Chalkballerina: Weddings and Writings; Whimsy and Whining.

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

I need a teleporter

My family is hilarious.  My youngest brother Collin had his fourteenth birthday a few days ago, and his only birthday request was to have his entire family out to eat for steak and sushi.  My parents failed in this request because you see, I wasn’t there.  But everyone else was – and with a family of seven, a 6 out of 7 ratio is pretty darn good. 

Collin called me after his birthday extravaganza and in the course of talking to him for fifteen minutes I went from a normal standing position to a hunched-over position of helpless laughter.  Both of my brothers have a devastatingly quick wit – they are somehow always about 10 steps ahead of whoever is around them; they use humor with an ease and skill that I have rarely seen elsewhere.  A tiny example: the waitress for my brother’s birthday dinner was, to put it lightly, a bitch.  Her attitude had been made apparent throughout the meal, and I am sure that my big, loud, celebratory, laughter-filled family was by FAR her favorite table (she was probably just suffering from “I’m-a-bitter only-child syndrome”… HAHA). 

At the end of the meal my brother Kendall asked her if she had, and I quote, “any of those baby to-go boxes in the back?”  Kendall is 19, extremely good looking and has a smile so big and heart-melty that to be a bitch to him is pretty much equivalent to slapping a kitten across the face – you just CAN’T do it.  But this waitress could, so we hate her.   

Her response to Kendall’s request was “You mean a SMALL to-go box?”  She said it in that infamous, catty tone that makes you feel strangely and immediately violent.  Kendall, without missing a beat or giving into the urge to be petty in a non-creative way, nodded encouragingly and said, “Mmm hmmmm yeah that’s right, a BABY to-go box… mmm hmmm.”  I’m sure my family’s loud, long laughter that followed this exchange was enough to completely erase her bitch factor from the memory of the world, and probably made the restaurant think jealous thoughts such as, “Gee wiz, I wish OUR waitress was that much fun.”   

I never laugh so much as when I am with my family.  It isn’t just that the people in my family are FUNNY (and OOHHH they are), it’s that the people in my family can appreciate humor – they can laugh, even at themselves. 

My sister Calen for years has said, “I love you” to people in everyday settings after she has exchanged a “good-bye” with them.  She says it in the PERFECT tone and pitch to leave the person wondering if they heard her right.  When I have tried to imitate her I have either yelled “I LOVE YOU!!” so loudly that the person and myself end up looking at each other awkwardly and I then have to follow it up with something super awesome like, “Sorry.”, or I say it so quietly that I just feel like an idiot.  Calen does it perfectly.  I am sure that there is a huge population of people across the cities she has lived in that still wonder, “Did she say she LOVED me? What the FUCK?”  Calen makes me laugh. 

Last time I was home Kendall and I drove through Starbucks because I was suffering horribly with my lack of El Diablo mochas, and as Kendall pulled up to the order-here-speaker-screen-thing with a list of 500 coffee-flavored-sugar-fests, he rolled down his window and began to order.  He was trying to order a Venti, java-chip frappucino, but what came out was incredible.  In his confident, southern voice he began, “How you doin today? I’d like a venti, java-java… a java-haba…” At this point Kendall broke down into his infectious, staccato laughter and after laughing heartily, recovered.  He began again, “Sorry about that – I’d like a venti java-ha-, a java-hava..”  And again his voice melted into laughter.  I was in the passenger seat completely helpless with tears streaming down my face I was laughing so hard.  On the third try he got his order correct, and then asked me what I wanted.  I told him I wanted a grande honey-latte.  He began, “And can I also get a grande hon-AY…” We lost it.  I really was wondering how I was going to stop laughing when a voice came over the speaker, “Is this KENDALL BRICE?”  He gave me a sheepish look before answering, “Yes… it is.”  One of the Starbucks employees had recognized his laughter from across the room.  I smile every time I think of his sincere, uninhibited laughter in the wake of his temporary Starbucks speech impediment. 

My sister Kensey was at work a few months ago and noticed a group of men huddled together outside looking at something on the ground.  She saw as she approached that it was a snake, and of course, being the kick-ass Brice girl that she is (we were all raised hunting for small creatures in the woods for shits’n’giggles… but we only hunted them in order to take them home and put them in aquariums and play house with them – it was the girl version of “hunting”) said, “Good grief, why is everyone scared of a little snake?” and proceeded to catch it like a champ and hold it in front of everyone (everyone at this particular job = 15 big men).   She gave it a few mock-kisses and talked to it in a cooing motherly tone.  She was feeling pretty darn good about herself, and the looks of sheer horror on the faces of the men observing her feat only added to her triumph.  She turned to the man closest to her (who immediately backed away) and said, “What’s the big deal?” to which the man responded, “That’s a WATER MOCCASIN!”  For those of you who don’t know, the water moccasin is an extremely venomous, potentially deadly snake.  Kensey proceeded to scream, throw the snake and curse loudly. 

She had thought it was a grass snake. 
I still laugh every time I think about Kensey comforting and kissing that water moccasin. 

The other day my Mom asked me in the most sincere voice, “Is it WRONG to hate someone completely for the rest of your life?”   After the words left her mouth we both laughed so hard that we cried.  I now honor her question by asking her every few days, “Mom, is it WRONG to wish someone would die a violent death and that their bones would never be found?” or some other question about the morality of a gruesome, violent, event.  And we laugh. 

Collin told me on his birthday how one of his friends had a slip when she was explaining a new found fact to him and a group of people during school.  She was telling them how she had read that vanilla has been scientifically proven to turn guys on, and then said, probably in a slightly coy tone, “Next time I go on a date I’m going to rub vagina all over myself first.”  Obviously she meant vanilla, but the image she accidently presented is so incredible that I imagine the group heard crickets in the background before they could react.  I could barely understand the story as Collin told it to me he was laughing so hard.  

My family can laugh like no other, and I miss them like crazy.

 

I have found that the people in my life who are “home” to me in Seattle, the people who make Seattle home, are people who can laugh.  I find comfort and home in the presence of people who can throw back their heads and laugh – at me, at themselves, and at the absurdity of this dark and lovely world.  Of course, you can’t really laugh from your gut unless you can cry…   

But that’s for another day. 

 

Right now I think I’m going to go rub vagina all over myself. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I love you.  

Happy Valentine's Day!

Freshly shaven legs and Biblical erotica.

There is always love just beneath the surface.  Pry just a bit, push down on the edge of the lid, and beware the heat that is revealed.  

I have never thought much about Valentine's Day.  I think until I was about 14 the holiday was completely represented to me by those disgusting heart candies with messages written on them.  Where the hell did those things get their street cred?  Why did people buy them??  Who tasted the first batch and told Aunt Patty Sue (who was always a little crazy and was waiting for a response with baited breath and sweaty legs) "Wow, those little fuckers are DELICIOUS... hey I know, why don't we write WORDS on them! It'll be CUTE!"

They made me crazy when I was a child - they tasted awful and I was homeschooled: giving a gross heart that says "true love" to your Dad is just stupid, even to a homeschooler.  But when I was 14 I fell in love, and suddenly the disgusting heart candies were an acceptable way to proclaim my love that was constantly straining to be spoken in an articulate enough way to woo my pre-pubescent lover.  I was 14, so "woo" of course meant "look at me."  

"True love" written on a tasteless, chalky candy was absolute poetry compared to other ways I had sought to woo my lover: eating trash, honking like a goose, spitting hunks of snot and jumping into a lake with my clothes on for no reason (to name a few examples).  Of course, the presenting of the candy poetry had to be done in a nonchalant way.  (It really does make me laugh to realize how much I have strived all throughout my life to be subtle).  I would give out candies to all the boys I knew, no big deal.  I'd throw them out with sweeping arms like seeds into a meadow of men and I'd roll my eyes at the stupidity of the words inscribed.  I would let the penis meadow know with every bit of my body language that of COURSE I did not intend the candy messages for THEM.  What did they think I was, a candy WHORE?  These candies I threw at random boys were like the seeds thrown onto rocks and hard paths in the story from the Bible.  Except for one of them.  He was the "fertile ground" role in the story.  For that boy I wanted to BE the candy heart that he swirled around in his mouth.  Hell I wanted to be the candy heart if he crushed it under his foot.  ANYTHING.  Just give me ANYTHING... I was 14, super horny and homeschooled for Christ's sake.  

At this point in my life, newly single after what feels like a lifetime of not, I am definitely thinking about Valentine's Day.  I think there is a good chance I would faint upon receiving a piece of candy with a word on it.  Even if the word was "eggroll" or "Ford" or "stupid" I would probably faint, based solely on the power of the shape of a heart and the presence of an English word [edit: the word could be in any language. Definitely any language].  Yes, I am in fact that swoony and emotional... my swoony isn't subtle at all.  It should be embarrassing but it isn't; okay maybe it is a little bit.       

I am currently laying in bed feeling sorry for myself.  It isn't the kind of self-pity where there is writhing or gnashing of teeth or deep moaning going on, just a dull ache of cranky and a shallow but firm layer of dissatisfaction.  I shaved my legs tonight in my bath, and I am painfully aware that no one will benefit from that endeavor tonight except for me (unless I run out to Kerry Park and say "Hey, feel this... smooth ey?" to some variety of drunk).  Small tragedies like this one (some might say borderline inane tragedies like this one) make me want to say, "FUCK Valentine's Day... keep your damn day to yourself, ya bastard."   Followed by cursing the suddenly stormy sky with a raised fist while strategic angry tears flow down my face.  Maybe then an angel would float down and feel my smooth legs with his powerful holy hands.   Maybe his angel name would be Ferdinand.   That is perhaps the creepiest thing I've ever imagined, but I would still probably faint dead away, overwhelmed and dazzled by the angel's heart-shaped "Ford" pendent that he would be wearing for this scene.  Biblical erotica is awesome.  

Despite my self-pity about my wasted leg shave, I really am glad to be by myself.  I feel solid and safe and sane and sexy.  Not sure why all those words start with "s", but it probably has an extremely sssssignificant meaning (sometimes I marvel at how much cheese I inherited from my Dad, and how much I blame my parents for everything).  Valentine's Day is annoying because it reminds me that the feeling of being loved and of having someone to love really is, let's admit it, exquisitely delicious.  

And yet even as I begin to feel angry and bitter and feel my fist start to raise to the sky because I like delicious things and get cranky when my delicious thing is absent, I am reminded of love all around me.  I really honestly have not felt so consistently and diversely loved as I have for the past six months.  All KINDS of love - love that makes me laugh and love that makes me think and dance and write and ache.  I still want to say "FUCK Valentine's Day, keep your damn day to yourself, ya bastard", but remembering what I have makes me want to say it much more politely.  (maybe, "Valentine's Day is such a stupid idiot"  or something like that.) 

I referred to myself as a cynic the other day, and a coffee-shop acquaintance replied, "But we all know that the Cynics are just Idealists who are hurting."  I almost started bawling into my delicious Mexican mocha.  I also wanted to hug him, slap him, spill his coffee and then cover myself with a thick towel; the moments of realizing I am not as mysterious or cryptic as I assume myself to be never cease to unnerve me.  I have had many reminders over the past few weeks, days and minutes that I am indeed seen and loved by people around me. 

There is always love just beneath the surface.  

I am listening to The Lark Ascending and thinking about my parents when they first met and fell in love... (there is a connection, right Mom and Dad? Was I conceived to this lil ditty? Go ahead, spill the beans...) and as always thinking about where I come from and how there is love woven into a thousand layers of my history brings me comfort.  Love was held and lost and sought and found again long before me.  I am being held up and propelled not only by my own ability to love (thank goodness), but by the love experienced by my parents and their parents and their parents.    

I told my Mom that I would call her back the other day when I was talking to her on the phone and she sounded like she was about to cry (which, if you know my Mom, wouldn't be THAT unusual - I inherited her emotional heart and hydrated eyes for sure - I denied it for years, but again, it just isn't subtle: I cry a lot), and after a long silence, said "but you won't..." and I laughed and said "YES I will!" and she laughed, but after her laughter she was again silent... after we hung up I thought about how lucky I am to have a mother who aches when I have to say good-bye.        

My now 19 year old brother called me the other day and when I answered he said, "Hey beautiful sister.  I love you - I am just calling because I need to make sure that you know that I love you. Do you know that I love you?"   Take my breath away, little brother.  Take it away.  

I have a card from my sweet baby sister propped up where I can read it every day... her handwriting reminds me of my own.  She tells me in the card that she loves me, and starts it with "OH Charis."  I love reading her words in this card because I can feel in them, just beneath the surface, that she just wanted to hug me instead of writing them; and that's how I feel when I read them.  

My 13 year old brother just called me and said "I'm sick.  I had to stay home from school today.  And I'm about to go make a dookie."  To which I replied, "GROSS!"  Somehow I could not ask for a better phone call.  

Quite often when I am up roaming my apartment, my brain alive and my emotions surging, I write.  Sometimes writing for myself is good, and sometimes it is like eating Ramen noodles when you really, really want a beer.  In these moments I have people with whom I exchange wild e-mails - really and truly I say crazy things and withhold virtually nothing from these people - and they respond with some variety of, "bring it."  These exchanges are as life-giving as a blood transfusion.  

I have people who go antiquing with me and dream about my new home - they have me try on trannie shoes at the antique stores and let out loud gasps when a beautiful mid-century modern chair is discovered.

I have people that I might assume had died if I didn't talk to them for 24 hours.   

I have people who think of me fondly during their day.  

I have people who give me unexpected, thoughtful gifts.  

I have people who watch the sunset with me.  

I have people who let me love them like crazy.   

I have people who need only look at me for a moment to know how I am doing. 

I have people who laugh as loud and as long as I do (louder and longer, actually...that's what she said).

I have people who laugh at my "that's what she said" jokes and who find it as funny as I do when a homeless man looks at me with lustful crazy eyes and says a lot of non-words followed by "ALLEGORY." 

I have people who share my outrage at injustice and who stretch me to be creative and mature with my rage rather than brutally stabbing all people who oppress or demean.   

I have people I miss terribly because they live thousands of miles away. 

I have people who remember my stories.  

I have people with whom I have thousands of inside jokes that only get funnier.  

I have people who eat with me and drink with me.  

I have people who aren't scared of me and tell me when I'm full of horse shit (or any other variety of shit).  

No matter the waves of loneliness that wash over me, sometimes when I least expect them, the undeniable fact remains: I have people who love me.  I not only have people who love me, but I have so much love around me that I know if my legs and arms stopped working there would be someone there to catch me.   There would also be someone there to laugh with me about how hilarious I looked as I fell, and to suggest that I get my legs and arms looked at by a doctor.        

As I've been saying for months - my life has witnesses.  So even as I stand with my fist raised to the sky and my freshly shaven leg strategically revealed, I know that I cannot say "FUCK Valentine's Day, keep your damn day to yourself, ya bastard" without being heard and seen and loved as I say it.  And somehow this makes it hilarious.  And I am glad.  

Take my breath away, lovely people in my life.  I am so damn lucky.  

"Hike."

So a few days ago my friend Peter and I were talking about how we hadn't been out on a hike for a while.  Typical phrases were thrown out such as, "OH yeah, we should totally go on a hike sometime."  It was the type of interaction that people have on a normal basis - the purpose is often just to express desire or make plans in the far future, not to actually pursue or immediately satisfy a desire.  Well, not so with Peter.  His response to this new found deficiency was, "Want to go for a hike on Wednesday?"  I was probably silent for a few seconds as I adjusted to the shock.  Thoughts ran through my mind such as: "I have nothing to do on Wednesday.  I would love to go for a hike on Wednesday. My god, I could go on a hike on Wednesday. Weird.  I usually have to say "no" for some reason - but there isn't any "no", so, I guess I'll say YES. THIS IS SO STRANGE!" 

I over-think sometimes.    

So I said "YES!" and we went for a hike.  

"Hike" is a term that should be held lightly during the telling of this story.  You will understand why in a moment.  

To explain what happened next would take a few hundred hours, so I will synthesize.  

Peter worked as a climbing ranger on Mount Rainier for three years.  Nuff said? I think yes.  We were the only people there and we started at Paradise, which in the month of January is called "the arctic" (by me).  

  

When we arrived Peter had me put on boots he had brought in my size, a hat, an extra fleece, as well as wind pants he carried for me to put on later in order to slide on my ass down about 4 million feet of steep mountain snow and ice.  No big deal.  Just a hike.  If you need to stop or slow down while you are free-falling on your ass just drive the ski-poles you are holding into the ground beside you as hard as you can and flip over on your stomach.  No big deal.  (OH MY GOD I was FREAKING OUT.  I was a mighty explorer in the arctic and I could have died at ANY MOMENT.  It really was that cool.) 

We were on the mountain for over 6 hours, and my legs and arms and shoulders were TREMBLING from fatigue when we were done.  Picture this: you are "hiking" up a very steep hill (I think Peter said it was about a 38 degree angle? Translation: STEEP as FUCK) that is entirely snow and ice - there are no "trails" or "roads", none of th0se confining paths or petty benches.   Just snow and ice.  Okay so imagine you are walking up this hill, and with every step you take you plunge your two ski-pole things (yeah, I know, I have no mountain/ski lingo... bite me) into the snow/ice beside you to give yourself the illusion of safety, and then drive the edge of your foot into the ice/snow in front of/above you until there is a little place to PUT that foot, and then carefully shift your weight onto that foot and begin the process again.  If you fall you fall down the fucking mountain of ice and snow.  No big deal.  Just an icy death.  Peter was a fantastic guide, although part of being a good guide was saying soothing things like "So if you fall, keep your elbows in and kick your feet."  

Along the way Peter pointed out the waterfalls and rivers and streams (all frozen/covered in a shitload of snow and ice) - you could see evidence of this water through the patterns of the snow if you knew what to look for.  You could even HEAR the water running beneath you (AMAZING).   I felt like my soul was opened up and aired out on that mountain.  

It was a perfect day: from the top of our "hike" you could see Mt. Hood, Mt. Adams and Mt. St. Helens, as well as every peak and ridge directly around us, including of course the looming, gorgeous Mt. Rainier (I think it's the most wonderful mountain in the world).  Peter knew the names of all of the surrounding scenery, and told stories and histories about different ridges and peaks as if they were his children.  It was one of the most fascinating and exhilarating days of my life.  

Hiking will never be the same.  Neither will Mount Rainier.  Now as I sit in my beautiful new apartment and look at her when it chooses to show her gorgeous, sometimes modest self, I feel a kinship with her that I did not feel before.  

Hiking is cool.  Near death snow hiking with a climbing ranger is cooler.