The Death of My Special Place

As I mentioned in my previous blog, I spent a lot of time in and out of doctor's offices as a teenager due to some horrific events I went through with the supernatural. As life has progressed, I have begun to look at hospitals and doctor's offices as my special place. Where else can you go in the world looking like shit, and people will still talk to you and care? Think about it. More times then most, one goes to the doctor smelling like vomit or urine or both. One's hair would be styled after the local "hood rat," and one's make up would be non existent. The hospital can be like a virtual sanctuary for the ugly. So, as a 26 year old grown woman, it is one place I can go without fear of judgment. Even the local grocery store sees me at my best, but not the doctors office...

Well... not until yesterday... Not until Dr. Joshua (last name has been left out to protect the innocent)

While still in Los Angeles, I decided to take a break from another day of packing and go to the doctor with my friend Karen. We were going to do laundry last night together anyway, so I thought why not spice up my life with one last trip to Ceder Sinai? Karen needed to have some of her prescriptions refilled, and in order to do so, she needed a mini physical. As all women can tell you , there is a certain amount of stress when it comes to standing on scales in an open appointment room with what seems like the whole world waiting for your weight to be announced. It was my duty as a friend to assist my other female friend with the appointment. We both had grubby clothes on (since it was laundry day), neither one of us had showered, we didn't have a lick of make up on, and to top it off, I had bird poop running down my shirt from playing with Karen's pet bird, Peep, earlier in the day. Even Karen, herself, said to me, "ahh... we don't need to look cute. It's just the doctors." Oh my... were we wrong.

In my head, doctors are old men. Doctors I know (including most of my family members... sorry Dad) have a belly, grey hair, and/or a bald spot. They have hair coming out of their noses, thick glasses, and look like they haven't seen the sun in forty years. Hence the reason I have never cared what I look like when going to the doctor. After all that said, since when did doctors become my age? When did they become good looking? After Karen was weighed and checked in, the nurse escorted the two of us back to an appointment room. As the door opened, there sat the most beautiful man I think I have ever seen. Mind you, I don't like khaki pants and polo shirts on men. I like guys in girl's jeans, tight shirts, long hair, tattoos, and guy liner. But on this man, who was introduced to us as Dr. Joshua, a moo moo would have been fine.

Karen walked in first. As she lay her eyes on the handsome doctor, her body froze, and my nose was planted into the back of her pony tail. Before I had time to yelp in pain, I saw him. I watched as Karen's limp hand rested in his while she introduced herself. Karen then sat down on the table and he looked at me with his hand extended. As I shook his hand, I told him I was her FRIEND Brice. In fact, I proceeded to tell him that three times. As I backed up against the wall, I looked down at my shirt displaying Peep's bird poop, and thought great! This man thinks we're lesbians, and dirty lesbians at that. I wanted to sit down and tell this Dr. Joshua that Karen and I normally dress up. We normally wear make up, and we normally don't smell of animal dung. Not to mention, we are both very straight. Out of all the doctors in the hospital, why did we get him? Why couldn't we have gotten the old doctor. And more importantly, why was I wearing a shirt with bird poop on it? Although I had never thought of dating a doctor (let's face it... I like the challenging artist type), this man was too good to pass up. As the snot that had been knocked loose from my face planting into Karen's pony tail began to drip down my face, I discreetly tried to look at Dr. Joshua's hand for any sign of a wedding band. No wedding band. My cheeks blushed as I noticed I was jealous that my friend Karen had Dr. Joshua examining her. Why couldn't I be the one having my prescriptions filled? After all was said and done, Karen was just fine except her heart and blood pressure were up. Out of concern, Dr. Joshua asked Karen if that was normal. It was not. Then he asked her if she was nervous. Yes. Yes, she was. Then after caressing her stomach checking for swollen "things" (sorry I'm not a doctor... I don't know what they're looking for during that exam), he decided to take her blood pressure again. After having flesh on flesh contact with the handsome doctor, Karen's blood pressure and heart rate had dropped drastically. She was very relaxed.

As we got up to leave, I decided it was time to be brave. I'm not his patient. He could date me. At least he could date me for the little amount of time I have left in LA. I was going to do it. I was going to flirt with Dr. Joshua. But as I walked up to him, and looked at him in his deep blue eyes, all I could muster up was.... "where's the bathroom?"

So from now on, I have no special place. It has died. As a single girl getting ready to take on the big apple I have to be prepared for anything, and I'm okay with that. I have to open up my options. Maybe the artsy guys aren't for me. Maybe they are. I always thought dating a man of science would bore me, but I could be wrong. Only time will tell, but let's just say that from this point on, I will have waxing before every pap smear and a facial before every mammogram. You just never know where Mr. Right will pop up.

LA

So, I'm off to LA for the week to finalize all that needs to be finalized (you know, stop my mail... ship my car... put my furniture in storage)... I will be back, and I promise to finish my "Brice Curse" when I return.

Thank you all for following me.

Love,
Brice

The Brice Curse

Before continuing with my blog, there is a part of me that needs to be explained. The Brice family Curse. I know most of you out there probably don't believe in any of this stuff, but just bare with me. You see, my first name (Brice) is my mother's maiden name. Hence, the reason why, as a female, I have a male's name. The Brice's are from South Carolina; the low country to be exact. The only reason why my maternal grandfather and grandmother ended up in Georgia was because my grandfather got recruited to be a surgeon for the Harbin Clinic in a VERY small town just out side of Atlanta called Rome. Growing up (and even to this day) I always detested and loathed Rome. In fact, the only time I ever felt "at home" was when we were in Charleston or any surrounding towns in the Low Country area.

As a child, weird things would happen to me a lot. I would see things, but was always told that it was my imagination. I went to a private school called Darlington, and our lower school's campus had a house that survived the Civil War. Third, Forth, and Fifth grade were held in this old plantation home. Now, the only reason why this house survived Sherman was because he actually stayed there. When I was in the fifth grade we even got to go into the attic and see where the old bullet holes and blood stains from the Civil War were located. Being a child with a "wild imagination" meant third, fourth, and fifth grade weren't the best years for me. My memories of seeing disembodied spirits passing through while trying to focus on a spelling test still haunt me to this day. Oh, my parents had me tested... they did all sorts of things to try to "fix" whatever was wrong with me. Being a Presbyterian in this little town meant that the only ghost "we" believed in was the Holy Ghost.

Fast forward to high school. At the beginning of my sophomore year, I got really sick. One day, I felt as if I couldn't stand up, and when my mother picked me up, all she could talk about was my blood shot eyes. The next morning, I woke with my lymph nodes under my arms so swollen that I could not put my arms down. When I went to the doctor, she tested me for all sorts of things. This first being "Cat Scratch Fever (yes, apparently that is a real sickness)," and the second being mono. Both came back negative. As time went on, I got sicker and sicker and sicker. I had spinal taps... I was tested for diabetes... everything under the sun was done to me. I was poked and prodded. But everything came back negative. At one point, I passed out and ended up in the E.R. with a body temperature of 92. Another thing that would happen to me was I would wake up in the morning with massive scratches all over my body. All the doctors thought that I was scratching myself in my sleep, and it wasn't until they found a cluster of scratches on my eye ball that they took a second look. All at once, I would start to loose feeling in all four limbs, and my mother and father would have to sit by my bed rubbing my arms and legs until I could move and feel them again. Eventually, I recovered. I gained strength back and became an active teenager again. No one ever figured out what had happened to me.

Time passes. I would still continue to see things, but I soon learned to ignore it because, lets face it, people think you're crazy when you start talking about seeing spirits. After High School, I went to London to continue my education. Then from England I went to Los Angeles, always seeing things, and noticing that every time something truly terrible would happen to me, I would have scratches all over my stomach and my back.

About three years ago (before I met my now ex), a girlfriend of mine in LA wanted to go visit a physic. I had never been to one so I told her I would go with her. She went first. All of her questions were answered, and then it was my turn. OK, you have to keep in mind that I didn't tell this lady one thing about me. Not even my name. She had not seen my driver's licence nor had she talked to me long enough to pick up on any type of accent. She turned, looked me dead in the eye and said, "Now! You're the real reason why you two girls are here, and I'm going to have to ask you to come back tomorrow so we can speak in private..."

What she told me has defiantly changed my life, and it is a huge part of being me. As for now, we'll leave it at that.

Tune in next time...

The Resort/ Tanning Bed

According to dictionary.com a Resort is "a place to which people frequently or generally go for relaxation or pleasure, esp. one providing rest and relaxation for vacationers." In my family, The Resort, is what my sister, stepsisters, and I refer as to my mom and step-father's home. When Mom and Bill got married they each had homes in different parts of Georgia. My mother's home sold right away, but with the recession and the decline of small town America, Bill has had trouble selling his home. So, as for now, they're renting an apartment in Alpharetta, GA (a "burb" of Atlanta). For those of you out there who live in Mega Cities, and rent places as well, I use the word "apartment" very loosely. For me, living in an apartment, meant paying out of my ass for a rickety, old place with paper thin walls, and crazy neighbors who fight constantly. For Alpharetta, an apartment means a condo style home with crown molding, and a kitchen bigger then my old bedroom in LA. At this complex, you're gated in, you have three very swanky pools to choose from in the summer, a very clean and up-to-date gym, tennis courts where round robins are frequently held, a place to have your car washed, and a Manager's office with chandeliers bigger the tops of most trees.

During my longer then planned stay at "The Resort", I decided to go to the gym one day. For those who know me, know I don't work out. Lets face it, I would rather be in high heels then Nikes, I don't like not having make up on, and sports bras hurt. I have, also, found that when I do work out, my legs swell, I get supper hungry, and tend to put weight on. Weird, right? But I needed to do something to get my mind of my ex. So I went to the gym. While there, I discovered that "The Resort" has it's own tanning bed. Seeing this was like angels singing to me from the heavens above (please no comments on how tanning beds can cause cancer... this, I already know). Upon noticing that the door to that beautiful, beautiful bed was locked, I went to inquire about using it with at the front office. Apparently, here at "The Resort," one has to buy tokens to start the bed. One token is five bucks, and buys you 20 minutes. Now, the last time I went to the tanning bed, a single visit was 15 to 20 dollars. So, this seems like a small gift from the universe. I grab a 20, run back to the office, and buy four tokens.

Alas, I was now free to visit my Mecca...

I open the door, and there before me is this old as the hills tanning bed, that was probably built the year I was born. But, never judge a book by its cover (or so I had been taught). I spray it down, use all the strength in my upper body to open the lid, took my clothes off, pressed the start button, and got inside. There I tanned for 20 minutes.

I'm not going to totally complain about the tanning bed at "The Resort." I got a little color, and it was only five bucks. But, I learned a good lesson, one I hope to take with me to my new life in New York. You pay for you get, and sometimes you're worth paying for something good. I know in our failing economy people are cutting back, which can be a good thing, but in my two year relationship with my new ex, a lot of my likes went on the back burner so his needs and likes could come first. Maybe that's just a side of my passive personality. Or maybe it's part of being a woman. Haven't we all seen our mothers and grandmothers do it for their husbands? Men never put their needs aside, so why should we?

Well, The buck stops here. You might think it's just a tanning bed, but for me it's something bigger. I have no one to answer to but myself, and damn it, if I like to tan, then I need to add monthly visits into my budget. It might mean other things get cut back, but that's OK. And I have this feeling that if I really start taking care of myself, then I'll really start to like myself again. I'll be important to me again, and that is worth all the tanning beds in the world.

A Change

What does it take for someone to up and change his or her life? For some, I can imagine it would be mere boredom and frustration with a mundane life he or she had previously designed. For others, perhaps a death or graduation where (in both cases) there is a definite closure to the life lived before. But... What about those of us who are living the life we want, but through situations out of our own control, we are knocked out into the great abyss scrambling to find a soft place to fall or a hard floor to land our feet? What exactly happens to all of us out there in the great unknown when the rug gets pulled out from under us?

I was satisfied with life. I loved living in Los Angeles. After spending several years there, this Georgia girl was happy to call herself a Californian. Then, I met man. A man 15 years my senior, a man that made me laugh, and a man I easily fell in love with. As time went by, we moved in together. We had a life together. We even had a joint cell phone plan... We would have fun on the weekends, and during the week he would go to work while I stayed home cleaning and doing laundry. At night, I would rub his feet while we talked of greater things... He would tell me how I'm so great... how no girl had ever treated him the way I did... how he loved me... Then I came home to Georgia for a two week visit, and he dropped a bomb. He didn't want me coming back to LA. He told me I was "boring." He needed something more exciting then the love and comfort I gave him. He didn't want me to come back to the home we shared, the home I helped pay for, or the life I had grown accustomed to. All the sudden I found myself on the other side of the country with no home and no boyfriend.

After nights of sobbing (and extending my return ticket to a date another two weeks later), I decided this was a change whether I liked it or not. Life was not going to be the same, and even though I felt like at any moment my heart would give out and I would die, I would still wake up in the morning. The man I had fallen in love with was gone, and replaced by someone I didn't know. But, was he right? Had I turned into someone boring? Like a bad drug, had I gotten so sucked into him that I lost myself? There was a time when I was cool. There was a time when I had opinions, when I had likes and dislikes, and could stand on my own two feet. Before I met him, I had traveled the world. I had gone to Africa twice. I had been in Australia, and not only had I been all over western Europe, but I had lived there as well. Surely somewhere inside me that girl is still alive... surely I could find her again. But like a drug addict in rehab, I would have to quit him and our life cold turkey. Sure, I could go back to LA, move into my own place, and continue my life. But in doing that, would I ever get over the man who became the love of my life? Faced with constant memories, would I ever be able to move on? Nope.

So, now I'm off to a fresh start in New York City. I don't know a soul, except my cousin, but being a fan of concrete , I should fit in just fine. This is my time to be Brice. This is my time to date myself and rediscover who I am, and what I stand for. And I feel good about my decision. So, to answer my earlier question, "What exactly happens to all of us out there in the great unknown when the rug gets pulled out from under us?" Well... I think there two possibilities. One, we survive, or two, we thrive. I choose to thrive. Even though there are days when my heart still breaks over my break up, I choose not to be defeated by a mean spirited man. I will go on, and I will be better then ever.

And one day... when I'm done dating myself... I will love again. But for now... It's all about "Being Brice." Welcome to my blog!