Top 10 Fun Things I Can Do With This Cast

Top Ten* Fun Things I Can Do With This Cast

1)   Fearlessly stomp on spiders should they be stupid enough to approach me.

2)   Imitate Frankenstein more convincingly.

3)   String leg with lights, stand in front of window and wait for neighborhood to admire my shapeliness.

4)   Practice being in zen-like position called “Flamingo” .

5)   After drinking a gin and tonic or two,  extend leg into air and convince people to “Limbo!!!”

6)   Cover cast in hair-like fabric, wear a skirt and go to bar and try to pick up guys. I’ll tell them I’m from Canada.

7)   Use cast to set drinks, glasses and books on if I can’t reach an end table.

8)   Paint face on toes, hide behind couch, lift leg and entertain kiddos with cheap improvised puppet show.

9)   Cover leg with enormous stocking and then let Santa fill stocking with PRESENTS!

10)  Invite friends and family to my house for holiday festivities and make sure they don’t confuse my leg with the piñata.

*If I had a boyfriend, I might be able to think of a couple of other fun things to do.

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:

How I Broke My Foot & Learned the Meaning of Christmas

The very wise, very beautiful Beth once wrote on my wall on Facebook that my life sometimes reads as a novel. I tend to agree with her. Sometimes it’s wonderful. Lately it’s been fraught with complications and conflict and stress. And sometimes, it’s just plain slapstick with a touch of “awww man”.

Like this weekend.

I wanted a real Christmas tree this year. It’s my first as a single mom and I want the scent of pine in the house and to establish my own traditions. The kids are old enough now so they won’t eat the tree (hopefully) so I drove us around the corner to the tree lot set up in East Grand Rapids football field. The snow was coming down so hard, I thought we were all in a snow globe that a giant or a god was shaking. Snow everywhere.

Christmas music, happy families, and me holding onto my two kids’ hands, Louis and Simone, in their matching red coats. “What kind of tree would you like?” a lady asked me. She was thin with a very red nose (from the cold and not booze I’m sure). Louis immediately ran off to choose the biggest tree ever. I leaned in and said to the lady “One that’s not crazy expensive and that I can carry into my house…on my own.” She looked at me for a moment and smiled that knowing smile. “Over here,” she said. There was a sad little tree marked half off leaning against the fence. No one wanted it because it had a big hole in the greenery. I looked at that imperfect tree all on its own and I said “That is the tree for us”.

They trimmed the tree down a foot and presto, no hole. It’ now the perfect tree. A guy in a sweater that had a giant Christmas tree on it gave the kids free hot cocoa, and the woman with the red nose, stuffed my purse with mini candy canes. A young guy put the tree in the back of the car and I buckled the kids in…and in the storm and the white, we made our way home.

My Monologue:

“Kids, get in. Get in! Boots off. Go in the living room. Why? Because mommy is going to bring this tree in. How? I’m just going to lift it, see? I’m going…shit! Oh, no, mommy’s fine. I said ship. Ship! because this branch looks like a boat on a sea. You don’t see it? Oh. Louis…just go in the living room. Don’t touch your sister! Stop touching your sister! Simone, could you get off my leg? I can’t….gruntgrunt….Yes, I’m hugging the tree. Simone, get off…because…just I’m going to….fuhhhh….fudge. Damn you tree! No. It’s a great tree. Look! Look! Mommy did it I did it!! High fives!! Look at that tree!!”

To celebrate, I decided to grab my computer from upstairs and post some pictures, came running down the stairs and suddenly I went flying, computer airborn, my feet out from under me and I landed flat on my back, like a giant X. “Oh.” I said.

“Hey, mom, you okay?” Louis asked.

“No, Louis, I don’t think so. Thank you for the kisses, Simone, but could you just, yes, kisskiss, could you give mommy space right now?”

“Why are you crying momma?” Simone asked.

“I just slipped on one of your toys honey. I just need a minute.”

And then I heard the sound of a tree falling in the woods, except the tree that was falling was in my living room and it was slouching before me just out of reach. I jumped to my feet. “Ship!!!” I cried.

“What ship?” asked Louis. And then he told me to sit down.

“But the tree!” I said.

And we watched it slouch to the floor. And I thought, "Oh, forget it". I sat down. Louis gingerly pulled my sock off, and touched the side of my foot so gently it was like a kiss. “Does this hurt, Mom?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll take care of you.” He went and got a cool washcloth and put it on my foot. Simone ran over and hugged me.

“You okay, Momma?”

“I will be. We’re going to be fine.”

“Mom,” Simone said as Louis tended to my foot. “This is serious. I gotta tell you…”

“What’s that honey?” I said, and tried to push the tears back.

“I LOVE YOU!!” she screamed. And then both kids hugged me.

This is the start to my holiday season. And you know what, it’s going to be beautiful, broken foot and all, busted tree and everything, because I’ve got my kids and a family taking care of me, and friends calling me and texting me, and I have never felt such love.

The Universe--A Beast and Beauty

I've been quite the grumbler lately. Imagine me in a white tank top and cutoff jean shorts, hairy legs, belly sticking out, in slippers. Put some curlers in my hair, and while you're at it,  put a real grumpy look on my face. That's pretty much been my appearance (at least spiritually) these last few weeks, and with good reason too. Really!

Here's a list: over a two week period of time my ex told me he was remarrying ASAP, I had to meet his fiance and start developing a relationship with her for the sake of the kids (she's nice), my teaching gig was about to come to an end and I was facing no job and...once the divorce is finally finalized...no health insurance. Then, just because the universe is a real funny gal, my landlord wrote me saying "Oh, yeah, I'm going to put the house up for sale".

The only thing that would have made this even more stressful was if I'd actually stuck to that cabbage soup detox diet, but luckily I gave that up.

I really felt beat up. Really. Like someone physically tossed me against a wall. And I felt like all these things were happening TO me, all these things that were beyond my control. I couldn't MAKE my ex not remarry, I couldn't rewind time and make him not date for a few more months. I couldn't FORCE someone to hire me. I couldn't change my landlord's mind. All I could do was Deal With It.

I'd like to say I handled it beautifully. That I was a princess of sorts. You know though, those princesses, I'm pretty sure it's an act. Put any girl in a fancy dress with lots of makeup and she'll look all right, but inside, man, inside is what counts. I was no princess. I felt pretty much hopeless.

And now?

Now, my teaching contract has been renewed, I have two narration gigs, my ex's fiance is very nice, and though the holidays are coming and I'm not dating or in love, I have my kids and my health and my family and my friends...And I may celebrate by buying one of those crazy beer hats with the straws. (If I can refill it with liquid chocolate.) What I'm saying here is the Universe? She's a Beast, but every once in a while, she can be a real Beauty too.

Night O' Crazy Dreams

I’m sitting in my office currently trying desperately to ward off sleep. Oh, but she’s seductress that one. Sleep. Calling to me. I mean, yes, I did a great work out and then promptly filled my tummy with warm soup; and, yes, I’m sitting in a cozy office trying to write and read; and, yes, It’s 2PM—the Nap Witching Hour. On top of all that though, my daughter was up a good portion of the night last night so I’m feeling pretty much exhausted.

Now that I think of it, I can blame my sleepiness on something else entirely. Last night, my house was freezing, so instead of turning the heat up (as a new heat-bill-payer I’m terrified of the new expense) I tossed on a super-thick super-fuzzy blanket. The only trouble with this was that I became so overheated I was having dreams that were more like hallucinations.

Last night I was supposed to go to Dog Story Theater and watch some comedy shows and then try improv and then go out to drinks. Because my little girl was sick, I ended up staying home, taking care of her and being a good mom. But in my DREAMLAND, I did go to Dog Story. It was super weird. There were tons of people there and everyone was laughing, only I couldn’t understand what any of the performers were saying.

Then I woke up in bed and one of the performers was sleeping next to me, with his arm draped around my waist. WTF? How did this happen?  And why was it this particular performer? (He is cute and all…but…REALLY?)

And then I was trying on a wedding dress because I was going to force this guy to propose to me. (Why in my dreams am I always forcing someone to propose to me? Does it really take coercion?)

Thankfully, I woke up. Discovered that the gentleman sleeping next to me was not said performer but my 5 yr old son, who was snuggled so close to me I had to de-Velcro him from my side. And I wasn’t wearing a wedding dress or forcing anyone to marry me. I was still in my enormous comfy pant pajamas and tank top.

I’ve since taken that blanket off my bed. I’ll try kicking up the heat tonight. As fun as those hallucinations were, I’m exhausted. I need a good sleep. And, sheesh, if I’m going to dream that someone is in bed with me, you’d think we’d be doing more than sleeping. Like maybe he’d be playing with my hair.

That’s not a euphemism, people. Really it’s not.

My Dysfunctional Relationship with Turkey

Okay. Granted, I was a little grumpy yesterday. But I’m breathing and doing yoga all while sipping mojitos with festive sprigs of fresh mint, and really I feel just fine.

It’s all led me to think of my dysfunctional relationship with turkey. Turkey, to me, is a like that bad boyfriend you had in high school, you know the one with the mowhawk who got high on lunch hour and listened to Depeche Mode; that boyfriend that you knew your parents disapproved of but you kept going back to him. The boyfriend all your other dysfunctional relationships are measured against.

I’m totally lost now. This is why you should never extend a metaphor.

Oh! Okay. Me and turkey. I love turkey. I hate turkey. I’ve tried to quit turkey...er….cold turkey, but the rat bastard calls me back. It’s all that golden skin and rich lusciousness. And basically any turkey is good turkey with a good wine-based gravy. Turkey makes a home smell homey. It makes Thanksgiving feel like a real holiday instead of an awkward reception dinner.

One year, I tried to cook dim sum. We had pot stickers and eggrolls and spicy tofu and little dumplings and you know, I missed the turkey. And it’s everything that turkey goes with: the potatoes, soft and fluffy and occasionally lumpy, the stuffing (mine with sausage and apple), the bad casseroles that no one quite understands but take heaping spoonfuls anyway.

I never cook a turkey right. It’s always overdone or underdone. It’s that love hate thing again. What I’ve noticed though, if you’re with friends and family, if you’re drinking a little wine and reminiscing, if everything is awkward and slightly uncomfortable, if someone starts a fight with a sibling or someone else starts crying, it’s the turkey that makes it bearable—for there’s the one magical moment where everyone sets the personal issues aside, sits together at the table and takes  a collective breath, and there is peace. And sometimes in that moment of quiet, we realize just how much we love the people in our lives, even though they make us crazy.

And of course, afterwards, everyone takes a nap due to turkey-drug-effect. And that’s not bad either.

Speaking of…time to cook the artichoke dip and get ready for the hike to Brendan and George’s. There’s no dim sum today, and that’s just the way I like it. I like my old bad boyfriend. He does, after all, have great legs.

Me, Spouting Off and Being Grumpy

All right, people, through this whole divorce, I have (honestly) been the kindest, sweetest I could possibly be. After all, I did the leaving. There are a lot of good reasons for my leaving. Really, really good reasons. Just ask my mom. And my sister. And everyone in my family. And my friends. And the mailman. And my lover. Okay, don’t ask my lover, he doesn’t exist, but you can ask the mailman. Leaving was good. And terrible. But right. You know what I mean.

And through this, I’ve said everything as gently as I could, I’ve used “I” statements, I went for joint custody because it’s better for the kids, I tried not to take any money or ask for too much support (I get $100 a month), and you know what? I don’t want to be Mrs. Nice Girl anymore. I was Mrs. Nice Girl when I was married: quiet, submissive, and just plain gray. Now, I just want to be Tanya: complex, colorful, quirky Tanya. So. Mrs. Nice Girl? Forget it. Forget it! Here’s where I find my voice. Here, P, is where I tell you the whole truth. Right now, I’m pointing to my ass, and telling you to kiss it.

Here’s my letter to you:

Dear P,

The other day you told me you were getting remarried and I thought, duh. Two weeks after I moved out, you were on Match.com. Two weeks later I ran into you on your first date, literally, with our kids, though we had an agreement that you wouldn’t introduce our kids to anyone we were dating. You said you weren’t dating. Two weeks later, your relationship was “Very Serious”. On Halloween, you brought your girlfriend and her kids and our kids into my house and I took a family picture of you because the kids wanted one. And now six months later, you’re getting married. Well. Yes. Good for you. That wasn’t enough though, you had to keep going.

Then you told me that you had a deep connection with your first wife, and with your new fiancée you have found a love you didn’t think was possible, and then you said you married me because you wanted kids.

So. I was right. When I told you I felt like you didn’t honor me or cherish me, when I felt like you just wanted a wife and a cook and someone to be a mom to your kids, I was right. And it’s nice to hear you finally admit it. You never took the time to know me. You never read my writing, you never wanted me to act. You wanted me to stay home and cook…and I did, because I thought that we’d have a good family.

But you were controlling and a general asshole, and now, I feel sorry for you. I feel sorry that you weren’t able to spend even two weeks alone before looking for someone to take over my role.

Last night, I had to meet your fiancée. She seems perfectly nice. Already she’s organizing your schedule, taking care of you, and now I feel sorry for her too. I hope your connection is real. I hope you haven’t misled her the way you misled me.

I’m tired of being nice. I’m tired of being a victim.

I met with a trainer at the gym today and he said: “Tanya, you’re doing a great job. You just need more confidence.” I wanted to hug him. He was talking about working out, but for me it meant a lot more. I need more confidence. It starts here. I release you, P. You never knew me. That’s your loss. Our kids will be great. I love them deeply….but you…you are a stranger to me and no longer have the power to hurt me. You took a lot from me in our marriage, and now, I’m taking it back.

***

Readers, I hope you’ll forgive my digression here, but sometimes, you’ve just got to tell the truth. The truth is, I am free from a really bad marriage and someday, sometime, I’m going to have the happiness I want. I wish this for you too.

Santa: Reinvented

I was at Dog Story Theater last night watching a fabulous night of improv with very talented people. I’ll link it so you can see who I’m talking about. Then they did their Open Improv Jam. Basically they let anyone try their hand at improvising. I was grumpy and wearing black and generally feeling very moody, so, of course, decided to jump on in. It made me feel better. First off, everyone was funny, and secondly, I sort of like the challenge. Also, secretly, I like being on stage. In a spotlight. It’s warm up there. Anyway….Our prompt: holidays. My epiphany: Santa desperately needs to be updated.

It occurred to me the current image of Santa Claus was invented by Coca Cola. At the time, a jolly old man with a long beard was warm and appealing. Now, he’s a little bit creepy. He’s vastly overweight, with a long, unkempt beard, and he wants kids to sit on his lap. It makes me uncomfortable.

I say he needs an image makeover. First, a serious diet. And someone should check him for diabetes. That much weight around the middle is a sign that something’s not right. Let’s put him on a treadmill, get him on a healthy diet with plenty of fiber, and then, I’m sorry, but that beard has got to go.

I want a lean Santa. A clean-shaven Santa. A Santa that says “I’m approachable and healthy. I’m well-adjusted. I take pride in my appearance”. In fact, I want Santa all to myself, in a dark room, lights twinkling, some mood music in the background. In fact, as long as I’m reinventing Santa, I want my Santa in his late thirties, open to commitment, with a good stable job. And I want him in a thong*.

Where was I going with this?

I have no idea. I’m totally distracted now. And I’m thinking maybe it’s time I picked up some romance books and had some time with myself.

Santa’s probably good as he is. Belly and all. Cookies and milk. Beard. That’s wholesome. Good for everyone’s spirit.

I think maybe I just have some issues.

Happy holidays.

*A note on thongs: I actually think they’re ridiculous and if I ever saw someone wearing one, Santa or no, I might actually experience palpitations and pass out.

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….

Blogomania Find the Funny

I'm sitting here and it's 6:31 in the morning. So dark out you'd think it was midnight. And I'm about to blog. Blogging alone, with myself. Sounds mildly naughty. And ho-hum, it's not. I've neglected my poor, sweet blog and have just been posting podcasts of "Easy Does It". Why? Because I'm lazy? I don't think I'm lazy, exactly. Keeley says she thinks I'm the most naturally restless person she knows. I tend to agree with her. No, it's more like when you sit to blog, you sort of open yourself up to the world.

Hmm. Again that sounds mildly naughty. Let's just clear that from our minds right now. No images of masturbation...Ommmmmmm.

Okay. Phew. So. Blogging can be intensely personal, if you're being really, really honest. And to be really, really honest, my life is in a bit of a shitstorm right now. (Shitstorm is a highly technical term meaning the outcome of the Chaos Theory.) It's not all bad, just, you know incredibly stressful. And what is it about butterflies? A butterfly beats its wings and California falls into the ocean? Yeah. That's my life right now. I've made a series of decisions that sounded great at the time, like butterfly wings flapping, and now, California. Meet ocean.

Should I blog about this stuff? Why not. It's either this or I go slowly insane...and I really don't want to start going all Edgar Allan Poe. That's cliche anyway. And a romantic comedy writer cannot go Edgar Allan Poe because it's creepy and just plain wrong.

So here's my challenge to myself, and to you as readers. I'm going to try and Find the Funny in all the stupid decisions I've made, and I'm going to BLOG about them. If you're in my life in some capacity, BEWARE, because I plan not to hold any secrets. I'm done with secrets. They give you wrinkles.

I'm taking suggestions on blog topics too, so it's not entirely self-centered. Here are some suggestions I've received: water on the moon, football, Afghanistan, dating, kids, Twitter, Thanksgiving, and sex.

I'll talk about all of it. ALL OF IT. And I hope you'll be reading*.

*and that one day you'll buy one of my books so I don't go entirely broke which is looking more and more likely.

Ommmmmmmm

Tanya

Turkeys -- A scene for Thanksgiving

In honor of the impending food porn holiday, I'm posting an old scene from the second play I ever wrote, and the first that was performed in Grand Rapids, Michigan. It's from a collection of scenes on loving called, ehm, "12 Scenes About Loving". Catchy title, yes? Here you are. Enjoy. Read it aloud with your family or post it on Youtube. You'll make me happy doing this.

Turkeys

(by Tanya Eby who is an honorary Turkey)

NARRATOR:  You know this scene.  You’re wearing clothes that are too tight and too uncomfortable.  Your crazy Aunt Betty is talking to the spot on the wall.  Your Mom and Dad look older than you remember.  Your brothers and sisters are more obnoxious.  And no matter how old and mature you get, as soon as you get around your family, you’re twelve years old again.  It’s the time for giving thanks.

LIL:  Harold, could you grab the turkey? Dad can’t lift it.

MARGIE:  Everyone got something to drink?

HAROLD:  No, Dad, I’ve got it.

EM:  For Chrissakes let him lift the turkey.

RICH: I was sitting there Em.

EM:  Shut up.

RICH: My glass is there.

EM: Sit over there.

RICH: You can plainly see my glass sweating in front of you.

EM: Always a poet.

HAROLD:  Sit down, ma, will ya?

MARGIE: James, you can’t sit with mommy.  Let’s move you so you can sit with your other cousins.

HAROLD:  Here, Dad, let me help you.

MARGIE:  I’ll be right there sweetie…James, don’t hit her.  How would you like it if she hit you? (pause)  Not now, angel!

RICH:  Em, I would appreciate having my seat back.

EM:  Appreciate, huh?

RICH:  Yes.

EM:  No.

RICH:  Now.

EM:  I’m not moving.

RICH crawls over her and sits next to her.

HAROLD:  Mom, sit down.

LIL:  Are you gonna let Dad carve the turkey?

EM: Jesus Christ, look at him with that knife.

RICH:  Someone get Dad the electric knife. He’s gonna kill someone.

EM:  Shut up, Rich. He’ll hear you.

RICH: Dad’s as deaf as stone.

EM: There you go again—we’ll just call you Robert Frost from now on.

RICH: I prefer Dylan Thomas, thank you.

MARGIE: Dad is not deaf.

LIL: Hey, Dad, you deaf?

EM: He’s not answering.

LIL: He can’t hear anything.

EM: He’s not deaf. He’s ignoring you.

RICH: Hey, Dad, you still giving it to Mom?

MARGIE: Rich!

RICH: Mom’s deaf too.

HAROLD: Jesus, look at them smiling like that.  They’re both deaf and old.

MARGIE: They are not deaf and old.

EM: That’s right. They’re insane. There’s a difference.

MARGIE: Everyone got a seat?

LIL: Obviously.

MARGIE: Something to drink?

RICH: Cheerio.

HAROLD: Cheerio old chap.

EM: Would you guys shut up?

MARGIE: James, stop eating.  We have to wait for your grandpa to pray.

LIL: You guys remember last Thanksgiving?

HAROLD: Dad prayed for ten minutes.

MARGIE: Shhhhhh.  He’ll hear you.

HAROLD: Dad, make it short, will ya? I’m starving.

MARGIE: Shhhhhhh….

EM: Shhhhhhhh, yourself.

They bow their heads.  There is a long, long pause.  RICH and EM start poking each other. LIL bites her nails.  HAROLD looks up wide-eyed.  MARGIE remains focused in perfect prayer-position.

RICH: Jesus.

EM: Shut up.

A long pause.

EM: Good God, he’s going for the record.

LIL: Come on, Em.  Shut up and listen.

MARGIE : And stop swearing in front of the kids.

EM: I don’t swear.

MARGIE: You swear all the time.

EM: Fuck you.  I do not.

LIL: Both of you, shut up!

RICH: How old are you guys anyway?

LIL & EM: Shut up!

A pause.  They bow their heads.  They begin to look confused. HAROLD starts snickering. Everyone except MARGIE starts laughing.

MARGIE: He did not just say that.

RICH: He did.

MARGIE: He did not.

HAROLD: He did.

MARGIE: I did not hear my father just ask God to keep his (whispered) sex like healthy for another year.

LIL: Oh, my God.  Look at Mom smiling.

MARGIE: He did not just say that.

EM: He did.

MARGIE: James! Knock it off!

EM: I’m getting a creek in my neck.

RICH: Huh?

EM: A creek.  In my neck.

RICH: Is that the right word?

EM: You and your words.  My fucking neck hurts.

MARGIE: Could we please not swear for one minute while Dad prays to God for our family?

RICH: If it were only a minute maybe, but, Jesus, the turkey’s decomposing.

LIL: Oh, thanks, Rich.

RICH: No problem.

LIL: Now while I’m eating I’m going to think about flesh rotting.

RICH: Hey, no problem.  Glad I could provide a clear image for you

HAROLD: Hey, Rich, what happened o you and that woman?

RICH: What woman?

MARGIE: Will you guys be quiet and listen to dad?

HAROLD: That woman…you know…with the big…

RICH: Oh…..

MARGIE: I don’t think you should be discussing amorous relationships during a prayer.

HAROLD: Who said there was anything amorous about their relationship?  You were just sleeping together, right?

RICH: Yeah.  Which is why I didn’t want to bring her here.  I didn’t know if she’d be able to ward off Dad.

LIL: Oh, shut up!

MARGIE: That’s disgusting.

EM: My potatoes are freezing.

HAROLD: Hey, Margie.  Check out your little angel over there.

MARGIE: James?

RICH: Wow!  That’s really something!

MARGIE: James, get that fork out of your nose, you could puncture your brain.

EM: Wonder what else he could fit up there.

RICH: Hey, James, look at this!

RICH is trying to put his entire fist in his mouth.

MARGIE: Honestly, I don’t know where he gets it from.  Stop that!

RICH: Sorry.

THEY bow their heads and continue to listen to the prayer.

HAROLD begins to sing a limbo tune.

EM: Shut up!

HAROLD: Listen, I’m about to fall asleep so before I do, I thought I’d offer us a little entertainment.

EM: You need to take lessons.

HAROLD: You gonna pay for them?

EM: You gonna pay me the fifty bucks you still owe me?

HAROLD:I don’t owe you fifty bucks.

LIL: Yes you do. I remember.

HAROLD: What do you mean, you remember?

LIL: Well, Em borrowed the money from me to give to you.

EM: I did not.

LIL: Yes you did.

EM: That was fifteen years ago.

LIL: And the interest is still accruing.

EM: You did not add interest to it.

LIL: Yes I did.

EM: You are such an ass.

MARGIE (exploding with pent up fury): SHUT UP!!!!!!

(PAUSE)

Dead quiet.

MARGIE: That was a lovely thing Dad just said and you missed it.

RICH (softly): Well, what did he say?

MARGIE: I forget. It was something about clouds.

LIGHTS

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.

20 Beautiful Things

This is the free write assignment for my class yesterday. I've been feeling grumpy and very blue lately, so I needed to remind myself that there are a lot of beautiful things in life, even when things maybe aren't going the way you hoped. Here are my20 Beautiful Things

1) When I come home from teaching and my kids are waiting for me, jumping up and down, pleased just to see me.

2) The sound of rain on the roof.

3) A first kiss.

4) All the kisses that follow.

5) That golden kind of light filtering through orange or red leaves.

6) when the moon is out at the same time as the sun, making me feel (even if only briefly) that I am on a new planet.

7) laughter. Real laughter. From the belly laughter.

8) People are beautiful. All people. Their faces, hair, bodies. If you stop and look, really look, you can see it.

9) My friends are beautiful. The way they talk to me, listen to me, shake their heads at the ridiculous things that happen.

10) A chocolate volcano cake, warm from the oven, topped with slowly melting vanilla ice cream.

11) Lake Michigan in a storm. Lake Michigan sleeping. Lake Michigan in winter, waves frozen mid-turn.

12) A tiny Indian restaurant in NYC, with ceilings and walls covered with teardrop lights.

13) Sitting in a bar listening to live music, any live music, but mostly jazz.

14) Someone rubbing their hands through my hair. This will make me love you a little bit.

15) Going out with someone for the first time, not knowing if anything will happen, just seeing endless potential before you.

16) Saying good morning.

17) Quiet mornings, awake before everyone else, drinking coffee and listening to the house.

18) Holding my kids’ hands when we walk to school.

19) The words ‘bubble’ and ‘love’ and ‘poppy’ and ‘hyperbole’.

20) When someone says “I love you” and you know, without question, that they do.

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.

Rex Alter Episode #1 pt 3 of 3

The finale of the episode....More adventures to follow....  

Rex Alter Episode #1 pt 3 of 3

Rex Alter Episode #1 pt 2 of 3

Rex Alter Episode #1 pt 2 of 3

Balls, Glorious, Balls (literally, not, you know the other way)

Imagine your average juggler: tight pants, crazy ruffled shirt, kooky hat. Now imagine that they're not very good. Sure, they can juggle one ball in the air...but that's not really juggling. That's more of a 'throw up and catch' sort of thing. Toss another ball in there and, wow, two balls, pretty impressive. Add twenty more. That poor juggler! Balls flying everywhere, raining from the skies.

But maybe, maybe when all the stars align that same juggler will have two maybe three seconds of success, when all the balls are floating in the air and you (the  watcher) think "My God, maybe this time it's going to work".

Juggler of many pretty balls

Super extended metaphor but I feel like that juggler. Except I really don't like tight pants (though Keeley swears my jeans are all one size too big and the jeans she forced me to buy--size 8--are now my favorite).

Why all the ball references? Besides that any time I mention balls I giggle like a school girl?

My life is balls. Balls balls balls. 

Mmmm. Balls. 

Now I'm distracted. Okay. Focusing. Focusing.

Here's what's happening: I am tired of being a wannabe-writer. I want to make a living at this. So I'm juggling about a hundred balls in the air hoping that at one moment, they'll all float magically and maybe that agent or publisher will pause and say "You know she's got something there".

Here's what I'm doing, much of it you'll find here:

1) Audio version of "Easy Does It"

2) Podcasts of "Blunder Woman"

3) Recording of radio play "Hot Summer Cool Breeze"

4) Recording of radio plays that are sci-fi and medical dramadies

5) Performance at Dog Story

6) Praying to the Gods that someone buys my book. (Thanks to Dana for actually trying to convince a book club to read it)

7) More writing workshops

8 ) Idea of turning "Blunder Woman" into a screenplay or webcast.

9) New narration website so I can get paying gigs

10) Attempting new jamming recipes (which really doesn't pertain to any of this, but I like making jam.)

Something's got to work, yes? Oh, and I'm still working on this new mystery.

So. I'm going to ask you dear readers a favor. If you like my work, take a little pity and spread the word. The more people who see what I'm doing, the better chance I have of having something actually happen. Not that you need to do this or should feel obligated, but a girl can ask for a little help. I'm trying to entertain, but I also want to eat. And wear pretty clothes. And smell good.

-T-

Theory on Genius of Firefly, Battlestar Gallactica...etc.

Last night a friend of mine invited me over to finally watch Firefly. I've been meaning to do it; it's been in my Netflix queue forever. It sort of had become that thing you have every intention of doing (like a bikini wax) but the commitment is just too much.

And, like many things in life, watching a new TV series (or reading a new book, or watching a play) is sort of like dating: awkward at first and then, hopefully, wonderful. There are the bad dates too: the series you have high hopes for but lets you down (Earth 2). And there are the good dates, the dates all others are measured against: Battlestar Gallactica, and in ages past, X-Files. Was I ready to commit to a new relationship with a television show? Does my philosophising here smack of pathetic?

Yes. And Yes.

Here's the thing about sci-fi, the genius of it if you will. (My friend and I discussed this heatedly and agreed. Of course, we're both geeks, but that's an aside.) Science Fiction isn't science fiction at all; it's simply a setting that enables characters to live to their fullest. It's a setting that allows writers to break the rules of our everyday world and stretch characters to their utmost. Much like war dramas show man v. man, and romances show women v. their own hearts.

Mythology does this too...putting characters in ridiculous situations. Consider poor Atlas carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. But what does carrying the world on your shoulders MEAN? I have met Atlas before, the broken man, the broken woman, the life that goes on but with unendurable suffering. The truth of what it means is too painful, but metaphor, oh, we get metaphor.

Sci-fi---when it is good, it is very very good. It's poetic. Grand. Funny. Heartbreaking. And when it is bad, there are furry puffballs multiplying like psychotic rabbits. But even that, really, is good in its own way.

So. Watching Firefly, I laughed. I was touched. I was enticed and titillated. And maybe just for a little bit I felt that much more alive. It's the same thing that happened when I watched Battlestar. I felt a little bit of the euphoria you get when you meet someone you're attracted to and you start to have a conversation and pheromones are popping.

Yes. My pheromones were popping. Which leads me to another question...but I'll save that one for a later date.

If A UPS Man Can Be Sassy--Why Not the Garbage Man?

I've noticed a peculiar thing happening lately: men. Not just men in general, you know, walking on the street, high-fiving each other, flexing their muscles while they wait in line for a latte. No. This is altogether stranger. I've noticed men noticing me. This is an epiphany. Truly. And I'm not sure if it's something that's always happened or if this is a recent occurrence. Lately, though, they're being awfully nice to me and I don't think it's because my t-shirt says "Please Don't Kick Me". Nice men are popping out all over the place, and really, it's starting to freak me out.

Today I stopped to get lunch at Marie Catrib's (lentil samosas and tabulli) and the guy behind the counter with tattoos decorating his arm like evil lace, talked to me about this old hig school buddy he just saw and he hasn't been in high school for 13 years (which means he's 31) and said buddy is married to his high school sweetheart and isn't that amazing because relationships are so hard, aren't they, and communication, well, that's what it's all about. I nodded dumbly, then handed him my money "Here." I said. He said "You make sure to come back in here soon, okay?"

Then I walked out into the weird universe I'd just entered.

Went for a run.

Came home to the garbage truck idling in the driveway, and the garbage man pulling away my green can. Hmm. That sounds mildly naughty. So I'm going to get in my house and he stops me: "Hey! Are you the owner? I just met your mom. She's really nice. Where'd you move from."

Before I answered, I noticed that he was looking me directly in my eyes and that he was very very handsome, in the way that a UPS man or a mailman or a construction worker is handsome. It has something to do with the uniform and the ability to lift heavy things (which could be you, naked). But the garbage thing was a bit of a turn off. I told him I was separated from my husband. "Hey! I'm just getting a divorce! If you need anything, let me know. Seriously. It's a long road, but you'll be glad you walked it."

Then we had a five minute conversation in which we found out our kids are the same age and that relationships fall apart if you don't have good communication.

Then the guy at La Cantina asked me if my margarita was all right. 

Oh. I guess that wasn't weird. He was just being a waiter. Still, weird kindness is going on...and at the reading I gave last night, I did feel like eyes were on me. And they were, because I was standing on a stage alone with a spotlight on me, but it's more than that.

The point is: I'm not invisible anymore, and it's awfully nice to be seen.

Cheers, all.