The Case of the Missing Tree (True Story)
THE BACK-STORY
Before I tell this story, I need to tell the back-story. About ten years ago (wow) I was living with my friends Brendan and George. They took me in after I moved home from living in NYC and helped me get on my feet. While there, we had great meals, fun talks, and just plain weird experiences. One of those was a day that Brendan and I were hanging out in the backyard. George had been at his cottage all day and came home. And he came home pissed. His face was red, smoke pouring out of his ears, that kind of thing. “Where’s my tree?” he asked angrily. Brendan and I just looked at each other. We asked, of course, what he was talking about. “Someone took my beautiful tree out of the front yard!”
It was sort of a crazy thing to say since that tree was like thirty feet tall and massive. You don’t just take a tree. And anyway, we’d have noticed, right? The three of us walked to the front of the yard. George pointed to a spot in the middle of the yard that was covered with fresh dirt and seeds and, indeed, no tree. During the day, someone had come and taken the entire tree…and Brendan and I never noticed.
We found out later that a tree company messed up. They were supposed to take and dispose of a diseased tree down the street, but someone transposed the address and they ended up taking Brendan and George’s tree instead. Still, a crazy thing to have happen. It made me realize though, that weird shit does indeed happen.
THE NOW STORY
Flash forward ten years. I’m staring at my backyard looking perplexed. Kealoha looks at me and says, “What’s wrong?”
I turn to him and I say… “I can’t believe this but there’s a tree missing in my backyard. Look! Look at that stump!” I point to a tree in the yard that is no longer a tree but a stump. In my mind, I remember lush green foliage. Someone came into my yard, probably in the dead of winter, and decapitated my tree, mulched the evidence and took off.
“Are you sure?” Kealoha asks in a way that makes me sort of question myself.
“Weird,” I say. I don’t know. Maybe I’m wrong.
TWO WEEKS LATER
Mom has come over to look after the kids. When I get home, she’s staring at my backyard with a perplexed look on her face.
“What’s wrong?” I ask her.
“There’s a tree missing from your backyard. Look! Look at that stump!” She says. (I swear to God this is true.)
See? See! I want to cry out! Someone stole my tree. They done stoled it!
I begin immediate research. Research, meaning, I stare at the stump and try to come up with a possible story. I think the neighbor behind me did it. She never liked that tree. Said there were branches falling into her yard. And didn’t she have a tree company come and trim her tree? Yes! She did! I remember! She trimmed her tree and then she had them consume mine!
I am just about to find a gauntlet and go over there and smack her across the face and challenge her to a duel. Or at least a bake-off.
Then it occurs to me that maybe I’d better double check. I scroll through pictures taken a year ago when I moved into the house. And the evidence I need is there. The solution to the mystery. CASE SOLVED
There in front of me is a picture of my yard over a year ago, when I moved in, and there is the tree…that is not a tree but a stump. A stump! There was never a tree there! I made the whole thing up!
Worse, is that my mom made the whole thing up too. We were both certain that someone had snuck into my yard in the depths of winter, probably in a burglar costume, sawed down that tree and took it, just to freak me out.
THE VERDICT
It’s official. I may possibly be some sort of splice or clone of my mother…which would also explain the sudden attraction I have to collecting boxes.
Hmmm.
New Misadventures with Biff OR Why I'm Still Blunder Woman
There was a Lover’s Lane when I was growing up. I never went there but I did give other people directions on how to get there.
I’ve been blogging a bit about past loves. I left off at college and I might return to that story, but right now, it’s current dating I’m thinking about. So, at 36, I’m finally dating again. I’ve met men over the last year and had a sorta relationship for a few months, but this is different. This is old school nervousness, sweaty palms, and general stuttering. You’d think that with all my ‘life experience’ I’d be a pro at this.
Okay. If you read my blog, you probably would not think this at all. The truth is, I’m just as awkward at this as everything else in my life. The only difference is that now I can laugh about it.
So, the guy’s name? Biff Turlington. Yeah, that’s right. Biff. Turlington. (No way is that a pseudonym, is there?) He’s not my usual type. I tend to be drawn to dark, short Italian men for some reason. And they’re usually stocky, like they could probably lift dead bodies over their heads and drop them off at the wharf. This guy? He’s tall and thin and equally awkward. A little neurotic. Sometimes pretentious. Funny. (And I know you’re reading this. I’ll expect a list of return compliments.) I won’t go on with the list, but I will say I feel really comfortable with him. Even when I totally make an ass of myself.
Apparently, there are all these hidden dating rules that I’d either forgotten or was just never been clued in to. Take for example the night when we were acting like teenagers (do I need to go into detail?) and there was a pause and I said breathlessly “You could stay over if you want.”
Biff said, “I’ve really got to go. I have to work early in the morning.”
I thought, oh, okay, so I did the most natural thing. I quickly walked him to the door, told him good night and then shut the door firmly so that no passing marauders could bust in to my house.
Days later, I was at dinner with a girlfriend, a lovely red-headed vixen who really could be my sister. (I don’t mean we look alike. She’s cuter than me, but we’re so similar it’s possible our parents dated.) Biff then tells her the story and she bursts out laughing. “What?” I asked.
“Tanya, he didn’t really want to go to work.”
“Didn’t he?”
“No. You were supposed to convince him to stay.”
“Or at least walk me to my car and give me a long kiss,” Biff interrupted. “Not shove me out the door.”
Really? “But you said you had to work. I was being respectful.”
Apparently, in dating, you’re not supposed to be respectful. See, you make an offer, the guy tries to be polite, and then you attack him. I get it now. Really.
It took me a couple of tries to understand though.
On the day of my potluck, Biff came over to help set up. He yawned and said, “Boy, I’m tired. I think I’ll go upstairs for a nap.” Then he just sort of stared at me.
“Okay. Enjoy!” I said, then I happily went about making my pavlova.
Later I find out that here again was another subtle ploy. He meant to say: “I’m going for a ‘nap’.” Subtext: come upstairs with me now.
Subtlety just doesn’t work for me. I’ve talked to him about it. We now have a secret signal that when he’s following these unwritten dating rules of not saying exactly what he means, he’ll give the signal and I’ll know “Okay. This is flirting.” and/or “It’s time to attack him”.
I can do this. I can totally learn this new way of flirting. And if not, then he’ll just have to spell it out for me. Literally. He might have to write it down, and then I’ll understand it. I told him last night that there was a Lover’s Lane when I was growing up. I never went there but I did give other people directions on how to get there.
Maybe now, I’m hanging out there. I don’t know quite how it happened or what to do now, so I’m sort of just stumbling my way through it, sweaty palms and all.
How A Full Moon & A Weird Email Can Mess You Up
Is it really the full moon, or am I just an overly sensitive, emotional heap of estrogen? That’s what I want to know. If I really had superpowers, I think mine would be Sensitivity To Body Language & Reading Way More Into Emails Than Is Necessary.
Is it really the full moon, or am I just an overly sensitive, emotional heap of estrogen? That’s what I want to know. If I really had superpowers, I think mine would be Sensitivity To Body Language & Reading Way More Into Emails Than Is Necessary.
Last night, after a strange dinner party, I came home to a very confusing email. Two confusing emails. One, I received; the other I wrote. First though: the party. It was an awkward dinner party to discuss the possible local filming of a pilot for a PBS series. I was there to pitch my powers as a writer. I walked in and immediately my super powers kicked in. I registered looks, tics, nervous giggles, forced humor, and imagined that no one thought I could possibly write and maybe I was just there as the lead actor’s date (even though he’s married). I got over it though and I think I managed to convince people that my strength is as an emotional storyteller. I tried not to cry while saying it.
Then I came home to an email from the Man I Could Have Loved. He’s the one that said at any other time we would have a passionate love affair, but just now he’s decided to date someone else. And then let me know that he’d really been already dating her for almost a year. My heart? A trembling soft mess. We’ve emailed on occasion. And then the email last night. He misses me. He wants me back in his life. He’s hoping “we can we could get together occasionally and just... you know... talk. Share.... whatever.” This is the sort of thing that sends me over the edge. Because…what is in between the words? What nonverbal stuff is happening in those ellipses? What does this MEAN?
I hate feeling attracted to someone who is just plain no good for me. Bluh.
I told him, really, how can we be friends? Is he going to introduce me to his girlfriend? Have me over for a BBQ? Or would he like to meet in a dim restaurant in a corner booth, hunkered down. Listen, I am no secret.
So then I immediately wrote an email to someone I have been talking to for some time, someone I’m attracted to and, well, I don’t want to talk about that one. I think I blundered big time and ame off as just a little left of creepy. Why? Why isn’t there a send button that actually delays sending the email until you get control of yourself? Then again, why can’t you say what you really think of someone? Why does there have to be all this stuff under the surface? I’m interested in him. I’d like to know if he’s interested in me. Bluh again.
Suffice it to say, really maybe I should re-read that 1960’s dating manual. In fact, I think in my next blog I’m going to quote it and rewrite it for modern daters. Not that I’m an expert. Clearly, I have issues. Not Lex Luther issues of controlling the planet—just controlling my emotions long enough so that I don’t make a complete fool of myself.
I think in dating, there is far too much thinking, and talking, and wondering, and obsessing. What dating needs, what I need, is more kissing. Just good old-fashioned puckering up and….
Uhhh, I was going to say “puckering up and blowing” but that’s not exactly what I mean.
I mean, in short, that somebody better kiss me or my evil twin Thunder Woman is going to unleash some kick ass fireballs. (Or just sit in front of the TV and eat a giant bowl of ice cream followed by a chaser of chips.)
Adventures with my Sister: Online Dating
One of my new starts is The Return to the World of Dating. (Please reread that sentence with a booming-announcer-scary voice.) I’ve dabbled here and there since splitting with my ex: the man I wanted to love who wanted to love someone else, the zen Beautiful Man (really) who broke a date because “I’m going on a week long cleansing with my guru, but I’ll let you know when I get back”. Hmmm. Nice.