SUGAR & VICE

I Was Weird Because I Liked You

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Southern contemporary watercolor artist CourtneY Khail Sugar and Vice Collection, original green watercolor painting

Courtney Khail “I Was Weird Because I Liked You” Original painting, 18”x24”, watercolors, inks, and graphite on paper. Part of the 2022 Sugar & Vice Collection

Courtney Khail “I Was Weird Because I Liked You” Process Photo

I Was Weird Because I Liked You

The doorbell rang while I was upstairs. I crept to the top of the stairs just in time to hear a strained “Can I help you?”

Holding your little sister you explained that your car had broken down

That you knew I lived close by so you walked over to use our phone.

At least that’s what I thought you said- it was difficult to hear from my perch.

(An important note to anyone born after 1995: at this time cell phones were still novelties. He was asking to use our landline.)

I think you’d been given a phone by the time I walked downstairs. Had I been called down or did I try to act like it was a coincidence that we were both somehow in my foyer on a Tuesday night?

The mood was strange- awkward and tense. Like you’d stumbled into a private party, unwelcome and uninvited. (I had worried my parents wouldn’t approve of you, but I didn’t imagine it would be that bad.)

I’m sorry I didn’t make it better. That I didn’t do something to make you feel more at ease. To make you feel like you belonged.

You’d think after all the imaginary conversations I’d played in my head that I would have worked out how to speak to a crush.

Scuttled

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Southern artist Courtney Khail, rainbow red blue and yellow original watercolor, Sugar and Vice Collection, Scuttled

Courtney Khail “Scuttled” Original painting, 18”x24”, watercolors, inks, and graphite on paper. Part of the 2022 Sugar & Vice Collection

Courtney Khail “Scuttled” In Process Photo

Scuttled

One Saturday during elementary school, my sister and I accompanied my mom on her errands. I use the word accompanied, but let’s be serious. We were young and didn’t have a choice. On our way home, my mom stopped to get gas and told us we could come inside and each pick out one thing from the gas station. I wouldn’t say this was necessarily a rare occurrence, but now that I’m older I have a feeling my mom had witnessed a lot of other kids having absolute meltdowns during those aforementioned errands and wanted to treat us for not being little terrors. OR maybe it was a bribe. Either way, it was exciting. To kids, gas stations are magical little shops with bright lights, tons of candy, and an ICEE machine. It’s paradise. (As I write this, I’m realizing parents spent far too much money on having kids birthday parties at Chuck E. Cheese when they probably could have just driven us to Circle K and told us to go wild. Add some balloons and I would have been quite content.)

So my sister and I walk into the gas station and immediately turn down the junk food aisle. We both bypassed the chips and pretzels and such (we weren’t amateurs. This was no time to play with savory treats) and made a beeline for the candy. Airheads, Fun Dip, Twix bars, Snickers- our little eyes could barely process the seemingly limitless amount of choices. Pretty much everything was fair game except bubble gum (thanks to an unfortunate incident regarding me, my mom’s velour car upholstery, and bubblicious watermelon wave.)

Jessica picked something like Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups- an amateur move no doubt. Why you ask? Because while delicious, Reese’s is essentially only two pieces of candy. She’d be done with that in under a minute. I, on the other hand, went with Skittles. Its bright red bag promising at least five to ten minutes of chewy, sugary goodness. I was nothing if not a rational person.

Back in the car, my prediction came true. Jessica was quickly out of candy. (I may have laughed.) What I did not anticipate was the possibility of a hostile takeover. Obviously embarrassed by her poor candy choice, Jessica retaliated by attempting to take mine. (I think she even tried to use the word “share” as if that made it less ridiculous.) Unfortunately for her, when it came to candy, I fought back. 

Unfortunately for me, my mom had long arms. Long arms which she used to reach into the backseat and grab my Skittles, before proceeding to throw them out of the car window onto Skinner Mill Road. “If you girls can’t behave, then you don’t get candy!”

“MOM! THOSE WERE MINE! JESSICA ALREADY ATE HERS!”

I recognized the look in my mom’s eyes- the look of “sh*t. I made a mistake.” But it was the 90’s and unless you were in a Nickelodeon sitcom, parents did not admit making mistakes. That showed weakness. Plus it was my parents’ date night, so she wasn’t about to turn around to go buy me more Skittles so she just turned up the radio and told us to quiet down.

Fuming, I looked over at my sister, who just smiled and then looked out the window. Content and full of Reese’s.

Last Day Of Play

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Courtney Khail Athens, Georgia contemporary watercolor artist - Sugar & Vice Collection

Courtney Khail “Last Day Of Play” Original painting, 18”x24”, watercolors, inks, and graphite on paper. Part of the 2022 Sugar & Vice Collection

Courtney Khail “Last Day Of Play” Sugar and Vice In Process photo

Last Day of Play

For his tenth birthday, my friend Andrew had a slumber party.

Andrew and I had been friends for as long as I could remember. We went to Pre-K together, then elementary school- arranging our red and blue mats side by side for naptime and challenging each other to four square battles at recess. He was apparently my first kiss- outside our K-4 classroom back when kisses invoked nothing besides a fear of catching cooties. (I say apparently because neither of us could recall if it actually happened, or if it was just a repeated story told by our parents until it became accepted family folklore.) 

I was the only girl invited to the party, a guest list primarily made up of boys from our fourth grade class. We played tag, ate cake, and trampled in and out of his house on Johns Road. Around dinner time, my mom came to pick me up. The invitation for me to stay over was extended, but my mom declined. (In the car she ended any further discussion stating it wouldn’t be appropriate because I was a girl.)

Summer break started soon after and by the following school year I felt everything had changed. I was no longer “one of the boys,” dropped from the world of freeze tag and double dog dares right into the unfamiliar world of butterfly clips and glitter lip gloss. 

If I would have known that would be my real last day of play, I wouldn’t have let go so easily.

Shadowboxer

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Courtney Khail Sugar and Vice Collection, purple and green watercolor painting, Southern contemporary Artist

Courtney Khail “Shadowboxer” Original painting, 18”x24”, watercolors, inks, and graphite on paper. Part of the 2022 Sugar & Vice Collection

Courtney Khail Sugar & Vice “Shadowboxer” In Process Photo

Shadowboxer

I am not a good dancer. I have the love and enthusiasm for dancing, but I lack the ability to effortlessly glide from one movement into the next. Instead, my dancing looks a bit like those embellished wooden toys; the ones where you push the button under the pedestal and the animal collapses into a clumsy collection of legs and arms before popping right back to its original rigid pose. 

So what possessed me to sign up to dance in the class talent show I am not 100% sure. Even more befuddling was why I chose to perform an original dance to Fiona Apple’s “Shadowboxer.” I’ll blame it on the simple fact that I was ten years old and had- as my husband calls it- the unearned confidence of youth.

Whatever the reason, it was a very bad idea. At this point in my life I hadn’t yet experienced the shame and embarrassment school can hold and therefore did not realize the full extent of viciousness and cruelty a pack of 5th grade girls could administer to someone doing anything they deemed “different.” Had I known, I might have saved myself a lot of pain.

Unfortunately, as I said, I was still innocent to those realities, which is how I found myself waiting in the hallway to perform what could only be described as a failed attempt at modern interpretive dance.

You’ll be relieved to know that some level of self preservation eventually kicked in and allowed me to completely block out that three minute performance from my memory. Which is for the best because if the class mean girls’ reactions were indicative of anything, I have a strong feeling that it closely resembled the dance one does when they walk through a spider's web. 

(If by chance you’re thinking this taught me to never perform dance in public again, you would be correct, but sadly I attended a fine arts school so I was subjected to that particular horror for many more years. I tried to think of it as character building as opposed to context for future therapy.)

Balloon Animals

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Courtney Khail Southern Contemporary Watercolor Artist - Sugar & Vice Collection, Balloon Animals

Courtney Khail “Balloon Animals” Original painting, 18”x24”, watercolors, inks, and graphite on paper. Part of the 2022 Sugar & Vice Collection

Courtney Khail, Sugar & Vice In Process Photo

Balloon Animals

In 7th grade I went to the birthday party for a girl from class. 

As you could imagine, it was an awkward setting; various groups of kids mostly separated by gender, all standing around trying to seem cooler and less insecure than they actually were.

I remember not knowing if I should hang out inside the house or if I should stay outside. It was a small house so inside felt oddly intimate and I wasn’t really that close to the birthday girl, but outside felt a bit feral. Almost like we were a box of stray cats left on the doorstep. But not cute little kittens, no- full grown alley cats. All skittish and confused and kind of in heat. (I would argue that this description applies to all middle school functions if we are being honest.)

I picked outside.

A few hours passed before one by one kids started to disappear into their arriving parent’s cars. To pass the time before we all were picked up, an impromptu game of “don’t let the balloon touch the ground” started. While not the most thrilling or creative game, it checked the two most important boxes- something to do with your hands and limited eye contact. Eventually my own mom pulled up and I jumped into the front seat holding one of the remaining balloons.

“What’s that?” she asked.

Oh my poor mom. If only she could have known where that question would bring us. I’m guessing she thought it was straight forward. Maybe even a way to break the ice and get me to talk about the party. She was in no way prepared for my response.

“My friend Rebecca* called it a dildo balloon.”

I should make it clear that I had absolutely no clue what that word meant, but as anyone who has ever survived middle school will tell you- you do not ask questions. Questions mean you do not know something and not knowing makes you weak and vulnerable. Of course, not asking questions can backfire. For example, you might find your 12 year old self in the front seat of your mom’s Oldsmobile using the word “dildo” as casually as if you’d asked “what’s for dinner?”

Some of you may be thinking “what a great segway into talking about sex and feminism and choice” but let me stop you right there. Gentle parenting wasn’t a thing yet and Georgia was a red state.

No, instead a look of shame, shock, and disgust overcame my mother’s face. 

“We do not use that word.”

That response brought far more questions than answers, but the combination of her tone and facial expression (the same ones used when talking about “those girls”) confirmed the conversation was over and I would have to come up with those conclusions on my own. Here’s where I landed:

  1. I was totally right not to admit ignorance in front of my friends because they obviously possessed information I couldn’t even begin to comprehend.

  2. Never use real names in your stories. People will remember them and not allow them to come over anymore.

  3. Dildos are bad.

Surprisingly, even after all these years, I find that one of those lessons still serves me well today.

*names have been changed to protect the innocent

No Intermission

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Courtney Khail “No Intermission” Original painting, 18”x24”, watercolors, inks, and graphite on paper. Part of the 2022 Sugar & Vice Collection

Courtney Khail Sugar & Vice Process photo for No Intermission

No Intermission

When it comes to “becoming a woman,” I always wished to be a late bloomer. I’d heard the stories about girls who didn’t get their periods until they were seventeen or older, but they all seemed to be gymnasts and seeing how I’d gotten kicked out of gymnastics when I wasn’t able to do a back handspring, that path seemed unlikely. (The YMCA doesn’t use the words “kicked out” but I’m pretty sure that is exactly what “unable to be promoted to the next class” means.)

Regardless, I still held out hope that somehow my genes and my hormones would come together and decide that after braces, and breakouts, and glasses, I had obviously suffered enough and they could afford to grant me a slight reprieve.

But genes are stubborn and hormones are jerks, so they completely ignored my request. More accurately, they waited just long enough to make me think my request had been granted before ruining my life five months after I turned fourteen.

By that time, I’d naively let myself believe that I would escape the curse for another school year and pushed the thought to the back of my mind. Which is exactly why I found myself sitting in the bathroom, rage-reading Tampax’s instructional pamphlet while my sister shouted up to me that we were going to be late to school.

I was vastly unprepared- both for the physical acrobatics I managed to accomplish that morning, but also for the feelings of utter disappointment over my own body’s betrayal.

Was there seriously no warning? No intermission? No last hurrah for girlhood?

Nope. Just the realization that before that moment I could wear white jeans with reckless abandonment and now, for one week a month, three months out of every year, I would join every other woman in having to act like everything was fine, while in reality I teetered precipitously between screaming and crying, popped ibuprofen like it was candy, and had the distinct feeling that despite what anyone said to the contrary, my uterus was in fact trying to kill me from the inside out. Or at the very least, it was trying to escape.

I should have just learned to do the damn back handspring.