In Vanna’s Shoes

January 20, 2011June 14, 2015jamiemurdick 5 Comments

Hello All,

Here’s what new in my world:

My family and friends, my mama is particular, encouraged me to enter the “Vanna for a Day” contest. If I win I will do Vanna White’s job for one episode. It’ll be glamorous, exciting and awesome! You can see my entry video at:

http://www.wheeloffortune.com/vannaforaday/viewentries/profile.php?id=30858

I have to say that I had a lot of fun with this! I regarded it as a school assignment. And I seemed to have a lot of peers in my corner. 🙂

I wrote a Script and timed myself performing it. I’d forgotten how difficult it is to squeeze something so exciting into 60 seconds. My mama reviewed and approved it for me, which felt like a high-five.

Jamie for Vanna

I made a shot list. I wanted to feature my town, my glam appeal and myself as best as possible. If you’ve ever seen an episode of Wheel of Fortune you know that Vanna features the city they are broadcasting from – so I decided to feature my town, Scottsdale. I recalled a great fact about it that I learned while on a tour of the Scottsdale Historic Museum with my dad back in May. Scottsdale was almost named Orangedale because the city was founded to farm oranges. I share this fact often; I always impress my friends.

My little brother willingly climbed into the attic to retrieve my Prom dresses; it’s still so cool to me that he is big and strong and no longer afraid of the dark. I steamed my dresses in the shower and felt quite pleased that Mama and I were getting some more bang for our Prom-buck, even if it was 7 plus years later. My boss even offered the company HD camera, but I knew that my little camera would be just fine – plus, I already knew how to work it. Phew!

I wrote, produced and starred in my production – my attempt to be deemed a “triple threat.” But I still needed more help. Lucky for me, enlisting a crew was no sweat. I had lots of offers! My mama’s college buddy, Justin, offered his time. Even my co-producer from my documentary, Stjepan, extended a creative hand. But I decided on people I knew I would laugh with – Jennifer and Andy.

Jennifer is my bestie for a solid 23 years now. Her and I shot countless hours of music videos, school projects, vacations, sleep overs and skits back in high school and college. This would be just like that – minus the braces in high school and the alcohol in…well, let’s not formally address that. Jennifer also served as my hair stylist and makeup artist. Andy is my boyfriend. And yes, I said “boyfriend” aloud in a schoolyard, teasing-type accent as I typed it. Call me smitten, I don’t care. 😉 He took his puzzle-making task seriously. He used a ruler and everything.

Jennifer was my camera woman. Mainly because I was too nervous to have Andy do it. But once we got rolling, I wasn’t shy at all. It’s so wonderful to feel comfortable with people. I also felt really touched that I had two amazing people devoting their sunny Saturday afternoon to me and my project. I gave Andy the PA (Production Assistant) and props manager titles at the start of the shoot, but quickly promoted him to AD, Assistant Director, as soon as he began suggesting shots and checking Jennifer’s compositions over her shoulder. I couldn’t have asked for a better crew!

Winning this contest would be incredible! But more importantly, I have realized that participating in it has been an eye-opener. I may no longer work in TV and it may never cut me another paycheck, but I sure do have fun pretending like I do. And I can’t deny the fact that I’m pretty skilled in it. I’ve now made a Video To Do List and decided to edit my countless hours of memories stored on tape into movies that can be more readily enjoyed. So stay tuned!

Striving to be in Vanna’s shoes has been a positive experience. And I can’t lie to you, I dug strutting my stuff in my Prom dresses.

Thank you for your continued support. I hope that you are treating 2011 well.

And the Beat Goes On

September 20, 2010August 7, 2015jamiemurdick 3 Comments

Music has always rocked my world.

I find it inspiring and comforting. Its ability to bring me back in time to a single moment or instill excitement about moments to come perpetually pleases me. There are few things in life that prompt this type of spontaneous stroll down memory lane. Consider this: you can stumble upon a memory, the good, the bad, and the ugly, with something as simple as cruising to FM radio, looking through a jukebox or giving your iPod the reigns with Shuffle mode.

I can’t even begin to tell you how many times I’ve heard a strum of a guitar, a DJ mixing beats, the keys of a piano or a hum of an artist and unlocked the past to moments and events like: the dance routine I choreographed with my girlfriend Amber in the 5^th grade; when I told my high school sweetheart that I was going to the Prom with someone else; the time I spilt an entire bottle of coke in my lap and had to air dry my skirt out Jennifer’s car window on our way to a party; the trip to Mexico when I danced poolside for hours on end with my mama and her girlfriends; that wild college party (I say that loosely, there were many. And certain songs are the only real evidence that those nights ever happened!!); my college graduation; my trip to Italy with my nonna and mama; dancing in Vegas with thousands of my closest friends; crying in bed all by myself; feeling in love and hoping it lasts; breaking up yet again and eventually letting go.

I also depend on music to do the things that I can’t do by myself. When I need to be strong, I feel as though I can pluck the lyrics right out of a song and wield a shield out of them. I’ll admit it, when words evade me I use lyrics to text or facebook how I feel. And when I’m unable to provide myself the support that I need, it’s like the lyrics flow right out of my iPod and swirl all around me, touching my heart and embracing my pain; they give me the strength that I can’t find in myself.

I suppose that music has also cradled my world.

That being said, here is my musical journey:

I am an 80s baby in every sense of the term. According to my blunt mother, I was conceived to Van Halen’s Jump. I knew every word to Bon Jovi’s Slippery When Wet album; and never hesitated to belt out the lyrics every time my mama popped in the cassette. Now can you imagine a toddler singing, with absolute conviction, “working for her man, she brings home her pay for love – for love?” (Well believe it, and love the fact that I just did the very same thing in the backseat of my boss’s car on our way to a business trip earlier this week!) I recall most kids my age wearing Nickelodeon t-shirts, but I rocked my t-shirt from Aerosmith’s Get a Grip Tour on a regular basis. Some kids hummed nursery rhymes; I jammed rock ballads.

In the 5th grade I rocked my parents’ world when I fell in love with hip-hop. I played my Gangsta’s Paradise soundtrack on repeat every day after school until it became riddled with scratches and refused to bump out of my boombox. I wanted to name my dog Tupac, but my parents thought it absurd. That dance that Amber and I choreographed was to Whoop! There it is! by Tag Team. Over the years, I’ve swayed my hips and bobbed my head at numerous concerts and even finagled my way to the stage to dance alongside Dem Franchise Boys, Ray J and Chris Brown – pre his Rihanna outrage, of course. Juicy J once complimented my flashy style after I charmed a bouncer into letting my girlfriends and I roam around backstage. And I’ve been to more Snoop Dogg concerts than I care to admit.

I think I developed an addiction to country music when I experienced my first break-up in middle school, because I’ve been faithful to its allure ever sense. I have two preset buttons dedicated to country stations in the event of heartbreak. But I’ve also come to appreciate the genre’s genuine way of expressing love. Every female singer says what I’ve always wanted to say and every male singer is like my Ken doll; I just want what he’s saying to be true and to happen to me. My girlfriend Sara and I have even contemplated moving to Nashville to marry cowboys. This idea seems like the ultimate fix – so we’re not ruling it out just yet.

I’ve recently become obsessed with dance and house music. This is probably because I’ve frequented more clubs and partied harder in the last 9 months than I ever have in 25 years. I’ve also taken a new approach to heartache. I like to call it Dance it off. There is something inexplicably liberating about dancing to music that’s louder than my thoughts. The lyrics are occasionally foreign, always heartfelt and sometimes even ridiculous, but the music never ceases to engulf me. Even in a room full of people, I can close my eyes and lose myself.

Being the hopeless romantic that I am, particular songs will always resonate with me. Here is my love affair with music:

When my parents split up, I played Wonderful Now by Everclear on repeat for hours on end for nearly two years. And still to this day, whenever I hear Journey’s Faithfully I recall the better days of my childhood.

When I need to break it off with someone or get out from under someone’s thumb, I jam Mariah Carey’s Shake it Off through my Corolla speakers on full blast. I find it subliminal is a way. I’m hoping to convince myself that moving on is best and that it won’t be all that painful. At the very least, it’s a fun song to sing along to.

When I started regularly listening to Nelly Furtado’s All Good Things Come to an End and humming along to Fergie’s Big Girls Don’t Cry, I realized that my college sweetheart just wasn’t “the one.” Only now do I see that I threw a quality catch back into waters that are seriously lacking tens. And I’m reminded of this every single time my iPod finds these songs. Shuffle is, without a doubt, a love/hate relationship.

Since then, I’ve been listening to Rihanna’s Take a Bow every time some new heart-throb tricks me like it’s Halloween. The lyrics somehow seem to sting more when you know that you only have yourself to blame. So in an effort to take some responsibility for my tears and triumphantly forge ahead to my next ex, I blare Since You’ve Been Gone by Kelly Clarkson. Talk about empowerment sister!

I adopted the Dance it Off approach when the most beautiful person I’d ever laid my lips on or began a life with changed his mind. Even months later, I hated that I still wondered what it would have felt like to see his perfect nose on top of a baby’s face, so I sought refuge in David Guetta’s Gettin Over You and Calvin Harris’s You Used to Hold Me. They helped me lose my mind when my memories were driving me mad. And all the Just Jamie dancing wasn’t bad for my bod either. But true to my country junkie self, I woke each morning with sore thighs and a raging headache and depended on Jaron and the Long Road to Love to help me find humor in my humiliating heartache with Pray for You. Call it my version of Sunday School.

When I broke the man’s heart, whom I genuinely hoped would still love me when my teeth are no longer mine, my wrinkled hands shake all the time and I need help remembering my memories, even with a musical aide, broke my heart right back, I felt like literally every single song was speaking to me. I sobbed in tune to Third Eye Blind’s How’s it Going to Be. I never anticipated there being a day when we no longer knew each other. So in an effort to outrun my heartbreak, I slipped into my running kicks and ran 4 miles to Leona Lewis’s Better in Time on repeat. I’ve never once ran that far. If I ever meet Leona, I won’t hesitate to hug her, even if I’m sweaty. When I wonder how long I’ll be running for, I listen to Martina McBride’s Wrong Baby Wrong; I long to sit down with her in hopes of absorbing just an ounce of her courage and practicality. It really isn’t the end of the world. I am going to be just fine. Eventually. I’m resilient if nothing else. And I always taste my tears through a smile whenever La Roux encourages me to be Bulletproof, next time that is.

As my 26^th birthday approaches, I can’t help but wonder what the next year will bring. I foresee champagne, dancing, laughter, tears, love, joy, hurt, travel, success and happiness. Memories to cherish. Memories to forget. But I know for certain that music will touch me, move me and cure me. And years from now I know that it’ll also bring me back to 26.

Music makes my world go round.

Ripple

August 6, 2010June 14, 2015jamiemurdick 1 Comment

Isn’t it odd how one thing can change everything? One day, one choice, one idea, one declaration, one stop light, one smile, one drink, one missed call. This list could go on forever. You probably even have a few one whatevers to add to the mix. The fact remains that the one thing, could be anything. For me, it was a text message.

If you’re anything like me, you prefer texting over traditional phone conversation any day of the week. Written communication allows you to be truthful and bold, not to mention witty. Add spell-check and it’s borderline orgasmic. But I think it’s the way it can make a person the mystery in someone’s inbox that I am most attracted to. Texting bares no true tone, emotion or delivery. What someone is “really saying” is anyone’s guess. The down side of this ambiguous communication is that it’s often manifested fantasies and false-truths in my mind. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve sent a text and screeched, “eeee!” Especially if it was a message from the heart, and/or the vj.

I am a dreamer in every sense of the word. I blame it on gender stereotyping we were all victims of as children. Sure, I played GI Joe and cops and robbers, but that’s only because my very first friend was a boy. My true love was the Barbie doll. I had several blonde beauties and only one Ken doll. You can imagine how 90210-style my make-believe was. I just never imagined my real life panning out in virtually the same way. Even though my Ken doll was always a womanizing piece of shit, I always hoped that as an adult, I would find my diamond in the rough.

I received a text message on a Friday morning. I was late for a shoot and weaving in and out of traffic like Paul Walker, only I didn’t look confused. I am always late and I prefer to speed. My ‘04 corolla and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I was jamming to Britney Spears, getting into character and running my lines. My sidekick vibrated in my lap. “Hey, slow down girl!” I looked around, but realized I’d already left him in the cluster of people who were apparently not late for work. I’ve always loathed those people. Part of me wishes I was them, but deep-down, I secretly dig the way my heart pounds when I’m late, the way my mind scrolls through believable excuses like a rolodex as I blare my music for inspiration and the proud feeling that races over me when I arrive exactly on time. No, I’m never early, but who the hell has time for that?

If you assumed his text was “the” text, you thought wrong. I should have never responded. I should have scrolled to the discard button. But that’s precisely the problem with text messaging. Had he called me, I wouldn’t have answered, nor would I have returned the missed call. I somehow feel like calls are easier to avoid and if questioned, easier to say you never saw. But there it was – the mystery in my inbox. My mind wondered and my heart fluttered. How did he say it in his head? Was he laughing? What is he wearing? Was he nervous to initiate communication after all we’d been through? Is he thinking of me now?

I’m a bright girl, I’ve always prided myself on that. Hell, I was graduating from the Walter Cronkite School with an award-winning documentary in a week, but the mystery flooded all logic and memory of heartache. I scrolled to the reply button. “Hey, you know me, late for work. ☺”

And just like that, one thing changed everything. I’d opened a ticking bomb.
And with all the sincerity I can muster after a year of mystery, fantasy and false-truths, I can whole-heartedly say that there’s nothing like regret to remind you you’re alive.

Revelation

August 6, 2010June 14, 2015jamiemurdick Leave a comment

I take a moment to appreciate my lacey Honeydew panties, and all my glory below them, before pulling my shorts back up on my hips. It’s petit and pretty. I once had a boyfriend tell me that it would earn the blue ribbon in a field day for vaginas. This one still makes me grin in a tilted head, sense of wonderment sort of way. Too bad his clever compliments were his single strong suit.

My nostalgia is suddenly popped like a schoolgirl’s bazooka bubble when the woman in the stall next to me starts making monstrous sounds that can only mean she’s hovering over the toilet. I sneak a peek at her feet. Her flip-flops are hot pink and her toenails are polished a canary yellow with white polka dots; I bet she wishes that she felt even half that bright. I wonder if she just saw a baby being born too? Or maybe it’s the combination of a few too many Russian cocktails the night prior and the reality that babies really do squeeze out of a small slit that most twenty-something women use for imports only? I nod my head and purse my lips in agreement. If she could see me, I’d give her that, “Hey, I feel ya sister,” look.

I exit my stall to face my humbled disposition. I wipe a cluster of sweat beads from my upper lip and can’t help but notice the lack of glimmer on my left hand. The foamy soap and water droplets flow around my naked fingers as I fight back useless tears. I stare at myself in the mirror, and I swear that it’s staring right back at me. Sick polka dot girl better stay in that export cubicle as long as she can, lighting has never been so unforgiving.

It’s like the mirror is interrogating my soul. It sees that my smile is because I am proud my cousin brought her baby girl into this world. My expression slides into a smirk when I imagine how much hell that little girl is going to give her.

It studies my deep breaths and long sighs, and recognizes them as the acceptance of defeat. I had been delusional to think that he and I would share this one-day. Furthermore, I’d be a fool to hope that my current crush was “the one.” This too will end just as passionately and abruptly as it began. I can’t depend on much, but some things are a guarantee. The mirror seems to sense my bandaged, yet ever-hopeful heart. It watches my memory flip through my relationship highs and lows like a late-night channel surfer, and realizes that there’s nothing worth cherishing, so I just keep flipping. Then like the masochist that I am, it captures a slight twinkle in my eyes and helps me see the faith that I will be blessed with a family, eventually, even if I don’t feel it.

The soul-searching mirror senses my now peaceful heart. Just moments earlier it had been flowing with emotions and pounding like a celebratory tribal beat as I watched a new family’s hearts burst, and then sink, when one new heartbeat could not only be heard, but also seen. Bewildered by my sweat sprinkled face and fleshed cheeks, the mirror takes curious inspection of my raised arm hair and plump goose bumps. I know that these linger from being the bearer of amazing news.

“She’s here! She’s here. She was here at 1:26 and she has the most endearing whine.” I burst out, exasperated, with not nearly as much articulation as I would have preferred. I instantly wish that I’d properly prepared myself to deliver this memory. But I don’t think it mattered how I said it, because when I did, it was like watching the sunrise for the very first time.

His expression brightened. Pure joy and true love spilt from his smile as the corners of his lips curled up into his cheeks revealing a spirit that oozed of pride and curiosity. My uncle has always had the most inspiring smile. It’s the kind that sweeps an entire face, makes one’s eyes glisten with gladness and beckons others to take delight in the moment. You’d be a miserable fool to resist its charm.

The mirror is patient while I squeeze my eyes tight and hope and beg that that very moment never fades from my memory. I open them to find my gaze upon my flat stomach. I turn to the side, take in a deep breath and push my tummy out as far as I can. I rest one hand on my air-filled belly, the other on my strained lower back. I’ve always been a pro at make-believe. I consider what it might feel like to have life blossoming inside me, but even my wildest imagination can’t do it justice. The mirror seems to look upon me with compassion this time. We gaze into one another, and sigh.

A toilet unexpectedly roars like a rushing river crushing my belly back to size. And in an instant I recognize that the glass is more than half-full; a single girl never goes hungry, polka dot toes are only a salon away, my vagina is still collecting compliments and a baby girl really is the most beautiful thing in the world.

Presidential Crush

August 5, 2010October 18, 2014jamiemurdick 2 Comments

I was blessed with a unique, one-of-a-kind, once in a lifetime experience – thanks to my wonderful job. Tuesday night, a man named Nick and I PAed (assisted) for the White House Press Staff when they arrived in their private USA 3000 charter. Testing my strength and getting dirty, I transported their luggage, equipment and two Army personnel from plane to hotel. It was so awesome to see all the CNN, CBS, FOX and NBC stickers on the numerous tripod and tape cases. I never touched a camera. I know better than that.

The following morning I dressed for Presidential-Success! Thankfully I only needed to transport 2 suitcases and one man, Luis. He is with the Army and has been working with the White House press for three years. I didn’t care to inquire about the differences between the administrations. Luis was my ticket into the event and I had my eye on the prize. (In case you aren’t aware, President Obama came to Dobson High School in Mesa to deliver a speech regarding the new Stimulus Act he just signed and foreclosure. Arizona, along with Nevada and Florida has the most foreclosures in the nation. Hmmm, I wonder why.) There were flocks of Secret Service, Sheriffs, White House staff and various other important people. They all dressed slick and wore pins on their lapels distinguishing their department. There was also plenty media, pro-testers and of course, supporters. I saw one young man wearing an Obama basketball jersey and selling pins of Obama’s face. This made me smile. The protesters unhappily carried their picket-signs. One man’s read: “I want a hand-out. I want a house, a 4×4 truck and a hot red head.” If you are trying to imagine what this man looks like, think no further, you’re probably spot-on. I’ll bet that he gets that house and truck long before he ever scores a hot any-colored head. Another woman’s read: “I want a hand–out. Give me a tummy tuck.” She, too, is exactly what you’re picturing. I was embarrassed for these people – somebody needed to be. And a midst all these regular Americans, I looked like a diamond in the rough. After all, I had somewhere fantastic to be. Luis flashed his pin to one woman, said we were with him and we were off. Piece a cake; piece a pie – if you’re in the Army that is.

Next, we met Kate, the press coordinator who had been giving us our duties, and the press bus drivers. Kate brought us over to a man named Clay and we proceeded to get our pictures taken in front of one of the Presidential limos. So rad! Apparently these limos are everything-proof. My friend googled one day and learned that the tires won’t blow out, even if they’ve been shot at. Obama is so much cooler than James Bond and I now have a photo with the toughest, sickest ride there is – google that! The very best was next! We passed the Presidential limo he rode in, it was under a tent and alongside a covered, protected hallway that led us into an athletic locker room. The place was crawling with Secret Service. They smiled ever so slightly at me – my nervous excitement was written all over my face! We entered another hallway just outside the gym. I heard the crowd roar, looked down to turn on my camera and then heard his voice. He was right there! Only 10 feet away from my black, conservative Mary Jane heels (Compliments of my mama. You know me; I’m a baby tee, jeans and flip-flops kind of gal.). I was stunned! All I could think was, “Is this really happening to me?!” He took several individual pictures – not sure how those lucky ducks finagled that sweet deal, and then took a few group photos as well.

My press volunteer/ bus driver group was up next! My plan was to shimmy my way next to the President since our group was so large, but I was nearly stampeded when our name was called. Imagine my disappointment. I feared I would be stuck on the outside of a bunch of men. Sad face. Just then, the President saw me over one of their shoulders and reached behind him to meet me. ME!! We shared a firm shake. I hate wimpy handshakes.

“Hello and what’s your name?” he asked with a smile that reached his eyes.

Although flabbergasted, I managed to respond, “Hi, my name is Jamie. It’s incredible to meet you.” (SMILING the WHOLE time!!)

With a humble chuckle he said, “Jamie, it’s nice to meet you too.”

Naturally, I began to loosen my grip. He, however, did not. He gripped me a tad bit tighter and pulled his elbow to his side, pulling me near him. Heart beat intensifying! He wrapped his left arm around me and said, “Let’s do this.” SO my style! But the bus drivers to our right asked for autographs. Tremendously tacky in my opinion. However, he graciously signed them. He is left-handed by the way. Time for the photo-op! We all scrunched together and smiled for numerous cameras. It all happened so incredibly quickly.

Before seeing these pictures I couldn’t have told you what color his tie or suit was or if he smelt good or how big his ears really are. All I knew was that his suit was unbelievably soft, his teeth were perfectly white and his eye contact was impeccable. I reason that he is one of those people you wouldn’t mind being stuck behind in a 3 hour-long line at Disneyland. In fact, you’d probably share a few friendly conversations. He used everyone’s name when greeting him or her and was oozing with charisma. Before I knew it, we were done. Surreal.

I looked up at him and said with a schoolgirl smile, “Thank you, this was unreal.”

He smiled and with a small laugh said, “Yes, it was nice to meet you Jamie.”

Just like that, I went to thinking, “Did this really just happen?!” I walked away, with a skip in my step, and smiled over my shoulder. I swear, sometimes my life is a movie. Cue the music and roll credits, please.

Funhouse

August 2, 2010June 24, 2015jamiemurdick Leave a comment

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

July 26, 2010June 24, 2015jamiemurdick 2 Comments

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.

Qwerty Thirty

Jamie Murdick

In Vanna’s Shoes

And the Beat Goes On

Ripple

Revelation

Presidential Crush

Funhouse

Porcelain Prisoner

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