While shopping for my daughter’s second Prom dress, I happened to go to one of the strangest places. Mind you, my daughter has been in ballet for many years, therefore we are used to costumes, feathers and the bizarre quality the footlights bring about.

But my daughter had found her tribe, probably long ago, and her eyes lit up upon entering the grandeur and glue. But I was reminded of the circus.

Dresses hanging at least two feet higher than in a regular dress shop, (to allow for the length of the gowns), all squished into each other. They were catalogued by color. Rich, dazzling color.

Pedestals for self-viewing in front of huge gilded mirrors. Screens to dress behind. Girls being squeezed into cut-out sparkles, all lumpy and in need of Spanx.

The ring leader of this store sat behind a desk. She reminded me of Vito in The Godfather. Power was what she was about. And hustle was how she did business, while her minions worked the girls, oozing the words “beautiful!” and “you!” softly heard through the thickly carpeted rooms.

My daughter bought her dress there. Tasteful and elegant. I cannot tell you how this could be possible. Her manifestation of cheap glitziness was in the pair of shoes we bought, however.

Before the final touch was put on these lovely flat shoes, I fell into her trap. The circus leader had me writing a check. The male assistant then ascended the glitter strewn stairway to spray them.

He came down with silver glitter encrusted flats, telling us he went through two cans of spray paint. Carrying an extra can of Krylon silver glitter spray in case we needed to touch them up. I need say no more except that these shoes had clamped to them two clip-on earrings, rhinestones, of course. At the toe. The shoes could not be even tried on at the time because the paint was still wet. The assistant was respraying them in the dark outside as we were preparing to leave. Even the rhinestones had spray paint on them!

You get the picture. My husband returned them along with the third can of spray paint these stiff shoes might need. Our check was destroyed. Our dignity intact.

WhIle I am on the subject of my daughter’s Prom, she and I, of course, had to go Prom dress shopping. For Senior Prom.

Two Prom dresses. One remade and shortened (Her date was short all of a sudden.) The second one, altered for $225.00. Yup, you don’t want to know what the dress cost. Five pair of shoes: One pair, too high for the first Prom dress. One perfect for the first Prom dress. One not as dressy as it should be. (We are into the second Prom dress now.) One pair of shoes sprayed with two cans of Krylon glitter spray (The story of the glitter sprayed shoes is saved for another blog.) And, finally, the perfect pair.

Prom went off in the perfect fashion. Drama, dreams and delirium.

I want to go back to listening to the garbage removal truck outside!

Vince Vaughn bought my daughter’s Prom dress.

He is making a movie in Atlanta. And the location unit chose the building where my art studio is situated.

I used to be in Advertising. And one of the accounts I worked on, was Orion Pictures Publicity. I am familiar with the movie business. Maybe not the production side, as this was. But I loved the hustle, bustle. The project to project. The excitement. I loved the collaboration. I loved how everyone was working toward a common goal. The hurry up and wait.

Is it possible I could have made a mistake to do what I do now? I am all alone. I see no one. Ever. I work alone. But I get ego recognition. The work is all mine.

In the movie business, you pitch in. There is not room for two egos in the limousine. With the exceptional Philip Seymour Hoffman hat sported by the guy on the ladder, the importance stays with the stars and the film company executives.

How did Vince Vaughn buy my daughter’s Prom dress? No one knew this was not an inconvenience to me. I did not attend the shooting. I did not talk to many of the workers.

But the preparation of the scenes demanded an excruciatingly long time. And, needing the money, as most of us do these days, I accepted compensation for the work done in the building.

When we lived in a quiet “In town” neighborhood in Atlanta, I used to walk quite a bit. I walked to the grocery store, which we called the Korean Market. How racist. And I walked just to walk.

A few years prior, after my job at the Ad Agency ended, I became a pet sitter, going from house to house, looking after peoples’ dogs and cats. I was attacked by a dog during one of these visits, and needless-to-say, I halted my job as a pet sitter. Why should I do this for money?

Therefore, my leisurely neighborhood walking excursions were filled with the fear of being attacked again. Around every bush, there could be a dog just waiting to attack me. And that fear bred more fear, because after all, don’t dogs sense fear?

I was leafing through a magazine one day and found an ad for a device a person could carry. It would emit sounds undetectable to humans (of course) and dogs would be repelled. It was perfect for mailmen, the ad said. And those on business having to come to unfamiliar houses.

Perfect! I would order this gray pancake-like item with little sound wave grooves on the end of it. And a button to push when a dog was near.

I carried it around on my walks. Still a little fearful. And also aware I was probably being duped. But hey, I had my gray dog repellent device and, if a boxer came near me, I would aim.

Whether it worked or not did not matter. Because I never had to use that thing. The other day, years after I had purchased this mysterious gray piece of plastic, I was cleaning out a drawer. I looked at it and with a little embarrassment, put it back in the drawer.

Belief in a dog repellent? Just like those round green termite traps that lie in our yards. Or the one inch square cut piece of sheet I own that Paul McCartney supposedly slept on at the Plaza Hotel. Or how do you know there is really a star out there with your name on it? Belief. Praying on love, fear or desire. It’s part of our psyche to want magic.

You all know about my love of fortune cookies. I blogged about it. Their meaning to me. Their potential for being correct for one’s life at a particular time.

I got one the other day that said, “IF YOUR WORK ISN’T FINISHED, BLAME IT ON THE COMPUTER!” Pretty cool. A lot of my work is done on the computer. But I get the point.

This project I am doing now is two fold. Doing the art for my solo show. Blogging about it. Allowing for a tangent, a rant. Tall order.

Blogging is time consuming. I don’t have to tell you that. But it could be looked at like this: Blogging will become my time manager.

I will have to paint. I will have to blog. I will have to paint in order to blog. Blogging will become my master. I will work for blogging.

To the contrary, the fortune cookie should have read “IF YOUR WORK ISN’T FINISHED, YOU ARE NOT GIVING THE COMPUTER ENOUGH CREDIT!”