Umbrella Love

Here is the second piece I wrote working with an amazing photographer Justin Leveque. I had the privilege of having Justin in a writing class where he wrote pieces that were acerbically witty and filled with heart. He's a cartoonist, artist in general, writer, and photographer and I was so glad he was willing to give me a couple of images to write a story around. Here are his images and the words I wrote around them:

UMBRELLA LOVE by Tanya Eby Images by Justin Leveque

The umbrella waited for him in the rain-kissed street, as if a movie had been filming nearby and had wetted the pavement just to enhance the moment for him. When Brent saw the umbrella, he felt drawn to it. If he’d had an umbrella when he’d run out to order a burrito from Señor Loco, he’d have had one of those sturdy black umbrellas with the sharp point at the end. Actually, he’d have had one of those cheap umbrellas that they sell on the corner for five bucks. The blue kind. The kind that tatters and flips in the first strong breeze. If Brent had been an umbrella, that’s the kind of umbrella he’d have been: easily flipped and torn apart.

This umbrella was different. See-through, spotted, feminine, delicate. It rocked in the middle of Fulton by the corner of Fuller, the corner where bistros sat across from the Veteran’s park where they lined up for free tacos on Tuesday. This umbrella called to him and before he knew what he was doing, he was crossing the busy street to rescue her.

This was an umbrella that belonged to someone and Brent knew in his gut that something bigger than himself and Señor Loco was happening tonight. Something that could possibly be love.

He scooped up the umbrella, held it above his head even though it was no longer raining, and ran across the street as an angry driver in a Cadillac laid on the horn and flipped him the bird. Brent turned his back to it.

Now what? What did he do? His hunger was momentarily forgotten, as love and burritos did not mix, and he scanned the street. This was one of those moments that happened in the movies. Those cute-meet moments. He would find the quirky girl that this umbrella belonged to. She would be wearing a red rain coat and a beret. He would say “Hey, I think I have your umbrella,” and she would say, “Yeah, that’s mine. It doesn’t go with your outfit,” and they would laugh and there would be a close-up of her red lips, of his hand running through his messy hair, and this would be the start of love.

Men thought of love too. Not just in the movies. Just this morning, Brent had stood under the lukewarm stream of his apartment’s shower, imagining a woman with curly brown hair in the shower with him, her red lips parting, a smirk on her mouth as she wiped a bead of water from her chin and then said “I want to taste you,” and he closed his eyes and knew that was love. Real love. Love you could hold in your hand, or in your mouth. Love that fit in your palm like the weight of a handle.

But where was she?

That was the question.

He would look for her and find her on the corner of Fulton and Fuller. He would hand her the umbrella. “This must be yours,” he’d say, and they would laugh as it started to rain again.

But how do you find love on the corner of Fulton and Fuller when it is no longer raining? When the homeless across the street look to you and hold up signs asking for money and food? Do you run to the library and cry out your longing? Do you go into the dress shops in Monroe Plaza and scare half-dressed women trying on clothes that don’t suit them? “Is this yours?” do you call, knowing that you sound desperate, and sad, and hollow?

An umbrella in the road is not a mistake. An umbrella in the road has been abandoned.

After a few moments of searching, Brent closed the umbrella up, and crossed the street again to Señor Loco. He ordered the burrito that promised to be bigger than his head and was, in actuality, exactly the same size as his noggin. He sat in the cold booth, letting the air conditioning chill his skin. He cut into the burrito, sprinkled it with hot sauce, and clutched the closed umbrella between his closed thighs to keep it from falling.

What he wanted was more than a moment. He wanted words against his skin, and laughter, and those ridiculous inside jokes. He wanted beers with her on the porch, and hungry kisses at a party while the music pounded in their blood and in their hearts. He wanted her thighs wrapped around him. He wanted to look into her blue eyes or dark eyes or hazel eyes and he wanted her to see him and be okay with that. He wanted to say “You know what I mean,” and have her laugh a little and say “I know exactly what you’re talking about.”

The burrito sat in his stomach like a weight. He left it on the table, half-eaten, grabbed the umbrella and walked outside where the sun was shining.

He began to walk.

A man was not supposed to want love so much, but a man did. A man dreamed just like women did. A man noticed couples everywhere, happiness everywhere, balance, perfection, kindness. A man held an umbrella even though it wasn’t raining and waited for the moment when he would be needed.

He walked for a long time. And when the day blended into night and he walked down an abandoned alley, the umbrella nestled against his shoulder instead of using it like a cane, Brent thought that maybe it was time to do something with his life.

He didn’t know what that something was, but he was sure it had something to do with being a better person, a fuller person, a person who had some kind of purpose. He could’ve set the umbrella next to a dumpster and it would’ve blended in with the shadows and the detritus of the alley. Instead, he walked home, the see-through, polka-dotted umbrella still in his hand, waiting for the time when it would be needed. Maybe that time would come. Brent would be ready for it. It would rain again, someday.

-END-

Follow Justin on Twitter @levequejustin

When Your Heart Went Boom

I was searching through my old documents for a novel I abandoned. The characters still talk to me, and I'm disappointed that I haven't been able to write the novel for them that I think they deserve. I'm trying to decide whether to commit to this YA Suspense title, or return to this little abandoned novel. So, that's what I was doing when I found an old file of stories and monologues I've written over the years and have never done anything with. Some are pretty bad, of course, but this one still makes me laugh. And there are some lines in it that I like. Mostly, I like this Julie character and I hope that she found a man to make her as happy as I am with Kealoha. Here, then is that old monologue, from my younger self:

When Your Heart Went Boom by Tanya Eby

My Dearest Victor,

As dates go, on a scale of one to five, you were definitely a three and well on your way to a four. I was telling some joke, something about a fireman and a priest and a hose, not a great joke, not hysterical, but you were laughing and while I was telling it and feeling charming…I thought…just for a moment…how life might be with you if we happened. If it happened. If love happened between you and I.

And then, suddenly, you clutched your heart and stopped laughing and I looked in your eyes that were remarkably blue and I thought you sensed it too. This kismet. This cosmic connection, and that’s when, very clearly, the date was turning from a three to a four, on a scale of one to five. I smiled and you looked like you were smiling, or maybe that was just the muscles in your face tensing because then you passed out and then, you know, you passed on.

There was a bit of commotion at first, but don’t be embarrassed. I helped them sit you up and I wiped the chive butter from your forehead and then loosened your tie. It would have been one of those sweet, tender moments that happen when two people just start dating and realize there’s something more going on beneath the surface. It would have been one of those moments, us staring into each other’s eyes, if it hadn’t been for your dying and all. I thought, for a moment, that there was still a chance. I thought about it especially when our waiter (his name was Pedro and did you know he was pre-med? How lucky!) ripped open your shirt and started pumping on your chest and breathing in your mouth. I thought there still might be a chance for us and how terrific a story it would make at our wedding.

Your best man, Bob, would raise his glass to us and tell our friends that when we met on our blind date, you fell instantly in love with me and it happened so fast and so hard that your heart exploded. And everyone would laugh then and tink their glasses with their forks so that we would kiss. And we would kiss. Long and slow and with real love, so much love I would feel it in my belly, in my toes, this love of wanting you. Then I would wipe the chive butter from your forehead because all good things in life come round full circle.

But that didn’t happen because somewhere in the middle of my joke, you stopped. You just, stopped. And sometimes, mostly at night, right before I fall asleep, I see Pedro shaking his head and I see you on that burgundy carpet with your shirt open, and I see the open napkin on the floor next to you, and the roll you dropped when your heart went boom. It’s the roll I think about mostly, though you did have a magnificent chest, with just the right amount of hair, but it’s the roll I think about. There was a bite out of it. The last thing to touch your lips was a hard sourdough roll and to tell you the truth, no life should have to end like that.

I was sad to see you go, and, well, a little embarrassed. I didn’t even know your last name. All those emails and photos we sent each other, the phone calls we made, all the planning of finally meeting and when and where and how soon, and I never did catch your last name.

I thought about writing a note to your parents, but how would I find them? You said they were in their seventies and lived in Florida and I thought of going to Florida with your picture but, to tell you the truth, most of the people in Florida are in their seventies so how could I ever find them? I wouldn’t really know what to tell your parents anyway. I could say it was quick and painless (though I think there was some pain), but what’s it matter? I would like to tell them that the last thing you did (besides eat that roll) was laugh, and when I think about life and fate and how everything happens for a reason…I think maybe the whole reason I met you was to tell you that dumb joke about the fireman and the priest and the hose.

I was there with you in your final moment and you were laughing at something I told you and you clutched your heart and we looked at each other and when we looked at each other, my soul reached out to yours and wrapped around your heart too so that you were also, by extension, holding onto the tender part of me.

The more I think about that date, before your dying and all, the more I think it was a four on its way to a five. I’m sure it would have ended as a five. Maybe that night was on its way to being the best night of my life because maybe, just maybe, you were the one and destiny finally brought us together.

Destiny was late, true, and it was the shortest relationship I’ve ever had (we didn’t even make it through the first course), but I want you to know that I’ll never forget that night. We shared something most couples never do. We shared a moment so deep your eyes sparked blue with life.

Thank you for that, at the very least.

All my love,

Julie

On Weddings (more deep thoughts)

WEDDING

This weekend was a weekend of weddings with a heavy side of expectations and disappointments. Now there’s a sentence that will make you want to keep reading. It’s not depressing; I promise you.

We went to a friend of Kealoha’s wedding. Funny thing is, once upon a time, she was friend of mine. In fact, she was a housemate of mine fifteen years ago, in the very house I met Kealoha. She was the owner of the house and the hot tub (from which I emerged wrapped in towels). I lived with her for over a year or so and it was the first time in my teenager and young adult years (I was 22) that I lived in a home that was both beautiful and safe.

She was older than me…I think she was 35 to my 22 and I remember thinking how ‘old’ she was, something I laugh at now. Watching her get married, a peculiar thing happened. I was flooded with happiness for her, but I also felt regret…for ways I’d behaved when we were roommates. In my early twenties I was particularly self-centered. Lots of reasons for that, but a lot of it came down to immaturity. I didn’t understand loneliness at that time, or wanting to find a life partner, and I wasn’t very sympathetic to her wants.

Now, at almost 38, having felt deep loneliness and luckily having found my ‘life partner’ I can look back and think: man, I was an insensitive little turd. That’s right. A turd.

So I attended the wedding as I am now: 37, with my 2 kids and Kealoha and lots of learning under my belt, but my younger self was there too…in how people I haven’t seen in a decade or more responded to me, and that little ghost whispering behind my ear.

My roommate did eventually find love. She married and was happy for a time, and then became a widow. Then she found love again and the couple beamed with good humor and love and warmth. It was lovely. Plus, there was a crab boil afterwards. I don't know. It gave me hope for my girlfriends who are still searching.

It was light and summery and fun….and I just thought for a moment that isn’t life funny, the way it works out. 15 years ago, I never thought I’d have a family of my own, never imagined my life would turn out the way it has. Thankfully, where I’m at now is exactly where I want to be, even if all the details are different than I imagined.

WEDDING ALBUM

Then for father’s day, we went over to Kealoha’s parents for chicken and corn and pie. Mmmm. After dinner and while the kids played over and around Kealoha, his mom and I went into the basement to look at photos. She showed me their wedding album from about 45 years ago. It was actually really interesting. I loved her dress and the bridesmaid’s….and how everyone was just plain young. She pointed out people in the wedding and on the dance floor and told me of their future.

Some of them divorced; some remarried. Some stayed single. Some were gay. Some died early; some died after a long life. Some struggled. Some were happy. Some she never saw again. It’s all very Our Town.

It was all so random…and then I had one of those moments thinking about the wedding we were just at, and the wedding we’ll have in October. How all these people will come together to help us celebrate. For that one moment, we’ll all be frozen in what will be (hopefully) a joyous occasion…and then life will go on. There will be heartbreaks, and disappointments and joy and love and twenty years from now who will be left? And who will be living exactly the life they envisioned they would?

Kealoha’s parents thought they’d be grandparents by now, but they aren’t. I feel for them. It's hard to have expectations and dreams that you have no control over. By this time, I thought I’d have a bestseller and a huge house and a kitchen with an island so big you’d get lost on it. (Actually, that was just a dream, not an expectation.)

I don’t know. I guess what I’m saying is I realized that even though you plan your life out, you never know what’s going to happen. I guess there’s something beautiful to that too. That life will, no matter what, surprise you.

My roommate found love not once, but twice. I’ve found love at 37.

We’ve all grown up, lived, suffered, rejoiced. I find this to be really, really comforting.

Happy Birthday, Simone.

5 years ago, I met Simone Nichole for the first time. I'd been carrying her for almost nine months and as you can see from the below picture, I was pretty much miserable. There's no 'pregnancy glow' here. This was sheer misery. I had gestational diabetes, threw up four to five times a day for the entire pregnancy, and had to keep going in for tests to monitor her heart beat.

So when I say I couldn't wait to meet her, I mean it. But it was more than just wanting the pregnancy to be done. When I was pregnant with my son Louis, we had two possible names chosen. Only two. "Louis" and "Simone". It's sort of like I knew somehow that I would have two kids...and who they would be. I knew their names, but beyond that, everything else would be a surprise.

We went in during a snow storm. Yes. In April. And today it's snowing too. Everything was covered with white. It was that heavy kind of snow. And then the next day (or was it two?) when they sent me home with little wee Simone, all the snow had melted. Sun was shining. Tulips and crocuses had sprouted. In a real and very cheesy way, I feel a like that about Simone in my life. I had Louis and that was great, but something was cold and frozen and missing. What was missing was my daughter. Bringing her home with me was like bringing home fresh flowers and sunshine. Yes, I realize it's corny, but that doesn't make it any less true.

Not to be all unicorns and rainbows...I wanted a daughter but was also terrified. A mother/daughter relationship is so complicated. And I felt that I'd given all my love to my son. How could I love another needy baby? How would I show Simone how to be a strong, loving, creative girl and eventually woman. If a daughter learns from her mother's examples, what kind of life would I set her up for?

Simone and I had to get to know each other. I think the idea that you instantly love your child is a fallacy. You do love them, but you have to fall in love with them through time and experiences. When she was born, I loved that she was with me and that she filled an empty space. Now, I love who she is. I don't know how much is by my example, or the combination of the the people in her life, or just who she is...but Simone at five is a wonderful human being.

She's strong, opinionated, empathetic. She's funny, curious, creative. She has no problem saying "Whoah. Look at this heart I just drew. I think I have a lot of talent." She'll wear a pretty dress and then run outside to get dirty. She takes incredible pictures. But even that doesn't explain who she is. Look into her deep blue eyes, and there's a deep spirit there. In fact, I think I learn more from watching her than she does from watching me.

Simone, my love, my sweet girl, you know I'm not religious necessarily, but if anything could make me believe that there is goodness and beauty in this world...it's you.

Happy 5th birthday.

If I could decide what my kids will do when they're grown...

Okay. I should’ve done this Friday on my Week O’ Blogs, but I was moving, and I tried to clone myself and have one self move while the other self wrote, but it just didn’t work out.

So, Friday’s question came from another great artist (I’m so lucky to have such talented friends). In fact, I should post some of her stuff here and some of my other friends’ stuff and then you could buy their art. Tangent.

Jane VanderLaan asks: “If you could decide what your kids will do or who they will be when they've grown up, what would it be?”

Now, of course, a mom’s instinct is to say “I will support anything my kids want to do. I will love them for who they are and not try to force them into who I want them to be.” That’s the secret Mom’s Hippocratic Oath.  But…that’s not the question Jane asked. She asked IF I could choose, what would I decide.

Hmmmm. A tough one. Well, if I had my choice, they’d both get a good, solid education and get into college and then enroll themselves right away in a program that takes them overseas. I want my kids to travel, to open their minds to the world, and to have a bigger, better life than I’ve had. I have a passport that every ten years I update. My first passport I got at twenty, then  updated it when I got married, and will need to update it again now that I’m single…and that passport? Not a single stamp on it. So. First thing is I’d want them to travel.

Louis seems to be interested in science and history. I’d love for him to be a professor or to work in research. Whatever he does, I hope he’ll use his knowledge for the power of good. For real.

Simone seems to like drawing and dance and unicorns and Barbies. It’s still a little early to see where her interests go, but if I had my choice, she’d be a writer or performer. Maybe write and illustrate children’s books.

In all honesty, I don’t care what they do. (There’s that oath again.) My greatest hope for my kids is that the are emotionally strong, that they can be empathetic for others, that they learn how to love and to know that they are beautiful people worthy of love themselves. And I hope they make enough money to have a comfortable life, one that is not weighted with worrying over bills and food and healthcare. Of course, a little struggle when they’re in college and just starting out is good for the spirit.

I just want…I want my kids to be good people, kind, loving, and confident in who they are. I don’t want them to settle in life, but a little compromise is good. I want them to know that I love them just as they are and I am so proud of who they are becoming.

And if they want to take me on one of their world travels, that would be okay with me too. Just saying.

My Grumpy Gripes about Dating Inequality

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the inequality of dating. Yeah. That’s right. You heard me. INEQUALITY. And it’s not like I’m going to wave a flag or burn my bra (my boobs are too big to go carefree), I just mean there’s some gender differences in regards to dating that really piss me off.

Now, tell me if I’m right here or just being neurotic, BUT it seems like guys my age (late 30’s almost 40) are looking to date hot, beautiful twenty-somethings. Guys in their 50’s are looking to date women my age. So that pisses me off a bit. Not that I wouldn’t want an older guy, but I sort of want to share a life with someone who’s the same age as me, so that when I make pop culture references to The Brady Bunch or The Electric Company of the 70’s that we both get it and feel connected. So that’s my first gripe.

My second gripe is that I feel this intense pressure to be hot. And not like pre-menopausal hot, I mean, I feel like to date anyone at all, it doesn’t matter if I’m smart or interesting or quirky. On the online websites, it’s all about appearance. The question men think when they look lat my picture is: Does she look like hot enough that she could be one of the gaggle of women on The Bachelor? And I wonder: Is my hair long and straight, nose thin, boobs enhanced and firm, skin pulled, teeth whitened. Am I a Mom Someone Would Like to (ahem)? I am not. I’m short. My hair gets frizzy. I have a big jaw and a defined nose. Big boobs, but they’re all natural, and even my son says he can see my wrinkles. But I am also very bright, dare I say witty, and a mean cook. And I’m not kidding when I say I can cook. I really mean it. But these qualities, they don’t matter.

Here’s the cold, mean truth: I’m not hot enough to get the attention of professional, successful guys. I AM hot enough to get the attention of high school educated, salt of the earth guys.

Not that there’s anything wrong with them…it’s just…I’m not the girl for a man who smokes, hunts, and swears and works in a factory. That sounds horrible, I know, and I don’t mean it to, it’s just I need someone who’s educated and likes different food and travel and reading and music and art. I’m generalizing here, but I think you get what I mean.

It seems like guys don’t have the pressure to be hot if they’re successful and have a job: they have the power in the dating realm to choose whomever they want. And whomever they want happens to be girls named Sera or Denver or Amber and are 22. Girls who are tall and thin and well endowed. Girls that when the men think about them, it’s not their brains they’re dreaming of.

Selfishly, I want a guy I’m attracted to too. Not just mentally, but physically. I feel horrible for saying that, but it’s the truth. So maybe my griping about all these men my age looking for plastic women is really envy. Not that I want a plastic man, I just want a man that I feel electricity with, and I want that to be accepted. All the men who seem to be interested in me sort of look like my dad.

Then again, maybe that’s the reality of dating men in their 40’s and 50’s. They all start to look like your dad. A little disturbing to get hot and bothered over that.

A Soft Sort of Sadness

There’s a phrase that I’ve used over and over in my writing, probably ad nauseum, and it’s “a soft sort of sadness”. I like the sibilance of it (especially when I say it out loud. I’m a bit of a lisper with S.) The phrase to me sounds like the feeling, as if sadness is that type of snow that falls in heavy flakes and in pure silence. It’s a sadness that is not all consuming, but comforting somehow, in an artistic-I’m-alone sort of way.

I feel this soft sort of sadness today and most days when I think, really think, about dating. And it isn’t dating necessarily that I mean. I mean when I think about the kind of relationship I want…and that soft sort of sadness? It’s a longing. An ache. An awareness that I do not have the love in my life that I so richly want…and I feel…I deserve.

What I want is simple. I want someone to look at me and love me for who I am. I want them to light up when they see me. I want conversations, and silence, and passion, and above all, I want trust. I want love in the little things. I want to make him breakfast sometimes. I want him to play with my hair, especially when I’m stressed. I want text messages just because he’s thinking about me. And I want those kisses, those kind of kisses that start small and end with an ache so palpable you feel it in the entirety of your body. I want real, honest, true 100% love.

I don’t think I’ve ever had it.

I think I’ve felt it, once. Nearly felt it twice. I think someone has felt it for me. But it’s never been at the same time. And I seem to attract men in my life who feel all these things, but they feel them for someone else, and ultimately, I become someone they can talk to, share with, but it never progresses beyond that.

I had a conversation with someone on the phone last night, someone I would very much like to know, but I’m afraid it’s another soft sort of sadness. One should not read Pablo Neruda poems alone or they will quote things like “Tonight I can write the saddest lines” or “Another’s. He will be another’s.” See? I’m quoting right now.

I don’t have a great epiphany right now except to say that I am finally buying a house (this will connect. Just go with me on this). My whole life, I have drifted from place to place, experience to experience, and what I’ve secretly yearned for was a home. I will have that physical place soon, that place that is undeniably mine. I guess I’m looking for another home too, and forgive me in being corny, but it’s the kind of home you find with another person. That kind of comfort where you feel loved and honored, and you can sit on the couch together, nestled next to each other, so comfortable you don’t really know where one stops and the other begins. That kind of home where you just feel that anything that happens in your life, you will be okay because there is someone there with you, watching out for you.

Yep. That’s what I want. I think it’s pretty simple, and at the same time, it seems to me to be absolutely impossible.

That sadness? Still here. Soft and cool…but maybe like the snow, it’s not permanent.

True Story -- Dating Tangent #2,763

You all know that I'm dipping my toe into the dating waters again, and some of those experiences will reappear as fiction to protect those involved. Before I decided to start dating again, I kept thinking about A) How could I date with a broken foot? Shouldn't I just wait? Isn't it a little pathetic to meet someone while I was on crutches and cast-ed? And then that thought was immediately supported by B) A little personal ad I read 10 years ago while living in New York. And it scarred me forever.

I picked up, oh, I forget the name of it, you know, that magazine that is all about NY...and has fabulously descriptive personal ads with pictures advertising "escorts"...just in case you're so lonely you need to pay someone to hang out with you. I was idly flipping through the magazine, stopped on the Men Searching Women, looked over my shoulder to make sure no one was watching, and then began to read voraciously. Can one read voraciously? Yes. One can. Especially if she's in her mid-twenties, in Manhattan,and the holidays are looming.

I came across a personal ad that totally seemed like it was meant for me. Like, here He is. The man I'm going to love and marry and make babies with.

Here’s the ad from memory:

I am an intelligent man looking for an intelligent woman to share my life with. I’m a professor of English and enjoy fine wine and restaurants. I’m attractive, professional, and well-adjusted. I’m looking for the One.

I stopped reading. I looked up to the heavens and thought, wow. Wow. He is something. But there was still one line left to read. So I read:

Also, I wear a diaper because of some issues. I’m hoping the woman I’ll fall in love with will also wear a diaper.

What? WHAT? Seriously? No! No! (Read the next ‘no’ like Charleton Heston when he discovers the truth about Planet of the Apes) NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

Ahem.

Flash forward a decade later. Past 9/11 in New York, past getting married to a nice enough guy, past 2 kids, past moving out, past divorce, slow down to broken foot.

Then I thought, okay, so am I the new Diaper Guy? Do I show up on a date as a cripple? Isn’t that a little sad?

Then I thought, fuck it. Poor Diaper Guy, he’s in a diaper for life (and maybe he’s found a Diaper Wife) but this walking cast? This bastard comes off in three more weeks. And then I’m wearing a miniskirt.

Rah.

Make a Wish for 2010

It’s almost 2010 and I don’t know about you, but try as I might not to analyze my life away on the New Year, it’s an awfully hard temptation to resist. I seem to do this over-analysis three times a year: over the holidays, on my birthday, and for some reason at the beginning of September. September (because of the start of school) always feels like a new start.

I don’t want to write about how the holidays were for me, and if you’ve been reading my blog, you know that 2009 was both a horrible and wonderful year. A year of horriwonderfull. And the holidays this year? Well, let’s just say they were painful. But I’m still standing, or hobbling if you will. And even though there have been certain very dark moments where I’ve wondered what the point is of me, why am I here, what am I doing, I still think that maybe this is just a dark time in what is, essentially, a rich and textured life.

So. While everyone is making resolutions for 2010, I’m making wishes. They're selfish wishes, and I think there are times when that's okay. There are things I want to happen that, honestly, I don’t have any control over, but I want to scatter the wishes like so many dandelion seeds, and maybe something will take root somewhere. Here are my wishes. Both serious and ridiculous.

TANYA’S WISHES FOR 2010

To meet the love of my life (if you’re going to wish, make it big, yes?)

To get a full-time teaching position

That I could meet a Clark Kent look-a-like and that he’d wink at me

That “Blunder Woman” will be successful

That “Pepper Wellington and The Case of the Missing Sausage” will be even more successful

I wish that an opportunity sprouts up for me to go to England and/or Italy. Maybe for writing, or romance, or a crazy girl adventure

That Louis and Simone will continue to grow into strange, quirky, smart, loving, beautiful people and that no matter where they are, they know that I love them deeper than the oceans and higher than a mountain, and with the mighty roar of Bigfoot.

I also wish that chocolate had no calories and that I could eat as much of it as I want. Just for 2010.

I wish that I can host a party to celebrate my books…in which I’ll have lots of friends over and laughter and plenty of wine and mojitos and so much crazy food that people will take pictures of it. (This may happen. Look for invites in the summer.)

And finally, I wish that when this cast is off, when I’m free and mobile again, I wish that one day when the sun is shining, I will lace up my shoes and run and run and run. I will run with joy and hope, looking ever forward. One day. In 2010.

Those are my wishes. What are yours?

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.

Excuse Me While I Pontificate

My body hurts. I mean, seriously, all over, my body hurts. It aches. I can't turn my neck because there's pain. And my legs feel like they belong to an alien (District 9-like). Even my eyelids hurt. I know the trouble. I think it's a symptom of my heart. I mean that metaphorically. My cholesterol is pretty decent. I mean, I'm having trouble, still, with love. And the absence of it.

Now, yes, that's overly dramatic. I know that. I recognize it. BUT MY HEART HURTS!!

I very specifically have not written about this in my life. I'm teaching now and I'm divorcing and there's a whole host of other reasons. But because I'm not writing about this, I feel I can't write at all. Now, fuck it, it's time to put my cards on the table, lay it all on the line, dance the watusie so everyone can see my bad, terrible awkward moves.

Here's the thing: in May, I left my husband. There are a million reasons for this, but the biggest reason is simple: I wasn't happy. I wasn't honored. I wasn't cherished. And I believe that in a loving relationship, you should be loved, wholly, for who you are. I was not.

Since then, it's been wonderfulterrible. And now, with the paperwork filed and the custody with the kids worked out, I find that I am single again, and still, as I have been my whole life, in search of love. Now my ex is already in a fully-committed relationship. He met her June 4th and they're already talking marriage. Instant presto! Wife #3. I'm not bitter about that, exactly, just bitter that it was so easy for him. I have had two practice mini-relationships that have only bruised the outer edges of my heart. Why does it seem so much easier for men? Why can my ex simply sign in on Match and find another soul mate? Why can't I even get asked out on a proper date? Why, yet again in my life, have I heard the words: "You are an amazing person, Tanya, and if it were any other time in my life...."

Bollocks. That's what it is. It's all bollocks. (I use the English term here because they're so good at fun words that make you feel better.)

Love should be easy. It should be joyous. It should transport you out of your own life for a few moments into something magical. As each day passes, I remind myself that I'm doing good things. That who I am as a person doesn't need to be confirmed by someone else. Still, I want someone to look at me, only me, and be grateful I'm there. I want passion. I want conversations over dinner, nights at the movies or theater, I want someone to call me unexpectedly just because I am on their mind.

Maybe it's too early anyway. Maybe I just need to focus on my kids, my work, my life. Maybe I need to just watusi a little more in the privacy of my own home.

You can know what's good for you, but it doesn't make it any easier. Who really wants to eat Raw Food and drink kale smoothies simply because it's better for you. Being alone is probably a kale smoothie for me. Great for my heart. But what I want, what I really want right now is a donut. With frosting. And sprinkles. In short, I just want a little of everything. I don't think that's too much to ask.