Chalkballerina: Weddings and Writings; Whimsy and Whining.

Life gives you lemons, dress like a trannie.

A few days ago I was very dramatically complaining about my life to my sister Kensey.  Her response was, "Well I know what you can do, write a blog about me."  Her wisdom never ceases to amaze me.  

 

My apartment provides me with a constant view of Elliot Bay.  Whenever two ferries cross on my beautiful Bay of perfect happiness,  I make a wish.  This strategically timed wish has become a constant in my life - a ritual that feels natural and old, as if I had been wishing on ferries since I was five years old.  

 

The wishes mirror my internal world.  Sometimes these wishes feel grandiose - a wish for peace in the Middle East or the end of human trafficking.   I've heard rumors that at times my wishes are full of vindictive rage - a wish for strategically timed diarrhea or other more hideous forms of public humiliation on the people who have hurt me.  At other times my wishes stem from love - comfort for a hurting friend or clarity for a confused sibling.  And then sometimes the wishes are entirely gratuitous and strange. "I wish for a new fruit hybrid to make fun of" or "I wish there was a fruit hybrid called "Sex" that would satisfy me if I ate it", or my wish from this morning,  "I want my face back!!!!!"  

With all the suffering in my life - today my acne holds precedence over all else.  If you could have HEARD the internal voice of this wish it would have been choking back the sobs in that particularly pathetic sounding sobby voice.  You totally would have cried.  Seriously.  

 

I have never had acne before now.  Lord Jesus do I have it now.  It bubbles across my face with a determination I have never before seen in a topical skin infection (except for leprosy, but that is for another day).  My acne is like Napoleon.  It responds to nothing and cowers before no one. It is like a defiant puppy, both blind and deaf.  Terrible analogy (should have stuck with Napoleon) because the puppy refuses to be popped, no matter how hard you squeeze or scrub or smother it.  

 

My body has been filled with pregnancy restricting hormones since the time I was eighteen.  That's 9 years, for those of you wondering.  About nine months ago (oh my GOD, do you see the pattern??)  I decided to let these previously mentioned hormones out of my body ("fly away little hormones, be free!" I seemed to say), and instead let a copper crucifix (I know how CREEPY is that??? It's pretty much the #1 thing I would NOT want inserted into my vagina... there is nothing soothing about your doctor holding up a cross and saying "spread your legs") be inserted into my uterus to do the job of guarding against any sweet baby humans crawling out of me. 

 

Slowly but surely, over the past 9 months (OH MY GOD, there it is again!!!!!!!) my face has become more and more, shall we say, lovely?  It is certainly more lovely now than it was a few weeks ago, and on every morning when I awake with a cute little whimper and wipe my eyes like an infant and stretch out my arms like a vixen and then bound, beautiful and naked to the mirror, my face nervous to see itself... and then, relief... I still have the blessing of the acne fairy.  In fact it appeared this morning like she gave up a few of her old clients and is devoting her energy entirely on my face... her portfolio is currently riding pretty heavy on me.  Never you mind the recent bi-polar nature of the stock market - this oil(y) stock continues to surge. (seriously? Enough already.  I could keep this analogy going for about 30 years...) 

 

It is strange how vulnerable I feel in light of my recent facial crop (OOHH it's been a good year... time to harvest, boys).  The strangeness comes from feeling so violently unnerved by something that, compared to the loss and hurt I have felt the past six months, is so insignificant. 

My partner of eight years has an affair: good grief. 

My life is uprooted and changed and the compass I have been using is completely useless: damnation. 

I get acne: I want to die.

See what I mean?  Not exactly logical; don’t blame me (she seemed to say), I was homeschooled.   

 

I keep thinking about the book I used to read when I was younger (I LOVED it – I can visualize the illustrations perfectly in my mind) about a mitten that keeps getting raped by more and more giant animals until it finally bursts when a tiny little mouse crawls into it.  (I know, brilliant right?)  I'm probably butchering the plot, but I think I have the main idea: you wouldn't think that a little mouse crawling into a mitten that is already crammed full of elephant, hippopotamus, tiger, bear, some creepy guy I dreamed I had very horrible sex with last night named Jim, and a raccoon would be affected by it.  You wouldn't think that this mitten would experience its breaking point at the entrance of the MOUSE, right??  The mouse is a tiny little thing - insignificant – you get what I’m saying, of course (sometimes I write as if the people reading my writing are retarded). 

Actually, what the hell was the "moral to the story" of that book? "Kids, you could at any point in your life be the unwitting LAST STRAW - you never know when it might happen, but you could ruin everything, even though you are tiny and seemingly insignificant. NEVER, EVER, be in the wrong place at the wrong time."  I don't know.  I probably need to read it again.  

When I stand in front of a mirror and look at my reflection in the morning, my “look” somewhere between small pox and plague, the red, painful marks on my face truly feel like the last straw.   My acne is the motherfucking mouse crawling into an already full BEYOND capacity mitten.  One of my friends that I can always, always count on for my daily dose of loving cruelty (which actually really is important to me) said “OH wow, is that a hickey on your neck? Oh no, it’s just acne.”  He almost got bitchslapped, even though I was grateful for him mentioning my new facial additions, because he unwittingly reminded me that I am both painfully alone in the arena of hickey-getting, and currently have acne.  Awesome.  Fuck my life. 

 I am so whiny today.  

There are moments when my lurking emotions make themselves known (these are rare moments, since normally I'm super subtle) – moments like trying to sing “Forever” by Ben Harper and singing the whole song with my voice cracking every few seconds.  And then changing the song to “Walk Away” by Ben Harper and wondering why I’m so stupid sometimes.  ... Not stupid for walking away or wanting forever with someone, but because I keep listening to music that makes me cry.  

 

My neighbor makes fun of me for this trait.  He calls my music “crying music” and politely informs me on a regular basis that he can tell when I listen to the same song about a hundred times in a row.  Needless to say this would be incredibly embarrassing, except that I know my neighbor to engage in the same behavior – so in the words of lil’ Wayne, “You ain’t got NOTHING on me.” 

 

So I ordered Proactive.  It should get here in a few days.  And I am now wearing a shitload of makeup, which makes me feel like a queen, which is cool, but not if you are either “plague girl” or “queen” – doesn’t give a girl a lot to go on, especially if most of her clothes are going more for a “mid-century modern feminine” look.  I’ll probably have to start investing in trannie shoes and such to go with my face.  Life gives you lemons, dress like a trannie.  That’s what Mama always said. 

 

Anyways, this all makes me think of Kensey, and how funny and smart and gorgeous she is.  Every time I video chat with her and try to show her my acne she says she can’t see it.  Sisters rule.  Kensey has perfect, exquisitely beautiful skin, and honestly my face is probably a cesspool of puss because I haven’t seen her lately.  Kensey makes everything better like only a sister can.  

I miss you horribly sweet girl.  AND, I am going to need to video chat with you in a few minutes so you can tell me you can't see my acne.  =) 

AND so we can talk about babies.  Just kidding.  

Pigeon-toed girls are hot.

My family is profoundly narcissistic.  We love ourselves as a unit - and there is no apology coming any time soon.  In fact we have worked hard to develop this specific pathology over the years.  

An example of our delicious narcissism: one of the favorite Brice activities is watching old home videos of ourselves.  Home videos are like wine - they only get better with time - and are delicious when coupled with cheese.  

One scene from the home video that my siblings and I watch at every available opportunity (always to the dismay of guests and lovers… you can see their faces get this forced, frozen smile as they agree to sit through yet another hour of home video footage surrounded by all of us DYING laughing and squealing at how cute we were…) keeps coming to mind.  It is a moment of intense shame for six-year-old Charis Brice from the year 1988 – a moment in time n’er to be forgot.  

Picture this: three girls are dancing frantically for the camera.  Our dance was a strange combination of ballet, erotic dance and epileptic seizure – the kind of dance moves that are only cute because the children engaging in them are under the age of 10.   In every scene I am profoundly pigeon toed - and it was on purpose.  I believed this stance to be incredibly provocative all the way through high school.  (Okay okay, sometimes when no one's looking I still put my toes together, pull my heels apart and smack my ass.)  

In this scene I am bossing everyone around including my Dad and every few minutes ask, “Can we watch it now?” with a strangely nasal voice.  Calen is sucking her two middle fingers, stuttering in a way that breaks your heart and clinging to her “b-b-b-b-blanket” (which was actually a changing pad) as she dances.  Kensey is edibly cute, barely able to walk and keeps shrieking when I try to pick her up (which was virtually impossible as she weighed as much as I did during 1988, despite the five year difference in age). 

Wherever the camera went, there my face would appear.   Like magic.  I always acted surprised to see the camera, even though it was obvious that I was straining at an odd angle to be included in every scene: “OH, you’re here? I didn’t realize.  HellLO!”  My face greeted the camera with an expression that oozed with smugness.  “Can you BELIEVE how grown-up and beautiful I am?” my face seems to say.  Wait, no I think I actually said that in the video…  no phenomenological interpretation needed.  

There is always a specific moment in every scene of cozy family dancing and Christian music playing in the background and Mom strategically hiding from the camera with a nearly creepy expertise, when things start to implode. 

This moment of implosion is when my sisters and I get a LITTLE less concerned with being cute and more concerned with just being [CRAZY] – a moment when my Dad gets a little less concerned about being fun or fatherly and more concerned with us being quiet [“Sssshhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”]. 

My moment of shame occurred at this particular stage of breakdown.    My Dad had the camera in the living room and was stating encouraging statements such as “Kensey! Yer WALKIN! WALKY WALKY! HELLO widdle girl!  Kenser – Kenser-Winser!” and I decided that it was time to REALLY show the camera what I could do.   “Enough with this cute ballet shit,” I seemed to say.  Plus, the camera had been off of me for 30 seconds, and this was absolutely unacceptable. 

 

I started at the far end of the room (you can see my preparation in the video…) and ran as fast as I possibly could towards my Dad (ie: the Camera… my Dad was just the person holding the Camera).  Closer and closer I came, running faster and faster, and JUST before the moment when my face would have crushed violently into the camera, I gave a very loud cackle (similar to my laugh now – a mix between a witch and a gunshot) with all the force my lungs had, and moved my head dramatically out of the way and continued running into the next room.  I scared the shit out of my Dad (check), who said something abusive and violent like, “PUNKIN.” (it's his petname for all of us - it's slang for "Pumpkin" - my Dad is pretty gangster) He followed his verbal abuse by giving me a little headshake of disappointment.  (DAMN those headshakes… they got me EVERY TIME). 

I didn’t see his disappointment (though I’m sure I felt it: CO-DEPENDENT alert, Co-DEPENDENT alert) because I was in the other room having the most shameful moment of my life.   After my incredible feat of Run-Cackle-Dodge, I continued my speedilicious route into the dining room where there was hardwood flooring.  The shamefest that occurred there still brings tears of pain to my eyes. 

I was victorious – running – I had scared my Dad and done something that would surely provide great entertainment when we watched the video for the 100^th time in the following minutes… and then, suddenly, I realized that I was still running.  As I slammed on my six year old brakes, my feet slipped on the waxy floor sending me with a deafeningly loud THUD to the floor, careening like a wild truck on an icy highway through our dining room.  

I slid on my head, on my back, on my side, arms and legs flailing on the dark, wood dining room floor - a complete dichotomy from the dance-for-Jesus-fest, carpeted, warm, sing-songy living room a few feet away.  I slid completely under the dining room table, knocking over several chairs, and probably would have continued into the next room except that I was stopped by the sturdy, angular base of the dining room table, where I proverbially lost my dining room virginity.  That table base SMASHED my poor pelvic region like it was trying to make wine; six-year-old Pain wine from the region of Pelvis with notes of shame.  And even though I was pretty sure the camera had not seen me, I was mortified.   I stood up, and walked like a stoic soldier back into the bright living room, sat in a huge chair and tried not to cry with every ounce of strength I possessed.      

From the video perspective all you see is me running, screaming and darting off screen - then you hear this incredible CRASH, the whole camera shakes, and a few seconds later I walk back into the room and sit in a chair, my demeanor completely altered from the preceding seconds. 

I was absolutely, 100% embarrassed.  Mortified, in fact.  At the precise moment when I was at my prime – when energy and risk and craziness and humor and provocation had all been present – my ass hit the floor, my control was taken away and the impact of this loss was horribly and intimately painful. 

 

When I see this scene in our home video I laugh, and I also feel a tightening in my chest.  Because really?  Disappointment and embarrassment and vulnerability and pain are terrible party planners..  I want my name off their list, thank you.  

Twenty years after this scene from a home video I have once again crashed out of the carpeted living room and with a loud thud have gone careening on my ass and head across the wood of a very hard floor, only to get nailed in the looloo. 

It seems like I should say that twenty years have helped me develop a different method of dealing with falling on my ass and feeling pain in intimate places, but my methods are virtually the same, and that feels okay.  

My ass hits the ground.  I careen across the floor with limbs flailing.  I get up.  I take a very stiff, painful walk back into the well-lit room filled with people who love me.  I sit with a stoic, concentrated face until the pain has subsided enough to get back up and dance… and do something crazy…

“OHH, you’re here?  I didn’t realize.  HelLO!”   

Wedding rant

I know you might never guess it, but weddings are a huge part of my life.  (catch sarcasm, NOW).  I have witnessed countless weddings, and although each is different and lovely in it's own way I am distinctly aware that being such a consistent observer has left me with a pronounced and ripening opinion as to what a wedding ceremony "should be."  (I know, there is arrogance in this, right?... but there is no denying that the more weddings I witness, the more I am fine-tuning my own aesthetic preferences... it's just a fact of life... I never like to be arrogant without also being defensive - it's what I call the "super sexy combo.") 

For example: The Wedding Ceremony.  

For many people the ceremony with all it's flowers and candles and runners is a sacred ritual of uniting two lives.  For this reason the ceremony is traditionally considered "the point", and many customs: the unity candle, the vows, the parent vows, a sermon, special songs, prayers, communion, are incorporated. Over the past few years I have watched as wedding ceremonies have shifted from being the focal point to being more peripheral, and I have found this shift refreshing.  

Here's the thing: when the focus shifts away from the ceremony, it tends to land nearer to a little thing called "everything else", aka "the reception." Picture this: you are getting ready to go to a wedding.  You get all dressed up - you put on the perfume - you get the gift ready - and you get to the church a little late (oh you KNOW you do... I see you every time) and sit through a ceremony for an hour.  It's sweet, it's important, and you are probably bored out of your mind and feeling incredibly guilty for this emotion.  The ceremony ends, and what do you feel like doing?  For me, sitting through what feels similar to church is not usually the best party aphrodisiac.  Of course, some weddings are intentionally more quiet - the rhythm of a lengthy ceremony fits the essence of some couples perfectly - but some couples really want their wedding to be a celebration; some couples want to party.  

In my opinion the most successful weddings are the weddings that allow the energy of the guests, the wedding budget and the couple's time to focus on what is important.  It's like there is a huge "wedding funnel", and as the lucky couple you can funnel the energy anywhere you want - but what I am guessing is that most couples don't consider that the "traditional" ceremony takes a lot of energy - from them, from the guests, from the day.  If the ceremony is where the couple wants the focus: then by jove make it long and make it emotional.  But if the celebration and post-ceremony is where the money and expectation and time is being spent: then make space for the focus to be there!  

Alright... that's my wedding rant for the day.  

And all the people said AMEN.    

Susie and Matthew

Seattle wedding photography at it's FINEST.  Susie and Matthew did, and will continue to take my breath away.  Their wedding represents to me how fabulous a Seattle winter wedding can be.  With a 50's theme, poster wedding invitations (designed exactly like a poster for a concert) and perfect chemistry, this couple pulled off their wedding in the roll of laid back hosts at a classy, stylish party that everyone was thrilled to be at.  The dj's were amazing, the food was delicious, and Susie's 50's inspired dress rocked the house. Throughout the night I was moved by the obvious ease and love between Susie and Matthew (and the mutual love from and towards their friends): there is no denying that these two people are right with each other and surrounded by people who love them.  

Congratulations Susie and Matthew - it was an honor to photograph your wedding. 

View a sample of Susie and Matthew's wedding here.  

 

Chalkballerina Photography featured in Seattle Style!

 

I am SO proud to announce that my August 9th, 2008 Seattle wedding with Heather and Jesse was chosen to be featured in Seattle Style this season!   I am so excited!  

Heather and Jesse are absolutely stunning, and I am so grateful to them for allowing me to use their photographs for this feature.  

Go see the featured article by clicking the link below, and leave a comment about what you think! 

http://www.seattlestyle.com/thelounge/2009/2/27/how-the-magic-happens.html