A+ Autobiography

When Mark asked me to move in with him, I packed a bag and we skipped off into a spectacular sunset. Just kidding. We packed up my entire life, hired movers to load the largest U-Haul available, and hit the road eastbound during traffic hour. The sun was setting behind us and the rest of our lives lay before us. Trite, but true. I was excited, smitten, anxious, and hopeful.


Naturally, I’d over packed. Refusing to part with necessities – things like my pink spaghetti strainer, taco griddle, Z Gallerie sofa, dining set, and numerous other things that Mark had duplicates of – we were hauling things across country that we’d never even use. They would sit in boxes and under sheets in an overpriced storage unit in the city. But having before hit a dead end on shacked up road, I worried about donating this stuff. I really couldn’t stomach the idea of having to, once again, buy dishes, televisions, and bath towels should Mark or I declare the same sentiment published in the Terre Haute in 1851, “Go West, young (wo)man, go west.” I’m fully aware of how faithless this sounds. I suppose, in a way, my home goods were my security blanket.

Since shacking up, Mark and I have lived in one condo and three houses in four different cities. In other words, we’re professional packers and expert movers. Thanks for always confirming my address, dear friends. But more importantly, with each move, Mark and I felt increasingly confident that we’ll go many places together, but I won’t ever go back to Arizona alone. While I didn’t fully feel like a Florida girl, I was unequivocally Mark’s girl. Yet, I continued to haul my security blanket from place-to-place.

That all changed with two pink lines.

Being pregnant with my first child has changed my life. I’m sure all moms say this. It’s metamorphic to say the very least. For me, it instantly rooted me to Florida, to my stepchildren, and more so to my husband than I thought possible. I no longer felt like an outsider. Three positive pregnancy tests and boom, I became a bonafide member of this family, and a Sunshine State local. What’s more, I felt foolish for dragging my security blanket around all these years.

Unpacking was liberating, and a little embarrassing. Did I really keep spices? Toothpicks? Oh, hello pizza cutter. Lucky timing because we had recently thrown ours out by mistake. Again. And by we, I mean Mark. He has a habit of leaving them in the pizza box, but I don’t hustle him too hard because I’m grateful he takes out the trash. Marriage goals achieved. I very proudly created a Goodwill box and with each donated item, felt glad to be seriously hooking someone up. I imagined some 20-something-year-old girl happily loading her cart with my martini shaker, champagne flutes, frying pans, icecream scooper, and that pink strainer.

Shedding my security blanket brought me peace and satisfaction. Imagine me, triumphantly clapping my hands together as if wiping away a hard day’s work. However, all my generous donating also brought me to the determination that there are some things I’ll always keep. Some material things are memories worth holding on to. Yes, I hoard sentimental items. Shamelessly. If I can hold an item in my hand and it brings me back to a smile or a story that defines me, it stays.


Before leaving Phoenix over four years ago, we stopped by my mom’s house for a hug and a few essentials she no longer wished to store, but I would never dream of parting with: my Barbie house and limo, photo albums from cheer, slumber parties, and dances, schoolwork and textbooks, trophies, ribbons, sashes, and prom dresses. While my stepdaughters confiscated all my Barbie stuff the moment we became roomies, everything else was and will continue to be safely stored. Except for this gem; this one was too good to keep all to myself.


Autobiography of Jamie Lee Murdick

Written in Mrs. Dobt’s fourth grade class

Quail Run Elementary, Phoenix, Arizona

Grade earned = A+

Part I

Age 0:   

     My name is Jamie Murdick. I was born on Friday at 3:33 pm. The date was September 28th, 1984. I weighed 5 lbs. 8 oz. When I was born I had air bubbles around my heart and lungs. The doctors were afraid that if one of them popped it would put a hole in my heart or lungs. They put me on oxygen and air-vacked me to a hospital that cared for sick newborn babies. My parents were worried sick! They came to visit me every day, and stayed the whole time. Three days later the bubbles dissolved and my parents were able to take me home. I was very lucky!

Age 1:

     I weighed 22 lbs., because I was so tall. My family and I moved from Phoenix, Arizona to Littleton, Colorado. Six months later we moved to Tucson, Arizona.

Age 2:

     My family and I moved to Cave Creek, Arizona. We lived with my grandparents who had a three-story house and a nice pool. Over Christmas break my family and I drove to Michigan to see my dad’s parents.

Age 3:

     My parents bought a house in Phoenix, Arizona. I invited Cortney Schwartz to my birthday party. Cortney and I are really good friends, so are our moms.

Age 4:

     My dad got a job in Palm Springs, California. My mom and I did not go with him, but we visited every other week. We would sometimes go to Disneyland and Sea World. We had fun!

Age 5:

     My family and I moved to Las Vegas, Nevada. My dad got a job to build a golf course there. We went to the Excalibur Hotel and Casino and I won a sword! My friend’s brother stepped in an ant pile. I felt sorry for him. 

Age 6:

     My family and I moved to Newport Beach, California. I went to kindergarten there. My dad was there building a golf course on the beach. It was a great year!

Part II

Age 7:

     We moved back to Phoenix and I entered the first grade at Quail Run Elementary School. My teacher was really nice, but my P.E teacher was the greatest! Her name was Miss Stone. Then she got married and her new name changed to Mrs. Dobt. My little brother was born!

Age 8:

     The summer before I entered second grade I flew back to Michigan to see my Grandma and Grandpa. I had a great time visiting everyone there. My second grade teacher was Mrs. Larson.

Age 9:

     Third grade was easy. My teacher was Mrs. McCutchan. She was very nice.

Age 10:

     In fourth grade my teacher was Mrs. Dobt, and she was really cool! She let us listen to music while we worked. Math got a little bit harder, but I managed to get good grades. Some of my favorite friends were in my class. Amber Fulbright, Tesa Fisher, and Cortney Schwartz just to name a few.

Age 11:

     My mom and I started doing some really heavy duty cleaning on the house. My dad worked on the front and back yards. Once again we were on the move. It will be my little brother A.J.’s first time.

Age 12:

     We ended up moving to Hawaii. We bought a house right on the beach. My dad got a job there, and he was making big bucks every week. For my sixth grade teacher, I had Mr. Robinson He was really mean! I always liked watching T.V. on the huge screen T.V., and playing basketball in an airconditioned room. You wouldn’t believe how big my house was!

Part III

Age 13:

     My mom signed me up for drama classes. I really enjoyed them. I missed my friends more and more, but I made many new ones.

Age 14:

     When I was in the eighth grade I worked at the beach after school. I wasn’t a lifeguard, but I worked in the lifeguard office. My mom got a job working with dolphins. She loved it!

Age 15:

     In the summer I flew back to Phoenix to visit all my friends. I was so happy to see them! I spent most of my time with relatives. I told all my friends I would see them soon. I flew back to Hawaii and started high school.

Age 16:

     On my sixteenth birthday I got a forest green convertible Porsche, with a black top. The car had a phone with two different lines. I loved it! It was really cool!

Age 17:

     In the eleventh grade I made cheer. Prom was coming and I didn’t have a date yet. There was nothing to worry about, because it was only Tuesday and Prom was on Saturday night. That Tuesday I was asked out by Steven Seford. I said yes! He was the most popular guy in the 11thgrade. Prom was great! A couple of weeks later his true personality came out, what a loser. I guess that the most popular guys aren’t always the best.

Age 18:

     Yes, I finally made it to being a senior! I was still a cheerleader, and have been in drama classes since I was 13. The only sad thing is I don’t have a boyfriend. My last prom in high school is coming up, and I have to get a date.  A guy named Johnathan Lesha asked me to go out. I said yes gladly. We had a great time at the prom. Johnathan was so sweet!

Part IV

Age 19:

     I decided that I wanted to go to Paris, France for college. I took French so I could communicate with others there. That summer, Cortney and Tesa flew to Paris to see me. Amber couldn’t come, but she promised she would next summer.

Age 20:

     My second year of college was a blast! Over Christmas break I traveled all around Europe. I brought back many souvenirs and antiques.

Age 21:

     In my third year in college I was rehearsing for a play when a woman named Louise Flesher asked me if I was ever interested in doing some professional acting or modeling. I told her that I’ve wanted to be a famous actress since I was a little girl. She handed me a card with her phone number on it and told me to call her soon.

Age 22:

     It was the year I was to graduate from college. I couldn’t wait to start acting professionally, so I called Louise Flesher. She was so happy to hear from me. Before I knew it I was in a commercial, a T.V. show, and I was going to star in my first movie. Later that year I graduated with a major in Performing Arts, and a minor in Education.

Age 23:

     I married a wonderful Frenchman who was an international lawyer. Later that year we had a baby boy named Ryan. We all moved to the United States and bought a house in Beverly Hills, California and another in New York City.

Age 24:

     It was the year 2008 and flying cars were invented. The best movie of the year was called “Deep Trouble.” I starred in the film as a mermaid. It was one creepy movie nobody ever forgot about.

Part V

Age 25:

     I switched to the William Moris Talent Agency. Our second child was born. A beautiful baby girl named Mara.

Age 26:

     We spent four months in our house in New York so I could star on Broadway in the musical “Freedom.” I was the leading lady.  I had to sing a lot, but I had no problem with it.

Age 27:

     My third child was born. Her name was Miranda. By this time, Ryan was 4 and Mara was 2-years-old.

Age 28:

     My husband, my children, and I all took a cruise ship to Hawaii to see my parents. The kids loved the beach and playing with the dolphins. We all had a blast! We stayed for four months, then we set sail for Hollywood.

Age 29:

     I starred in the movie of a lifetime called “Friends.” It was about two women who were completely different, but somehow they become the best of friends forever. Siskel and Ebert gave it 4 thumbs up.

Age 30:

     As I sit at a table with many people surrounding me, a man on a microphone speaks. He says, “the Academy Award for the year 2014 goes to the best actress of all time for her performance in the movie “Friends,” her name is JAMIE MURDICK!” I cried my way up onto the stage to collect my Oscar. I thanked everyone in every way who got me here today!   

Well, the good news is that, in reality, life went on beyond 30. Is Mrs. Dobt partially to blame for my complex with turning 30? Written when I was 10, two thirds of this is total fantasy. But I’m not sure which is funnier. The real life details I chose to feature: city-hopping, ant piles, and smartly sucking up to my teacher? Or that I thought we’d move to Hawaii, cars would fly, and I’d have the ability to sing well enough that it earned me income?

Thankfully, my real life outshines the fantasy above.  In reality, I’m not famous and I’m not that rich, but I am well traveled, educated, and happy. I married an All-American man of Belgian ancestry whom knows basic French – so my crystal ball wasn’t that cloudy after all. My Belgian great grandmother would be pleased. Plus, he takes me on much more posh vacays than cruises. In a way, I do have three kids. I get to enjoy and nurture my stepchildren, yet I didn’t have to dedicate my twenties to them. Talk about a win-win. Kid me was in fast forward; she wanted to do life too quickly. In real life, I deliberately waited until my thirties to marry and procreate. In my late teens, I somehow knew that taking the long route around the game board of life was what was best. Along the way, I’ve graduated college with an Emmy; chosen careers with unique small businesses that eventually and fatefully led me to Mark; ran in the rain down the streets of London; kissed under the Eiffel Tower; partied until noon in Vegas; met a U.S. President; taken koala selfies in Sydney, and witnessed the sunrising over The Bush while on safari. I’ve taken the time to enjoy my life.  And much to my relief – from the pink spaghetti strainer to the two pink lines on my first pregnancy test – it’s more fulfilling and amusing than I predicted it to be.

And so today, on my 34thbirthday, I’ll channel inventive 10-year-old me and gander a guess at what this year will bring:

Age 34:

            I’ve officially joined the mom club! Of all the (fashionable) hats I’ve worn, this one is my fave. My son, Bradley Phoenix, is healthy and makes us so happy. He likes to squeeze my fingers tightly and, thankfully, is a really good sleeper. He’s already quite the jet-setter. He doesn’t make a big fuss on planes and doesn’t mind all the selfies when sightseeing. Business is booming! I’m really proud of my husband, Mark. He’s working so hard and closing lots of deals. The kids all have straight A’s, and Tyler got his first girlfriend! But the best news of all: we’re expecting another baby! Baby Coppens Arriving December 2019!

What’s the saying? “Shoot for the moon. Even if you miss, you’ll land among the stars?” Might as well go for it. Who knows, maybe my reality will, once again, be better than fantasy. Time will tell.

Sharing is Not Caring

“What’s your crew name?” a 5’8” man asks while tying his boat up to ours.  His eyes are the single attractive thing about him.  They are sweet in a way.  There’s also something very telling about them.  It’s very obvious that they see me naked and on my knees.  I wince and start chugging my bud light. 

“I don’t know.  I’m not sure,” I reply.  This is my first trip to the lake this summer and I just met the guy whose boat it is, so I don’t know anything about a crew name. 

I turn around to see a brunette woman wearing revealing bikini bottoms and pasties.  Her breasts flop in every which way as she excitedly jumps up and down and hugs another woman.  I scan the line of boats beyond her star covered nipples to find beer bellies, bare booties and a plethora of pasties.  The lack of modesty isn’t what’s weird to me, the lake is always like your wildest/worst college party, it’s how old everyone seems.  And how natural all the breasts are.  No wonder that guy thought I had a pretty mouth.

Clay squeezes past me to help my eye guy, his fingertips graze the small of my back.  He is, without a doubt, my most beautiful guy friend.  I am in absolute awe of him nearly every time I see him.  The eye-banger guy and I suddenly have something in common; I am totally fantasizing about being underneath him. 

“Are you guys on the website?” eye-banger asks, looking Clay up and down.  I wonder if he’s fantasizing about him too?  I shudder at the thought and finish my beer. 

“Nope, just came to party,” Clay responds, flashing his radiant smile.

“Well you do realize that this is a planned party, 95% of the people here are swingers,” he says nonchalantly, and confidently.

I am immediately thankful that I rocked my over-sized shades, because my eye-brows moved up at least an inch.  I feel the urge to refill my koozie and head for the cooler. 

“Oh-a, that’s cool.  No big deal.  I’m Clay, and this is my wife Natalie,” he says showcasing the silver band on his ring finger, as if that would validate our bogus matrimony, and reaches for me.  I smile like a dutiful wifey. 

Eye-bangers eyes light up.  “Great to have ya,” he says all too excitedly and hops back into his boat.  We wait until he’s in conversation with others before we erupt into quiet laughter. 

Placing a firm grasp on my hips, my gorgeous husband speaks softly through his impeccably white clenched teeth, “Oh my god, this is the weirdest thing I’ve ever done, ever, and I’m here with you. How is this happening to us?  This is crazy, I can’t wait to tell everyone tonight!”

He leans into me and rests his nose on top of mine.  I breathe steadily in through my nose, purse my lips and close my eyes.  I imagine his lips on mine and run my fingertips up his firm stomach. I can hear him smile as he gives me a soft Eskimo kiss to the rhythm of bow, chicka, bow, wow.           

I sigh and digress from my daydream, “I know, I know!” I whisper with intentional enthusiasm, “I was wondering why everyone was so old.  We are the youngest people here, for sure, and the most attractive, obviously.  Everyone is gunna want to do us.  Crap!” 

We share a timid smile.  Clay suddenly twists my body around with one swift push of my hipbone and one tender pull of my opposite shoulder.  Aroused, hopeful eyes await us.  I can see all their nasty, little thoughts floating next to them like a primetime news anchor’s lead story.     

“Let’s pick out our swap couple, hunny,” he whispers into my right ear. 

His breath is warm and his lips are moist.  I think about how he would feel and bite my lip.

“Well, definitely not that couple, hubby,” I say, nodding my head towards the man who has his hand down the back of a woman’s bikini bottoms.  Her suit is circa 1996 and his busy hand makes me want to cross my legs.    

We laugh in unison and continue surveying our options.  It takes us but two seconds to confirm that it’s slim-picking.  All but one couple are people that neither one of us would ever throw a fuck.  Ever.  However, staying true to the “when in Rome” mentality, we decide on a couple off in the distance.  They sort of look like older versions of us, that is to say if he inflated his body full of hormones and I worshipped the artificial sun gods.  Nonetheless, their bathing suits are cute and they have nice firm bodies.  Her tight, tan cheeks are the prettiest scenery on the water, besides ourselves of course.  Plus, this couple appears to be the owners of the most impressive boat in the cove.  It makes me want to sing, “I’m in Miami trick!”

Feeling relieved to have found a semi-suitable swap couple, just in case some fuglies make an aggressive move on us, and apprehensive about even being here, we agree that a shot is in order.  There are light and dark options in the cooler, but Clay remedies us something pink and sweet. 

“I know what my baby likes,” he says with the same smile that makes me melt every time he sends it my way.  It slowly drops as he looks above my head.   “I could never do this.  I don’t ever want to be married and then just give my wife away.”

I study his expression.  He looks genuine and as heartbroken as a 22-year-old gorgeous bartender can.  I am amazed at how suddenly conservative we’ve become.  We are both entertained and frightened by the taboo soiree that surrounds us.  I, however, observe it and resolve that I don’t ever want to be a wife.  How could I?  I see no pleasure in falling down the slide of despair more commonly referred to as marriage.   A woman in love evolves from the irresistible girlfriend, to the oh-so-lucky fiancé, to the beautiful bride, to the boring housewife, to the fat mother, to the housekeeper, cook and nag, to the stranger in his bed, to the deserted.  Oh yes, and in some special scenarios like today, the bait.  I’d rather lay down and be kicked in the gut. 

“Here’s to us and one of the craziest tales we’ll ever tell,” Clay raises his glass and winks at me.  We toast our first drink as man and wife. 

He whisks me off my feet and carries me through an imaginary threshold and jumps into the water.  I quickly swim away from him to tinkle, those beers I slammed went right through me.  He knows exactly what I’m doing and splashes me.  I’m not even finished yet when we both look over to see a man performing oral sex on the boat right next to ours.  From this perspective, a low-budget porn has never looked so good

“Ummm, we’re going to need more alcohol.”

My nostrils flare with repulsion, I nod quickly, demonstrating the deep desire to be numb.  “Let’s make it a double hunny.”


A Scottsdale inspired piece written from the perspective of girls I party with, but don’t know much else about.  Scottsdale Fact: the girls who play here are always beautiful, and usually bitchy. 

My mind is racing, but my body is gliding.  It’s important to me to look thin.  I just need to stand up straight, take my time, cross the floor, and then I can breathe just as soon as I round the corner into the ladies room.  I look good in this top.  No, I look great!  I have to.  I mean I haven’t eaten in four days.  The handful of peanuts and the bag of donuts definitely don’t count because I puked them up.  I should chew another piece of gum; this stuff is so delicious.  I think I’m hungry.  I know for certain that I’m drunk.  Please don’t trip.  Although I am sick of these damn tasteless vodka sodas, I’d hate to be wearing it.  Eeeek!  Those guys are looking at me!  They have girls with them, yet they’re checking me out.  I knew that medium was a wise choice.  It’s snug, but it shows me off.  Guys like that.  Right?

“Ahhh,” I exhale aloud as I enter the dimly lit ladies room.  I cannot believe how exhausting it is to suck in all night.  On a more positive note, I can’t believe how well I’m doing it considering how much I’ve been drinking.  I laugh with my reflection for a moment.  We look thin and happy.  This makes us smile.

The bathroom door swings open interrupting my retreat.  In walks an amazingly thin blonde, and out goes my ever-wavering confidence.  We survey one another and share half-hearted smiles.  I pretend to rifle through my clutch, when really, all my focus has shifted to her.  I peek at her as she studies her reflection with familiar scrutiny.  Her floral romper lays flat on her skin, yet she doesn’t look satisfied.  I could never pull off that pattern.  I turn my drunken haze to my own reflection.  It appears tired, disappointed, and enormous.  To me, she looks like Christmas in June, sunny and amazing.  Even I wouldn’t pick me.   Why must I always be the fattest woman in the room?

“Excuse me, my soap is all out.  Ugh don’t you just hate that?” she glances at me, careful not to drip water on my clutch as her frail arm nears the dispenser, and smiles.

Her bones are beckoning me to push them like buttons, “Oh, no problem.  Yah, that’s always so gross.   I mean what if someone needed to wash up to eat or something,” I say relaxing more with each syllable.

“Eeew yah, or what if someone was sick or something,” she says with a curled up nose as she sticks her index finger down her throat and makes a gagging noise followed by a giggle.  “I mean, it just happens sometimes, ya know?” she says with a matter of fact type of tone as she checks her smile in the mirror.

“Absolutely!” I say with newfound esteem, suddenly feeling proud of my bare belly and plunging neckline.  Searching for my lip-gloss I imagine our reflections high-fiving and smile.  I suddenly feel so at ease.  “I am so wasted right now.   If I don’t get out of here soon, one of these toilets will for sure be my new friend.  I mean I haven’t eaten in days, so I’m just getting so smashed!  Well, I’m sure you understand,” I say with a greater emphasis on you than I had intended.

I am expecting her laughter to chime in, or for her to agree in some way, but she is silent.  All I can hear is the bars music pounding on the door, as if it were pleading for her return.  I lift my face to meet her heavy stare.  Her eyes narrow as she looks me up and down.  She grins, turning her attention to herself as she applies lip plumper.

“I hear they have a bacon avocado cheeseburger that’s just ridiculous!”  She tilts her head and poses in the mirror, “Mmm but I think I’m craving the nacho platter.  I’m not really that hungry, but my boyfriend enjoys treating me to dinner, so…maybe I’ll just get both, and kind of nibble.  Although, I definitely want to save room for their brownie dessert!  Have you had it?” she asks without making eye contact and proceeds without waiting for a response.  “And I think I’m done drinking beer for the night, I look like I’m pregnant!” she laughs and pats her remarkably flat stomach, her eyes never leaving her own reflection.

I feel like I’m under a spell.  I can’t stop staring at her reflection.  Every part of her body is taunting me.  She unexpectedly turns for the door, yet my eyes remain fixated where her reflection had been effectively torturing me.  With one swift pull of the handle, the music swallows me.   I turn to watch her go, when she suddenly stops and gracefully twirls to face me.

“Cute top,” she spoke the way your superficially sweet Barbie doll would and looked me square in the eyes.  “I almost bought it myself, but it was too loose around my ribs.  Oh and in my arms.  I was kind of down about it, but now I see that it must have been made for a bigger body type.”

She smirked like she was waiting for me to thank her, adjusted her romper and looked through me as if I were her personal mirror, and then sashayed away to eat a cheeseburger.

Porcelain Prisoner

My latest H&M purchase was quite the hit, up until now. It’s no longer form fitting and sexy like Katrina had sworn in the dressing room this afternoon.

“Oh, yes! This is it! Everyone will either want to be you, or be with you,” she marveled with suspicious delight.

My envy-inspiring outfit now feels loose and damp, The music I had been swaying to earlier now seems to be invading my veins and is making my heart dizzy with panic; and I realize that I’m passed out on sticky porcelain with my leggings resting between my Madden wedges and cold, tainted tile. It’s as if my eyelids have been pinned to my flushed cheeks and my lips have been sewn shut.

“Miss? Hey, girl? I work here. Can you hear me?” beckons an unfamiliar male voice.

I yearn to jump up, pardon this embarrassing encounter, run for the exit and never return; but I can’t move.

“Oh my gosh! Is she OK? Are you her friend?” a shrill voiced girl asks.

“No. I don’t know her. Wow. How humiliating!” she proclaims in such a tone as if being besties with the bathroom attendant would be less degrading.

I can hear sighs and snickers alike. It sounds like every single stall is discussing pitiful me. How did I end up here? Where the hell is Katrina? I can feel the liquor poisoning my stomach. I can smell it on my skin. How could I be such a fool? If my eyes could open they would weep.

Fingertips graze my forehead, tuck brunette strands behind my ear and rest on the back of my neck. “You’re going to be all right. The fire station is on their way. They will make you safe. Don’t worry, girl,” soothes the same mysterious male voice.

If I could look this stranger in the eyes and thank him, I know that I wouldn’t. Rather, I’d plead for him to pull my leggings up, cover my face and lay me in my bed. Courage and confidence have completely escaped me.

Heavy footsteps approach me like a stampede. Gloved fingertips pull my face away from the stranger’s cradle and feel for a heartbeat. I want to tell him that the search is useless, that my heart is broken. The scent of latex is strong. My eyelids are pushed up and open to reveal probing stares and bright lights. Their medical jargon overwhelms me. With little delay, I’m carefully hoisted up off my throne of despair and laid upon a stretcher of shame. In any other instance I might have felt like a celebrity with the way the uniformed brigade parted the masses of club goers. However, I knew there wasn’t a shiny, tinted Tahoe awaiting me. There’s absolutely nothing glamorous about an ambulance.

As we wheel past the curious crowds I clench my eyes as tightly as I can and hum a lullaby in my head. I pray for their unkind words and harsh laughter to flutter away. I wonder if Katrina was witnessing my misery. Would she run to my side or disappear onto the dance floor and dismiss our friendship? I could hear her voice echoing in my mind as my rescuers lifted me into my chariot….everyone will either want to be you, or be with you. Even I had to laugh at this. I went from being the bell of the ball to the bathroom blunder in a matter of empty friendships and countless cocktails.