Foibles

It’s Fall and I wanted to buy a couple of shirts and maybe a cardigan that I could wear with jeans, for those days where wearing yoga pants just isn’t possible. So I was looking on Eddie Bauer (or somewhere) thinking I could find something comfortable with a soft fabric that if I’m recording, won’t make weird rustling noises when I move my arm. (The things you have to worry about when you’re a narrator. I can never wear corduroy again.)

I found a comfy looking cardigan and checked the reviews. “This cardigan is so stylish and comfortable!” One review said. That sounded promising. The next review promised that “You can wear this sweater everywhere and you’ll look fashionable.” Okay. Another plus. I want to look fashionable. I want to be comfortable!

There were dozens and dozens of glowing reviews mentioning comfort, style, and ease of wear. That last one seemed a little weird. Then I looked at the ages of all the reviewers. There wasn’t one reviewer under the age of 70.

I thought, huh. So these are my people. These are my fashion sisters. I have now slipped into the time of my life when the ease of wearing a cardigan is heralded.

I didn’t buy the sweater. I’m not ready yet.

My son woke up with a cough and a slight fever. I sat with him on his bed while he drank juice that I snuck cough syrup into. It was two in the morning and I was struggling to stay awake. I got him a snack, rubbed his back, then gave him the iPad to watch an episode of Fool Us, a magic show with Penn & Teller. After awhile I said, “So, are you okay now? Can I go back to bed, or do you need me here?”

My son thought for a moment and then said, “You know, ma, it’s really comforting having you at my feet.”

Ah. Yes. I stayed.

One of the new shirts I bought, is a fitted button-up plaid sort of thing. It makes me feel like a soccer mom who is about to go camping (even though my kids don’t like sports and we don’t camp). I wore it on Friday and everywhere I went I felt like people were staring at me. An older woman looked at me and gasped. Men smiled. One winked. Later, I looked at myself in the mirror. The shirt is fitted in just a way that my breasts look ENORMOUS. I mean, I am kinda busty, but this shirt makes me look like I could be the wet nurse to a village of babies. In fact, I sorta felt like babies were stalking me the way bunnies stalk this lady:

Could be worse, I guess. I’m wearing the shirt again next week.

Foibles. I call myself @Blunder_Woman on Twitter for a reason. But now…at 41…I’m no longer really embarrassed by my little snafus. It just doesn’t feel like a well-lived day if I haven’t embarrassed myself at least a little.

Mommy Screams A Lot AKA What Happened At The Fireworks

When you call yourself quirky, it’s really just a way of saying that you might have a few issues that are hopefully endearing. I know this because I call MYSELF quirky. One of my many issues is that I jump at big noises. There are lots of reasons for this. You could say a few traumatic things happened to me in childhood. OR maybe it was my brother hiding out in his treehouse with his BB gun, always on the lookout, possibly for me. Maybe it was the crazy girl down the block who wrapped up a ventriloquist dummy with rope and said that at night if I heard anything, it was probably because the dummy came alive and was coming for me. Or maybe it’s because I was in New York on 9/11 and that whole thing made me jumpy. Whatever. Pick your poison.

Usually, I handle all this really well. (At least I think I do; Kealoha just shrugs.) When there’s a thunderstorm, and if we’re asleep, I gasp awake, grab the covers and run down to the basement. Kealoha usually doesn’t even notice. He’s a very deep sleeper.

But. BUT. You can imagine that I might not be the best person to have with you during the 4th of July. Every time a firework goes off, I jump/scream, feel my heart thump against my rib cage, mutter an obscenity or two, and settle down just in time for another one to explode. When the crowd goes “Oooooh, Ahhhhhh, Oooooo” I go “Ugh! Eek! Muther fucker, really? REALLY? WHAT IS THE POINT OF EXPLODING THINGS? WHY IS THIS FUN? I FEEL LIKE A LITTLE MANNEQUIN IS SHOOTING AT ME WITH A BB GUN! ARRRRGGGGGHH!”

Ahem. Anyway. So.

The kids wanted Kealoha and I to take them to fireworks.

KEALOHA: It’ll be fun!

ME: Uhhhhh….

We went to the fireworks.

All evening as dusk slowly descended, I felt a boa constrictor wrapping around my chest. I should’ve brought wine. I should’ve taken an anti-anxiety pill. But I thought I’d be fine. If I could find some French fries, I could float away on the bliss of vinegar and oil and salt and deep-fried happiness. But the food trucks were not selling fries! No! They were only selling giant polish sausages, and I can’t eat that in public without feeling dirty.

Night fell. I was pretty sure I could see Sauron’s Eye flickering in the distance.

Then the explosions started, and thus I began: “Arh! Eek! FUhhhh….dge!”

Here is the rest of the scene:

MOXIE: Mommy screams a lot! I’m going to call that firework the Mommy Screams A Lot firework!

ME: Ach! Ohmygod. My heart! My HEART!

KEALOHA: That one looks like a fireball. I’m going to call that one Fireball!

KEALOHA, MOXIE, AND FRANZ: Ooooh, Ahhhh, Ooooo!

ME: Eek! Ow! NnoooOOoOO!

MOXIE: There’s Mommy Screams A Lot! That one’s my favorite! It makes Mommy jump.

FRANZ: That one looks like a pork chop!

KEALOHA: Pork chop? Huh. I think that one is my favorite.

ME: How. Long. Does. This. LAST?

At the finale, I’m pretty sure I passed out. When I came to, we gathered our stuff and walked with everyone else into the overcrowded parking ramp. By the time we got out an hour later, I’d calmed down remarkably. The kids want to go again next year.

I told them “We’ll see”.

Parenting Win?

It’s Spring Break and we’re on a staycation. Kealoha has to work and the kids’ biodad is off in Sedona with his wife. Their step-siblings are off on a cruise with their dad and their friends have been whisked away by very wealthy parents to Disney World, California, Italy, and I’m pretty sure someone is flying in a private jet to an island somewhere. (This is what happens when your kids go to East Grand Rapids.) I told my kids if they want an island, build one out of Legos and take a bath. I’ve been trying to do fun things with the kids to pass the time. First, I gave them a ball of cheese and said that they could watch the mold grow on it. It would be hours of entertainment! HOURS! My daughter glared at me, popped the cheese ball in her mouth and made that idea disappear.

Plan two. We took them to the Van Andel Museum to see the dinosaur and Lego exhibits. We leaned back in the planetarium and learned about constellations from a very sweet and energetic college-aged student.

Yesterday, I decided to take them to a hotel for the night. I figured if they fell asleep in the car, I’d tell them we were really in Florida. Alas, they didn’t fall asleep during the ten-minute drive, so I lost out on that. We got to the hotel, they put on their suits and spent the next four hours in the pool while I read The Maze Runner.

Kids seem to lack any sort of fear with other people. They see another kid, they walk up to them and start playing. They don’t even bother with names. They just move right on to insta-play. One of the kids swam over to me. Here is what she said while wearing goggles and bobbing in the water:

“That’s my sister over there. She’s being a real you-know-what and all pretending she doesn’t know me.”

“She’s talking to those boys?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“Well, that’s why. When they’re gone, you’ll be friends again.”

“I’m twelve and she’s seventeen.”

“That’s a big age difference. It’ll get better as you get older. You’ll probably like each other when you’re in your twenties.” (The girl seemed to need some comfort. I was trying.)

The girl continued: “We’re five years apart. My mom didn’t even know I was going to happen until she went to get her tubes tied and the doctor said that he wouldn’t do it because there was a baby in there and it was too late so she had to have me.”

I blinked a couple of times. Wiped the sweat from my brow. “Uhh…well…I guess that makes you pretty lucky then. To have, uhm, made…it…here.”

Luckily the kids started fighting then and I could go intervene.

That night, Kealoha joined us for dinner and we went for Mexican food. On the way back to the hotel we stopped at a comic book store, where my son Franz immediately fell in love with a stuffed sperm. He thought it was hilarious. “I can have my very own pet sperm!” he cried, squeezing Spermy close to his heart.

Kealoha said: “Kid, you’ve already got plenty of pet sperm.”

Actually, I’m not sure he said that, but I sorta wish he did.

We compromised and Franz chose a friendly stuffed red blood cell.

Kealoha had to go home (work and all) and I shuffled with the kids back to the hotel for another two-hour swim. At night we snuggled in to watch TV. All we could find was Family Guy. I remember watching that and finding it really funny, so I gave them the thumbs up.

It ended up being an episode where the dad wins a golf excursion with OJ Simpson. I couldn’t stop the episode because, well, it was awfully funny, the kids were laughing, and I was just too tired to worry about if this was an appropriate thing to watch. There was a line where they called a woman a stupid beaver and I gasped. Then the camera panned to show an actual beaver who was very offended being called stupid. We all laughed and then high-fived.

Today it’s Meijer Gardens, walking outside, and me telling the kids to use their imagination or they’ll send me to the crazy house. I’m not quite sure if this staycation is a Parenting WIN but maybe it’s a Parenting GOOD-ENOUGH.

I’m okay with that.

My Favorite Awkward Christmas Present (AKA I'm A Muppet!)

My sister is terrific. Bawdy, loud, emotional, supportive, and one of the best giver of gifts EVER. She buys me pretty things that I didn't even know I wanted. This year for Christmas, she gave me the strangest set up pajamas. They're super soft, yes, but they hint at a future of me wearing a comfortable pajama set to go shopping at Walmart. I think this is what's going to happen next. Already, I live in yoga pants. How far away is the next leap towards just not getting dressed EVER? I bet you in another five years, I'm going to LIVE in pajama sets, and probably forgo wearing a bra too. It's going to be a dark day when that happens.

I was a little horrified by these pajamas. I put them on...and felt...well, about twenty pounds heavier and like I could be the next Muppet star. See below.

Oh, god. They're so awkward! And....I hate to say it....they're so comfortable I might just wear them ALL THE TIME. I've been waiting for a winter storm and one is coming tonight! I can't wait to wear these pajamas! They're calling to me now, the damned sirens. "Tanya...put your legs in the pajamas. You'll be so warm and comforted. Put us on! We love you! We will keep you safe and warm and you won't stop rubbing yourself. TAKE USSSSSS!"

It's hard to resist Pajama Sirens. Honestly. I don't think even Odysseus could do it.

So. I guess my future is now. 2012 begins with me, as a Muppet. A very comfortable Muppet.

One other bonus with these...I may feel enormous while wearing them, but when I take them off it's like stepping right from the BEFORE photo into the AFTER photo. And that's a good feeling.

Monday. Day of Horrors! (I might be exaggerating)

(Please read the following in Rod Serling’s voice)

Imagine if you will, an ordinary Monday morning. It’s fall and cold out. Tanya is a single mom and she doesn’t have her kids this morning. It begins as any other day, quietly, with coffee. But Tanya’s day is about to slip from the ordinary to the massively fucked up. And it begins with her car and a drive….into The Twilight Zone.

(Drop the Rod Serling voice, unless you like reading like him.)

At 8AM I was super excited. I was ready to get to class and be early and correct papers and show the world how Responsible and Together and Dependable I was. I put the key in the ignition and turn it. RRRrrrrruuurruu. Seriously? I tried again. It sounded like a gnome had crawled in there and was having a coughing fit. And then it died! The car died, not the gnome. I sat in my car for a good minute or so and thought “I don’t know what to do.” I had class in a couple of hours and in three hours had to pick up my kids. If my car was broken, how would I get to school? How would I get the kids? Then my mind spiraled: I don’t have enough money to fix the car. If I don’t have enough money, I won’t have a car and I won’t be able to get to school to work and earn money and they’ll fire me and then I’ll have NO money EVER and not be able to take care of my kids and then their dad will get full custody and I AM THE WORST MOTHER EVER.

Hmmm. Anxiety much?

I went inside. Started shaking, picked up the phone, cancelled class. Emailed people until I figured out what to do. Called a tow truck, got it jumped, took it to the shop and found out that it was the battery. That and the tow would cost $200. It could’ve been worse. I waited in the lobby of Fox Honda while golf played on the TV and Aerosmith sang about dudes looking like ladies. Then I got my car.

I picked up the kids. All was well. I was not the worst mother ever. I decided to celebrate by taking the kids to Meijer Gardens. I had a plumber coming to look at the faucet upstairs first though. The upstairs faucet had been leaking (more like streaming) for a couple of months. Biff had fixed it once, but it just insisted on being broken, and I needed to step up and take care of it. The toilet had been making funny noises too so I flushed it just to make sure, and then the funny noises stopped. As did all the water. WTF? Broken car, broken faucet, broken toilet.

The plumber showed up, a handsome man in his later thirties. (I know this because he told me he was in his later thirties.) After a while, I figured out he was hitting on me. After a longer while, I figured out he was flirting with me for his brother who is also a single parent. It was an awkward conversation to say the least. “So you have two kids?”

“Yep.”

“I always wanted kids. I thought one but two would be okay. So…you’re a single mom?”

“Yep.”

“My mom was a single mom too. Hard, but man, I totally respect her. You doing okay?”

“Yeah, I just can’t fix stuff that needs fixing. It’s frustrating.”

“You can call me anytime. I’m around here all the time…”

Uhhhh….

After the Friendly Plumber left, I recorded another $176 in my checkbook.

The kids wanted ‘active time’ so we took off for Meijer Garden. My membership was expired. $22 for an hour (we got there at 4; they closed at 5). We began a race through the exhibits looking at art. Louis really liked this creepy glass-headed kid sculpture. Simone was scared of it. Simone said the art was “Weird” and she wanted me to “vote thumbs down on everything”. She was just tired. Come to think of it, a lot of the art was pretty bad and if I could vote, I might’ve voted thumbs down.

Then we came to a fountain. The kids wanted to make wishes. I gave them a nickel. Simone dropped her nickel in. “I wish for an elephant and a dolphin and some Squeekies.”

Louis chucked his nickel in. “I wish for all the Star Wars action figures and Season three of the Clone Wars.”

I silently tossed my nickel in. I made a tiny wish that I could give my kids a life that made them happy.

Louis said, “Mom, you should’ve wished for a husband.”

Some days, I would’ve explained that there are all kinds of families and you don’t need a husband and blah blah blah…but yesterday, I just laughed.

We went home. We had a picnic in the basement and watched Chowder. I tucked Simone in with her Elnono and Dolphiny and Rosabella the Platypus. We sang the Itsy Bitsy Spider. I tucked Louis in and sang the “Mr Sandman” song with new lyrics that ask for Mr. Sandman to “bring Louis a dream” filled with Star Wars action figures. By eight o’clock, the kids were deep asleep and I was watching Dexter with a friend of mine.

The day started out in the Twilight Zone, but ended up somewhere just in the land of happy. Proof that maybe wishes can come true.

How I Got to the ER. There's a Reason I Call Myself Blunder Woman.

I’ve had a few questions about my recent adventures. How did I get to the ER? How am I handling the kids? What am I going to do? That’s part two of the story.

I managed to make dinner Saturday night while hopping on one leg. My friend Jason came over early to help get the kids to bed, play light sabers with Louis, and then Scrabble with me. I was certain that I’d go to sleep, wake up and be just fine.

I woke up at 1AM. I was not fine. I woke up at 3AM. Still not fine. When the kids woke up at 5AM, I was in tears. At 6AM I called the only person I could to help: my ex: Mr. P. I thought if I could get him to watch the kids on Sunday then I could drive myself to the ER and get taken care of. I called his cellphone. No answer. I waited. I called his home phone. No answer. Then it dawned on me. He was probably with his girlfriend/fiancée. He’s getting married as soon as our divorce is final. I’ve met her and she’s nice. So I called her cell phone. Finally got ahold of them at 7:30 at her home phone.

“I hate to call but I can’t walk and I can barely take care of the kids. Please. Can you help?” I felt like Princess Leia calling on Obi Wan, only it was a little more humiliating. I tried to explain that I wasn’t exaggerating and could they please take the kids for a while. Mr. P. said they’d take the kids to church. “Do you think you could maybe take them overnight? I’m in really bad shape,” I said. He hesitated. He said he had a presentation to do on Thursday and wanted to prepare. “Okay,” I said.

I waited for them to come and called my mom. She said she’d be over as fast as she could. No questions asked; she was coming.

When they came in, I was so embarrassed. There was food all over the floor from the kids ‘helping’ mommy by getting breakfast for themselves. And I hadn’t washed the dishes from the night before, of course, because I couldn’t walk. And I looked horrible.

Miss R. said “Tanya, I could take you to the ER, if that would help.” I wanted to hug her.

“Yes,” I said. “Please.”

So I found myself being driven to the nearest hospital by my ex’s fiancée. We were in his new car, and he was at my place watching the kids. They put me in a wheelchair and Miss R. parked then followed me into the room to get checked in.

The nurse asked if Miss R. was a friend or family. I didn’t know what to say. “Uh, she’s not really either. See I’m divorcing my husband and they met two weeks after we separated and are getting married soon, but they have to wait for the divorce to be finalized so, technically, I guess, she’s my husband’s lover, or maybe my sisterwife.”

It’s a good thing Miss R. answered before I did. “Yes,” she said. “We’re friends.”

Then the nurse began asking me my marital status. “Uh..married?” I said.

“I hear you. I’ve been through a divorce myself. Good riddance,” she said. I saw Miss R. shift in her seat. “But your insurance is still good?”

“God I hope so.”

They left Miss R. and I alone for a bit. We had awkward conversation about her times in the ER with her kids. And then a peculiar thing started happening. You know how the Grinch’s heart started growing? I sort of felt my heart growing too. Here’s this woman, a nice woman, who is helping me and talking to me and we’re connecting about our love for our kids, and then I started crying and she reached over and touched my shoulder, and I realized, shit. I like her. I actually like her.

They x-rayed me. The doctor came in. A tiny woman with very cold hands. “Well,” she said with a big smile. “You broke it. The good news is your husband will just have to take a little extra care of you this Christmas.”

“He sure will!” I said, and laughed, I think a bit too enthusiastically.

A big man came in and put a splint on my leg. “I got to bend your foot. I’m not going to lie to you. This? This is going to hurt.” I appreciated his honesty, but when he bent my foot, I really hated him for at least thirty seconds. I cried again. Big man tears this time.

When he left and Miss R. was wheeling me out, I said “You know, I’m not usually such a train wreck.”

“It’s okay,” she said. “I understand.”

And I have a sneaky feeling that, you know, she really did.

And so I end on a happy note, here is a picture of what I wish my feet were doing right now:

Networking Would Be Easier With Actual Net

Okay, I know that I'm supposed to talk about Afghanistan, football, water on the moon, Thanksgiving, twitter and tweeters, and I promise I'll get there. But first I want to talk about a party I went to last night.

My favorite sound studio, Sound Post, threw a little Happy Hour. That made me laugh because it was a Happy Hour scheduled from 5:30-7:30. In the land of commercial work, Happy Hours last double long. I decided to go. And I brought cookies and little cheesecake bars because that's the kind of girl I am. A domestic dork. I should've arrived in an apron too. I do owe Sound Post for all the work they've done for me/given me and I've calculated that it amounts to a year's worth of food, my soul, and a child. I'm working on all three.

At any rate, I'm an incredibly awkward person. I guess I'm gifted that way. So when I walked in and saw all these professional people, a little part of me died. It occurred to me that networking would be easier with an actual net, and I had visions of me as Spiderman (Not Spiderwoman mind you. My boobs would be distracting in a suit that tight.) I has visions of me as Spiderman shooting webs from my wrists actually forcing people to talk to me and take my business card.

I also wanted to channel a little old fashioned Mr. T. Arrive with my white girl mowhawk, say "Whatchou talking about Willis?" and take people down. Oh, wait. That's Channeling Diffrn't Strokes. See? Awkward.

But the night went okay. Dave from Pop Scholars joined me. He's cute and comforting and very tall. (He did a white boy rap in the booth which is too funny for words.) Oh! I got to bat my eyes at Stuart, always fun, and see Jerri's adorable dog, admire Sean's buzzcut, talk to a few casting people and advertising peeps, and actually have a really fun conversation with a gentlman who ran in fear as soon as he heard that in my books people have sex. A lot of sex. (Which isn't true at all. In "Blunder Woman" Chloe doesn't get laid AT ALL.)

The night ended on a high note when I climbed into the recording booth and did my naughty phone prompts. In a sexy-ish voice: "Thank you for holding. Are you still holding? You must be lonely. I'm lonely too. My name is Tanya. What are you wearing? Mmmmm." Oh. Yes. And I created a new word. "Thank you for holding. We can't answer the phone because we're getting schmastered." I meant to say either 'smashed' or 'plastered' but I somehow said them at the same time.

That was my evening. I liked it. Next time I'll wear an apron though. Just an apron. And maybe heels. That should get some attention.

Dating, Vikings, and Russ's Restaurant

I asked for some suggestions on what to blog about. One was dating...a particular sore spot because while I am a virile woman with hips and attitude, I'm a little frustrated. That sounds wrong. I've just had a string of really bad, awkward things happen in the dating area. But that's a separate post. So, here I wax on and off about dating, and it starts with a story.

I was in the recording studio the other day with Kevin Yon, a teddy bear kind of guy who looks like he must have some Viking DNA, and Kevin was mercilessly teasing me. He was messing with me about the usual things: my sorry history in dating, how I was drunk on Sunday night and sending regrettable emails that ensured my exes will remain exes, and my attraction to quirky, awkward places. See, I have a soft spot in my heart for Russ’s Restaurant, not only because it’s cheap, but mostly because when I’m there, I’m the hottest chick around. That is, of course, because Russ’s Restaurant is frequented namely by centenarians. (That’s not a sci-fi term, I mean people nearing their 100^th birthday). And you know, legitimately, I like their burgers. (Again, I’m referring not to old people but to Russ’s Restaurant. They serve a killer olive burger.) And they serve pie. Everyone should have pie within easy reach. It’s just a philosophy of mine.

At any rate, Kevin was telling Stuart about this place and how one time I coerced Mr. Yon into going with me. “Stuart!” he bellowed into the microphone. “Stuart, I ordered a salad and it was WHITE. The vegetables were WHITE. And I don’t even want to tell you about the women there. Hair dye, man. Hair. Dye.” Kevin thinks that  obsession with this restaurant could be why I’m currently not dating. I tend to agree with him.

Yes. I like Russ’s Restaurant, and even Lawrence Welk…but I’d only take a guy I was dating to experience the place with me once I felt comfortable enough in our relationship. You know, comfortable enough that he wouldn’t run in fear. “They all run in fear from me anyway,” I said. I was feeling sorry for myself. I have a right to, as I’ve had a pretty big string of bad dating luck. And, oh yeah, a failed marriage.

Kevin said, wisely, that I should stop wanting to date and then I’d find someone to date. But here’s the thing. If you want to go out with someone, you simply want to. It’s sort of like saying “Stop being hungry and then you’ll have something to eat.” When that’s not true at all. No. When you’re hungry, if you don’t eat you know what happens? You get all emaciated and a bloated belly and then you DIE. You. Die. What girl doesn’t want someone to think she’s pretty and take her to dinner? I’m not asking for backrubs or marriage, people, just…you know…someone who isn’t gay. Isn’t gay is pretty much my only requirement, and actually, if the person is gay and at least tells me I’m pretty then I don’t even care. I guess I’m saying I just want to leave the house on occasion. Which I’m doing.

Just ask Pop Scholars. I went out with them and had A DRINK. A big old tall gin & tonic. I only drank half, but still, that’s a start.

Lost where I was going with this. Oh, yes. Kevin and Stuart teasing me about dating. Now, seriously, I have had opportunities, it’s just I’m being picky. And I’ve decided that what I want is someone I can laugh with. Someone who is quirky and awkward and geeky and I can be ridiculous with and, yes, laugh. Because if you can’t laugh with someone, then how can you practice those illustrations in the Kama Sutra and follow it up with a big old olive burger at Russ’s.

That’s all I’m saying. And Kevin, yes, next time I’m drinking alone on a Sunday night and I decide to start writing drunken emails, you’re on the top of my list. Better beware, Viking Boy. BEWARE….

Heartbreak & Law of...

Heartbreak and the Law of Attraction

Okay. It's embarrassing, but I think I'm going all New Age and finally watched "The Secret". It was recommended by my mom, my therapist, three girlfriends, some guy friends, and when a stranger approached me in D&W and said "Lady, you have some issues. Watch THE SECRET" I thought maybe the universe was trying to tell me something.                                                                                                                                      And what is it trying to tell me? Nothing I haven't heard before. I have a bit of trouble with relationships. Not just a failed marriage (though I'm still not convinced that's the right word for it) but I seem to only fall for men who aren't really available. Two big ones in my past: one in Grand Rapids (who became the subject of my book), one in New York, and one recently.

All three of these men I've been deeply attracted to or felt some kind of connection with. I'm not sure what they felt for me, though I'm fairly certain the feelings weren't exactly reciprocated. And that's the trouble. I choose men who don't really want to date me. Most recently, the man I've been sort of involved with told me from the start that he wasn't ready for a committed relationship. I was okay with that. I really thought I was at least. And then as time went on, I sort of started to give him my heart, and my focus, and my energy. Thursday night he let me know that he IS ready for a committed relationship...just not with me. The woman he's chosen is a woman he met before me. "If I'd met you earlier," he said "If I met you first..." Blah blah blah.                                                                                                                                                                                                                    I may sound blase, but believe me I am not. I feel crushed. Crumpled. To make it worse, today at the grocery store, I saw the woman he chose instead of me. She isn't necessarily a BETTER version of me: just an alternate one. She's more exotic looking than I am, maybe she's prettier, she has two kids too (both girls whereas I have a boy and a girl) and I heard her say to her daughters, "Let's get a movie we can watch at Mr's house." (I'm not putting his name in here.) Ah. So. There I am at Meijer with my two kids picking out playdough for a weekend alone, and there she is with her kids picking out a movie to watch with the man I thought I could love. Well. A whole lot of heartbreak there.

Why did this happen? The answer is: I Don't Know. I am thinking about the Law of Attraction. Do I attract in my life men who don't fully want me because it replays stuff from my childhood? That's a good possibility. But it's honestly not what I want. What I want is someone to share a passion and a life with, in small moments. And I want someone to want me, and for the timing to be right.

Maybe the trouble is that for years, I've believed I was cursed romantically. Things seem to support that...but I'm going to try and flip my thinking. I'm going to start believing that I'm blessed. If I step back and look at my life, I am blessed. And I may not be able to share the life I have with someone right now in the way I want, I trust that it will happen eventually. Until then, it's me and the kiddos, and playdough, and teaching, and performing, and my books. I've been neglecting my writing and it's calling to me again. Maybe there's a Secret or two in there that I need to discover too.

For anyone reading this, I wish you good cheer and happiness. We all deserve a little kindness, whether or not we're actively attracting it in our lives. Surely the universe is, ultimately, a place of love, and it's infinite enough that we should all have a little piece of love all to ourselves.

I Kissed A Girl...Blunder #2,507 Age 8

Here's a true story. The story of my first awkward love. I was 8. I was an extremely ugly little girl. If I'd been a boy, I would've been handsome. In fact, with my feathered hair and paint-spattered Michael Jackson t-shirt, people thought I was a little boy. It seemed all the girls in Mrs. Welch's class had boyfriends. Ian and Missy spent their recesses making out. Cathy flashed her frilly underpants at every boy who passed. I dug holes in the dirt and wondered if earthworms felt pain.

And then I met Aaron.

My mom signed me up for a summer class in creative writing and how to make jewelry from egg cartons. It was great. And there he was. Blond hair, blue eyes, Aaron staring right at me. "Hey," he said, "Hey," I said. We wrote together. We made matching necklaces. We held hands and sang the duet from Grease "Summer Loving." He was my destiny. At the end of the day, our affair was over. I didn't want it to be over! I wanted to be like Missy on recess sucking face. I deserved to suck face!

"Will you write me?" I asked. "Sure," he said. We wrote down our names and addresses. And then he leaned in and kissed me. Right there, in front of everyone, he kissed me! I couldn't believe it. 

Then I read his note. He spelled his name weird. Not "Aaron" like I thought but "Erin". 

"Your name's Tanya?" he said. 

"Your name's Erin?" I said. 

Wait a minute. My first love was....A GIRL!!! And she thought I was a boy. She was just as homely as I was. We were both cute boys, but as girls, man, class A woofers. We both took off running.

I never saw her again.

You know, though...it was a nice kiss. 

Things Not To Say At A Christmas Party

Things Not To Say at a Christmas Party

There are some gaffs I've made that I've never gotten over. One is a Christmas party I attended years ago with my roommate, Keeley. I'd been invited to the party by Sara…she was part of our writing/acting group and she was pretty cool. I didn't know what she did as a job, but I knew she made money and it had something to do with medicine. To me, though, she was an actress. Just like I'm sure that to her, I was a playwright and not the girl in charge of fundraising at a local nonprofit.

Keeley didn't want to go. I forced her. "It's going to be so much fun! We'll meet lots of people, we'll get gussied up, free food. Come on, it's the holidays. And we're bored. And broke. And seriously in need of a party."

So Keels broke out the makeup and we played dress up. She wore a long black skirt with a bright blue angora sweater. Very chic, very stylish, very Keeley. I wore thigh-high black boots, a neon pink skirt and a stretchy black top. I was going for cute and artistic, but I think I just looked desperate.

We walked in the door and I knew we were in trouble. Everyone there wore khaki. A sea of khaki. In December. Khaki pants, shirts, skirts, even a khaki suit. There were about equal men and women, but everyone seemed paired up. The music played softly in the background: something classical and smart. People milled around talking in hushed tones, using a lot of medical sounding terms. "Wooo-hoooo!" I said to Keeley. "Are you ready to par-tay?".

She sat down in a corner and hugged her bag. I walked to the food table to get some dip. I interrupted a group of people and to show Keeley that we really belonged here, I busted right into that group and introduced myself. "Hey there! I'm Tanya, a friend of Sara's." they looked at me, at my outfit, collectively blinked. "So. Okay. What are you talking about?"

"We're talking about work," a woman said. "We're pediatrists."

 "Wow. All of you? Pediatrists, huh?"

They nodded, eight heads bobbing. "Are there that many people in Grand Rapids with bad feet?"

More collective blinking. "You must like warts," I offered. Hehehe. "I've got one I could show you. It's a doozy!"....

The woman swallowed a smirk. "I believe you're thinking of podiatrists. We're pediatrists. More commonly called pediatricians. You know, we help children."....

"Sure. Yeah!" I said. "How are their, uhm, feet? Probably pretty good." Then I dipped a celery stalk into some ranch dressing, got a glob on my shirt and turned to Keeley. Before I could make my escape, a gentle man in the group asked: "And what do you do, Tanya?"

I could have told them I wrote, produced plays, acted. But none of it paid me any money. And it was only local stuff. So I told them my real job: "I work in fundraising. At Gilda's Club. It's a cancer support center. A great place. Super fun."

I swear there was a gasp. 

The Pediatrist Woman said: "Cancer? Fun? My mom just died of cancer. It wasn't fun. It was terrible. Four horrendous years."

A guy said: "Yeah. My dad has cancer right now."

Well, Merry Christmas everyone.

The khaki sea parted.  I walked over to Keeley. "You ready now?" she asked. And we took off quietly for turkey ruebens.

Sara never invited me to another party again. I guess Christmas parties and cancer don't mix. Who'd have guessed?

I Still Want Your Real Blunder Woman Story

I Want Your Real Blunder Woman Story 

 

 My friend Dionne posted a hilarious update that went like this:

From Dionne Thornton, New York City:

I was almost a victim of a Nigerian dating scam! My life simply kicks ass! I mean really, who, but me???. This "great guy" had to fly to London for a business trip, but BA lost his luggage and now he's stranded. His "friend" is trying to send him money, but needs my credit card to do it. Of course his cc was in his luggage... Ugh...I'm I supposed to be that gullible???

She said it her story should be another chapter in Blunder Woman. 

It occurred to me that we all have Blunder Woman (Or Blunder Man) moments in dating. We do stupid things, we love the wrong people, we wear ridiculous get ups, we cook fresh crab rangoons while wearing an apron at a keg party because it said to bring a dish to pass even though everyone else just brought chips and salsa.

Er, that last one is mine. 

Here's another true story: I really did wait outside a Brooklyn apartment for three hours in the rain because the guy I was dating said "I'll be there in just a minute" and I didn't want to hurt his feelings by leaving when he'd called to say he was running late. 

Sad, but also a wee bit funny.

So send me your Blunder Moment with your name as you want it to appear and I'll post it on the site. After all, sharing is a bit of therapy, really. Here's a cheap way to do it. And who knows? Maybe I'll write a sequel to Blunder Woman using your story for inspiration. 

Tanya

  

Send Blunder Woman stories to:

heyblunderwoman@gmail.com .

It can be long or short. 

The Would Be Hacker

I’d love to say that being in a loving and rewarding relationship with my boyfriend makes me more stable when it come to my behaviour. Well, it does to an extent, but now and then, ever so occasionally, I’ll fall off the wagon and insanity will set in once more.

They say the devil makes work for idle thumbs and that’s the only excuse I can feasibly give for why, one day, while bored at work, something strange came over me.

It all began as I innocently contemplated how well I really knew my beau. Kind of like my own Mr and Mrs Quiz:

What colour is his toothbrush? Blue.

Where was he born? Hertfordshire.

What's his favourite book? Oh Christ, I don’t know. Noddy Goes To Toytown?

But did I actually know how his mind worked? Psychologically?

What happened next was always going to be a bad idea. But like a child who can’t resist playing with fire, I carried on anyway. Foolishly, I decided to see if I knew my boyfriend well enough to guess his hotmail password.

With the benefit of hindsight, this could obviously be misconstrued as wanting to pry into my boyfriend’s private correspondence, but I genuinely saw it as bit of a sudoku-style challenge - if I guess the password, I am clearly a genius!

I tried different variations. Titles of songs he liked, my name, his mum’s name, his ex-girlfriend’s (I'm not sure what I would have done if that one had actually worked). But, alas, nothing. I was just cursing my chap's superior brain, when to my horror a message popped up announcing that the login had been suspended. Because of ‘security’ issues.

‘Shit!’ I thought. ‘I've broken his email!’

Panicked, I confessed my crime to my workmate Isabel.

‘You tit!’ she laughed, shaking her head.

Then I called my boyfriend and owned up. My admission was met with a deathly silence. ‘Why were you trying to hack into my email, Charlotte?’ he asked.

I noticed he’d used my full Christian name instead of ‘Charls’ or ‘my little mentalist’, which indicated I was in big trouble.

‘I don't knoooow, I was booooored’ I whined churlishly. 

He sighed and then uttered the following mortifying sentence: ‘I’m really disappointed in you.’ Bugger. As it happened, my futile amusement had another alarming consequence.

That day I’d been wearing a 24-hour monitor which took my blood pressure every half an hour. The doctor had insisted on it, as my BP is routinely high for my age and he wanted to see how it averaged during the day. Typically, it went off, whirling and squeezing my arm, in the middle of the attempted-hacking drama. When I inspected the reading after my grovelling phone call, my blood pressure had gone through the roof.

I could have died of a heart attack. I blame the devil.

Charlotte Ward, London

author of: 

Why Am I Always The One Before The One?' Here's the website:

www.theonebeforetheone.co.uk

Peekaboo -- Real Blunder Woman

Real Blunder Woman #1

Peekaboo

So I met this really cute guy at the roller rink and he was a little older than me. We exchanged phone numbers and I was thrilled when he actually called me.

The next day he called and we chatted for quite awhile. During the conversation he asked where I lived so I told him. Then he said he was having his friend drive him over and he'd be there in a few minutes.

What?!

I wasn't expecting that and I didn't know how to tell him I didn't want him to come over. He was older! and I was home alone.

So when he pulled into the driveway and rang my doorbell, I hid in the family room and peeked out the window through the bushes watching him until he gave up and went away.

When he got back home, he called me and wondered why I hadn't been home. Ummm.... I said I had to take a cup of sugar to a neighbor or something equally as ridiculous. I didn't have a problem with him calling or visiting again.

I don't think I've ever told anyone that story before!

Andrea Dickinson www.andreadickinson.com