myself. And these ladies do, too. Imagine if we all learned to.

Ms. Bea's Helpful Hints Blog - http://msbeahaven.com/ms-beas-blog/

Twenty Twenty Hindsight - http://twentytwentyhindsight.com/

Rollertrain - http://rollertrain.tumblr.com/

Fluid Pusher - http://fluidpusher.blogspot.com/

Cherry Bomb - http://www.cherrybombnyc.com

Writers on Writing.

2009-07-27T07:58:00.000-07:00

Or rather writers on creativity and life. My dear friend and editor of Carve magazine, Matthew Limpede, recommended this video to me months ago. I mean literally months. It must have been February. I've been lacking in time since the beginning of this year to say the least. However, a recommendation from Matthew is a pretty sure fire thing (I mean he has published me ;)), so for the past five months I forwarded his email to myself containing the video link, again and again—determined I would find the time. And I did. And two days before my dancing debut in Austin, I am exceedingly grateful to have the creative fairies to hold accountable for any glitches.

I simply could not share Elizabeth Gilbert without sharing this video from my personal goddess of all things good writing entails—Ms. Amy Hempel. The things I would do to be this woman's disciple.

Make. Believe.

2009-07-24T06:15:00.000-07:00

I have pretend conversations in my head on an almost constant basis. Not with people I think are there but actually aren't. I make up hypothetical situations with people and play them out in my head. Someone I pass on the street--doing her make-up and eating a bagel (probably low-fat blueberry) while she waits for the bus. A person I know in passing like my charming manicurist, Alec. He always tells me I have small hands and look young. I don't think the irony is lost on him. The person I share my bed with who holds me close and tight afterward. I have hypothetical conversations with each and everyone of these people throughout my day. At my desk. Getting ready in the morning. Feeding Princess Ducky. All the time.

I would guess this is what makes me a fiction writer. I'm not inside other writers' heads. But I do realize that one of the few things that separates me from societal legally insane is the fact that I write down these pretend moments rather than talking aloud about them.

I would also guess this is what makes me such a horrific listener. If I am not typing or reading or otherwise forced to visually connect while I am communicating, I find it really hard to focus. I've never been able to learn by listening in class. And more than one has told me I only try to communicate in distant fashion. All these pretend people and moments and fantasies running around in my head, they're just so much clearer to me than the people who live inside reality.

It may one day leave me a very lonely girl. But I wouldn't trade being able to write and create my pretend worlds on a page. Not for love or money or fame. Because if I had to pick a religion, it would be Make Believe.

And that is why I am a writer.

Wardrobing.

2009-07-23T07:50:00.000-07:00

A lot of times when people see me out somewhere before or after work, they assume I work somewhere cool.

I assure you that is not the case. Not even the least bit.

But at least four days out of five I do manage to pull together some sort of at least semi-impressive ensemble. (Today I'm rocking a striped dress and fuck me boots, some handmade jewelry from the streets of Austin, and rainbow Wayfarers. Always dress as if the world is your coconut cupcake and you're the cherry on top. Even if your heart is feeling awfully black and blue.) Fuck. Some days I even convince myself I'm heading off to work somewhere cool. Makes the commute happier.

Point being, people think I work somewhere cool because I package myself to make them believe that. That is the power of wardrobing. People will believe anything you want them to about you if your costuming is sincere enough. Like walking around in red four-inch polka dot pumps like you own the world and your sidewalks are made of glitter. Even though secretly you're wondering if your ass looks too big in the mini-skirt you finally felt brave enough to wear.

That's both the appeal and the terror in burlesque. Yes, we all get to start out differently. And certainly we play characters...sometimes one, sometimes several. And of course us burl-y girls and boys love makeup (or the occasional wig). But when your number is done, you're just a naked girl (or boy) standing there. Telling the audience they have to love you just the way you are because there's nothing left to peel away.

What a beautiful thing when we can learn to tell ourselves that.

Of Course There's A Seventh Perfect Album

2009-07-21T21:21:00.000-07:00

I knew six didn't seem like my brain. It's an even number. I don't do evens unless there is a zero involved.

7. Nighttiming--Coconut Records

I can listen to this album completely through again and again and it makes me feel the exact same way. And at the end of each rotation, I feel pretty happy that I get to check out planet Earth as a human being. Some days it's rough, but for the most part we all get to experience some extraordinary things at some point.

(Seriously listen to the whole damn thing, all the way through. Go on now.)

Nighttiming - Coconut Records

(And if you're in just desperate need for extra incentive as to why this album is amazing—for those of you who don't know—this is the solo project of Jason Schwartzman. Possibly the only guy in Hollywood who I am just desperate to sit down to tea with so we can discuss everything in the whole world. AND it features guest vocals by Zooey Deschanel—who I am desperate to do a great many things with besides tea.)

"That's Why I Write and Dance Naked"

2009-07-21T06:19:00.000-07:00

Public speaking makes me want to down a flask of Jameson and chase it with some Valium. Not so I would then have the courage; no, the purpose of this cocktail would be to leave me so broken on the floor that my public speaking engagement would no longer be a viable option.

Yesterday evening, we had an informal gathering of the local contributors to An Honest Lie. Of particular import was the rules of engagement for our coming publicity engagements. These are going to be fun little events with both entertainers and writers sharing and interacting with the crowd. (Yes, there is a slight possibility I will participate on more than one level, but you only get a tease of that possibility for now.)

So basically, us writers will be getting on stage. To speak.

Jesus. That's why I got into this writing gig. To stay hidden behind my words. That's why I dress up and strip in character. To hide behind the makeup and the rhinestones and the glamour I create out of the air.

See I'm used to operating more like a magic show; getting on a stage to speak, as myself without any character, feels like a big dirty dose of reality, and I don't know that I like it.

Let's face it, kids: I live to pretend.

But here's the fun part I figured out: when nobody really knows you yet, you only have to show a little to entice. So I'm going to treat this writer speaking business just like I treat stripping. It's all about the tease.

And if I'm the only writer on stage wearing rhinestones, well then, that's just one more reason to read my sparkly stories.

(Side note: The title of this entry is a direct quote from yesterday evening's discussions. I really must remember to start socializing with writers once again.)

Fairy Tales

2009-07-16T07:39:00.000-07:00

There once was a girl who had a pearl heart that she kept hidden for only a few to see.

Her heart wasn't diamond or gold or a bright red ruby. It was subtle and sweet and easily scratched. Pearls are fragile, you see, and that's why the girl could only show it to a very few souls—for fear that damage could cause it to break too easily.

Now the girl once had a lover, a man with stormy sky eyes and hands like the sea. They would meet quietly and intimately and exchange smiles and touches. They both knew their time wasn't permanent, but that wasn't what it needed to be. And they were both happy with temporary glimpses into each other.

The girl showed him her heart and he told her it was beautiful—to keep it safe for only a few to see.

In some time, the girl had two suitors. One loved her with his mouth but could never speak what she made him see. The other loved her with his eyes, but could never listen to her speak. She knew she must choose how she wished to be loved, and she cried at night because they both felt so tragically incomplete.

But then one day, she awoke from her fitful sleep into her room just filled with golden light. The corners of her room were soft with an early morning pink, and suddenly she knew he had been trying to tell her the answer.

For her lover had shown her something when he had sweetly placed her pearl heart back safe for her to keep. If he could guard her heart that carefully, knowing it was never his to keep, then the girl could never give it to a man without words nor a man who could only speak.

(Please Note: This is some of my flash fiction. Typically I do not post fiction on this site, retaining it for future publication in my collection or that of another's (save for some occasional erotica); however, this just came out so perfectly and freely this morning that it only felt right to share it here on my blog. (My preferred writing schedule is blogging in the morning and fiction in the evening so I can dance my fiction into being.) That being said, any unscrupulous miscreants who feel no qualms about stealing another's art beware: this is MY fiction and I don't take too kindly to folks who try to take what is mine. Kisses.)

Ooh la la.

2009-07-15T05:28:00.000-07:00

Deep in thought on a routine. Writing and studying. But so much to tell.

Suffice it to say that last night a friend inadvertently showed me how people act when they're in love. It was the sweetest thing.

Mucho musing on this.

I Freaking Love Austin.

2009-07-09T07:36:00.000-07:00

And I am so excited to be performing there! Come see me in all my glittering glory ;). Get your tickets though...we plan on a full house, ya'll!

Hello. Hello.

2009-07-07T05:24:00.000-07:00

I've really got to get some fiction done this week which probably means no time for blogging. That seems to be how things have to go for now—taking a round robin or pony-hopping carousel ride around my different interests. This week I've got fiction and a session with Mr. Devious (and trying to maintain my dance every day commitment despite an injured hip—been sticking to belly dance though, can't bump it too hard ;) ). But I also have a weekend of rest and alone time planned, so perhaps I'll swing on over then.

xoxo

Looky Here!

2009-07-06T07:39:00.000-07:00

My Dallas debut...feathers and fun! Come join for an evening of glitz and glamour!

xoxo

Amendment.

2009-07-03T06:07:00.000-07:00

There's one album that was thisclose the other day to being on my five perfect albums list. I cut it because 1) that would have made it 6 albums which is a slightly sinister number and it felt false to try to think of another album just to make the number 7 instead of 6; and 2) it contains one brief purely musical number that simply bores me. However, listening to it this morning, I remembered that it also contains some of the most amazing lyrics I've ever heard. And also, I just don't enjoy music without words. Perhaps if I did, I would like the song.

So #6 perfect album: American Water--Silver Jews.

And I just have to share a few reasons that this is one of my perfect albums (besides my crush on David Berman's voice....and the lyrics kinda make me melt inside and out).

"In 1984 I was hospitalized for approaching perfection.
Slowly screwing my way across Europe, they had to make a correction."

"I love your amethyst eyes and your Protestant thighs."

"Send in the clouds. Bring down the rain.
Shut all the blinds, turn out the lights:
I feel insane when you get in my bed."

Off to dance now. The only thing that could make this cube-free day any prettier would be a secret audience in my bed. I'll let you figure that one out.

xoxo

The Flood

2009-07-01T05:22:00.000-07:00

It's funny how the times when you should blog the most are the times that you have the least capacity to do so. Maybe it's because I live in a cube where my computer seems dreadful to anchor myself to when outside of work. Maybe it's because many times during my absences I am writing fiction so real life doesn't occur to me. This happens especially during times of good fortune...strings of days where life moves more like magic than reality.

Some big things have gone on the past week. Here it goes:

1. I have been accepted into my first burlesque show.

That's right; Ms. Bubbles von BonBon will be making her debut appearance! I am so excited to say that I will be taking part in Bewitching Burlesque MidSummer Masquerade. (August 8; buy tickets here.) With some glamorous guidance along the way, I am thrilled to be performing in front of an audience for the first time in a while (at least dance-related). And...I may be taking part in another show. Still working out the details, but I'll share as soon as things are solid. <3

This is something I've really wanted to take part in, and I'm just really too happy to say.

2. Thriller.

Michael Jackson has left the show. When I first heard about this, I recalled someone having once criticized me for expressing sadness at a different celebrity death. I felt silly to feel the sadness I felt creeping in. Until it finally struck me deep down inside: I was really saddened by MJ's death.

When I think of Michael, I don't recall his deteriorating mental and physical health. I don't recall the sad man going to the courthouse, whom I feel was probably innocent of all but a dejected mind trying to idle in childhood—attempting to erase the scars of abuse. What I do think of is an amazing entertainer who created the songs that first made me want to dance on my own—away from the dance classes already started at age three. Michael was the first one who made me see what kind of dancing I could create, not just mimic. Because he was a creator. I think of someone who gave millions of dollars to charity and truly seemed to take an active concern with what was happening to those outside of himself, outside of his family, outside of his country. I think of someone who broke racial barriers with music instead of guns.

No, I didn't know him. But I'm awfully grateful he was someone in the world. So I'm going to take some time to be sad for MJ. And I don't plan on feeling stupid about it.

3. Cue sexy music—girl coming of age into womanhood.

If you know me real well. If you really pay attention to me, you might notice something is different. Maybe it's the audition. Maybe it's the months of trying harder to be happier. I can't put an exact finger on it. But I will say that if you notice it's because I want you to. And oh it feels so nice against and under and seeping into my skin.

xoxo

This is Boring.

2009-06-30T05:42:00.000-07:00

But sometimes I just use this as a place to put thoughts that I want to remember I thought at one time. In this case, five albums I find to be perfect. Not that they have my favorite songs exactly (although one does in fact contain my favorite song foreva-eva). No—five albums where every single song is as good as the next. Certainly, I listen to certain ones more than others. But given the opportunity, I will listen to these albums all the way though, again and again.

In an only semi-particular order:

1. Abbey Road—The Beatles
2. Bachelor No. 2—Aimee Mann
3. Birds Flying Away—Mason Jennings
4. I Created Disco—Calvin Harris
5. Icky Thump—The White Stripes

If you've missed out on any of these—listening to them all the way through—consider changing that. You'll be happy you did.

xoxo

Rental Cars are Punishment For Wrecking Your Vehicle

2009-06-23T05:15:00.000-07:00

Rental cars make me want to place plastic down on the seats and wear a blindfold for the duration of the ride. Not recreational rentals mind you...the rental you get through your insurance company because you can't seem to really justify spending more than the daily allowance you've already paid through premiums (and you feel guilty for having yet another collusion on your record). The rental that has coffee stains on the seat and seems the size of a tank compared to your cute little girl car. The one that requires more gas and feels similar to driving a hearse. With a smell that suggests perhaps something stale and cadaver-like resides in the vehicle on the weekends. Rotting flowers or the like. Yes; that's the type of rental car I despise.

But it's not just the aesthetics of the thing. I am an exceedingly nervous driver. If I get away from Dallas soon and its endless highway-required driving, then I will be a very happy girl. So add volume to unfamiliar controls (and my tendency to forget all things car-related the second I reach my destination) and I consistently spend time freezing off my behind or scorching in the Texas sun. All because I can't work the damn temperature control because I'm terrified of striking other vehicles with the tail-end of my behemoth monstrosity of a rental car.

I like my car to feel like a friend that I go on trips with. Someone I've known for a bit and picked out to begin with for their obvious positive role in my life. Their style, their attitude, the whole package. Right now, I'm riding with the coffee-coated, overweight prostitute left out wet on the side of the road too many nights in a row because she couldn't land a john. And I have to finance her pollution-promoting overindulgence in petroleum products. It's going to be a long ten days.

A Quiet Thing

2009-06-21T22:16:00.001-07:00

I don't do a lot...as in any....big news on this blog. Truth be told, my blog is full of frivolity if you look outside your window or maybe even all the way across the ocean (though some have trouble seeing that far). It doesn't mean I don't see those things. It means that there are some things I just don't have the words for. Sad can be the hardest thing to say.

So feel better world. Brighter days always come when they may. And I really believe that.

I Love It When God Makes Me Grab My Ankles

2009-06-15T07:53:00.000-07:00

So I'm at home in a pretty fucking angry mood because I'm hell of sick with no one about to take care of me to speak of and I'm horny as all get out to top it off. (Yes, I get really revved up for some good sex when I feel badly. It's a little odd and perhaps a little gross but I can't be the only girl with a thing for good lovin' when she's feeling awful.) However, unlike usual, I do have time for a quick blog. Because I'm at home sick from work not getting laid and not getting orange juice delivered bedside. (Have I mentioned my bed now resides in my living room? It worked best for the baby situation, and added bonus, it makes me feel fancy. Because now I have a fireplace and a door to a balcony in my bedroom, which sorta makes me like the French ladies who use to hold court in beds in their living rooms. (Added side note: All history elements here discussed most likely come from fiction books and not history. For instance, the French aristocracy reference is brought to you by the wisdom of Margaret Mitchell and Gone with the Wind. Favorite book: Age 10.))

So life has been ever so delicately irritating as of late. With my decision to wear pearls as often as possible, I'm trying to take an open mind to this and assume all of this irritation is to give me one hell of a pretty time here in bit.

Here are my current list of complaints. In no particular order. If you know me, you realize I consider all things of equally dramatic levels.

1. I ordered a dress on May 26 from Etsy. It has not arrived. I need it by tomorrow. I sent payment on May 26. The seller had neglected to change her address. Neglect is a strong word. She thought she had, but it actually didn't change where I viewed it from. Make sense? Anyway, so we figure this out June 9. She tells me she is sending it Priority Mail that day. In the mean time, I send a new check. I ask for the tracking number yesterday because she never e-mailed it June 9 as promised. When I went to check the tracking number, the usps.gov site told me they had received notification of a package from the seller on June 14. Yesterday. If I do not get that dress by today, which I intend to use for an audition next week, I may go on a rampage with my newly purchased Bejeweler and hot glue gun. Never mess with a bitch who doesn't bat an eye at the heat 0f hot rollers, hot glue, or hell.

(It is the loveliest dress, however. And I do hope she did everything she could in good faith to get it to me. It just all seems highly suspect.)

2. My life is so confused, it's like a big huge vomit roller coaster. I hate roller coasters. I don't enjoy feeling off center like that. Give me thrills in bottles and sex and good friendships and beautiful books. The problem here is I'm driving this silly little roller coaster. And I can't seem to figure quite how to direct it.

3. I really want back in school. A friend of mine is moving where I want to move to restart school. He's decided to just go back from the start. I suppose he's earned his time to do so. But good god, I've never felt such envy regarding someone of the opposite sex. And I'm finding it hard to have the energy for everything lately. I'm a mom. I'm a forty hour editor. I'm trying to study for the GRE because I feel so incredibly out of touch with my standardized test side--something that was very me a few years ago. I'm trying to find time for dance and yoga because I know I'm happier being in touch with my physical self and its relation to my creative self (Hippie Bitch Speak 101). I want to write and then write some more. Then maybe sex and a sandwich. And then write some more. And I'm also trying to find some balance of the interpersonal relationship dynamic I want in my life. Friends, friends I hold hands with, whatever. So yes, I really wish it was as easy as to just say, "Moving down. Figure it out later." (Basically, I want back in school.)

Well when I appear to only have three problems it doesn't seem so bad. I only said God was making me grab my ankles. I didn't say she was taking it all the way. I'm sure her means of seduction are a bit more romantic.

Besides. Here I am. Sick as a dog. But I dressed up for my sick day with a retro swimsuit covered in postcards, a red rose in my hair, and my new pearl rosary from the BFF (she indulges my Catholic envy). Three little problems aren't going to condemn me. I'm going off to nap now. You sweets have a lovely day in the work world.

God Bless the Garter Belt

2009-06-12T08:27:00.000-07:00

Ladies and gents, a defining moment in my burlesque exploration occurred earlier this week: I bought my first garter belt. I wasn't sure I was ready to buy one yet. I've really been trying to focus on just creating one costume. (I'm Gemini even in rhinestones; I jump from project to project if I don't watch myself.) As part of this single-minded intention, I've vowed to not buy anything that doesn't fit my immediate costuming needs. And I wasn't sure that a garter belt would go with my current endeavour.

But someone I tend to listen to told me to give it a whirl. So I bought it. My very first lace and boned garter belt. Black and classic.

And I'm mighty grateful he told me to get it.

I tried it on for the first time last night. Pinning it onto my sheer black stockings, seams running vertically in the back from my red heels to the tops of my thighs. Dear god.

I've always been extra proud of one of my ASSets in particular. I've worked hard on it over the years and especially in the sixteen months since my little princess was born. I've never been a woman with hips to speak of, but I find ways to make up for it from behind.

And here it is: the garter belt. A perfect frame for my favorite part.

I shimmied and bumped last night. I pouted, grinding my hips and touching myself everywhere from my waist to my knees. It is amongst the most sensual dance nights I've ever had to myself.

Two things I cannot wait to try:

1) Taking myself to a stage.
2) A for real corset...made just for me.

Some days I just really love being a girl.

Learning to Type

2009-06-09T05:40:00.000-07:00

Okay—I'm not learning to type exactly. I mean I don't know how to type in the traditional sense. (Although most people who have witnessed me in action will tell you I have some of the most absurd hunt and pecking skills you've ever seen). But with my decision to begin a blog, I really had to learn how to write on a computer. It hasn't been easy.

I have always staunchly defended my preference for writing fiction by hand. There is something calming in a pen against paper, a peace I can't find with the clatter of a keyboard. So when I began this blogging process, I imagined I would operate in much the same way. Write things down on paper and later transfer them to the screen.

That doesn't work so hot for blogging it turns out.

Here's what really happened when I tried writing blogs down first: I would lose my train of thought; I would never get around to typing things up; and I actually somewhat dreaded the whole process. So over the past few months, I've worked on it. I've created by typing. It's a little weird.

But I think I finally get why it works. My blog is my immediate reaction to a variety of things. It tends to be the thoughts I think as I sit in cube-hell. At times, the fiction I can't formulate to be paper-published acceptable because of the glare of fluorescent lighting. It's my means of communication when locked into a sedentary position. I write it down and I don't read it again, only performing a spell-check. Basically, because I don't actually know how to type, I never look at what I've written. I never re-think it, censoring out the stupid. Here's some thoughts, maybe someone else will give them a gander.

Fiction is so different. First off, I tend to be dancing most the time I'm inspired to fictitious flights. (There is such a real connection between the physical and the intellectual/creative for me.) I stare at the words as they come from my pen. I go slowly, one word at a time, feeling for the rhythm. Fiction is my religious reawakening, and I just don't believe that could happen in front of a monitor for me.

So I've learned to love my blog for its immediacy. And I'll continue to hunt and peck my way through it.

But saints spare the man who might try to take away my pen and paper. My fiction can't come from a machine.

24 Feels Fucking Great!

2009-06-04T07:02:00.000-07:00

I'm a very silly girl when it comes to birthdays. Ever since turning 18, I've approached my birthdays with apprehension. I spend approximately three months, beginning in March, bemoaning the fact that my life is at a standstill and I've accomplished nothing. Then comes my actual birthday.

And I'm like a little kid. I dressed up for work today. I'm smiling big as can be. And I've told everyone I greet in the hall that it's my birthday. Because gosh darn it, it's nice when people wish you a happy day on the anniversary of your entrance to the world.

And I realized today, driving to work and dancing to Calvin Harris, I've done a whole hell of a lot.

1. I gave birth to the most beautiful, sweet baby fairy in the universe. Seriously—you guys will thank me for her one day.

2. I graduated college in five years, with honors, battling cancer and survivor's depression/guilt during the latter half of my degree program. With honors, bitches.

3. I've got a grown-up job. It's not my dream, but I have managed to enter the workforce.

4. I'm slowly but surely overcoming my stage fright to return to dancing for a crowd. I can't wait.

And last but not least.......

5. As of yesterday, I have been informed I will appear in a print short story anthology, alongside twelve other fiction contributors and two art pieces.

I'm too happy to say much else.

Sparkles and Sprinkles and SoCo

Pretty.

2009-06-03T05:21:00.000-07:00

I have a friend with one of the most lovely mums in the world. I'm not going to say she hasn't sought some medical assistance, but the bottom line is, she naturally, for the most part. is in possession of a pretty face and figure.

She's approaching her mid-fifties. And it's starting to bother her...the thought of aging. But as I sit there looking at her, it seems so obvious. Happiness in aging essentially comes down to accepting new definitions of pretty.

I'm a crazy girl, right? And I've clearly dated someone on more than one occasion with a definitive age gap between us. So of course, as my duh..duh..duh...24th birthday approaches tomorrow, I've actually gone and gotten in my head that men are now going to infinitely prefer 18 year old girls to me. (Fascinating the things I can find to worry about.)

But it's just so silly. My friend's mum is beautiful. She has a boyfriend that truly cares for her. She doesn't look like she's 18 or 25 or even 30 anymore (thought she mights pass as being in her 30's). But anyone who meets her isn't looking for her to be that kind of pretty. She's an entirely different kind of pretty that can only be achieved through age and knowledge and accumulating love for people over years of living.

And that's just fucking beautiful in my eyes.

So here's to me entering my mid-20's pretty. If I had to be real honest, I'm much better than I was at age 18 anyway.

Writers Make Bad Lovers

2009-06-02T08:46:00.000-07:00

Rather, writers kiss and tell—which can be painful to some, flattering to others. As fiction writers, we take in everything around us, put it through the crazy straw of our psyche, and tell a story that features varying degrees of reality. It's all "fiction," right? But the truth is, fiction has the power to hurt as much as reality. Because in that moment, not only are you sharing what may be an intimate secret, you're twisting it to include your personal desires, to voice your secret angers, to establish your private agenda. Writers take personal interactions, throw some pretty words, and petty blank spaces around it and put it out into the world. It takes a strong soul to endure a relationship with a writer to say the least.

Years ago, I dated a writer. I was just starting out, and I wasn't nearly the writer I am now. Definitely not the writer I still aspire to be. He was better than me. Much better. Call it experience, call it whatever, he was better and he knew it. I knew it. He still felt the need to show me this. He took a story I had written and ripped it to shreds. Maybe I was too sensitive, maybe he should have been more so. But it hurt more than he ever realized, more than I ever showed. I almost decided to stop.

A few nights later, fueled by pills still stashed from chemotherapy for pain and anxiety, drunk as a skunk, and probably high as hell if I know me, I screamed at him. I called him worthless. I released all the rage I felt. I had looked to him for so much. I was needing someone's approval, needing a reason for why I was still here. (Clearly, not the best time in my life. I was very recently recovered from cancer, trying to understand what had happened still. I had lost a friend to disease, and I needed a new hero. Chances are anyone would have fallen from those expectations.) He left of course. Who wouldn't have left?

Yes; dating writers is tricky business. Two writers dating can verge on impossible. When you both communicate best on paper, real human interactions can prove disastrous. When you both need constant attention to your work and your workings, jealousy and feelings of scant gratitude are bound to emerge.

Here's the thing: his words about my words hurt so bad because what I was saying was so real. It was as if someone had told me my soul had ugly curtains and dreadful carpet. But what about the people I spoke of in that work? It was at that time that I realized my characters, the inspiration I get from the world, deserve some protection. As much as his words about my words hurt, how much worse could it feel for someone I love to feel as if they only serve as creative fuel for me to regurgitate and share at will?

So these are some rules I retain to maintain the sanctity of the people I love.

1. No direct quotes.

It's too much. It's not fiction. It's not fair. Even if they didn't write the words down does not mean the words do not belong to another.

2. No similar names.

Small detail, but important in my opinion. Similarly, I do not use exact physical features. For instance, reminiscing on hands I love is one thing. Stating the owner of those hands exact height and weight is inappropriate.

3. No musings on fights until they grow cold.

As a writer, I take my personal experiences to breed fiction. When I'm still in the throes of anger and hurt, fiction cannot be produced. All that will come out is a diatribe of why the narrator or lead character is correct when the other party is wrong. That isn't objective, and it isn't fiction. It's taking your talent and using it against others.

So those are my rules of conduct. But it doesn't change the fact that writers make bad lovers. We take. We take and we don't return. We put it somewhere else. Somewhere that means more to us than anything no matter how much we believe in the sanctity of soul mates. Because we use a fiction first rule that often precludes the possibility of a successful relationship until we feel our words have found worthy readers. Loving a writer can be a slippery slope. Handle your heart with care. I'm not sure I would have the courage.

It's Almost My Birthday....

2009-06-01T06:50:00.000-07:00

Which means it's almost halfway through the year. Or the year how I gauge it. So I thought I would share a few things I've learned this year.

1. Blush is a must.

When I was younger I despised how rosy red my cheeks get when I'm excited or in any temperature that's extreme in either direction. But in between pictures and stage, I've realized I look good with pink cheeks. So I always look like I've just been freshly fucked—I'm fairly certain there are worse things.

2. sex + talking = good

I've finally learned that saying what you want in bed is the only way you can get what you want. Now this doesn't mean I'm always capable of saying these things, but I'm getting there. We still have the rest of the year. And it's a lesson I enjoy learning.

3. People remember you for what you do.

I've been on this crazy little journey this year to really get my life in a place I want it to be. I've realized fiction is my baby (well, my other baby), and no matter how hard I try to walk away, writing inevitably has my soul. But this lesson really sunk in today in very sad way.

Lately I've been trying to avoid my computer. Awful thing for a blogger to do, I know. Thus, my news intake has been sketchy at best. Today over at www.sean-godfrey.com, he shared the unfortunate and tragic tale of a doctor gunned down over the weekend. Reading the headlines made me even sadder. Yes, the doctor performed abortions. But that is far from all of him. However, that is how he will be remembered. I hope his loved ones have the foresight to read those headlines and feel pride in a father, grandfather, and friend who essentially died (albeit needlessly) in defense of a topic that he clearly had taken his stance on. I hope they can look past the labels and just remember the man. I hope we all can.

But the reality is, you are remembered for what you do, not always who you are. So I'm trying to make sure everything I do can be something I'm fucking proud enough to be gunned down for.

4. I'm a style schizo.

Every few months I decide something is going to be my new thing. In December I had decided to go all black. By February I was caught up in the retro looks of the forties and fifties. At this point, I'm just really digging vintage from all types of sources and going as cruelty-free as I can. (I do still indulge in vintage leather....let me have my convoluted justification.) Who knows where I may go from here. But I think I've finally learned to stop clearing out my closet with every reincarnation. (One thing never changes....and that is my utter devotion to a hot ass pair of heels with every outfit.)

5. I really love people.

I don't know what it is, but lately the world has got me real emotional. Things bring tears to my eyes that never did before. Acts of kindness, simple smiles, children laughing. I've turned into a real fucking girl. And it's nice. It's nice knowing that I can learn to love the people I share this space in this world with. I hope I can start to pass that along as I go.

Over and out. Loves and Kisses.

And now for some politics... A Note on Marijuana

2009-05-26T05:22:00.001-07:00

My body responds well to weed. No denying it. I do not experience any of the negative side effects cited as possibilities, including every source from childhood rumors to scientific journals. I'm not saying those side effects are not a possibility and not experienced by many. I'm saying that for me, marijuana provides relief from many chronic symptoms including anxiety and chronic pain.

A few months ago (prior to my energy cleanse and consequent discovery that my liver was in need of some herbal yada-yada), I was seeing a neurologist for severe migraines. She prescribed me something that ultimately produced several side effects including painful pins-and-needles feelings in my feet and hands, loss of word memory, and eventually severe mood swings. This was something prescribed to me. Legally. And for many people, it has been a beneficial drug in their search for migraine relief. For me, increased water and a milk thistle/dandelion root combo seemed to fix the issue. (It's amazing how many different ways a liver that isn't functioning at its best capacity can affect the mind and body.) I'm not condemning the usage of these prescriptions, but those are some fairly crazy possible side effects. I mean I would forget words. I'm a writer. Pain in the ass, much?

Let's face it: chemicals are powerful entities. Even with all of their knowledge, the scientific and medical communities can't control or entirely predict how a human being's personal chemistry will react to these chemicals. Following my greater success with things direct from nature, I decided prescription pills may no longer be the way for me.

So I've gone a little more hippie sense since the beginning of the year. Some natural remedies helped me. Meanwhile, there's marijuana—also a natural remedy. That I could be arrested for. Often times, my mind is wound up with every day bull shit, and I cannot write without taking a hit. It's not an addiction thing. It's a calming thing. It's not the pot that makes me creative—it's the pot that helps me release some of the tension I store in my neck, jaw, and brain. Tension that tends to clamp onto my creative thoughts and order them to comply with the mundane.

I didn't smoke pot for eight months during my pregnancy. (Tsk...tsk no worries: she came a month early.) It was easily my greatest period of anxiety. I saw a psychiatrist who gave me pills to help...instead of helping they made me do things like forget my mother's birth date or the color of my cat's eyes. They left me fearful of childbirth and cursing the need to work, the need to deal with human interaction. These pills work for some people. They didn't work for me and often produced scary side effects.

Well, I'm not pregnant any more. And pot makes me feel nice without anything scary creeping up my alley. I only wish I could purchase it in a smoke-free, completely taxable form at the local grocery herbal retailer. We're working on it I'm sure.

I just wish I wasn't the most hyperactive, impatient pothead in the state.

I Could Just Fall For You Over and Over Again

2009-05-19T07:40:00.000-07:00

Recently at a Richard Price reading, the inevitable question arose from the audience regarding who his favorite authors are. (PS—if you are unaware, this is a trivial and boring question. Google that shit...I promise you whatever writer you ask this of has already answered the query in a million interviews.) His response was one that really struck me, though. He said he didn't really have favorite authors, but rather favorite works.

Why have I never thought of that?

As a writer I get asked about my reading preferences from non-writers quite often. I'm always somewhat dumbstruck, because like Mr. Price, I can't say that I enjoy the entire collection of any one writer, vocalist, or artist. Certain works speak to me, but others are only appreciated for their aesthetic—not their soul implications.

So when driving to work this morning and listening to Aimee Mann, my very first indie rock chick love, I began thinking about the songs that she had done that would stay for me the rest of my life. I thought about her recordings which I can forget moments after hearing them.

And I thought about how it only takes one perfect piece of art to make an artist great. Really.

This is all to say, I'm about to do something I normally try to avoid...I'm going to share some lyrics. Lyrics that I had to hear again and again today and let float through my mind and settle in the cells of my skin. Lyrics that I will love until the day I can't recall anything at all.

So please humor me and give them a read. Typically I think quotations can be a cheap way out of saying what you're really thinking.

But I just can't get this little lady out of my head today.

Lost in Space

Lost In Space
A bubble drifting
Into a place
Where planets shift and
The moon's erased
Its features lift in the glare

But I'm the stuff
Of Happy endings
Though mostly bluff
Belief suspending
But close enough
For just pretending to care

And I'm pretending to care
When I'm not even there
Gone, but I don't know where

Well, she's the face
And I'm the double
Who keeps the pace
And clears the rubble
And, Lost In Space,
Fills up the bubble with air

By just pretending to care
Like I'm not even there
Gone, but I don't know where

You split like a cell
And then cannot tell
The line from its parallel

So baby, beware
I'm just pretending to care
Like I'm not even there
Gone, but I don't know where

(It should be noted my heart was quite broken when I discovered Ms. Mann was straight and married. Her music was the first to make me strip. I tend to pick some heavy stuff when I'm stripping alone...but that's another entry entirely.)

I've Got a T-Shirt On

2009-05-18T06:10:00.000-07:00

I'm a real deal girly-to-the-bone kinda gal. On a recent trip, I packed dresses only. Four of them for one night and one day's stay. This is not an uncommon occurrence. I feel prettiest in frills or tulle. I kill for red silk and vintage taffeta. Dresses make me happy.

But every once in a while, I find the world's most perfect t-shirt.

And for once I don't want to take my clothes off and dance. (Well...maybe later today....)

It's crazy how sexy the right little t-shirt can make you feel. My last find (wow—a mere 3 months ago...I never find perfect t-shirts more than twice a year...) was at the Dallas World Aquarium. You'd have to see it to understand—but any time sea turtles and rainbow hearts can be on the same t-shirt, I'm there. It fits me the way t-shirts did when I was a girl without making my ta-tas too awkward in the process. If that's not the wonders of modern-day shaping and stitching, then I don't know what is.

This one's different. It's green and stripey and shows just enough cleavage to tease—but not make any promises. It fits to the curve of my waist without being tight and trying hard.

I love being the fashion center of attention. I love taking a dress, and adding the perfect splash of make-up color and some killer heels and owning every room I walk into. But let's face it...a lot of that is also the clothes. I'm not doubting me. I'm just saying there are women certainly as pretty as me who maybe don't get the same immediate attention.

But that's what I love about feeling pretty in the perfect t-shirt. T-shirt sexy can be so fucking hot. So not obvious. When I'm t-shirt hot, I know it 's me that people are looking at.

But I certainly owe those perfect little t-shirts for the smile that makes them look.

Get Your Freak on Friday

2009-05-15T10:44:00.000-07:00

Occasionally for fucks and giggles, I write a little erotica. Nothing I have plans to publish. Just things my mind starts on its own.

However, anything I share here fiction wise...erotic or not....will always be unfinished. If I'm sharing it that means I will not be finishing it because I didn't finish in the same time frame I started which means I can't ever finish. Make sense?

If not, no worries, here's the gist: I'm sharing a dirty story I started, but you may have to fill in your own blanks and finish it how you want.

This is just a short little thing, but honestly I adore it for the usage of the word "akimbo" in a basically pornographic scene I'm painting. Enjoy.

I'm sprawled on the floor—legs slightly akimbo—looking like a crime scene. My hands are above my head crossed at the wrists, and my panties are pushed to the side leaving me exposed. Vulnerable and unfilled.

He makes me wait—lying like this on the floor—for his return. For his hands. He doesn't tie me down because he doesn't have to. I just lay here, watching and waiting.

When he returns, I arch my back and writhe on the floor, the lines of the tile digging into my knees. I moan with pleasure as I feel his presence get closer, ever closer. A hand wraps around the front of my mouth, and I'm pulled up and pushed forward. His arm wraps around to steady me as I sway. I'm always swaying into him, forgetting how to stand at the touch of his hand—no matter how hard or soft.

Naked Soul Thursday

2009-05-14T08:12:00.001-07:00

There is a phenomena amongst sex blogs known as HNT. I actually don't know what the H stands for, but basically I've gathered that every Thursday, sex bloggers post dirty pictures of themselves. I've been taking naked pictures fairly regularly recently, so I'm going to give you some real talk instead. I get naked a plenty ;).

I feel a little like a just got a horse hoof to the heart. There was this girl I kinda liked. I wasn't in love with her or anything, but she was the kinda girl that has made me start realizing how badly I want to get closer to a girl. I had not previously written much on her in hopes she might read a little thing here or there of mine. I don't think that's going to happen.

So I liked this girl. And then I let myself get my hopes up that she might like me a little bit, too. Here's a text convo with someone I know who knows her rather well. I'm sure he won't mind the sharing.

Me: I have a crush on this little lady you know. But I know it won't happen. (I wanted to see if he could deduce.)
Him: Who might that be?
M: That, sir, is top secret. I think she might like chicks here and there, I just don't think I'm her type. (Here was me fishing to find out her preferences.)
M: I think I made it pretty clear. Perhaps I should have sent a plate of coconut cookies with a note saying, "Please kiss me." (Yes, my Twitter loves, on occasion those crazy Tweets are true. Most the time they aren't. Fiction is more fun.)
H: Maybe so! Bi girls love cookies. (See—she seems just the type to like coconut cookies. I assumed he knew at this point....)
M: All of us do? Is there a catalog of these tips?
H: That's just knowledge I've picked up from experience. (See! Clearly an indication she might like me.)

At least that was my first conclusion.

In a frenzy of I just have to tell her and not have any expectations, I sent her a note just to say, "Hey I think you're beautiful and isn't it nice to know someone thinks you're beautiful? No expectations. Just a note to say you're lovely." (It was mostly along those lines.)

But any time you bear your heart, it comes with hopes which are just as real as expectations. Only you're not mad when it doesn't happen. Just sad, sad, sad.

She didn't say a thing back. I'm not mad. Just a little sad. I don't even know what I was hoping exactly. Not to spring into some lesbian porn reenactment. Just to know her a little more, see if there was anything more.

I always wonder if I'm playing a losing game in trying to get to know women better. They're so easy to dream about, you know? So easy to place on pedestals. I led myself into thinking a vague text conversation might mean something more than what it was.

At times, I think I'm too girly to gain the affections of the kinds of girls I want. I always wonder if this is the problem.

But I also know that once one does, she'll be really happy to get to know how much fun my girlyness can be. Most things are a matter of time.

And let's face it: I'm basically all the fun a pair of snakeskin boots can contain. I'll be dancing naked in these bad girls by the end of the day.

Dear Victoria's Secret,

2009-05-14T07:06:00.000-07:00

Hi there. I'm sorry, ma'am, but I've got a bit of a complaint. Here's the deal: I know from watching America's Next Top Model (Don't hate...I love Miss Tyra..and I'm pretty sure she's 420 friendly or at least nonjudgmental) that catalog clothes are often pinned to create the right effect. I feel as though at times, you just simply lead me amiss with your little pins and tucks.

I'm a chesty little lady. Most of your models tend to be fairly buxom beauties. However, they are also small-waisted. Recently, I bought a swimsuit from you and your crew. A lovely little pinup affair meant for a photo shoot. Here's where things started to turn sour.

You sent my package to an old address you have on file. The address where I used to live. I found this odd because there was a box where one must check to indicate that the billing address they provide for their card is the same as the address where they want items sent. I checked this box. My swimsuit went to the wrong apartment and arrived too late for the shoot. Fair enough. Things happen.

But then it was here! I have been searching for the perfect one-piece and I was certain I had found my match. But then I realized fit may not be representational as photographed.

See I'm a small chicadee. I wear a 0 on average and at most a 3 or 4. The smallest size began at 6. I understand that sizing can run differently, but it made sense that I would wear a 6 in this type of sizing.

The model pictured was Marisa Miller. Now as most of you boys and some of you gals may know, Marisa Miller is a small little lass with ample assets. From looking at her, it stood to reason that a suit small enough to fit her physique but large enough to hold her goods up top would also work well for me. (I'm no Marisa Miller....but it just made sense.)

This was not the case.

My suit came late, the girls don't fit, and now I have to go through worries of making a return.

I'm really glad I have the Cinnamon Lip Balm that I included in the order as some small comfort. It is delish and makes my lips tingle a bit which I always find pleasant.

I hope we both have better luck next time with this process, Miss Vicky S.

xoxoxo A

FUCK! Work Overload in Progress

2009-05-13T06:38:00.000-07:00

Work has been a bitch. My various other aspiring careers and my dancing and my writing have been suffering as I come home exhausted. Thank fucking every deity under the sun that I can get some rest this weekend. More ASASWP (as soon as super woman possible).

xoxo A

Belly Dance...My Forgotten Art

2009-05-08T08:44:00.001-07:00

My quest to be the bad-ass bitch I've always wanted to be started out about a year ago this month. I was ready to be happy with myself, to start finding some of the sensuality and spirituality healing I needed. After baby came, I lost weight....but I wasn't looking like the girl I remembered being before I lost myself into a marriage and pregnancy.

See around this time, I ran into an old friend. And I realized how much I no longer felt myself when I saw myself from a past perspective. But then I realized I had never really felt myself. I was so full of conflicting emotions on how I felt about my body, how I wanted others to feel about my body, how much I wanted what others thought to affect my own reality.

And thus, I began belly dance.

It was not easy at first. At all. I still wouldn't call myself an expert....far from it...but I definitely know I can do some things now that seemed near impossible then. Before I knew it, my old figure re-merged. Only this time, instead of coming from ballet or starvation, which had taught me my curves were something to destroy—this time I was exercising an art that reminds the practitioners that the female body is a sacred vessel that literally facilitates the creation of life. Belly dance told me my female form was beautiful. And I really began to believe it for the first time in my life.

Soon, as my self-exploration furthered, I began to take pole dancing and exotic yoga classes along with burlesque. And all of this is great. But the emphasis is different. Yes, we are still encouraged to love ourselves, but not without the acknowledgment of others.

All the sexual dancing...it's a gift to others as well as one's self. Belly dancing is just for me, baby.

If I could summarize it best, I would categorize it as spiritual striptease. Whereas other modes of dance may make me look beautiful, the movement and flow of belly dance makes me feel beautiful. This is the time I unveil my true self—while never removing an article of clothing. Often times, I am inspired to write in the middle of a routine. As I release the Kundalini snake sleeping at my spine, my thoughts begin to flow. As I cleanse and heal any sort of weight resting in or around my chakras, my mind clears. Watching me belly dance is probably the closest one can get to seeing me experience my form of God. When I move and stretch and shimmy, I'm setting my soul on fire.

I still plan on continuing to hone my pole and striptease skills. Because it's fun. Because it's beautiful. Because I love to entertain. But last night's belly dancing was a much needed reminder:

I am doing what I do for me, and none of this matters until I can get right with myself.

I Like Boys and Girls

2009-05-07T13:12:00.001-07:00

This is generally one of the most frowned upon orientations out there. The gays don't like it, the straights don't like it, and to be perfectly honest, I'm not entirely a fan of being it. As one of my dear friends of the family-variety stated, I'm a straddler. And by god, people believe in the sanctity of fences.

But that doesn't change the way I feel. I love men. I love women. And I lead very different relationships with each.

For men, I won't deny my daddy issue tendencies. I like to giggle. I like to wrap them around my little finger with a saunter and a sigh. I like to feel helpless in their arms and stare up at them doe-eyed when they tell me their thoughts on things which hold absolute no interest to me. I like knowing they want me. I like knowing I can have them.

But women....well that's whole different thing. All those sly little tricks in my mother of pearl clutch don't work on the ladies. Here's the thing: either they can play the exact same games or they at least know how to recognize them.

So with chicks, it's different. I don't giggle, I think. I watch. I fall in love with the words that come from their lips and the womanly curve of their hips. I pray for their dreams to come true and for their eyes to not shed tears. With women, my only wish is that whoever the lady is might find me half as special as I find her.

Basically, men make me act like a girl. But when I'm with a woman, I am a woman. There's no simpers, no downcast eyes.

BUT.

I like being a girl just as much as I like being a woman.

And I'm not going to let society make me pick a side of a fence when I think they should all just be torn down.

(P.S. I know I stated I wouldn't blog until tomorrow, but an enthusiastic new reader got me all fired up again. Much love, my dove.)

I'm Going to Make This (Unfortunately) Brief

2009-05-06T08:01:00.000-07:00

I am having to play catch up on some work and personal life things. I was in a car accident this past weekend, and as a result my life is in a bit of spin as well.

I am already extremely anxious in cars so this didn't help things much. And living in a city where not driving is practically unheard of, I have been very tense since this weekend.

But someone really took care of me, and I am beyond grateful for his efforts. Not everyone in his position would have offered so much help, and I was one distressed damsel.

Blogging will resume Friday.

(P.S. I was not driving and I am physically unharmed. But the proximity to which I encountered possibly not being fine reminded me—as if I needed the reminding—that you have to think of the love in your life, whatever that may mean. Everything else is inconsequential.)

Yes, I'm Being Paid to Show My Tits. Any Other Questions?

2009-04-30T08:24:00.000-07:00

Girls can be bitchy. I’m not saying they are bitches. I’m saying in a certain set of circumstances that I have encountered them in they may have acted in a certain way. I totally don’t know who they are outside of that set of circumstances. But girls can be bitchy. This tends to become prevalent when boobs are coming out.

Last night was first naked run. (I think they refer to it as orchestra dress rehearsal or some such technicality. I refer to it as first naked run. Tonight will be final naked rehearsal.) It was harder than I anticipated. But honestly, it wasn’t just the nudity that made it that way. That’s definitely part of what made it more real. I’m sure for the audience that may serve as something for them to grasp as a point of reality. That bad things are really happening to two teenagers who had no idea how quickly their night could turn from turn-of-adulthood, endearing discovery to senseless violence and misdirected rage.

But honestly the nudity was just what made me feel more vulnerable. The entire scene was overwhelming even with its theatrical set. The boys have costumes now. And makeup for beards. And tattoos that intimidate. It’s dark which is comforting for the nudity. But it’s also more sinister to experience. As real as everything may feel to the audience, there are flashes of that reality for the performers. For me at least.

Basically, what I’m getting at is that even as the person who has been so overwhelmed and continues to feel overwhelmed by displaying my nude self in such an intensive scene—even as the naked girl—I get that my nudity is only part of what makes this scene so horrific.

But certain people like to focus on nudity. And evidently some of my female cast mates are no exception. Don’t get me wrong—men can be just as fixated on the issue (ahem, film crews specifically instructed to ask about the nudity); yet somehow, when women get really hung up on it, their questioning can get a bit intrusive and insensitive.

Last night, I was asked exacting details of the particulars by different women. Whose pants were undone, where hands were going, the gritty details of what occurred once our robes were dismantled. I was asked regarding my compensation and subject to comments resembling, “I hope you’re getting paid a lot.” I was told that my post-baby figure must be all a credit of my young age, as if there was no way my own determination could possibly be tool enough. As if what I was doing was any less brave.

The questioning and commenting began before I went out which I suppose was expected. But the degree to which it continued after baffled me. I came off the stage visibly upset and retreated from watching the remaining performances, unable to hear some of the words spoken (sung) of my character following her demise. I came off the stage feeling vulnerable and sad and in need of a little understanding. Understanding that not everyone seemed to offer. And the ones who didn’t understand were the ones so focused on the naked details.

Yes, I was naked, ladies. Now were you paying attention to what actually was just reenacted on stage? A young girl really got raped. A young girl really got murdered. Their families were really mournful. Another person was really sentenced to die for his deeds. Regardless of your stance on the death penalty, these are a chain of sad events.

Essentially, there were various women throughout the night, whether in the halls or in the dressing rooms who tried to make me feel as if I were in some way being demeaned by what I was doing on stage. Perhaps as a friend suggested, referencing his own nude theatrical experience, they are simply uncomfortable with the thought of doing their own nude scene. Perhaps resistant to the composer’s thoughts, they do in fact view my nudity as gratuitous.

But I don’t. The scene feels real and it feels scary and it feels as close as we can get to the reality of what occurs without anyone being injured or encountering real emotional injury. My decision has been made, and I don’t feel as if I should continue to defend it. Especially when I come off a stage crying hysterically.

I’m proud of what I’m doing, and I hope that I am showing the situation the reverence and respect it deserves through my interpretation. Here’s to hoping that for tonight and the remainder of the performances others can do the same.

I think the only thing more offensive than fixating on my nudity is forgetting what my nudity actually represents—the vulnerability of all of us as humans to be exposed to one another and to be destroyed. It’s heavy stuff.

For the TEN of You Who Now Read This...

2009-04-29T12:11:00.000-07:00

It means a lot to me on the for really note. So thanks. Like a lot. Blow jobs and lollipops all around.

xoxo

I Think I Can Slow Down

2009-04-29T07:06:00.000-07:00

I finally figured out what I've been racing against all this time. All the times I've been stressing about my approaching 24th birthday...knowing my distress verges on absurd. And it's not death; it's not age; it's not disease.

I've been racing against going crazy. Let me explain.

Mental illness runs in my family. I'm not going to discuss the particulars of that because it's not my place, but I will say the threat of mental illness has always been presented to me—even from childhood—as a very real possibility.

Here's my reality. I've had kind of a mess of some run-ins with misfortune. My behavior has sometimes reflected this. But this is America. And in America we fix sadness with pills.

But wouldn't it be much odder if I weren't affected in some way by things that have occurred? The exact circumstances of my bad luck aren't paramount to what I'm getting to. But to say this in the simplest of terms: I've had enough bad shit go down over the years that if I weren't a little fucked up, it would probably make me a sociopath.

Sometimes I have to visit very dark places in my fiction writing. I creep around corners that would test the bravest of us. I sit in the valleys of sadness that can occur when things go differently than hoped or planned. I take on the mindset of (thus far) women that are as real as you and me; and reality can be incredibly frightening. Even as I have dealt with some of my sorrow and rage by funneling it through fictional circumstances, there have been times when I wondered if allowing myself to experience those levels of emotion voluntarily might lead to my own mental undoing.

A few years back, I needed a break. I admitted myself to a mental hospital hoping to find some comfort in escaping from everyday concerns. Here's what happened instead: I was dumbfounded at how well I had actually been dealing with life given some of my real life, nonfiction experiences.I checked out a few days later, certain I would go mad if I remained there longer. I walked away, realizing what an incredibly real entity mental illness is. I also walked away with the realization that for all my misfortunes, I had never really breached sanity.

But today I actually realized why. Last night, someone was sweet enough to remind me that I'm kind of a bad-ass. I try to remind myself that on the regular, but it's really nice to hear it from someone outside myself.

Bad things happen. Bad things have happened, and there is always a possibility that more bad things will happen. But there's one thing that doesn't change about me, and that's some fierce fucking determination.

I'm not saying I'm the best. I'm saying I want it the most.

So I'll keep flirting with insanity, letting my characters drag me places that are dark and scary. Places I try to avoid in real life at this point in my decision to embrace personal healing. I'm sure there will be people that say I must be incredibly fucked up to write some of the things I do.

But that's not the people I'm writing for anyway.

(Side note of some note: The fact that this is what I chose to blog about today rather than my first nude run tonight for opera—something I am fearing more than God Almighty above and Lovely Lucifer below—speaks volumes of how much this effected my thoughts on the way to work. I'm ready to quit treating life like a race. I'm pretty sure I may win no matter when I show up.)

Insanity Comes in Boxes

2009-04-27T07:57:00.000-07:00

It's raining today. The kind of wonderful rainy day where I wish I could in bed near someone warm and talk softly about the things we're glad we're not doing in the wonderful rain. It's the kind of thunderstorm where I want to sit on the front porch and sip cocomint green tea, snacking on biscotti and writing in my journal. It's the kind of gloomy that makes me long for a window seat and a glass of red wine and soft purple pillows to lay back and make love on.

It's raining the way I wish it did as long as I didn't have to be boxed in with obligations and surrounded by gray cubicle walls.

There is a Time to Cry. And a Time to Kick Ass

2009-04-24T12:35:00.000-07:00

I cried the whole way to work this morning. I cried so much my makeup washed off and my eyes hurt. I cried so badly I considered calling in sick because the crying had already made me late.

This morning I met my new neighbors. Thus far, I had avoided it.

I saw when they moved in. A young couple and their newborn baby. They live two doors down from me.

I used to live two doors down from me. In their apartment. With a husband and all the plans we had made.

But I met the happy new Mommy today. She's lovely as is her new son. We're standing there talking, and I explain to her that I used to live there.

I barely made it to the car before the tears started. Some days I feel like such a failure. Like my little pixie sweets deserves so much more in a Mommy. Our life has not gone the way I promised her when I still held her inside.

But I'm done crying now.

And I've got some decisions made.

They're hard. And they're worth it. Details to follow as things unfurl.

Come and Knock On My Door...

2009-04-23T11:59:00.000-07:00

I'm ready to love being the girl next door.

For a long time, I've been punishing myself for what I'm not instead of considering what I am. Let's start with what I'm not.

1. I'm not exotic. I look about as all American as one can get. Well...I definitely look like a white girl. Nobody ever asks for my family heritage. This has been a really rough one for me during different points of my life. I know....poor, poor little white girl. Here's the thing: I really adore exotic cultures. I could eat Thai, Indian, or Japanese curry everyday for the rest of my life and feel completely satisfied. I have a thing for French girls with dark hair and big eyes. But sometimes, what I really wish is that just for a second I could have the smoldering sensuality of a Brazilian girl or the universal sex appeal of a Spanish girl with curvy hips and thick hair.

2. I don't look like a stripper. I'll admit it: in my life, I've maintained a certain level of stripper envy. But I'm not tan, I don't have long hair, and I can't pull off that knock-you-down-in-your-face sexuality. I'm not saying I can't do the dance...I'm saying I don't have the look, and I've definitely experienced some feelings of inadequacy over it in past relationships. Feelings that have driven me to insane thoughts of ginormous breast implants and the need for a spray tan. I'm not saying this to mock a stereotype; I'm saying this because in the past not being a girl that looked like that has honestly made me question my own sex appeal.

3. I'm not one of those super natural girls. I don't wear a lot of makeup. And I've been told I look awful pretty without it. But you know those girls...those girls that can just pull off the quintessential bohemian babe look that makes you think she's so holy that she doesn't need a shower. The flat shoes, the wavy unbound hair, the perfect jeans or vintage sundress. Those girls that look amazing without a mirror. Because they've got the confidence to do it. I always wished I could be one of those girls.

So those are just three of the things that have been kinda my hot spots of insecurity.

But not anymore.

I always hated the thought of being the girl next door. So ordinary. But you know what the girl next door is? She's the girl who bakes you cupcakes in just a cherry pattern apron. She's the girl who wants to dress like a hot little secretary even though she's actually the boss. She's the girl with such a sweet smile that you can hardly believe what sex kitten she is behind closed doors.

The girl next door is just so....me. I like being two people at once. (Yes...once again I am plugging that the Gemini in me is real.) I'm not exotic. I'm not a stripper. I'm not a hippie chick. I'm that girly girl that men crave because I speak to their side that needs a little lady to take care of...whatever that may entail in a relationship.

I've been doubting myself a really long time. Doubting that what I had to offer was something special. But the truth is being the girl next door is kinda nice. And nice girls finish...in your bed (to stay in your heart).

Confession of a Recovering Fabricator

2009-04-22T05:44:00.000-07:00

Someone who knew me well once dubbed me, "the Fabricator." This is based, on part, in my ability to imagine defects with myself.

I have to admit it. As the thought of a nude theatrical scene approaches, I've gotten myself into a fabrication frenzy.

Yes, I've been modeling nude. But here's the deal with modeling: there is proof within the near future, confirmation that I did what I was supposed to and looked the way I want to. In the age of digital, many photographers show me right away the images they have captured. I know that there is some tangible proof forthcoming that I'm thin or attractive or whatever it is that I'm trying to convince myself I already am.

With the opera, here's how things go down: I'm naked; at some point I have to run naked (f*ck— sh*it—d*mn—hooker spit); the curtain goes down and I never see the affair at all. Clearly, I am eliminating some very important details—but we won't be discussing those until the completion of my balls-to-the-wall little cameo.

Basically, I never get my visual confirmation that I didn't suck, that the cursed running didn't make me look like some foolish girl with a mistaken notion of her physical appeal. And I need that. I really do.

I'm an exceedingly visual person. I would venture to say that it's my most masculine quality. Figure that out on your own. In art history, I did really well because seeing is believing is reality for me. It's why I write. I have to see the words on the page.

This past weekend, part of the appeal of Austin was getting away from myself. On Friday, I had myself a little falter in my vow to take care of myself this year. The details aren't paramount here, but I recognized that with this role and its implications, I had allowed myself to get caught up in my world where my figure is never what it should be. My world where everyone—lovers, mothers, therapists—are just telling me lies to soothe my self-hatred. My little world of narcissistic delusion—as if the real world has time to be kind with lies.

All I've been through, and my biggest obstacle is still a fear of being fat.

I need my little visual references in life in order to actually stay rooted in reality. Austin was good on a lot of levels for this. The most basic being a shopping excursion that reminded me numbers and sizes don't lie even if people did (which they probably aren't). But I need to learn how to know it without looking at my dress size. This insecurity, this inability to know I'm beautiful without looking at someone else's capture of it, is keeping me from so much. Dancing on a stage. Being happy in a relationship. Being happy with myself.

With today's rehearsal, I'm that much closer to when I will be baring a lot of things. I'm trying to get to the bottom of this emotion that began the decline of my sense of self. Let's hope that once I get to the bottom of that emotion there's a key allowing me entry to the way out.

The way things have been going, I've got a feeling there just might be.

And The Devil Himself Must Pay His Dues

2009-04-21T07:52:00.001-07:00

My father is in the hospital. He's fine. He's always fine. I've been scared for a decade that he's going to die, that this will be the time (even though we only speak ten time years it seems—hardly enough to even impact each other's existence). It's always these hospital times that I wonder if I actually foster love/hate. Or if it's really just love/anger. He'll live for me to question it some more. I hope it's long enough we can both reach some middle ground where we can't remember what the other has done.

Bit Busy Today

2009-04-20T07:08:00.000-07:00

Following my random trip to Austin, I am fired up to get the fuck out of Dodge, also known as Dallas. Checking out job postings and various means of escape today. More to come later if I can get myself organized and all that jazz.

Truth Be Told

2009-04-17T09:48:00.000-07:00

I love fucking older men.

Despite my vacillating sexuality, still as uncertain today as it has been for the past few months, I will always hold a special place in my heart for the memories and moments of fucking older men.

So what brings this up? A friend has just begun her first older man relationship. Yes, she's had a few good fucks over the years from older men. But the relationships are where they really get you.

So here are my favorite reasons that older men make the best (male) lovers.

1) They *love* to go down on you. No matter where. No matter when. No matter if they have no hope of getting off or receiving oral themselves. Older men know how to covet the Princess. They know how to be forceful enough to let you surrender and gentle enough that you want to surrender again and again. They know what to say when words are necessary. They know when words would be nothing but a distraction. Most importantly, they make you feel like you're beautiful and they want to be there—no ulterior motive necessary.

2) They really appreciate your beauty. I can say without a doubt that some of the times I have felt the most alluring is while riding and writhing on top of an older man. Feeling his hands tighten around the small of my back and following my curves. When a man looks at you with lust and admiration, it's hard to not want to work harder for his lust and admiration. It's a well-known fact that women in their twenties are not at the peak of their sexual confidence game. Make me feel sexy, and I'll fucking show you just how sexy things can get.

3) They don't drop the sweet or sexy talk as soon as you're done fucking. Here's a little hint for you boys: if you keep being nice after we get done having sex, I'm more likely to have sex with you again. Older men get this. They realize that all the good sex you have isn't made just from when you hit the sheets. It's the hours a girl spends thinking about how she wants to have good sex with you because you make her think that she's special.

4) They actually talk to you in general. They've been places and they've done things and anything they can offer—advice or otherwise—to help you with going your own places and doing your own things, they will. (At least the good ones. But we're not discussing sleazebags here.) And when women start to feel empowered, they fuck better. Simple.

5) They're in that moment with you. Regardless of the relationship status, older men have realized by that point that you deserve unfiltered adoration and attention when you're together. Whatever goes on outside of the sex is whatever. At that moment, they know how to focus.

6) Getting you off is an actual priority in their book. Enough said.

(Disclaimer: Older is a very relative term. Read into it what you will.)

A Little PS To My Earlier Blog

2009-04-16T09:52:00.000-07:00

I've recently become very interested in astrological signs and meanings. (Don't you judge me for my hippie chick tendencies!) As luck would have it, my little lovely is an Aquarius. And I have to say ever since she came into my life, I've been experiencing my own personal Age of Aquarius. And yes, I do mean the positive connotation of the term.

So You Have A....Baby

2009-04-16T08:16:00.000-07:00

True story, yo. I have a fifteen month old pixie angel. She's like my soul reborn in this fresh, shiny, carefree package that I want to help shine and sparkle even more than she already does. She's perfect without doing anything. By just being her. And that's all I am ever going to ask. She has restored my faith in humanity with her big brown eyes and sweet button nose.

But sometimes I delay revealing this information. To anyone, male or female. Running into a high school friend a few weeks back, I wasn't even sure if I was going to state it. (By the way—in the event you don't necessarily reveal right out of the box that you have kids, do not keep a box of diapers in your hatchback.)

So why? This little girl is everything I ever could have imagined one could possibly want in a child. She has the light in her eyes and this sweetness in her spirit that makes me know for the first time in my life there is someone I could never not love (all my furry friends past and present not included). Why don't I shout it from the freaking building tops and have a banner that streams out from the back of my car?

Because she is not all there is to me—just like I will never be all there is to her—and hopefully, just like I am not everything there is to my mother. And unfortunately, this is a world prone to placing people in categories so they can feel like they have some sort of control on a spin so fast we can't even tell we're moving.

You tell people you're a Mommy, and there are immediately expectations placed on you. The conversation often turns much more to who you are as a mother.

I love my fairy child more than I ever thought I had the capacity to love any more. But I'm still here, too.

I never knew when I became a mother there would be such fierce resistance to who I still wanted to be as a person. From all sorts of unexpected sources. Everything from personal associations I won't discuss here, to mothers at the daycare casting death stares when I walk up in four-inch heels.

Pregnancy was misery to me. Yes, it is possible to maintain a lot of your non-pregnant self. But only with the money to buy expensive ass maternity clothes (trust—the prices go up on necessity commodities) and the time to be able to attend mommy yoga classes and the like. I didn't have much of either the whole time. Add in some complications and complicated sadness, and I wasn't the girl I had been moments before. When I got back to being myself, I was so effing proud.

Until I dealt with a world that makes remarks on my age and assumes the worst about the means. Until I got dirty looks for still wanting to look like myself. For taking enough time for myself to do so. For wanting to still go to grad school and still pursue all the things I didn't know about myself yet.

With the start of my new year's mission, I decided to let go of that shame people placed on me because perhaps they're unhappy with their own choices. I don't know. I'm not here to make assumptions about anyone. Not any more. I've learned that behavior is tragic to all involved—the judgers and the judged.

So for now, I'm doing my thing with a little bit of fuck off in my swagger. And a baby on my hip.

Rape and Shit

2009-04-15T09:42:00.000-07:00

Normally, this is the sort of thing I leave to my fiction. Except it's kinda parading around in my life right now. I will be performing with the Fort Worth Opera's presentation of Dead Man Walking at the Bass Performance Hall. I don't want to give away the show, but things get graphic. Real graphic. I have to admit it's a bit more intensive than what I had prepared myself for. Clearly from the title of this blog, rape is involved. Vicious rape.

Right now I feel like I'm the wrong girl. Despite the short time I am on stage relative to the entire production, the scene is pretty dang important and requires some acting on that for really level. No, I don't sing. No, I do not appear beyond the prologue (the whole dying thing sorta prevents that). But I do get raped and murdered. On a stage. By a very large (if very sweet) man. He's bass baritone if you're wondering.

But I can do this. Dear god, I have to do this. Rape is a consistent theme in my fictional works. If I can put it all over a page, I can put it all over a stage.

Since we're already on the topic of rape, and it may never happen on these blog pages again, here's another thing: I have decided upon my grad school of choice for writing, and getting in is about as easy as slipping a manuscript under a major publisher's door. But I think I got this. Yesterday a friend was telling some friends (who told your mama's cousin's dog) about my school of choice. They responded by stating the level of difficulty that would entail. My friend said, "Well, she writes about rape and eating disorders. I think people would eat that shit up."

I couldn't decide if I felt inspired or despaired by this defense of my grad school worthiness. What makes the writer: subject matter or style?

Here's the conclusion I reached.

Yes, I write about rape and eating disorders and psychosis and drug usage and all sorts of matters of topics that can get attention on shock value alone. But that isn't what makes my writing what it is. It's my take on these things and the way my characters communicate through me. But if subject matter is what catches the attention to get my words out there, then go ahead and eat that shit up. Eventually, the stories will get to the people who relate not because rape or what have you gets notice, but because rape and what have you is already in their lives, but I managed by the grace of the writing gods to say things in a way that could speak to their souls.

Fuck my means— as long as my ends are everything I ever wanted to do as an artist and a writer. For the first time in my life, I really see the possibility of this.

What The Hell Have I been Doing--Part B "The Question of Porn"

2009-04-14T07:00:00.000-07:00

Alright. I'll admit it: I've been taking naked pictures.

What started as one shoot for one photographer to enhance my concept of self has turned into quite a few naked photo shoots. Artistic nudes for the most part and some artistic erotic nudes from the initial set. Here's the thing: I have battled extremes of low self-esteem tinged with almost a mild case of body dysmorphic disorder. This has led to various calamities in my life from eating disorders to bad relationships (bad either because of my incorrect choices in selling myself short—or bad because I refuse to believe that anyone really loves me). Basically my bad self-esteem is the only real obstacle to the pursuit of how I want to live life. So I'm dabbling in ways of seeing myself the way other people do. Most people would not think of artistic nudes as that objectionable (people in my circles anyway). Erotic artistic nudes are where some explaining takes place, but for the most part people will come around to that as well if the word art is emphasized enough times.

Well, last night I had a shoot with Mister Devious. Yes, a great part of the general population would consider this pornography. And I'm fine with them thinking that. In fact, Mister Devious himself would probably agree. (Favorite quote of the night: That's freaking adorable. Too bad we're shooting porn!)

However, I disagree and let me tell you why.

Having done the full gamut of nude shots now from artistic to erotic artistic to just plain erotic, the essential differences lie in pose and "princess" positioning. The secret to artistic nudes is often to look as bored as one can so all focus is shifted to the body. This makes the audience feel safe in observing your "form" (a.k.a. your kick-ass curves and naughty bits) without feeling voyeuristic. Because they aren't looking at your dull, expressionless face, they don't find you pretty, and therefore checking out your rack is done from a completely objective platform. Erotic artistic can involve clothing and usually utilizes more seductive poses that enhance the behind or breasts but never both at the same time and always with the Princess in slight shadow. Erotic photography is the whole she-bang. Princess come out and play. There's no shadows and no shame. Perhaps it's that lack of shame that people find most objectionable. Perhaps this is what classifies erotic images as pornographic. Heaven forbid women embrace their sexuality as part of their greater self without feeling objectified.

This is what I did last night: I put together three kick-ass ensembles. I removed these ensembles until there was nothing and I was showing my Princess while wearing my heels. (Is it the heels that makes it porn? Shoes are just pretty...can't they be an artistic prop?) Mister Devious took a series of photographs that a few will be taken from and selected as the best in order to create a visual story. And if you've ever read my fiction, you know I don't really feel plot is necessary to any story. This is my character development, baby. Take it or leave it.

In all honesty, I felt more like me doing the shoot last night than I have with any shoots thus far. I took all my pin-up cutesy and put it in a pair of sequin panties and let myself go. I showed my Princess without any shame which is saying a whole hell of a lot if you've ever slept with me. But I showed so much more in the process. I showed myself in my expression and the bit of clothing I did wear :) . Show me any artistic nude that can give you that.

Here's what I didn't do: I didn't share anything I didn't want to share. I'm not knocking porn. Porn has its place and the performers are free to do what makes them feel comfortable in their own skin and on their own journey through this life. Mister Devious does indeed offer pornographic material involving masturbation and the like (mostly solo stuff). For me personally, though, sexual enjoyment is that one thing I'm not willing to share with the world. Because it is the one place where I can forget myself. Great sex is the one moment where I feel safe in knowing that I'm beautiful, but even if I wasn't, everything would be okay because I'm still amazing in so many other ways. That's just it: great sex can be my escape from whatever it is that plagues me when I'm not in that moment. So thinking or reflecting on that sex and playing with Princess is often a re-experiencing of that peace for me. That's not something I'm willing to share or sell.

So call what I did last night porn. Call it art porn or erotic interpretive or smart chicks caught on film. It doesn't really matter. What I did last night and what I will continue to do is participate in shoots that make me proud with artists who have the vision potential to show me through their lenses what the rest of the world sees in me. And if I end up showing a little Princess along the way, I'm not going to show any regrets or shame.

Incidental side note: A friend of mine at work was standing near my desk today when Justin Timberlake came on Pandora. I kinda giggled and explained that is my Lady Gaga station (thanks to someone who makes me giggle), so everything was just kinda dancey goodness. He joked back to tell me of his official loss in interest. But I want to take a moment to say JT, baby, you do your thing and you do it well. For real though, pop music was made to be fun. It sounds good and it makes you feel good and maybe you don't even remember it the next week. Pop music is kinda like a night of drinking. Have fun...figure out later if you can remember it.

P.S. Yes, I'm considering posting some pictures. Let me think about it a second.

What the Hell Have I Been Doing?

2009-04-13T06:50:00.000-07:00

I distract easily to say the least. So lately, in the throes of achieving my greatest success at new year’s resolutions to date, I’ve been a bit negligent of some of my writing. Ok. Most of my writing. But I’ve also been on this funny little journey that I think is showing me exactly how important writing is to me—amongst other things.

Last year when I was first struggling to lose the baby weight, before I had rediscovered how much I had missed dancing, walking was my religion. I would walk for hours on end. Two hour routes over the hills in my area, sometimes pushing baby and sometimes just pushing myself. I would think during these walks. And think and think and think. It was some of the most thinking I’ve ever really done. When I started dancing, it was easy to let go walking because like most religions, you don’t see how much you need it until you embrace it.

So I found God again today walking, and it was nice to know that I could still figure out my life on a three-mile walk at five in the morning.

So what the hell have I been doing?

I’ve been taking lots of pretty pictures—or rather having lots of pretty pictures taken of me. Enough pretty pictures that I’m starting to discover I shouldn’t feel so surprised when people want to work with me. That’s a really good feeling. An even better feeling is seeing the pictures before any editing is done…no matter how minor the editing may be. It’s great to look at a picture just the way it is and know that even if nothing was tweaked, I would be proud of the way I appear in that image. Coming from where I’ve been—buried in these walls of insecurity I build around myself—this is a pretty fucking awesome feeling. Six months ago I would have been incapable of taking a photo even with a friend. I hated my own image that much. I’m not going to say that I don’t have bad days still. But it’s not the same. I’m starting to know who I am and why I should love me. I don’t give even half of a care how after school special that sounds. I’m getting happy. Top that, yo.

I’ve been dancing. I’ve been rediscovering how to be in front of people dancing. I’ve been dancing by myself and dreaming in movement and flow. I’ve been finding out what dancing really means to me, to my soul, and how I want other people to feel that closeness with their own bodies. I’ve been trying to figure out how dance fits into my life in the big scheme of things. Because I know it goes there somehow. I’m just still working out the details of how. The good news is I’m not giving up on it this time. The good news is I’m realizing I don’t have to make it perfect to make it beautiful.

I’ve been writing a little, too. Not much but enough to keep the creativity going. That’s just kind of my way. I write probably five first lines per day. Of those 35 lines a week, typically one to two per month turn into full-fledged stories. But it has to come all at once. I only capture characters long enough to write everything out in that instance. I can ever go back for an ending. Revision yes—but if I don’t finish a story when I start it, I never look back. But here’s what’s really cool about my writing right now: I’ve stopped thinking in terms of if I fail. I’m not going to fail.

So what now?

Well if you know me at all, you know I love having lovely little secrets (very important side note: lovely and dirty are not mutually exclusive terms). So I can’t really say my plans for now. But trust, if there was ever a year for me to make them happen, this is it. I’ve done so much harder. That’s what I really realized this morning. I’ve done so much more under so much worse circumstances than this.

I’m not an if. I’m a when.

The Times They Are A Changin'

2009-01-20T05:25:00.000-08:00

Hello, Inauguration Day. It's been a long fucking four years. But you know what we're not going to do? We're not going to dwell on how horrific those four years have really been. We get it. That's why today is bringing joy and not utter sorrow (along with a mass exodus of Democrats and others exhausted from the beating down of America's integrity and good karma in general). No mistake is made without making someone the better for it, so thank you, Mr. Bush. I'm pretty sure we're so fucked the only way is up. And sometimes that's incredibly reassuring.

But I'm kind of a selfish chickadee at times, and I'm really taking Inauguration Day to heart. Not just for the change of our country, but for the betterment of myself. If New Year's Resolutions were my election, today is the day I'm whole-heartedly putting my changes into effect. Sure, just like Mr. Obama, I've gotten things started. But now I'm in a no looking-back, no escaping, for better or worse until I drop from exhaustion state of mind. The past four years have been rough for me personally—from cancer to death to babies to heartache to graduating and everywhere in between—but just like we're not going to dwell on Mr. Bush running the country like a satanic monkey flinging feces, I'm not going to dwell on any sadness that I've survived.

So in honor of today, I'm going to share some of my resolutions that are officially ready for their power launch.

1. Love myself. There's really a myriad of smaller resolutions that fall into this same category. Take better care of my skin (moisturize no matter what the dire circumstances); take better care of my teeth (floss is my friend!); rest and stay in (you don't HAVE to go out just because you're invited); quit smoking (twenty-five days and counting, bitches—started that one early); and stick to my diet (not like lose weight diet—more like gee golly, my body feels so much better when I don't feed it toxic fuels). I'm tired of being disappointed in me. I'm tired of sacrificing myself for the happiness of others. I'm tired of knowing I can do all these things but not utilizing the will power necessary, even though I know it would make me a happier person. Basically, I'm fucking over not being proud when I look in the mirror. Cheesy? Yes. True? Oh so very.

2. Love others. This will sound totally lame to a lot of people, but I'm pretty OK with that nine times out of ten. This is the one I've actually had the least trouble keeping up with. What it comes down to is every time I see someone sad, or in need, or just unhappy with the state of their lives, I try to send them positive and healing thoughts. Maybe just for a minute. Maybe they're on my heart all day. It's not a cure for AIDS but I believe that enough positive thought can really change things. My life right now depends on that belief.

3. Love my art. This is perhaps the most complex of my resolutions. It's recently occurred to me that my art is not writing alone. I can't live without dancing, and I've decided I can't really feel satisfied with my course in life until I at least try dance on the school front. So love my art in basic translation for the next year is going to mean dancing every day and writing as it comes. This doesn't mean I'm letting go of my writing. Not by a long shot. It means my everyday dedication needs to focus more on publication and the dirty work involved in getting there. And in the mean time, my soul can breathe through dance. Sweet.

So there it is...my year to love. Let's hope it lasts through 2009 and beyond.

And here it is, Mr. Obama...your turn to show this world what you're workin' with.

Good luck and Godspeed to us both.