From the Oxford English Dictionary: † fode, v. [‘ trans. To deceive or delude with kindness or kind words; to entice or lead on with delusive expectations.’]

“Who comes to you,”  was an artist’s question when I told him about the healing work I do.  I should have just answered, ‘creative types,’ but leaving out names or institutions, I listed categories of power in the art world.

Our connection was through OK Cupid and after one phone conversation, we met at a park.  I must say, he was a gorgeous creature, but the opposite of what an interested guy would do on a first date.  He spent the evening dropping bombs of financial, professional, and emotional disasters,  His desperate need to find a gallery presented many chances for me to offer connections, but I honored client confidentiality.

This attempt to fode me was a familiar one.  My detection skills were solidified in a recent deception, one for which I fell.  While serving as President of the Board in our building, a co-owner approached me with an offer.  He’d seen my modeling pictures and insisted they needed an update.  As a photographer with a make-up artist partner, they were willing to do a head shot session, no charge involved.

I turned them down, but they didn’t let it go, applied pressure and flattery until I acquiesced.  Sitting for portraits is something I have done many times, but this shoot was an energy-less chore equivalent to cleaning out someone else’s garage.  Though the photography turned out fine, my sour expression ruined the possibility of usable images.  When they insisted I select favorites, the thought of looking at those photos again made me want to go invisible.

This shoot happened during the same month that we conduct our building’s annual Board election, and after years of serving as Madame President, a new person was voted into my old position.  Happy to step aside, when the photographer’s partner found out the results, her first response was to stomp her feet, and then she cried.

Such a surprising emotional display got me thinking: for extra income, they used their second apartment in the building as an Air bnb, technically against the rules.  The headshot session was designed to keep me looking the other way while they did what they needed to do to maintain both spaces.  By not campaigning to my position of power, I’d dropped my end of the silent deal.

Even though we’re on friendly terms, the photos were never spoken of again.  And coincidentally, the man who wanted art world contacts just wrote stating ‘energy differences’ regarding a match, with an offer to continue our ’instant friendship.’  The answer to that is no thank you, because through the eyes of a foder, everyone is humiliated.

Photo by Marissa Bridge: Deceiving colors

Definition of canaglia, n. from the Oxford English Dictionary:                                             [‘ Rabble; the common people; a mob or pack of people regarded as rabble’]

Based on my mother’s limited expectations for marriage, she chose her mate according to his gene pool.  My dad called himself ‘The Producer,’ so I’m pretty sure he operated within the same parameters.  Their insecurities, lack of opportunities, coming of age in WW2, were overcome by what they saw as  physical superiority, in themselves and their children.

Beauty was more valued than education.  Their badges of honor were square shoulders, shapely legs, almond eyes, good hair, exceptional posture, and in my mother’s case, speed.  Her driving skills matched any daredevil man’s,  Dad was a normal driver, but nothing could slow her maneuvering excellence down, especially four screaming kids in the backseat.

Not long after my father left, so did Melanie and I.  She was still in high school.  We had only the confidence of our upbringing, youth, and skimpy clothing.   Those led us directly to a hippie artist with a page-boy to be coveted, who lived in a retired mail truck.  Old friends in a matter of hours, we piled into his vehicle for a spin around Kansas City.

The truck had been converted into a sunny, drivable living space, lined with daisy wallpaper.  Big enough for sections, it housed a sofa/bed, a small table, and what Melanie and I used as a running track between the front and back.  The driver sat on a free-standing swivel stool, and in a moment of quiet repose, I plopped next to him cross-legged on the deep dashboard.

When he pulled in front of our house, one of his friends, referring to our car antics, said to him, “God, all that screeching, now that those two are leaving, maybe we can actually hear ourselves think.”

Self control and car manners were not part of our upbringing.  Until then, we’d gotten by with our buona faccia facades.  Realizing that acting like wild animals wouldn’t cut it with those outside my parent’s model was as shocking as a slap, and the first step to self-examination.  And even though we were mere canaglia, I fit into the artist’s aesthetic vision.  He moved out of the mail truck, into our house, which he turned into a palace of his imagination, and I married him.

Photo by Marissa Bridge