I’ve been itching for something more, not even lately, but forever.  It’s not that I would ever act on the itch, or that I’m not happy with what, or more specifically who I have, but there is the itch, nonetheless. 

I think about my childhood.  I was the kid who traveled the world, literally.  I had flown around the world 3 times by the time I was 16.  I had lived in England and visited several other countries before I even hit my teen years.  I could speak Chinese when I was 5, and I could understand just about any accent latched on to English, no matter how thick. 

In high school I was dreaming about adventure and grandeur.  I was not ready to settle in any area of my life.  I had a hard time deciding what I wanted to do with my life, not for lack of ambition, but rather for the multitude of options the world offered me.  But in my arrogance, I turned my nose up to so many opportunities… –Modeling in Japan, all expenses paid?  Medical school of my choice, tuition paid?  Traveling the world for a living?  Language school in Monteray, California, followed by two years in Paris? –

Even after I joined the military, my dreams were still in world travel and adventure.  My career was supposed to take me to new places, show me new things, give me new stories.  So how did I become the ex-military, divorcee mom living in a town (not a city, but a TOWN) in the US, rarely leaving my state?

Social networking sites like Facebook, Myspace, and Twitter have opened doors for keeping up with those you would have normally lost along the way.  I follow many of my old school-mates, mostly just dropping in to see what they are doing, and I’m jealous.  My best friend in 8th grade is working in China right  now, but her job has taken her all over the world.  A close friend from 9th grade has pictures of Israel and Jerusalem and France and who knows where else filling his virtual albums.  A friend from most of high school just got married, in Spain, in a beautiful Cathedral and several of our other friends were there with her, and she’s now living in Tunisia.  I have friends who graduated from MIT, Cornell, Harvard, Berkley, Stanford, and  NYU, not to mention ones who have gone to college in Europe, all landing fabulous jobs right after.  I have friends who are successful entrepreneurs, growing their dream businesses from nothing to fruitful.  I have friends in most of the major cities in the US, and some of the biggest business and cultural meccas around the world.  They consist of lawyers and doctors and international businessmen and women and engineers and peace corps workers and professional bicyclists and actors and researchers and bank vice presidents and people that work for the Department of State and Amazon.com and .  What the hell happened to me?  And this is why I did not attend my high school reunion…

Many people say things like:  “I can’t imagine life without my kids,” or “I don’t know what I would do without my kids.”  Well, I can and I do.  Does that make me a bad person?  I love my kids unconditionally.  I adore my kids completely.  If given the choice now, I wouldn’t give them up for anything.  And they do make me happy.  But I can still imagine what my life would be like if I had never turned down that road of marriage and mommy-hood.  Well, I can at least imagine myself nestled deeply in each of the few dozen options that the world would once again lay before me. 

I would learn to surf, while living a simple life in a crappy shack on the beach, making next to nothing, but needing even less.  Just me and nature, coming together…

I would see the world, taking pictures of all the beauty it holds, submitting things to publications like National Geographic, needing nothing but some good shoes and my camera…

I would learn to cook, dedicate my time and money to the best culinary school around, working hard to make it through a grueling kitchen while mastering cuisine from around the world…

I would spend months in an Ashram in India, finding my true self, away from the distractions of life…

I would study archeology, making discoveries about past and lost civilizations, finding priceless treasures in knowledge… 

I would finish school, finish grad school, and be anything I wanted to be…

I could help the world…

Of course, I would travel, see everything I’ve always wanted to see, join in with different cultures in different places, revel in the beauty all around us, become a true person of the world, expand myself and my understanding in the world…

I would be me.  Not a mom.  Not simply an extension of another being.  Just me.  Free to do and think and be what I want without the fear of responsibility to another.  I do love my kids and I gladly walk away from my options to be with them now that they are here.  But if they’d never been…

Just like most little girls, when I was young I believed whole-heartedly in fairytales and “Happily Ever Afters.”  Despite my parents’ efforts and a long (really long) string of bad relationships and broken hearts, my dreams of happily-ever-after continued through my teen years into my early twenties.  Then I met ex#1.  Sometime during our twisted courtship (probably having something to do with my dorm-dazed, alcohol-soaked, man (boy)-crazed, promiscuous tendencies) fairytales drifted off and left me in the “real world.”  When I finally got that (less-than) fairytale proposal, my thoughts weren’t of birds singing and how I’d be “Happily Ever After,” they were of “would I learn to love this man” and “will he ever hurt me.” Yeah, true love in it’s finest hour, right?  But all wasn’t lost, yet.  There was hope.  There was possibility.  Wasn’t there?

Maybe not.  We tried to get pregnant (yeah, I know…the horribly misguided thoughts of desperate couples looking for a way to make it work).  We didn’t get pregnant.  For months we didn’t get pregnant.  Then we separated.  First by our hearts, then our minds, then we made it official and we both moved out.  And then I got pregnant! Figures, right.  By that point, alone, pregnant, failed marriage, the last glimmer of “fairytales” faded into the night.  I had my beautiful son and realized no one wants a twenty-something single mom so I settled for who I thought was the first decent guy to show interest in me.  He had a daughter and a failed marriage too, so he understood and would love me…right?  We got pregnant, got married, and got unhappy very quickly and with the birth of my little girl, I realized I couldn’t teach her about fairytales because quite frankly I didn’t have a clue what they were anymore.  I even decorated her room with Tinkerbell, because Tink gets her heart broken, but is still sassy and happy and totally fabulous.  But, much like my parents before me, I failed and the girl is totally obsessed with Princesses and all that fairytale crap.

Yes, I’ve found my prince charming, finally, in Mr. W, but fairytales? Can I get behind them again?  Can any woman, no, mother in this day and age?  I specify mothers because as a woman, there is still hope.  There is still freedom to dream and fantasize about the possibility.  But with motherhood comes responsibility, the all powerful time suck.  When there are diapers and sleep deprivation and cooking and cleaning and laundry and school lunches and homework and activities and “mommy, mommy, mommy…” around the clock, there leaves little time, or energy for dreaming.  When you become a mother, there is just no room for being a princess.

Let’s look at Disney, the king of fairytale princesses, responsible for bringing them full-force into our hearts and minds today.  When “she” finally gets her “he,” that’s usually the end of the story.  If we are given a glimpse into their life together, it is just that.  A glimpse.  And then it’s with dogs.  You know, Perdita and Pongo meet, fall in true love, “marry,” and then they have kids (in the end 99 of them) but that’s it.  No follow up.  Lady and the Tramp have kids at the end of their “fairytale” romance.  End of movie.  What happens next?  Ah, but then Disney gives us the sequels, the not-quite-as-good-but-still-Disney-Magic follow-ups.  There is Scamp, Mr. and Mrs. Tramp’s little scoundrel who gets into an adventure all his own…but wait, where are the parents?  What happened to them?  Arial and her Mister get married and apparently have a little princess of their very own, who we meet in another wonderful sequel.  But wait.  Ariel is the princess (of the sea) and the queen (of the people-world), right?  Shouldn’t she be a little more than a side-note to this story?  Even in the great fairytale world of Disney, you become a mother and all that princess-ly wonder goes right out the window.  (Lady and Ariel are probably doing their very romantic laundry and making meatloaf filled with sweet songs of love.)

So even in the dawn of true love, there is no fairytale left for me.  It’s all rather disappointing isn’t it.  Well, at times, yes.  But not always.  While I may not have that fairytale whirlwind romance going on.  While I may not be able to let go and be totally wrapped up in the moment with my very own Mr. Wonderful.  While I may not live a care-free and glamorous life full of romance, there is still beauty.  I have two beautiful babies.  Just looking at them makes my heart leap and flutter.  I have a wonderful man.  He treats me like a princess whenever life allows, even when I’m not acting much like a princess.  And I have hope for our future, all of our futures.  In the still of the night, when the babies are sleeping and there is no laundry to do or lunches to make, I can sit back an dream about the possibility of a fairytale ending for us all…maybe.

The boy is signed up for Tae Kwon Do for the school year and yesterday I took him to the Dojang to pick up his uniform.  When he walked in, his eyes simply lit up as he spied all the trophies and medals that decorate the office area.  (He has a thing for trophies at the moment.  Ok, cyber-trophies on his plethora of video games, but trophies nonetheless.)  I initially signed him up in hopes that his I can’t attitude would be adjusted, as well as to give him a much needed boost to his self-confidence.  He is a shy, sensitive sort of kid, quiet and reserved around anyone he isn’t completely familiar with.  That and he has no athletic prowess whatsoever.  Seriously.  To watch the boy run is completely comical, bordering on just sad.  I honestly think he walks faster than he runs.  Really. 

So I signed him up for the before-and-after care program that includes transportation to and from school, help with homework, and a 1 1/2 hour class daily.  He’s excited, for now, and so am I.  Of course, now the girl wants to go too.  Yeah, sorry chica.  Totally not going to happen, ever. 

The girl does cheerleading.  Not by my influence at all, but her by father (and aunt and grandmother and grandfather…).  Ex#2′s mom runs/owns a gym and her main focus is all-star cheer.  That’s all well and good, and her teams are absolutely fantastic.  The girl enjoys it, sort of, and it’s a good activity for her, I guess.  But cheerleading just isn’t her.  She lacks the focus or willingness to do the routines, and since she is the granddaughter, none of the coaches push her.  Beyond that, cheerleading doesn’t match her normal level of activity.  Unlike the boy, she is constantly going.  Climbing, jumping, dancing, running, just moving freely.  The girl never stops.  Ever.  There is too much down time and stillness in cheerleading.  Too much structure.  Plus she’s a little rough-and-tumble.  Gymnastics may be a better fit, but I worry about her age with that.  Dance would work, but they don’t offer it there.  And martial arts would be perfect, but, alas, things such as that don’t fit into ex#2′s image of his perfect little princess.

Ex#2 has already planned out her life.  From birth he has insisted on dressing her in nothing but pink, frilly dresses, despite her affinaty for dirt and falling down (on any given day she has at least 2 bruises somewhere on her body and more than a couple scrapes/scabs).  He put her in competative cheer with the idea that she will continue through high school (that’s 14 years from now), pick up a cheer scholarship to a local university, go to law school and be a DA.  Have I mentioned she’s 3 (well, almost 4)??  He pays zero attention to who she is and what she wants and is intent on forcing her into this little mold that represents what he thinks a woman should be: long haired, big busted (yes, he has articulated this specifically), quiet and reserved, perfectly-pressed-black-skirt-and-white-collared-shirt wearing, fancy-leather-seated-car driving District Attorney.  While she may turn out to be just that in the end, it’s not who she is today, at 3 years old.  For that matter, it’s not who she has been yet.  Today she is a tom-boy.  Today she likes to run and climb and jump and fall.  Today she likes motorcycles and big trucks.  Today she is enamoured with Star Wars (yea!) and Transformers.  Today she wants to do Tae Kwon Do with her brother.  Today she wants her hair cut short because it just gets in her way.  Today she wants to dress herself in pants and skirts and T-shirts with robots on them that totally don’t match.  Today she wants to sing and dance.  She just wants to be her which is totally annoying to him, but to me, there is absolutely nothing wrong with that!

My kids couldn’t be more different.  While I have dreams of what they could be and ideas of what they “should” be, I do my damnedest every day to keep those ideas to myself and let them just be.  Ex#2, not so much.  Even ex#1 has his moments with the boy, but not nearly as bad.  And you think it’s bad with the girl?  With the boy it’s worse!

• The boy got a mohawk, because he wanted a mohawk.  Ex#2 wouldn’t take him outside the house because he was too embarrassed and chastised the boy about his hair.  The boy is 5.
• The boy is a sensitive and peaceful soul and it’s not unusual for him to cry at the first sign of conflict or displeasure with him.  Ex#2 articulated that he thinks something is wrong with him.
• The boy plays with dolls, with his sister.  They play house and he plays the daddy and she plays the mommy.  Ex#2 insists he’s gay.

These are only a couple examples of 5 years of degrading comments and horrible judgements  made on my child.  Yeah, I really know how to pick them!  If there was a way to get him completely out of both my children’s lives, I would do it, immediately.  I don’t blame him entirely as I know how he and his sister grew up.  But I see who they have become (generally unhappy, insecure, and angry people with very low self-esteem who tend to prey on others to build themselves up) and I do not want that for my children.  That’s the biggest reason I left in the first place!

But for now, I’m working with the boy, attempting to help him build his self-esteem before anyone else can stomp on it.  As far as the girl, all I can do is support her for who she is as much as possible and hope her innate strength continues long enough to stand up to her father.  In all the hopes and dreams I have for my children, that their strength, independence, and self-worth hold strong is my number one wish. 

Last night I dreamt that Mr. W was cheating on me…with me!  WTF?!  Talk about twisted and waaay too real!  Yeah, at one point, we were *getting cuddly* (really good cuddly I might add) in one room of a house I have never seen or been to before, while I -the being cheated on I- was in another room only half aware of the steaminess going on a room away with me.   Poor Mr. W woke up to me half pissed and half lusty at him.  Both halves perched tentatively on the bed waiting for the faintest eye-flicker of consciousness so we could pounce on him and tell him all about it.  He (sleepily) deduced that either I am suffering from a split personality, or he is.  Hmmm. 

This is slightly better than the dream I had a couple nights ago in which Mr. W had agreed to marry some sexy starlet up-and-coming actress for her publicity, and then got mad at me for refusing to come to the wedding.  He insisted it was only for 2 years and then he would marry me.  The worst part of the dream was that no matter how many times I woke up upset, I fell right back into the dream as soon as I fell back to sleep.  Even during my afternoon nap!  Of course I was (unjustifiably) pissed at him for most of the day.  Sorry, hon! 

So over coffee this morning, Mr. W declared that he will no longer allow me to be mad at him over my dreams.  Ok.  While I really do realize that any feelings that stem simply from a dream are completely irrational and unfair, they are still feelings.  I can’t just turn them off.  I have to let them play out, or fade with time, or just dissipate.  It’s not my fault what my subconscious mind does when left unchaperoned!  He doesn’t get it.  Of course, he doesn’t dream either which means he also doesn’t randomly get pissed at me over something I was totally uninvolved in…… –but still! 

I wonder if he’d object as much if I dreamt of simply *cuddling* instead, leaving me breathless and frisky upon waking… 

*(ok, yeah, totally not, obviously.  This actually is my thoughts on Public Enemies, starring Johnny Depp, which Mr. W and I saw last night on our date…)

I read an early review in the New York Times last week, so I was partially prepared for the movie…partially.  The author of the article touched on the camera angles and the rawness that Michael Mann captured with his all digital shooting.  The story itself was fascinating and I really can’t think of anyone else who could have played Dillinger with the same off-handed confidence and swagger that my dear Johnny did.  Even Christian Bale didn’t totally annoy me.  (While I thoroughly enjoy watching Mr. Bale, and I did like the latest in the Terminator movies, his insistence at using his “Batman” voice for his role as John Connor left me a little turned off.)  The 2 1/2 hour long Public Enemies didn’t seem so as the story kept on at a steady pace, with just enough sprinkling of gun fights and intense scenes to keep me enthralled for most of the movie.  By the end, I was mostly pleased.

That said, I’m still not entirely sure how I feel about the digital part.  It took me about an hour of the movie to get used to the crystal clear world unfolding before me on the screen.  It kept getting caught up in the picture rather than the movie itself.  The quality was fantastic, even in our crappy local theater, but it left me a little ambivalent.  I kept shifting between the feeling of watching a well-shot home movie and some random reality TV thing.  The fact that so many recognizable actors made their way into the film made things even more conflicting for me.  All those celebrity types are a little unreal to me.  They belong to people who don’t exist in my world and I’m just fine with that (they are supposed to entertain me, not be my friend), but the rawness of the movie brought them closer than I’m accustomed. 

My fantasies and dreams, while very real for me, don’t exist in perfect digital clarity.  They are probably shot in low-light and kind of artsy, and while I don’t particularly pay attention to the score, I am confident that they are accompanied by only the most befitting music, with swelling symphonics and lyrical genius, as appropriate.  (There was very little background music in Public Enemies.)  My fantasy world is all about the feel of the scene, the lighting, the ambiance, the mood.  Soft and romantic, dark and scary, bright and joyful, harsh and intense.  I thrive in fantasy and tend to shy away from reality, especially in my entertainment.  I don’t care for mystery novels or non-fiction (for the most part), preferring to immerse myself into other worlds filled with mysterious and (probably) impossible characters and situations.  (Vampires anyone?)  While reality TV has a place in my heart (I love cooking shows) I much prefer to spend my time going all potato-fied over some made-up scene with made-up characters in a made-up world.  Even in music, while I can appreciate those “unplugged” moments of my favorite artists, I delight in the studio-made sounds that quite simply rock-out like no unassisted band can.  I live in reality.  I expect my escapes (books, movies, tv, music) to take me somewhere else entirely.

So, back to the movie.  The realism of the world before me didn’t take me anywhere.  I was still in the crappy little theater, in my crappy little town, living my life in the real-world.  Like looking out a window at events unfolding in your front yard.  On the other hand, the picture was so freakin’ clear!  Amazing? Yes.  My style of entertainment?  I don’t know yet.  It may be limited of me, but I like when the film-makers use lighting and music and camera angles to invoke thoughts and feelings in my mind that I’m not totally aware of.  I don’t want to think, I want to be entertained!  I want to feel what they want me to feel.  That’s the point, right?  To share a message, story, whatever.  Straight from the director/producer/writer’s mind to ours.  But I’m sure this digital thing is the direction that film-makers are going, you know, with all the technological advances in everything and stuff, so I won’t have much choice in the end.  But I won’t be giving up my old fuzzy movies just yet.

Damn I’m a whiny bitch!  At least I feel that way right about now.  (And I wonder where the girl gets it)  Here I’ve been whining about my stresses and my problems when all the while there are much bigger issues in other people’s lives that my stuff doesn’t even touch.

A close friend just confided that her hubby is coming home from Iraq on Saturday after 9 months, 3 months short of his one-year contract.  He was there under a similar contract as Mr. W, but a month ago he was fully intending to stay two years instead of the originally planned one.  And now he’s coming home, out of the blue, and oh, did I mention he got fired?  My dear friend has five kids, a crappy job that she hates, and big dreams of pursuing a career she actually wants, which these one or two years apart (and the big paychecks that accompany them) were going to all but hand to her on a silver platter with sparkly jewels all around.  Now?  Not so much.  Now she’s stuck worrying about things like mortgages and bills and what activities she has to cut out of her kids’ lives to make ends meet on a single income in a very high cost of living area.  Did I mention she has five kids??  The kicker, she still loves the guy.  They have been married for like 15 years, and have had many of those “worse” times the preacher talks about when you get married and she’s stuck it out.  Besides that, he still makes her heart flutter and eyes light up.  He still makes her laugh, through all of this.  Love…WTF, man!

Then there is The Girl from the Ghetto.  She’s a simply fabulous human being.  She’s Mr. W’s life-long friend and my new bloggy/long distance friend.  She’s the one that needs that real life Dr. House for all the baffling health issues she struggles with.  I can’t even begin to list her pains and struggles, but you can read them here.  But even through all that, when I met her, and when I read her, she’s still positive.  She’s happy, she’s friendly, she’s bubbly and intelligent and hardworking, she’s multi-talented, she’s fabulous!  But now, now she’s been laid off.  She’s civil service, and has been laid off. (Yeah, I was totally under the apparent misconception that doesn’t happen, like, ever!)  After a (finally) trip to the Mayo clinic to shed some light for her.  After finding out she has to have a surgery hubby’s insurance doesn’t cover.  After Michigan’s crappy economy anyway, she got laid off!!  So I’m sending my love, hugs, and prayers and asking anyone who happens to read my blog to pay her a visit, offer some love, and even better, give her some hope.  (Or a job.  A job would be good!) 

Then there is the random crap that goes on the outskirts of my life.  A guy that works in my area (work area, not for the same facility, but the same overall company) stabbed his wife to death for no apparent reason this past weekend.  One of my neighbors’ house flooded last week from a frozen faucet.  In an attempt to fix it (not sure how) her dad set the insulation in the wall on fire.  Flood and fire.  How much does that suck?  (Ok, granted, not as much as being stabbed to death, but I’m just running the list here)  Two of the ladies I work with suffer from health issues that strike without warning and leave them beat down on the side of the road.  Alone.  In the desert.  The Mojave desert.  With bugs.  — ok, stopping there, but you get the idea.  My step-dad’s mother just found out she has Lupus.  And his sister who lives with her and is supposed to be taking care of her fell off the wagon not long ago and fell hard.   Hell, my dad just had cancersurgery, for the second time, and will be dealing with chemo next month-ish and he’ll be doing it pretty much alone since my step-mother is selfish, unhelpful, and living somewhere else, counting the days until she feels a divorce is appropriate rather than working on their marriage. 

How blessed am I!  I have my health, mostly.  I have a good paying job.  I have the love of a man whom I love in so many ways, for so many reasons.  I have two beautiful, healthy children.  I have a nice house to live in and a good car to drive.  I have nice clothes and nice things and eat well.  Who the hell am I to bitch?  Mr. W and I have life pretty damn good, and yet we are too busy whining and bitching and stressing about the little crap to notice all the good in our lives.  Hell, if Girlie and my other friend can manage to keep smiles on their faces, what right do I have to defile their air with my negativity and discontent?

Last night/this morning I dreamt about nursing a baby girl.  Apparently Mr. W and my baby girl.  What the hell?  It was very vivid, as my dreams tend to be.  He brought her to me at work (ok, yeah, that part is weird) and stayed by my side talking to me while I nursed her.  She was beautiful.  She looked a little like the girl, only with blond hair.  (The girl was a strawberry blond, almost red-head as a baby.)  She had great big brown eyes and a very peaceful disposition.  And when I say vivid…not only do I remember every detail of the baby in my dream, but I also woke up with that familiar soreness/tenderness in my *ahem* nipples that comes after nursing.

I know, I know.  First reaction by many, many women is: you dream about babies (or apparently fish, which I totally don’t get), you are pregnant.  Let me just say, that’s not possible.  Really, not possible.  Mr. W is..uh..snipped.  Has been for like ever.  Not a chance.  That said, we’ve talked about it.  A lot.  Recently.  About him getting the procedure reversed so we can have a baby. 

He’s totally for it.  While I love babies, and especially my babies, and would love to have his baby, I’m torn.  Well, not that torn.  I’m sitting mostly on the side of a logical not, that may be fueled by fear, but I feel better sticking with “logic.” 

Here are my thoughts:

• We both have two, a boy and a girl each.  All four are healthy and great kids…how much more luck do we have?
• We already share our time with our kids with our exes.  The baby would be full-time, so the existing kids would have to share their already shared time with a new, full-time kid.  I foresee animosity and jealousy sprouting out of that…like siblings need any more excuses.  (I’m theorizing that, as I am an only child myself)
• I really, really, really like my tattoos.  Especially the one on my tummy/side which would inevitably mutate from a phoenix* to some sort of demented distorted dragon-thing during the whole tummy expanding process that is pregnancy.
• I’m finally at a point in my life where I appreciate my body for what it is, and the shape it’s in and while it may not be full out love, I think I could love me someday.  Pregnancy wreaks so much havoc on the female body, who knows what I will have after it’s all done.

Ok, all those reasons seem small, some even downright petty (see tattoo).  But the topper is something that hadn’t occured to me when I was considering carrying a baby for someone else.  It hadn’t occured to me until last weekend:  I suffered from post-partum after the girl was born.  It was bad.  Not as bad as it could have been, and admittedly if I had been married to an understanding man, rather than on the last legs of a marriage with  a self-centered, neanderthal little-boy it may not have been quite so bad.  But I wasn’t.  And it was.  I’m afraid to go through it again.  I’m afraid it will be worse the second time around.  I’m afraid of what I will become in those months/years following the pregnancy.  I’m afraid of taking it out on my kids, Mr. W, Mr. W’s kids.  It wouldn’t be fair to them.  It wouldn’t be fair to the new baby.  Besides that, Mr. W, in all his wonderfulness, has pointed out he is not like my ex and would support me, help me, be there for me, whatever it took.  I’m afraid he would become the buffer between me and all my insanity and the kids, putting way more strain on him and our relationship than anyone could or should be forced to withstand. 

So, yeah.  It may be fear or it may be logic.  Either way, I’m thinking the baby dream should stay a dream for awhile, or, -ever.  Maybe. 

*I got the phoenix to represent my rebirth from the fire of my marraige after leaving ex#2.  As much as I like dragons, I don’t think a demented distorted dragon-thing will hold the message quite as effectively.

Ok, I have to confess it.  I have to put it out there for all to judge.  Are you ready?

I watch America’s Next Top Model…religiously.  Yes, it’s true.  I know, I know.  But the first step is admitting your addiction, right.  Now on to acceptance…

I don’t ever talk about it to anyone…I mean, I am an almost-thirty year old, semi-professional woman, mom, you know, who the hell would I talk to about it in my world?  Well, this is officially my world, so here goes.

These girls piss me right off!  I don’t watch for the drama (which there is plenty of) because 1) it just makes me hate them for being so bitchy/whiny/ungrateful in the face of such a gift, and 2) I figure a lot of the drama is due to angled filming for those people that tune in precisely for that part of the show.  I watch for the modeling.  The challenges, the shoots, the make-overs, the development, the modeling. I (like many women out there, I’m sure) had a dream once to be a model.  I went to the school (and eventually dropped out).  I went to the open calls (but couldn’t afford the trip to NY for the conventions).  I had a portfolio.  I even did the “questionable” shoot that I probably shouldn’t have, but hey, it was a learning experience, and it paid (no nudity.  I’m not that naive, but itty-bitty bikinis on a 15 year old in a teeny white room in a warehouse building…questionable.) It is true what they say though.   Opportunities come once in a lifetime.

At 17, I was offered a contract by a Japanese modeling agency…in Japan.  Not just a contract.  They were willing to push back my departure date to allow me to graduate high school, give me an apartment and living expenses in Japan, foot the bill for my travel expenses both ways, and throw in extra living expenses and transportation for someone (anyone, they didn’t care who) to come with me to help me with the transition to overseas life.  And I let it slip through my fingers.  The months leading up to graduation found me parting too much, caring too little, and focusing on all the things that were “right now” (like boys) instead of opportunities for my future.  I’ve never forgiven myself for giving up on my dream so completely.  I guess I figured another opportunity would present itself.  Not so much.

But these girls on ANTM are just plain ungrateful!  They are spoiled and don’t listen and full of themselves!

Make-over day.  Always tears.  Always complaining.  Don’t they get it?  Modeling is about selling a product in whatever way the client (ie the paycheck) wants you to.  The Japanese agency that I was to work for told me NOT to cut my hair (I had/have a fetish for ever-changing, but usually short hair).  Guess what, I grew my hair, in 100+ degree Arizona weather.  It was too short to pony-tail, too long to allow for the seldom breeze to cool the sweat on my neck, too dark brown to not intensify the oven that is Arizona, baking my head.  But that’s what you do.  You deal.  But these girls, they cry.  They complain.  They don’t listen.  They don’t trust.  Seriously, would Tyra (Banks) really give a girl she’s trying to sell a hairstyle that is going to make her un-sellable?  And on top of that, they have the world’s most  renowned hair stylist working on their hair, and they have the nerve to say “hold-on, dude” or “no.” What is that?

Ungrateful!

I wanted to try out.  I know I can at least follow direction.  At least if I could make it to make-over day, I could come home fabulous.  Even if they cut it all off and dyed it red, I could rest easy in the fact that Tyra thought it worked for me, so it must be hot.  Alas, I am twenty-nine years old (past “model-prime”) and I am only 5’5″ and while I do have a fierce runway walk, I am too short for runway and while I could do the print work, the American and European markets like a taller girl.  So no dice.  I’ve resigned myself to the fact that my modelling opportunites flew away long ago on the plane to Japan that I didn’t get on.  (Yeah, I still have my contract, put away to always remind me to hold on to my dreams)  Instead, I can hope to be the one behind the camera someday on those shoots.  Now, if only I could get someone to let me experiment on them…

And by the way, Tyra…I love that you are finally doing a show for us short girls, but seriously, couldn’t you have done that like cycle 3 instead of cycle 13?!  10 years ago, even 6 years ago I could have rocked it, fiercely! I would have blown the judges away with my fierceness!  But now, despite the temporarily lifted restriction on height (normally 5’7″) I am well past the restriction on age (although I do still get carded for cigarettes, and entry into bars/clubs.  I once got carded 3 times, in the same bar, by the same person!). Tyra, I would have listened to you.  I can smile with my eyes.  I can find the light.  I know the difference between a beauty shot and a fashion shot and I know how to walk with the wind in my hair.  I wouldn’t have whined no matter what you did to my hair.  I wouldn’t have complained about getting up early or shooting 100 feet in the air or that the harness was too tight or that the shoes hurt my feet.  I can do pretty, and ugly-pretty, and everything in between.  Seriously.  I’m that fierce.

Oh, and Tyra…you faked it once, but I really think you should shave their heads in one cycle.  That would be fierce! Not to mention incredibly entertaining! 

I am a vivid dreamer.  My dreams regularly overlap with my waking moments, leaving me in a daze, trying to decipher what is real and what is not.  I remember conversations from my dreams which I am later so sure that I had, much to the confusion of my friends.  My emotions are so real that I often live for hours, or even days in their wake with no choice but to ride them out, knowing all the while that it was just a dream but completely unable to shake loose of their hold.

I dream about my love, and him hurting me so viciously through cruel words or despicable acts.  I dream about my children getting hurt or dying and wake up shaking with tears in my eyes.  I dream about a lost love, and spend days missing him and dredging up all those old feelings.  I once dreamt of him, and was stuck in the loss for weeks, remembering, mourning, wondering, googling.  Months later, he found me on Myspace and seeing his picture and his happy family let me put all those feelings behind me once and for all.  I have also dreamt about intimate situations with co-workers (not just current ones, but over the years).  They are never about anyone that I would ever have any interest in, unfortunately.  Most times, it is the one guy that I totally despise and/or am repulsed by.  But of course the dream lingers, and the following day(s) at work are uncomfortable and strange with the all too real memory of my dream haunting me in his presence. 

Last night, I dreamt of a co-worker and it was just too strange.  It wasn’t a sex dream.  It wasn’t even a romantic dream.  There was no nakedness or kissing or romantic interest from either of us.  It was comfort, and the feeling has stayed with me through the morning.  The guy in the dream, E, is someone I don’t talk to often, and interact with even less, even on a working level.  He is a nice enough guy, but he’s fairly quiet and stays to himself, as do I, so our paths rarely cross despite the close proximity of our desks and workspaces.  I’m not sure what was going on in the rest of my dream, except that I was upset about Mr. W…probably missing him terribly as I’m apt to do under the current circumstances, and E was there, for whatever reason.  He was kind and understanding, saying all the right encouraging words that I can’t remember now.  What I do remember is the hug.  Yes, he hugged me (in my dream).  He is taller and bigger than most guys I’ve dated, kind of southern-burly with his beard and Georgia background (ok, I just made that classification up, but it works) and his arms so perfectly enveloped me into his chest that I felt complete peace and safety there.  It was a hug to end all hugs, and dipite my over-sized personal space bubble at times, I do so revel in a good hug. 

So, this morning, I find myself looking at him a little sideways (literally cocking my head a bit to the left like a confused dog) with the all-encompasing feeling of comfort playing at the back of my mind.  It will pass, but until it does, the curiosity lingers.  Dreams are a very strange thing.