Wendy Bevan

Having felt a connection to “God” since I can remember it became second nature to constantly question and discover who “He” is. I place God and He in between two, neat little quotation marks so that perhaps all of you may relate to what I’m feeling without constraining ourselves to specific words and details. After all, for the past few years I have been on a journey about spirituality that I never imagined I’d allow myself to go on.

When I was fourteen my family and I began attending a non-denominational Christian church that we loved. After walking through the same looming hallways with the same segregated faces since elementary school it was so refreshing to frequent a place where the cute boys actually talked to me, the adults weren’t always bossing me around, and the teenagers acknowledged I may have something valuable to say. I didn’t have to be the shy, quiet girl that people determined I was in high school (minus the drama department who knew my loud mouth well); I could have a fresh start. I never felt comfortable as the rebel so sitting within four walls where virginity and non-alcoholic drinks were all the rage, I felt safe and at home, no inner-struggle required.

However, the years between then and my uprooting to Los Angeles were peppered with judgmental people and situations where I was forced to play the longing-to-be-perfect people’s scapegoat. I stopped from beginning that sentence with an “unfortunately” because now I doubt there was anything remotely unfortunate about it. A virgin with no desire for alcohol I was suddenly painted as a frat party girl and was promptly kicked out of youth leadership. My new family became a united front of enemies and it left me wondering, “How come I feel so close to God? I must still be a good girl.”

Of course, it is overwhelming to attempt a post that abruptly covers eleven years but I’m trying. Let’s just say my time as a girl in her early twenties has brought out the party in me, the creativity, the alcohol, the sexuality, the ability to feel guiltless while bikini dancing in a pile of food, and a deepened understanding of God; yes, all at the same time. This is life, not a fairy tale and I’m beginning to think being a “good girl” has little to do with whether or not one can connect to Jesus or to the people around them in a nobel way. All I want to express is, try your best to follow your spirit. Make your very own, very personal connection to the larger, spiritual elements of life. Of course, go to a church if you want but without fear from mere men. There are plenty of well-meaning, beautiful people who are navigating their own lives and believe you must navigate yours the same.

So, from a girl who threw out all her secular CD’s in high school (Bob Marley, Radiohead) only to rebuy them years later, from a girl who became homeless because leadership told her she shouldn’t live with her brother and a boy who wasn’t her husband, from a girl who felt guilty everytime she merely kissed a boy: LISTEN TO YOUR OWN SPIRIT, not people who tell you what your spirit ought to think. Listen for God in beautiful melodies, know and respect your own sexual boundaries, and relax.

If you are following the truth you know in the purest parts of your heart, you are a good girl.

via Knighttcat

Me + Foreigner + Tom Banks = 

In my life, every once in a gloriously blue moon, a girl and I form a brand new friendship. These are the stories of 4 particularly unique ones. These are 4 girls that brought my life into such vast adventures that I thought Id be young forever.

“Courtney, the Supermodel that Poops”

by Jacob Sutton

Scene 1: Pennsylvania: 2002: Late Afternoon: Set of Music Video

(Cut to)

Crowd jumping up and down, loving the music, or pretending to. Close on two unusually tall girls. A brunette stepping on the blonde’s stillettoed toes. Blonde getting angrier by the second. Brunette apologizes to blonde; they exchange emails and the promise of potential roommate-dom in Los Angeles, California…

And so began the cinema-like tale of Brenda Marie and Courtney.

That first day, we stood in line to pocket our 50 dollars in pay and head into the dim streets towards our respective homes. The girl I only knew as I envied her - vibrant, outgoing, commanding, and beautiful - held my email address on a wad of paper in her pocket. She was engaged, in love, and passionate about her lofty dreams. She was the former homecoming queen of her high school, and the lusted-after object of most male’s affections.

Looking back, I wish God would offer you a brief montage of the events you would an encounter with an individual so you could decide whether or not to embark on that rollercoaster; to decide whether or not to hand the beautiful girl your email address. I would have offered the inked paper and seen flashes of cross country road trips, houses of guys, near homelessness X 2, streams of tears, awkward fights, side-numbing laughter, Playboy parties, elite dinners, movie premiers, opened velvet ropes, a completed screenplay, a broken engagement, a stabbed friend, a love triangle, cherished confidence, a momentous marriage and baby, and a friendship that could withstand any storm that came its way.

And if that was the way God worked, one can bet, every ounce of my courage, that I would’ve taken a deep, full breath and handed her the paper, still.

When I boarded the plane that first June, I was a discouraged and scared little girl. I just spent a full semester at USC and, the usual social me came out of it with only a few acquaintances and no friends. I sincerely hoped that living in a fraternity house for 2 months would change that, but after my previously failed attempts at friendship, I wasn’t feeling so sure.

I lugged two full suitcases up the West wing of TKE’s stairs and was met with shouts, “Brenda?! Brenda!” Before me she stood and we had to admit, after only 2 hours of face time a year prior, we had forgotten what each other looked like. I was still tall and blonde, but undoubtedly jet-lagged. However, Courtney was a sight for sore eyes. She already had at least 7 of the guys and five of the girls wrapped around her elegant piano fingers and her form-fitting white tank hugged her ample chest and perfect abdomen. She wore a black skirt that hung low at her hips and her straight brown hair was pig tailed, braided, and pinned so the ends would shoot out wildly from behind her ears. It didn’t take long to gather from her crude humor, burping contests, brags regarding excretions, and constant notation of her “monster B.O.” that she was no ordinary beauty…

Acting like idiots, as usual

In the midst of all our adventures, we attended three distinct dinners that defined, encouraged, broke, and strengthened us. This will be the tale of the two known as “The Twin Towers,” “Those Heterosexual Life Partners,” “Those Bitches,” “Those Beauties,” and “That Forkus and Horrenda.”

“Hello,” the well-dressed man whispered as he leaned into Courtney’s personal space. My usually friendly and unassuming friend was instantly turned off, for not only was she amazingly social, but also amazingly intuitive. Something about this oh-so-important “industry” man was simply a bit off to her.

“Hello,” and as she shimmied her body out of the corner he pinned her in, “Excuse me.”

His angry eyes followed her to the buffet table until he suddenly turned his attention to me, “Well, I suppose Ill talk to you now.”

His comment prompted a roll of my eyes and only mildly affected me until he continued, “What? What is the matter? Surely being with her,” motioning a strong hand to Courtney, “you are entirely used to being second choice.”

My eyes shot up to meet his and nausea rose in my stomach. I quickly turned away before I allowed him to see my tears. My head knew better, but my heart knew he was only confirming what I was already choosing to believe: I couldn’t compare to Courtney.

This particular dinner party was hosted on a millionaire’s personal yacht. The 3 story floating mansion was flooded with young beauties hoping for stardom and old men who supposedly had the power to deliver those lofty dreams. Naturally, Court and I hated the notion, weren’t naive enough to fall for any schemes, and merely longed to go back to our friends at TKE. We both darted off, in heels, only narrowly missing the boat’s departure, which would have trapped us in that hell for at least 3 additional hours.

When I finally gathered the guts to explain the reason for my tear-filled eyes, Court, of course, made fun of the jerk and proclaimed his statement absurd. However, in the back of both our heads, we knew this wasn’t the first, nor would it be the last, time we were compared.

Weeks later, Ian handed me a script. “Excuse me, waitress! This cup is, well, look. Can’t you see this? Surely you see this.” He taunted the hard-working girl with a glass she certainly wasn’t responsible to wash or to set on the table. All she could offer was a flustered apology as he waved the cup in her face. Court and I looked on in horror. This dinner was never-ending. The painfully embarrassing experience just refused to end and Ian’s antics got worse and worst.

He turned back to me after slamming his glass down, “See the role of the Angel? That could be you.” I was in a quandary. Is this man for real? His business partner won an Oscar for producing, his newest script laid before me, and he was treating my best friend like the dirt under his fingernails. He had already interrupted Court mid-sentence a good three times and now she reached for her second dinner roll…

Court and me about to delve into the pizza we got, broke as jokes, for free with a smile and a corny dance

Ian turned his attention to my beautiful, waif friend. “Courtney. Are you Italian?”

“Mostly Dutch.”

“You ought to be more wary of your figure. Do you work out?”

“Excuse me?”

“I just noticed you ordered a cheeseburger and…well…”

Her brows narrowed, “So, you’re saying I’m fat.”

He smiled maliciously and spoke slimily in his English accent, “Oh, no darling. I’m just saying you ordered a cheeseburger.”

Only one underlining statement was spoken to my heart through his evil words: My name is Ian and I only feel valuable when I degrade women to enforce my power. I want to sleep with Brenda so I will impress her by reducing her friend to nothing, thereby making her feel special.

Suddenly, I understood, at last. Perhaps this tactic was all over Hollywood. Perhaps women are just catty and insecure enough to enjoy watching the degradation of the fellow beauties around them. Unfortunately for this slime bag, there was no chance in hell this scheme would work.

However, these two dinner parties that left both Courtney and I without an appetite were worth looking at. In the secret places of my mind, I was glad Ian had favored me over her and I couldn’t help but wonder if she enjoyed when she was favored over me.

As I said before, we entered into each other’s lives like a whirlwind. We set goals, grabbed friends, hosted parties, and ran around Hollywood before we knew each other’s last names. Now, we were made to decide, “Am I prettier than her?” “Do you like me more than her?” “Do I value her enough to not enjoy your favoritism?” “Can I eat one less meal to be as skinny as her?” “Must you pick a favorite?” “Must we compete?”

Then, one evening he pushed in our chairs and sat before us, “Order whatever you desire!”

Courtney and I incessantly kicked and squeezed each other’s legs under the table. Only an hour prior, I hung up my call from Martin Landau and, short of breath, announced the dinner date to Court.

If Mr. Landaus name is indistinct, all is forgiven. Martin is before the era of most myspacers, but nonetheless, an absolute legend in film and within The Actors Studio. He is a soft, turtle-like gentleman with white hair and thick black-rimmed glasses. Yet, he has an energy and animated personality that would rival Jim Carrey’s. Speaking of Jim Carrey, Martin had nothing but shining things to say about his character and morale as a man. As a matter of fact, Court and I simply sat in awe as Mr. Landau told stories upon stories about all kinds of legendary actors from Johnny Depp , with whom he co-starred in Ed Wood, to Marilyn Monroe, who he dated…

Don't mind me, looking like a freak, with Court and Martin

The three of us laughed during a gleeful swordfight between our butter knives, stopped breathing while he spoke of former best friend James Dean calling him for date advice, and disturbed other diners while we loudly argued over our different flavored slices of cheesecake.

By the time Court and I slammed our bedroom door and rolled into bed, we could do nothing but sigh. Suddenly our happiness and self-esteem was built up like an iron tower. “You two are gonna get your chance to make it,” he promised, “I guarantee that. The question is what you choose to do with it. I suggest, when you get your chances, you both kick ass.”

Martin believed in us, equally, adored us, equally, and favored us, equally.

Even though Court and I constantly looked to God for our esteem and value, it was so refreshing and such an indescribable blessing to hear it confirmed yet again:

Today, she sits in her bedroom on the second floor of her townhouse. Her baby sleeps in a room across from hers and her husband lies beside her, physically, emotionally, and spiritually.

Today, I write from my laptop within a closet-sized room I’ve decorated like a haven. My boyfriend, friends, and family strengthen, adore, and believe in me.

Best of all, today, Court and I continue to think of and root for one another. Our screenplay still awaits a buyer and our dreams are yet to be seen, but thanks to so many adventures, ups and downs, and faith in God, we never consider failure. We simply wait, still hand in hand.

Ode to Courtney, The Supermodel that Poops. I love you, girl.