What happened because of the steaks...

If you follow me on Twitter, then you know that I had a bit of a heartbreak this weekend. Biff and I had a huge fight over something ridiculous and he grabbed all his stuff and stormed out of the house. He didn’t even say goodbye.

And it started with steak. Stupid steak.

We went to the grocery store with the kids and I asked what we should do for dinner. Biff said “Steaks!” I said that sounded good and turned to the kids and asked if they’d like Crabby Patties (what we call hamburgers, a nod to Spongebob Squarepants). So we picked up stuff.

It was a nice day. Biff helped me with yardwork, cleaned out my garage and while he prepped the grill and pushed Simone on the swing, I prepped the food. He grilled mushrooms and green peppers and then I gave him four hamburgers and the two steaks to grill.

When the food was done, I prepped the burgers for the kids. He asked me for a plate. He put the two steaks on the plate and asked for a knife. I gave it to him. Then he took the plate with the two steaks to the table and sat down with it, prepared to eat. And here’s the part where it gets ridiculous. “Are you going to eat those two steaks?” I asked, shocked, my face red with heat.

“Yeah,” he said.

“Well, what am I supposed to eat? I mean those are two steaks, I assumed you’d cooked one for me. You didn’t? You cooked them both for yourself?”

“I thought you were going to have a hamburger,” He said. He offered one of the steaks to me. “Here. Take one. You want one?” But by that time, I was so mad at the selfishness of the act that the idea of eating steak turned my stomach.

Why did I get so mad? Because the steak seemed to be a symbol of something greater. I assumed at the grocery store that he was cooking us steaks. I thought it was sweet. Then he sat down to eat both of them and it struck me as so insensitive and self-focused. And in a rush I thought of all the little things I did to try to please him. Cooking food he’d like and avoiding the food I love, knowing it would turn his stomach. How I tried to ask him questions about his day, told him he’s cute, told him I liked the way he kissed me. He told me once that I didn’t need to tell him those things. He didn’t need to hear it. I said, “Well, I do.” Meaning, it would be nice to hear that he appreciated me, cared about me. I needed to feel tended to.

Which was why on my birthday when there was no card or tweet or message on Face Book, no flowers, no cake, that I also felt deflated. I’d told him how my husband for 5 years never remembered my birthday or scheduled a trip out of the country during that time. How my ex had told me once that I shouldn’t have cake on my birthday because it was too fattening. Biff said that was horrible, but on my birthday, he did nothing to show me that I somehow mattered to him.

Maybe I’m high maintenance. I don’t know. But I honestly believe that a relationship and another person, a person you are close with physically and emotionally, needs to be tended to. You treat them kindly, like a rare orchid.

You make sure they have the food they need, the affection, you tell them they’re special. (Not that I do this with my orchid. Mostly I just water it once a week…but still. You get what I’m saying.)

I tried to talk to Biff, to clarify if he’d ever considered if I wanted steak. He said of course he had, but when he saw the four burgers he assumed I was eating those. (I made extras. The kids like leftovers) And yes, it was ridiculous. But then he got so mad that anger just poured off him. “I can’t talk about this,” he said. And he stormed outside.

I waited. I waited for a half hour. I went outside where he was sitting smoking. “If you can’t talk about the little things,” I asked, “How will you talk about the big?”

“This is ridiculous,” he said. “I’ll be out of here tomorrow.”

I thought about his anger and his inability to talk to me. I thought about how our relationship wasn’t the partnership I’d hoped, that I was suddenly paying for almost everything and driving him everywhere and letting him stay with me while he looked for a job and an apartment. I thought of my two kids sleeping upstairs and what would happen if he got angry at them? If he couldn’t talk about steak, how could he talk about disappointments or frustration or miscommunication. “I’ll give you cab money,” I said. “You can leave tonight.”

In the end, he didn’t take the money. He packed his rollaway suitcase and his bag of clothes. He left his yogurt and tequila. I heard the wheels of the suitcase going up my sidewalk. I didn’t know where he would go, but I also knew there wasn’t anything I could do about that. He didn’t say goodbye.

Biff has apologized and I appreciate that. He said he’d like to try again and that he wants to work on talking this through. He sent me a note saying I shouldn’t change how I write because of him, essentially giving me freedom to write this. But I can’t go back to him right now. I want a partner. An equal. I want someone who treats me tenderly. Someone who would offer me a steak in the grocery store and then say, “If you don’t want steak, what can I make for you that you will love?”

I want someone who’ll make me a birthday cake.

It would be easy to give up on this, to lower my wants, to settle for someone who seems to like me well enough. But I made a promise to myself that I wouldn’t, especially after how my ex treated me during our marriage. So I won’t settle. And if being strong means loneliness, I can deal with that. I’ve dealt with much worse.

That's It! I'm Joining Weight Watchers, A Support Group & A Cult!

It’s humid out. This is the kind of weather where I imagine what it would feel like to live in the currents of a giant’s hot, steamy breath—after   consuming a gargantuan sandwich. In other words: it’s gross outside.

I think, truly, I must have some spiritual connection to the weather. On sunny, cool days I’m generally intelligent and well-adjusted. On sunny, hot days I’m a little hyper and I tend to expose my cleavage on a whim. On cold days, I’m cuddly and contemplative. Today, it being gross outside and all, I’m just plain moody.

If I played a role in Snow White and the Eight Dwarves I’d be…oh…Moody Dame. (Not quite a bitch, you see, just moody.) And when I’m moody, I obsess. Endlessly. Over everything in my life. Harrumph.

(I’m starting to annoy myself so I’m going to take a break and come back to this. Maybe I’ll have a story to tell and stop being so whiny.)

TAKE #2

This morning, I put on my yoga pants and looked at my legs and was faced with the horror that they looked, indeed, like sausage stuffed in a casing. Why? Why have I let myself get this way? And why am I eating peanut butter chocolate pie while I write this?

TAKE #3

Starting over again.

Recent stresses. My ex got married on July 3^rd: three days after my 37^th birthday, one day before the 4^th of July. He picked up the kids after his 20 mile run and then Biff and I sat quietly in the house. I started to go insane. I called my sister and she invited us over. Sweet relief. So Biff and I travelled to Belding and then went down to the beach where my sis immediately hitched us a ride on a party pontoon boat. We spent the next five hours drinking, swimming, and laughing. I had to be home at 8PM to pick up the kids. P and his new wife were dropping them off so they could catch a flight to Hawaii for their honeymoon. (Need I say that my ex and I never went on a honeymoon? He said it was too expensive.)

It turned out to be a great day. Biff and I laughed. He rubbed my back in front of people. Kissed me. My sis and I were cracking each other up. And there was a little bell inside me ringing that my ex was now remarried. Why did it sadden me so when I don’t feel any emotion for him? Biff said maybe I’m jealous that he’s moved on. It isn’t that though. Really. I’m jealous because I want to be married and I want a honeymoon and I want a man who loves me and my kids, loves me so much he can’t fathom NOT being married to me. Then I look at Biff and categorize every comment he’s made about looking for work outside of Michigan, that there’s nothing keeping him here, how he’s not really looking for an apartment because he could end up anywhere, and I think hmmmm. How much does he feel for me? Am I just a convenience? And I think maybe it’s just a matter of time before he’s out the door.

My sis says there’s no way to know if someone is going to break your heart. You just have to enjoy your time with them. But how can you do that when you don’t trust them? My ex met a woman, fell in love with her, asked her to marry him. It was easy. And now they have that comfort of being a couple, of living a shared life. Me? I’m still hobbling along, legs of sausage.

TAKE #4

I remind myself that some people like sausage. Especially Germans. And, well, foodies.

Random Blogness

Okay. Yes. I know I’m posting a blovel on Wednesdays….and shouldn’t that be enough? Shouldn’t writing about an asylum in the 1930’s assuage my need to blog to the universe because I’m already churning out material? You’d think that would be true, but it’s not. (Say in Captain Kirk’s voice) I. Must. Blog!

*Currently looking around my living room because now that I’m blogging I realize I don’t actually have anything to blog about*

Random things then.

1.         Things with Biff Turlington are going quite well. So well, I’ve almost stopped wanting to break up with him every day. This has nothing to do with him, mind you, but with my own mind and that crazy control freak who lives inside my brain pulling random levers. There’s one lever she likes to pull called PANIC. Any time something is going well, she wraps her perfectly manicured hand (if I’m inventing someone to control my emotions, she’s going to be more put-together than I am) around the lever and braces for pulling. It’s like my whole body tenses every time things are going well, preparing for when they’re going to take a sharp turn into chaos. So far, I’m still braced for it.

2. Hanging out with my family for my nephew’s graduation party, my sister looked at me. “I like your cleavage,” she said. I nodded. “You should show it more often.”

“I know, I’m trying, but I have certain body issues.”

She looked at me and blinked. “That’s stupid. You’re beautiful…but I have to tell you…” she reached for my arm and knocked her finger on my sports watch. “THAT fucking thing is hideous. Take it off.”

“I can’t take it off.”

“Why?”

I didn’t know how to answer her. Because by NOT wearing the watch, I couldn’t randomly time things like how long I walk, how long in-between thinking about sandwiches and panic, or set several alarms to remind me of random things throughout the day. “I’ll have a white line from the sun,” I said, knowing surely this would end it.

She looked at me and blinked again. Damn her infernal blinking!! “Take the fucking thing off. You are not allowed to wear that hideous watch unless you are running or at band camp.”

I took the watch off.

3.         Random things I’ve said or almost said and then realized taken out of context, they sound ridiculous.

“I want to eat your pickle. I must eat your pickle! Can I have it? Your pickle? Just a little bit? Pleeeeaaase?”

“I like having a little man inside me every now and again.”

“That’s dawkward.” (I was trying to say either dorky or awkward, but my mouth wouldn’t cooperate.)

4.         Tomorrow’s my birthday. I turn 29.

Only part of that is true.

Okay…I turn 37. 37!! I remember when I worked at the Beverley Hills Café in Miami, there were these brothers Cristian (pronounced “cris-tee-in”) and Felipe. They were well-muscled and seductive and had Spanish accents to die for. One was 35 and the other was 37. I thought they were absolutely ancient. (I was 24 at the time.) But one night Cristian kissed me. It was a kiss that changed my life. And ancient or not, it was an incredible kiss, in a car, under palm trees, in the heat so thick you could run your fingers through it. So. I guess if he was ancient at 37 and could kiss like that, and now I’m ancient…uh…Forgot where I was going with that. Now I just want to kiss. Where’s Biff?

5.         Biff tells me not to freak out and relax. I think this is good advice. I’m trying.

Balancing Wonder Woman, 2 Kids, and Biff While in a Bikini

The day started with an omen. I put on my new bright blue Wonder Woman t-shirt. Simone, my 4-year-old daughter told me it was too young for me and I shouldn’t buy it but I bought it anyway. When she saw me wearing it, she was mad because she wanted one too, and who can blame her? I’m obsessed with Wonder Woman. Who wouldn’t want to be her? Long dark hair. Killer cleavage. Gold bracelets. And an INVISIBLE plane. I thought I could use some her juju. On went the shirt.

I spent the wee hours of the morning cooking, cleaning, watching the kiddos. Simone gave me a hug then pulled a long sticker that was on my boob. It was marked LARGE. So, yeah, the only thing I channeled from Wonder Woman was an invisible sticker that let everyone know I have big knockers, and with the right push-up, killer cleavage.

She's Hot. Who Wouldn't Want to Be Her?

Good thing I didn’t go out like that.

Biff joined us around ten. He met the kids yesterday and much to my surprise, he wanted to come back. I’ve been struggling with the idea of having him meet the kids or not. Some people say you wait six months and until you’re super serious; some say you introduce them right away. We debated this. In the end, I decided that I wanted him to meet them. We are serious, I think. Serious enough at this stage. And I do feel like I’m living a double life, and I’m tired of keeping the two sides separate.

While it’s not exactly a Clark Kent/Superman kind of life, I do have the one side of me that is a sexy, single woman who’s passionate and artistic and emotional; the other side of me has two kids, wipes noses and bottoms, cooks, cleans, says ridiculous things like “Do not put your butt in each other’s faces!” and wears yoga pants even though I don’t do yoga. It’s not pretty.

I guess I was scared to let Biff meet the kids for a couple of reasons. What if they hate each other? What if he’s mean to them? What if the kids are mean to him? What if once he sees me as a Mom he’ll just see me as someone who once lactated? And how sexy is that?

And then, at lunch, Louis (he’s 5) said “So, Biff, do you have a wife?”

I about choked. Biff just smiled and said, “No. No, I don’t.”

Louis shrugged his shoulders and then said, “Well, you could marry my mom if you wanted.”

Yep. I was officially dying.

Biff said, “Would you like me to do that?”

Louis shrugged again. “If she wanted to. It’s her choice really.” Then Louis came over and gave me a kiss. I thanked him for taking care of me. I sort of feel like in that kiss he was telling me that whatever I wanted was okay with him. That's pretty spectacular from a five-year-old.

The kids liked Biff. I think they want to see me happy and I have to say that today, I was. I was also terrified. I am terrified. What if I made the wrong decision? What if Biff is freaked out by the demands of dating a woman with kids? What if, what if, what if.

I don’t know.

It’s night now and Biff is home and my kids are asleep. I just put on my yoga pants and slipped back into my Wonder Woman t-shirt. If anything, she reminds me that a woman, no matter her situation, is powerful. She can fight crime, work during the day, fly a jet, be an Amazon, and look sexy while doing it all. That’s all I’m trying to do right now with my life…everything. Some days, I think I manage okay.

A List of My Faults & Yes, I'm Still with Biff

Over the last few days I had several conversations with friends that began with “So, uh, did you break it off with Biff?”

“Huh?” I said each time, truly perplexed.

“Well, I read your blog and it sure sounds like you broke up. You should read it.”

There’s something funny in there with a friend telling you to read the blog you just wrote. So I did read it. Oh. Okay. I see where you could infer that. No. I didn’t break it off. I was ready to. Internally, I had my car keys out and was making all the leaving noises I could: “That was fun. See ya later! Take care!” But then something stopped me. Two things, really. First I talked to Biff again. And secondly, I talked to myself.

I’m not like those circus people, you know half-man, half-woman…with one side looking like Diana Ross and the other just looking like a prepubescent teen with a bad mustache. I mean, I let myself get quiet and I figured out what I wanted. Did I want to give up on Biff because of a few things he said? No. I didn’t. I don’t. And why? Because he’s human. And so I am.

In an effort to be fair, all my blogs and experiences are from my perspective. And while I try to be honest, I haven’t been 100% honest, because who can do that? Here, then, is a list of my faults:

1)         I’m neurotic. I think Woody Allen actually vacations in my brain.

2)         I’m emotional and sensitive. Good things usually, but sometimes it gets me in trouble.

3)         I have Trust Issues. What this means is that I expect people to let me down. Childhood thing. So sometimes it’s easier to break something off first or get all cold and sort of force them to lose interest, than it is to risk getting hurt.

4)         I want to give up gluten because like 4 people in my family have issues with it. They gave it up and lost their belly fat. But every time I decide I’m going to give up gluten, I somehow drive to Kentucky Fried Chicken and eat chicken and biscuits and then have a side of biscuits and then I have biscuits for dessert. When I decide to eat gluten, I don’t want KFC or biscuits.

5)         I’m high maintenance. This is progress actually. I used to be low maintenance which means I did what everyone else wanted me to because I didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. Now, when something doesn’t feel right, I say so.

6)         I’m honest. Is this a fault? It is when socially you’re supposed to keep something to yourself, but you just blurt out your emotions. An example of this is over a perfectly nice dinner telling your boyfriend “I don’t think this is working” simply because you sort of feel that way at that precise moment.

7)         I worry that I don’t know how to make the right decision on anything from choosing the right bra to the right partner in life. I’d really like someone to give me a rulebook. I’m great at rules.

8)         I’m creatively cocky. I like what I’m working on, I like the stuff I’m creating and if someone gives me grief about it, I get cranky.

9)         I’m cranky 80% of the time.

I’m not going to do a #10 because a redheaded vixen told me that 9 is a magical number.

So. No. I didn’t break it off with Biff. Before we made any big decisions, we decided to figure out just exactly how long we’ve been dating. “It was cold when we went out first, wasn’t it?” I asked.

“I’m pretty sure,” he said.

Silently, we counted the weeks together on the calendar. Huh. Six weeks. “That’s it?” I asked. “Feels like longer.”

“I know,” he said. We didn’t mean in a bad way, it just felt like we were more comfortable with each other than just at six weeks. “You really can’t have this serious of a freak-out right now,” he said.

“I can’t?”

“No. It’s too early. See?” He pointed to the calendar. I thought about that. It sort of made sense.

“When can I have a big freak-out, because I’ll tell you right now, I’ll have one.”

He didn’t even pause. He said: “Week sixteen.”

“I can have a big freak-out at week sixteen? Is that a promise?”

“Yes,” Biff said.

That made me smile. That and he mowed my lawn.

That’s not a euphemism people. He actually cut my grass.

Still sounds like a euphemism.

He tended my lawn with care? He trimmed my bushes?

Aw, fuck it.

He made me laugh is reason enough.

A Leg and a Thigh (mini-vacay part one)

After two weeks solid of narration, and three busy weeks with the kids, and starting a new session of classes and one I haven’t taught before…well, I was feeling way overwhelmed and desperately needed a vacation. But where can you go when you really only have a day and a half off? I decided to book an expensive inn in Saugatuck, Michigan. I could pick up Biff after work, drive twenty more minutes, and we’d be there. Romantic inn, walks along the beach, total relaxation.

Now I’ve stayed at B&B’s before and I always found them a little creepy, but this one was highly recommended and from the website the rooms looked pretty spacious and private. More quirky hotel than creepy inn. When I talked to the innkeeper I told her I was a writer and needed a room with a desk, something private and relaxing. “We have just the room for you. It’s called the Kyoto.” Okay. I envisioned a spacious room and a bubble jet bath and me lounging around in my bathrobe while Biff volunteered to give me body rubs. Mmmm.

Walking up to the inn felt pretty okay. We walked a lilac lined sidewalk and past giant white tulips, a beautiful miniature Japanese Maple, and into the inn. We were welcomed by a little old woman with snow-white hair. She complained of allergies. Suddenly, there was a twist in my stomach. It felt a little creepy. It felt like staying at your grandparents’ house, if you have grandparents you don’t know very well and are afraid might punish you if you’re too loud.

Up the creaky stairs and into the spacious Kyoto with….wait a minute…it wa a teeny, tiny room loaded with wicker furniture and a shower that (as Biff said) you had to battle to get into because of the hundred curtains. It was also 80 degrees. “A little trouble with the heating,” the innkeeper said then she adjusted the thermostat. I think she turned it up.

It was okay. We were having hor dourves and wine in half an hour and it was my mini-vacay, time to relax, be romantic, and eat.

I’d envisioned a group of hip thirty-year-olds (like us, yes?) in town for min-vacays too. Maybe we’d meet other writers and movie people and artists. Then I got the second twinge in my stomach. We were the youngest (by decades) of the twelve couples. And everyone was having an anniversary or a wedding. “Someone’s going to ask us if were married,” I said. “Tell them that we are married but not to each other. We’ll say we’re here to have an affair.” Biff agreed.

Later as Biff stood in line for seconds (the appetizers were good: bruschetta with lots of garlic, zucchini straws, fancy cheeses) I heard someone ask him if we had just gotten married. “Noooooo,” he said. “Been there, done that, don’t think I’m doing that again.” And that’s when I got my third twinge. Not that I want to marry him, for god’s sake, it’s even too early to even think such a thing, but there was something in that phrase that scared the crap out of me. Will need to see my therapist to figure it out.

“I don’t want to talk to people,” I said.

“That’s okay, me either,” Biff said. We ate. We smiled. Then listened as the old people around us talked about the massive infestation of tent worms, how you can here them crunch under your feet. At the time I was crunching bruschetta with garlic chopped in pesto. I imagined crunching caterpillars. I set it down.

Then we went to dinner. We walked the block into town and settled in at Phil’s, a local pub/bar type restaurant with brown paper on the tables. It smelled like fish. I like fish so that was okay. We sat reading the menu waiting for our portabella fries to be delivered.

“They have chicken, Biff. Look!” I pointed to the fried chicken platters at the bottom of the menu. Biff does a good job of trying all the weird kind of food I like, but at the heart of it, he’s a simple man. Not simple as in, uhm, mentally challenged, but as in a Midwestern eater. That sounds bad. I don’t mean it to. At any rate, I pointed to the chicken.

He looked at me intensely. “I’ll take a leg and a thigh.”

I blinked. Why was his voice all low? I lowered mine too. “Ohhhhh, that sounds good. You must be a dark meat man. I prefer white meat. I like wings the most…” I was purring it, channeling Eartha Kitt.

He just looked at me, exasperated like. “Tanya, no. I was flirting with you. I wasn’t saying I wanted dark meat. I was saying I want YOUR leg and thigh. Can I have YOUR leg and thigh please?”

Oh.

I laughed for about five minutes over that one and then said “Sure.” He ended up having an open face steak sandwich, and to broaden my horizons I ordered a steak salad (it still had spinach and goat cheese so I was comfortably within my safe zone.)

We walked back to the inn. Crept quietly up the stairs. I took a shower.  A perfectly nice shower but I still mourned that there was no tub shooting massaging water. I put a robe on. I kissed Biff a little bit. And then fell deeply asleep. It was 9PM, and I was tired. Exhausted. But relaxed.