What's Going On...& Words That Make Me Giggle

Usually when I sit down to write a blog, I have some idea of where it’s going to go. Maybe I want to talk about words that make me giggle like an adolescent boy: cheese log, muffin, and, of course, beaver.

But today, I’m just sort of sitting down and writing. My fingers are flying and my mind isn’t quite there yet. There’s been so much going on I haven’t had time to breathe or relax…which is why my body has decided to pummel me with a cold. Seems the only thing  that will slow me down is when I have a broken foot or a chest cold. This cold’s only minor. My voice actually sounds sexy, instead of freakish.

See? Wandering.

What’s been going on? I’ve been on a  few more dates, though I said I was giving up on that. Went to a great wine tasting with quirky characters from Italy. One was wearing a shirt a few sizes too small and had one of those bellies that stick out like a happy toddler’s. He was also wearing enormous glasses. The other Italian sat at my table and entertained us with stories on how carefully he must pronounce the word “Cork” because he has a tendency to leave out the ‘r’, and when he told a woman that he had a ‘cork’ (sans r) in his hand, she looked absolutely pale. That was a good time. Not the, ahem, co*k in his hand, but the wine tasting. Just the right amount of awkwardness. And my escort did a fine job.

I’m still not sure I’m cut out for dating. The problem is that whole loneliness thing. And I really wish I could just fast-forward through the dating process and just be comfortable with someone. I’m so tired of asking men about their childhood, their job, their goals, their travel. It’s driving me bonkers. I just want to sit quietly with someone and be quiet, take their hand, lean against them. Not to mention other things I’d like to do…but….yeah…you sort of have to date before you get to that point.

And the other drama going on has been this house ordeal. I think I’ve come to terms with it. And now, it might actually still happen. I’m whispering quietly for luck. Then there’s taxes, trying to work on my book, putting up a show at Dog Story, trying to juggle time with the kids and a social life and returning to reading. I’m so busy I’ve thrown out commas entirely.

As I was walking to school today, I had a peculiar awareness dawn. I’m actually happy. I am. It’s almost been a year now since I left Pierre, and it has been beyond difficult. I left with nothing, started with nothing, broke my foot, had several major disappointments, stressed about money and work and the kids, felt my heart break over Pierre’s choice to remarry so quickly, felt it break again when I started to fall for the wrong person and then stopped myself, felt intense loneliness, even, at times, utter despair.

But the flip side? The flip side is, I’m finishing up a year as a professor of writing. My book is being published in July. My kids are happy. I’ve reconnected with wonderful friends and made new friends. I’ve laughed more this year than in the past five. I’ve cried more too, but they’ve been good tears…and I find, suddenly, that I’ve done it. I’ve succeeded. Maybe I’m not rich or famous or Hollywood beautiful, but I am living the life I want. The life I deserve.

Hmmm. This is what happens when you free write. Sometimes you realize that that thing you’ve been searching for, that happiness…well, you’ve had it all along.

Dreaming of Summer (and an extra fantasy)

You know, I’m tired of being angst-ridden and depressed about how life is going. It actually takes a lot of energy to maintain sadness. I wish it burned calories, but I’m afraid the reverse is true. Or, ehm, I’ve had too many nights of strawberry cheesecake ice cream topped with crumbled potato chips. (Have I really done that? No. But it sounds good. I eat a handful of chips, then the a scoop of ice cream.)

So I’ve decided that while I can’t really escape my life and go on vacation to England (which is something I’d really like to do), I can take a little break mentally and go…oh…anywhere I want. I could take myself on a saucy escapade where I’m wearing nothing but a little apron and heels and a hunky guy (a nice ctranger) comes into my kitchen and wants to know what I’m cooking. “Who?” I ask, raising my fingertip to my red, red lip. “Me? Why I’m just cooking a little melted chocolate.” I dip my finger in the chocolate and offer it to him. He’s so hot in the kitchen he has to take his shirt off and….

That was supposed to be a short example of what I’m NOT going to write about. Ahem. Let me take a moment. I’ll be right back….

(Ten minutes later.)

Okay. Phew. Just had to run and eat some potato chip topped ice cream.

What was I saying?

Ah yes. I was talking about summer. Well, not really, but I meant to. Here’s what I love about summer: I love visiting my friends Brendan and George, something I haven’t done enough of in the last years, but I love seeing their cottage and walking on the beach where the waves are sometimes so loud that it drowns out the sound of your thoughts. I love getting sand in my hair and between my toes and in the cuffs of my rolled up jeans.

I love making fresh bruschetta from my garden. I pick the basil and a sun-warmed tomato, chop it fine and add lots of garlic, a little olive oil, pinch of salt, and then pile some homemade bread tall with the stuff. I can eat vats of it. Vats. All while sitting in the sun and listening to some jazz while drinking a nice crisp glass of pinot grigio. I actually couldn’t do that while married because my ex only wanted to listen to NPR…but now…now I can listen to music and close my eyes, imagining the notes dancing across my skin.

I like going for walks around Reed’s Lake. I might not be able to run this summer, but I’ll walk, and maybe there will be someone with me this time, someone more interested in just spending time with me then actually exercising. And maybe, maybe, I’ll stop in the shade, tell him to wait up, and then I’ll kiss him. I’d like that I think.

I like ice cream in the summer, and the sound of kids playing in the neighborhood. I like cars going by playing music that I would never listen to, but for a moment, I do. Sometimes it’s so loud I feel it in my heart.

I like having the windows open and on windy days when I hear the leaves rustle I feel like I’m underwater and that those trees are giant stalks of seaweed. I can imagine being a fish.

I like sleeping with the windows open and hearing crickets and bugs…its own peculiar music. And I like waking up impossibly early because the sun is so bright.

In the summer, my kids play outside. We go on adventure walks and toss sticks into the lake. We look for frogs. I scream. They laugh at me. We go home, exhausted, and fall asleep before it’s even dark.

And this summer, this summer, I’m going to sit on my deck, the deck of the house I will have, and I will put out Christmas lights so that the backyard sparkles like its own universe. I will play music and serve so many appetizers that my friends will wonder if I’ve finally gone over the Edge of Crazy. We will laugh. We will toast to the night and hot breezes. And when they’re gone, well, maybe then I’ll put that apron on…only it won’t be a stranger in my kitchen, but someone I’ve grown to know and love. And we won’t even need melted chocolate to get…

Okay. Someone needs to read a romance novel. And that someone is me. A perfect night to do it…it’s not summer yet, after all, but still frozen winter. But trust me…my life is about to heat up. I’m certain of it.

No Title Strong Enough For This

I know I need to write about this because it’s keeping me up at night, but I’m not sure how to begin. I’ve had a very hard week with some difficult news. (I’ll get to that in a moment.) But what happened when I heard the news was that I felt something inside me crack, the way I imagine my foot originally broke, or ice breaks when there is too much weight on it. First a thin line appeared, and then the sound of things breaking apart. Emotionally, that’s how I felt.

What happened is this: I have been trying to get a house. I did everything the way you’re supposed to: I was preapproved for a mortgage because I didn’t want to get my heart set on something and then be told it wasn’t possible. So I got preapproved. Gold star approved. Then I found the house.  A perfect house in the perfect location, a place I could call home and provide some stability for me and my kids. I’ve been looking for a place to rest my entire life it seems. And not rest as in die, I mean, a place where I feel safe. A place to call my own. A place that’s also a respite from the outside world. The house inspection went great. The owners accepted my offer. We set a closing date.

Then two days ago I received a call from the mortgage company: “See, Tanya, the underwriter is having a problem with the word Temporary. It says you’re a Temporary Full-Time Professor, and that makes them nervous.”

Only Kendall can’t call me anything else, because to call me full-time means that they’d actually have to get approved to create a position first and then follow all the university’s rules in filling that position. “What does this mean?” I asked the guy.

“Well, we need to see your W2’s from 2008. They want to make sure you can afford the payments.”

Should be easy, yes? Only I was a stay-at-home mom in 2008 and had no income. Of course, I had income, I had my husband’s income. We shared everything. But mortgage companies don’t look at it like that. What they see is that I was unemployed for 5 ½ years, not that I was taking care of my children. They won’t count my husband’s income as mine because it was his. You see? That’s when I cracked.

To leave a bad marriage, one in which I was pretty much invisible as a person, I had to leave every comfort and security. I’d chosen to be a stay-at-home mom for the interest of our kids and because of finances. But when I left the marriage, I left with nothing. NOTHING. I’m not exaggerating. Pierre ‘let’ me take about $500 from our joint account. Everything else was up to me. I had no home. No furniture except for a couple of pieces I asked him for. I had no full-time job. Now that the divorce is final, I also have no health insurance, no dental insurance, no retirement. I have a car in which I now take over the insurance payments for. And then, on top of it, I can’t get a house because I’m a security risk.

And my ex? He has insurance, he has 5 ½ years of employment, he is searching for a house with his fiancée and will have no trouble, he has ten plus years of retirement saved up. He has a new car. He’s moved seamlessly from being married to me into a new relationship with a new woman who will be his new wife and he will have his new home.

I’m not mad at him specifically. I’m mad at the system. I’m mad that a woman (or man) who chooses to stay with their children then has no security, no credit, and is viewed as someone untrustworthy. I’m mad that everything I’ve provided for my kids has been from sheer tenacity. I’m mad that I have no guarantees. No insurance. No one to help me bear the weight of it. And I’m mad that the perfect house I found may not be mine after all, and I will have to explain to them why Daddy is getting a new house but Mommy can’t, after all.

I’ve often wondered how women stay in bad relationships where they’re abused or misused or mistreated or simply unhappy. Now I know. You stay because you have to. You stay because what is in front of you is poverty if you are not lucky enough to get a job. You stay because you may not be not lucky enough to find a landlord who will trust you enough to rent to you. You stay because you are terrified of getting injured or sick or hurt and you won’t have the insurance or the money to help yourself. You stay in a marriage because even though you are strong and independent, you know you cannot fight the system on your own.

Yesterday I really felt “What is the point?” What is the point of my trying to get ahead, of trying to produce creative work, of trying to get a house for the kids. But deeper than that I felt “What is the point of me?” “Why do I matter?” No one else seems to think I do, most of all the system.

So I put a call out on Facebook of all things asking for support. And all day my phone chimed with friends telling me they care about me, they’re thinking of me, and I felt…I don’t know…loved.

What I’ve done is hard and lonely and terrible at times, and there are so many obstacles in my way, and so many people saying “No”.

But there are also a few whispering words of strength from my friends and family, words of encouragement, of support…so even though I feel so alone in this System, I know, essentially, that I’m not actually bearing this weight on my own. And for that small thing, I am intensely grateful.

A Moment At The Susten Pass

In case you missed the Grand Rapids Art Musuem Friday night of one-acts, here's the play that I wrote. It was directed by Lisa Nowak and performed beautifully by Laura Michels and Matt Jansen. A big thank you to Austin Bunn for creating the event and Kerri Vander Hoff for letting us explore the GRAM in a new way. Here's the scene:

A Moment at the Susten Pass

a one-act play based on the painting by Durand

written by Tanya Eby

JUSTIN is a GRAM guard, standing in front of the Durand piece. He is wearing an earpiece, which he occasionally seems to listen to. He can be standing ‘guard’ even while people come into the room.

LYNNE enters. She hangs out with the crowd for a moment, checks her program. She moves a step forward, and seems very touched by the painting.

LYNNE: It’s beautiful, isn’t it?

JUSTIN does not look at the painting. He nods.

LYNNE: It’s funny…it reminds me…the way the clouds reach to the sky, the mountains…I…

LYNNE is struggling with some emotion. JUSTIN seems concerned.

JUSTIN: Are you all right? Do you want me to call someone?

LYNNE: No! No. It’s fine. I just…the picture reminds me of my dad. Isn’t that funny? It reminds me of a story he used to tell me when I was a girl. I haven’t thought about that in, oh, forever. Well, halfway to forever maybe. Oh, my dad….

LYNNE starts to cry a little, but tries to stop.

JUSTIN: Maam…miss? Do you…should I…you want a Kleenex. I’ve got one in my pocket but it might be…yeah. You probably don’t want that. You okay? You want to sit? You can you know. Take all the time you need.

LYNNE sits, fumbles in her purse, pulls out a handkerchief.

LYNNE: I am so sorry! I feel absolutely ridiculous. I don’t know where all this emotion is coming from. Is there a full moon or something?  (she laughs) Oh, man. It just…it’s silly…it just makes me think of my dad.

JUSTIN: Is your dad…I mean…has he…he passed away?

LYNNE: What? Oh, no. No! He’s in Albequrque. He lives there. I just saw him last weekend.

JUSTIN: Oh. Okay. Good.

LYNNE: I must look like such a freak. Crying about a painting! And I am not an emotional person. I’m really not.

JUSTIN: Don’t worry. It has that effect on a lot of people.

LYNNE: Really? People come in here, remember a story their father told them when they were a girl, and then they break down?

JUSTIN: Every time. (pause). No. No, everyone is different. Some people don’t even notice it. A lot of people like the more modern stuff, you know, bright colors, abstract emotion or no emotion, but something like this…something like this is quiet. Unassuming.

LYNNE: You make it sound like a girl at a party. The one that people don’t notice.

JUSTIN: (laughs). Yeah. Well. Or a guy. The one, you know, that people don’t notice.  The one that is sort of in the background but has stories to tell if someone would only…

LYNNE: Listen.

There is a beat when they look at each other, some kind of human connection.

LYNNE (brightly): The story my dad used to tell me was about the Land of Elnono.

JUSTIN: El…?

LYNNE: El. No. No. I had a stuffed animal, a grey elephant that I called Elnono, and I carried him with me everywhere, and at night my dad would tell me about a magical land where Elnono lived. In my mind, it looked just like that painting.

JUSTIN: Your elephant lived on a mountain? I hate to tell you this, but it sounds like your dad didn’t know much about elephants.

LYNNE: No. No, he didn’t. What he did know about, though, was magic. Creating something magical. Even in the darkest of times.  Like when my mom…Well. In the Land of Elnono, everything was perfect. Golden light, lush grass for Elnono to eat, a river for him to play in. Elnono had friends and laughter and everything he wanted.

JUSTIN: Sounds nice.

LYNNE: Yes. And then on one of our moves, I lost Elnono.

JUSTIN: One of your…

LYNNE: One of our moves. Yes. We didn’t stay in one place for long. My mom wasn’t in the picture, and we had to travel a lot for my dad’s work. And, well, that’s another story. But…I lost Elnono. Couldn’t find him anywhere and I went berserk. I must’ve been like five and I think it was the first time I really realized that things you love, people you love, they can leave you and never come back. Something about mortality. And I was just crying and crying, I was hysterical and that’s when my dad told me about the great mountain that reached to the sky. He pulled me on his lap and I remember he smelled like coconut lotion. Sunscreen or something. He pulled me on his lap and I snuggled into him, putting my face against the crook of his neck, you know what I mean, and he told me about what happened to Elnono.

LYNNE pauses, or grabs something from her purse or something.

JUSTIN: Well? What happened? Was he okay?

LYNNE: Yeah. He was okay. See, Elnono climbed that mountain. I swear, it’s that mountain right there. He worked really hard and he made it to the top and on some days, when the light is just right, you can see him, dancing in the clouds with his friends. That’s what my dad told me, and I believed him. And when I look at this painting, I can see him.

LYNNE motions to the painting.

LYNNE: Can you see him?

JUSTIN looks. Really looks.

JUSTIN: Elnono or your dad?

LYNNE smiles.

JUSTIN: I almost think I can.  Right…there.

LYNNE: Yeah. Exactly. (pause) So. (LYNNE leans in and reads his nametag) Justin, what do you see? JUSTIN: What do I see?

LYNNE: Yes. Exactly. What do you see? Doesn’t anyone ever ask you that? JUSTIN: Uhm. No. I’m just a guard.

LYNNE: And are you the guy at the party that no one notices? JUSTIN: I’m pretty quiet, yeah.

LYNNE: There’s no…

JUSTIN: Girlfriend? No. Noooo. Not yet. Maybe. I mean, I don’t have a ton of…I don’t…

LYNNE: One is all you need.

JUSTIN: Yeah. One is sort of…uhm…all I want. I just. Yeah.

pause

LYNNE: I do want to know, though. What you see.

JUSTIN: No. You really don’t. I don’t know anything about art.

LYNNE: Even better. I don’t want to know what the experts see. I just want to know what you see. Unless you don’t…

JUSTIN: Oh, no. No! It’s totally okay. I’m just not used to, talking. Here. Where I work. Mostly I just try to be invisible.

LYNNE: You’ll have to try harder, I’m afraid, because I see you.

JUSTIN: You do, huh?

LYNNE: Yes. I do.

JUSTIN: Ha! Well…When I look at this painting? I see…well….you know…. Asher Durand, founder of the national Academy of Design, began painting about 1830. In 1836 he went on an expedition with painter Thomas Cole into the Adirondacks.

LYNNE: You don’t see that!

JUSTIN: No?

LYNNE: No! You memorized it. It’s on the placard right there.

JUSTIN: I have a lot of time on my hands. (he laughs) I don’t really see anything. I mean I see things, yeah. I see this god of a mountain and how fierce it is, but peaceful too, and if I really look, I see people, some shepherds or something, but they’re so insignificant. They’re just going about their lives, almost a part of the landscape itself, while in the distance, rolling hills, just…you know…the expanse of it. And the blue sky, and those clouds, man, those clouds that are either a storm or the passing of a storm. So I see all of that, but mostly, mostly I just feel…Oh, this might sound weird, I feel…peaceful. I feel like I’m almost standing where those people are, like all the problems in my life are so small, so insignificant that I can just look out at the world around me and feel like everything is going to be okay. I look at this painting and I just…I just breathe.

LYNNE: It’s a painting that reminds you to breathe?

JUSTIN: Yeah. I guess. The closer thing would be…not that it reminds me to breathe, but that the painting itself is somehow like a breath. Quiet. A swift intake of breath. A moment of stillness. And, I guess, a release.

LYNNE: Yeah. It’s like a breath. Or a secret.

JUSTIN: Or a story a father tells his daughter, a long time ago.

There is a moment.

LYNNE walks up to JUSTIN and holds out her hand.

LYNNE: Justin, I’m Lynne. It’s a pleasure to meet you.

They shake hands. They shake hands for a while.

JUSTIN: Yeah, yeah. It really is. A pleasure, I mean. Meeting you. At the Sustan Pass.

LYNNE: I like that. That’s what we’ll tell people.

JUSTIN: We’ll tell people?

LYNNE: When they ask where we met. We’ll say we met at the Sustan Pass. And then we’ll both take a deep breath. (pause) Which you should really do now. Are you breathing? Are you okay?

JUSTIN: Yeah. I’m breathing. I’m completely breathing.

LYNNE: Good.

They turn and look at the painting. LYNNE moves close enough so that their arms touch.

JUSTIN: It’s beautiful.

JUSTIN is looking at the painting, and LYNNE turns to look at JUSTIN.

LYNNE: Yeah. It is.

LIGHTS

Application to Date Tanya

After returning to the world of dating mainly by using online dating services, I've decided to pull all my info off the sites and go at this alone. After meeting really nice, great men, I've realized that the process isn't streamlined enough. So here is my idea. I will post an application to date....me. Yes! That's right! Interested parties may fill out this application and send it in. In no way does this mean Tanya is bitter (although she might be), mostly she's just exhausted, so she's going to stop actively looking. She's going to focus on writing and getting her house and finding a permanent teaching position, and finishing her 3rd novel...which she'd like to make into a series. That doesn't mean she doesn't want to date; she does. She just wants all applicants screened first. Here it is:

Application to Date Tanya

Please fill out this application to the best of your ability. You must fill it out yourself. If you need someone else to fill this out for you, then I’m sorry, you cannot date Tanya.

1) Are you currently:

a) Married

b) Separated

c) Divorced

d) Single

e) Separated but still living with ex

f) Separated but emotionally damaged

If you answered A, E, or F, you may not date Tanya. You’re too much work for her. If you answered B, C, or D…please continue with application.

2) Do you have a job and a car?

a) Yes

b) No

If you answered A please continue. If you answered B, please go out and get a job and a car.

3)  Do you currently

a) Own your home

b) Rent

c) Live with your mom

If you answered A or B, you’re doing great! If you answered C, Tanya feels bad for you. Please fill out this application at a later point, when you have moved out of the basement.

4)  Are you supportive of dating someone who is flighty, emotional, talks too much, has big ideas and writes long emails (sometimes drunken emails), and also narrates and is working on webisodes and in her spare time writes novels and plays in which people do, occasionally, have sex?

a) Yes. Love it.

b) I’m a little uncomfortable with this.

c) My mother would be offended.

d) No way.

If you answered anything other than A, then Tanya is not the right one for you.

5)  As an eater, what kind of cuisine do you like:

a) Plain old meat & potatoes for me

b) I’m a vegetarian or vegan

c)  Anything my mom cooks for me

d) I’m an adventurous eater. I’ll eat curry, chicken wings, lentil cakes, whatever. And I’m not opposed to chopping vegetables.

If you answered A, B, or C, it might be hard for Tanya to cook for you. Seriously reconsider filling out the rest of this application. She likes to cook and experiment with whatever she fancies, and she may offend your palate.

6)  Are you dating anyone else?

a) Yes

b) No

c) I’ve been dating someone for a while, but I want to make sure she’s the right one, so I thought I’d date Tanya just to be sure, then tell Tanya that while she’s intelligent, creative, and sexy, my heart belongs to another and I’m planning on committing to her. To the other woman. Not to Tanya.

If you answered B, congratulations! You may now date Tanya!!! If you answered A, please don’t date Tanya. She’s not good with competing, and it makes her feel very vulnerable. If you answered C, go away. Go far away!! Tanya does not want to see, hear, or speak to you.

Thanks for completing this questionnaire. Pleases send your $5 application fee and picture to Tanya at heyblunderwoman@gmail.com . She’ll get back to you once her sister has approved the application.

If My Foot Is Healed, Why Isn’t My Heart Feeling Better?

For those of you who read my blog, you know that for the last eight weeks, I’ve had serious ups and downs (mostly downs) while recovering from my broken foot. It’s been an experience in humility, that’s for sure, on multiple levels…and has now become a story I tell strangers in waiting rooms. “You will not believe this when I tell you…” my story begins.

On Monday I saw the surgeon again. He showed the pretty naked-foot, my bones illuminated before me, and I could still see that slight line that looked a little unfocused. “How do you feel?” he asked me.

“I feel great! Super! Just terrific!” I did talk with exclamation points. I’m not sure if I was trying to convince him or me. Then he pointed out that little chip at the edge of my foot. I didn’t need to see it. I already knew it was there.

“You see, this is the part that’s concerning,” he said. “In this type of fracture, in this bone, sometimes the healing just…stops.”

I probably could’ve told him that too. Over the last year, I’ve done a lot of healing, but part of me has just stopped. I feel stuck. I feel…still…sad, even when I’m using exclamation points. And I don’t want to go on and on about love or the absence of love, but come one, it’s Valentine’s Day almost. Through this year, I left my husband, developed a relationship with a man-I-could-have-loved, said goodbye to him when he committed to someone else, put myself back in the dating scene where it seems that though men have been interested, no one has taken that extra step in getting to know me beyond the surface. My mom says I’m just too beautiful and talented. Man, I love her for that.

Mostly, I worry that there’s something broken in me. Something you need an X-ray to see. A little chip near a healed fracture. A part that won’t heal.

The surgeon gave me some good news. “I’m hopeful,” he said. “You’re healthy. You’re in shape. You exercise. Your attitude about this is good. You can go without the boot, but I want to see you in a couple of weeks.”

And then it’s more X-rays. And maybe it’s surgery. I’m to the point now that if that’s what I need to do, I’ll do it. Anything to be able to walk and run and wear heels again.

I wish the answer was as simple for my heart.

In Which I Go Off On The Urban Monster: East Psycho Moms

Before I begin my rant, please note, that of course I understand that not all moms who live in East are psychos. No. There are some perfectly well-adjusted, normal, kind moms (like myself. Ha!) who do not fit this description. What I’m ranting about is that peculiar monster, the East Mom who is augmented, enhanced, and breathes invisible fire of disapproval if you were not born, bred, and then reproduced in the 49506 zip code. They eat little, shop a lot, and talk almost nonstop. On phones at least.

I’m talking about that monster as terrifying as any Sasquatch: The East Psycho Mom or EPM.

I moved to East after leaving my husband because I wanted to ensure my kids got into a good school. We had Louis enrolled in Grand Rapids Montessori, but with funding cuts, we weren’t sure the program was going to continue. And by my moving into East, I’d essentially not have any argument from my (at the time) husband. It’s a safe area, close, clean and would ensure that he could still walk to see them when he wanted. It would keep our kids in the same neighborhood and not disrupt their life. So we enrolled Louis into the Young 5’s at East.

I had sensed shadows of the EPM at D&W or while running around Reed’s Lake. These were moments where I felt I was being watched, judged, perhaps about to be pounced on and devoured. East Moms are very good at hiding, but if you have keen eyes (mine are very keen after years of training hunting morels) you will see them. When they exercise, they wear running gear that is color coordinated. And makeup. And their hair in a perfect ponytail. And the DON’T SWEAT. At the local grocery store, they look at labels and tend to buy something that’s more expensive because it must be better quality. They like packaged goods and organic vegetables (that they don’t cook). And if they should happen to bump into you, they smile a wicked smile that says “Get out of my way, bitch” and then prance on their way while talking on their cell phone and following their child (who is dressed entirely in Gap or JCrew or something like that). They shoot lasers at you if they can smell you’re not from the area.

I don’t pass often for an EPM. I’m too voluptuous. I don’t wear things that match. My hair is often on the frazzled side. My kids run around pretending they’re aliens and/or murderers. When we go to D&W, we have conversations about what kind of bugs eat bodies as they decompose. Sometimes, though, if I’m coming from work and am in professional mode, one of the EPM mistakes me for One of Them.

This happened once at Louis’s school. Only once. A mom approached me to chat while we waited for our kids. She was so exhausted because her husband (a doctor) was working all the time and they were trying to get ready for their trip to Colorado to go skiing. They’d be there for two weeks. And the kids were so excited that they were driving her mad. It was a good thing she was bringing their nanny with them. Then she paused and asked me what my husband did.

“Oh, I’m divorced.” I said. She blinked as if she didn’t understand. Her whitened teeth flashed. “Yep. I’m a single mom,” I continued. I wanted to tell her that my ex was already secretly engaged though we’d only been separated for two months, but I refrained. Didn’t want to cause a heart attack.

“Oh? Really?” She looked around frantically until she caught another EPM’s gaze and she released me.

I’ve got to learn how to get along. I’m going to have to deal with these people for the next 12 years. Somehow, I know I’ll never measure up. Nor will my kids. We’re going to have fight the disapproval, be gutsy, and keep on our path of reckless creativity and individuality.

I guess you can say I’m being judgmental too. That I’m jealous of their perfect pert bodies and long straight hair. That their kids seem perfectly behaved. That they have perfect homes and marriages where they’re perfectly content, sometimes even passionate. I guess I am. Maybe. But sometimes, when I talk to an EPM, I see beneath her plastic gaze. And there’s something under the surface, some kind of deep sorrow, that is quickly covered by a smile. I was almost an EPM, you see, where my whole identity was tied to my husband and kids. But I escaped. Now I’m that colorful, rare creature in East: The Single Kooky Mom (or SKM). I get to be the balance to their obsessive-compulsive behavior. I get to be the mom that is flighty, and witty, and creative, and always has her roots showing. And my kids, they’ll be a bit of a reflection of me.

And I am perfectly okay with 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.

Where I Imagine Dating with Prompter Cards

I have now fully recovered from the emotional influence of the moon. It’s a good thing too, because I was driving myself crazy. I’m also really stressed out. I need a vacation. A backrub. To get drunk in front of a roaring fire. And to run naked through the streets screaming “I LOVE CHEESE LOGS!!!”

Ahem. Maybe I don’t need ALL of those things.

What I do need: more dating advice. I love this pamphlet put out in the 1950’s (I think) by the Kotex Corporation. It’s called “Are you in the Know” and features dating, grooming, and manners advice (all a ploy to get a young girl to buy the right maxi pad). The dating advice is hysterical, and I’ve been quoting from it.

I even threatened to take some of the advice and bring prompter cards with me on a date in case I need to ‘stimulate the conversation”. I so deeply wanted to go on a date, wear white gloves, and then as my date was ordering for me (apparently they’re supposed to) I would dip my dainty hand into my beaded purse and pull out a series of questions. I even asked readers for some questions to ask my date. And you know what happened? I haven’t had a date! No dating! Not for lack of desire, I’ve just been too damned busy.

So we must imagine. Me, in white gloves, a pretty dress, and an enormous air cast, reaching into my purse.

IMAGINED SCENE:

“Why, Tanya, what’s that you’re pulling out of your evening bag?” My date Hank asks. (His name has got to be Hank, doesn’t it?)

“Oh, this? Why I’ve brought some prompter cards!”

“You are a clever girl.”

I smile. “Why, yes, I am. Okay, are you ready?”

Hank winks.

“All right then, first question. What are your thoughts on the Kama Sutra?”

Hank blushes. Adjusts his bow tie. “Uh, not sure I’m following you.”

“Oh, It’s like the Joy Of Sex, only ancient. For that matter, do you like the Joy of Sex and are you willing to caress and fondle any part on me that brings me pleasure?” I bat my eyelashes. Hank doesn’t answer. Next prompter card. “Hank, do you like children?”

“Why yes…”

“Because I’ve got TWO!”

“Oh…”

Next card. “Hank, do you have super hero powers, because I do, I’m Blunder Woman after all and I’ve heard that when super heroes breed, they produce freaks of nature. And would you like to test that out later? You know, after I get stinking drunk?”

Hank raises his finger. “Waiter! Check!”

(Thank you Shawna for the great questions.)

END SCENE

You know, as I read this dialogue, it’s probably good I haven’t had a date. I need to just relax and breathe. It’ll happen. For now, I’m pretty busy purchasing a house, writing my books, teaching, being a mom, helping my mom, working at the theater, performing, narrating, and trying to remain flexible so that when that Kama Sutra opportunity comes up, I’ll be ready. Until then, I’ll also keep reading this pamphlet.

I’ll leave you with this gem. I'm quoting here, and have no idea what "sling a sharp line" means:

“How to rate on a first date—A) Sling a sharp line B) Be a listening post or C) Learn his interests. People love to talk about themselves…and a girl who’s a good audience is a good date. Learn his interests. Talk them over…and he’ll soon be interested in you. It’s all about forgetting yourself.”

Wait a minute!! What!! WHAT? Just who do you think you are Kotex people? What kind of malarkey were you teaching my mom’s generation?

On second thought, I’m leaving the pamphlet, the gloves, and the prompter cards at home and when that date does happen, I’m just going to be me. Plain old blunderful…me. I’ll let you know how it works out.

How A Full Moon & A Weird Email Can Mess You Up

Is it really the full moon, or am I just an overly sensitive, emotional heap of estrogen? That’s what I want to know. If I really had superpowers, I think mine would be Sensitivity To Body Language & Reading Way More Into Emails Than Is Necessary.

Last night, after a strange dinner party, I came home to a very confusing email. Two confusing emails. One, I received; the other I wrote. First though: the party. It was an awkward dinner party to discuss the possible local filming of a pilot for a PBS series. I was there to pitch my powers as a writer. I walked in and immediately my super powers kicked in. I registered looks, tics, nervous giggles, forced humor, and imagined that no one thought I could possibly write and maybe I was just there as the lead actor’s date (even though he’s married). I got over it though and I think I managed to convince people that my strength is as an emotional storyteller. I tried not to cry while saying it.

Then I came home to an email from the Man I Could Have Loved. He’s the one that said at any other time we would have a passionate love affair, but just now he’s decided to date someone else. And then let me know that he’d really been already dating her for almost a year. My heart? A trembling soft mess. We’ve emailed on occasion. And then the email last night. He misses me. He wants me back in his life. He’s hoping “we can we could get together occasionally and just... you know... talk.   Share.... whatever.” This is the sort of thing that sends me over the edge. Because…what is in between the words?  What nonverbal stuff is happening in those ellipses? What does this MEAN?

I hate feeling attracted to someone who is just plain no good for me. Bluh.

I told him, really, how can we be friends? Is he going to introduce me to his girlfriend? Have me over for a BBQ? Or would he like to meet in a dim restaurant in a corner booth, hunkered down. Listen, I am no secret.

So then I immediately wrote an email to someone I have been talking to for some time, someone I’m attracted to and, well, I don’t want to talk about that one. I think I blundered big time and ame off as just a little left of creepy. Why? Why isn’t there a send button that actually delays sending the email until you get control of yourself? Then again, why can’t you say what you really think of someone? Why does there have to be all this stuff under the surface? I’m interested in him. I’d like to know if he’s interested in me. Bluh again.

Suffice it to say, really maybe I should re-read that 1960’s dating manual. In fact, I think in my next blog I’m going to quote it and rewrite it for modern daters. Not that I’m an expert. Clearly, I have issues. Not Lex Luther issues of controlling the planet—just controlling my emotions long enough so that I don’t make a complete fool of myself.

I think in dating, there is far too much thinking, and talking, and wondering, and obsessing. What dating needs, what I need, is more kissing. Just good old-fashioned puckering up and….

Uhhh, I was going to say “puckering up and blowing” but that’s not exactly what I mean.

I mean, in short, that somebody better kiss me or my evil twin Thunder Woman is going to unleash some kick ass fireballs. (Or just sit in front of the TV and eat a giant bowl of ice cream followed by a chaser of chips.)

What I Need is a Pamphlet

Why is dating so hard? It seems to me that things are rarely equal. If you are into the guy, he’s not into you. If he’s into you, you’re not into him. And if you are both sort of interested, you still have to jump through all these awkward “Getting To Know You” hoops before you can really be comfortable.

I wish I could fast forward some of it and just, you know, be happy with someone. Thekind of happy where you're on the couch together, your legs over his, just, you know, comfortable. Relationships, though, aren’t just based on chemistry. They’re also based on time and shared experience. It's not like you can just add water and there you go: Instant Relationship.

What I’d really like is a pamphlet to tell me how to act.

One of my students gave me a handbook from the early 60’s telling girls how to be well groomed, behave on a date, and what to expect. It’s sort of like “Be sure you have washed thoroughly and spray a bit of perfume to interest your date.” And “At the end of the date you may tell your young man that you enjoyed yourself and would like to see him again, and then quickly enter your home”.

I’d like a book like that, but modernized.

“You must reach for your wallet when out to dinner fully prepared to pay, while secretly hoping your date will pay. His quickness to pay will show his level of interest in you. If he doesn’t offer to pay, then, move on lady, he’s not interested.”

There’s not a handbook though. Maybe I’ll work on one, only I don’t seem to know what’s going on or how I should act exactly. I mean, what’s the proper length of a chatty email? If you write too long of an email, do you risk seeming obsessive? If they don’t respond to emails because they’re busy, do you text something sweet? If you text something sweet, you may come off as desperate, which assuredly you are not. Do you tell someone you’d like to kiss them or do you wait, enduring an awkward silence in the parking lot while you stand by your car and he stands next to you and you say “Well, see you later” and he says “Yep. Sounds good” and you say “Okay then,” and he says “All right” and you say “I had a great time” (hoping he’ll say he’d like to see you again) and there’s this pause while you imagine your lips against his but really it’s too soon for that so maybe you should shake his hand and then he says “Okay, then” and you say “Yep. Okey dokey” and you really wish you hasn’t said that and then….aw fuck it…you retreat to your car and the kiss dissipates in the air like an unanswered wish.

I’m not, uh, talking from experience here, just you know, hypothesizing.

Can you believe I’m thinking these things at 36? I guess when it comes to love, we’re all sort of perpetual teenagers.

At least that’s what I’m hoping and that’s it not just me.

The Secret Land Of Testosterone

I recently had a very odd experience and imagined how a crew member of Star Trek would feel after materializing on a foreign planet. The planet I materialized on? The third floor of the MVP gym. More specifically, the weights room. I took the elevator to the second floor (wore my workout outfit and super-Robo-boot) then hobbled up the flight of stairs to the mysterious realm of Testosterone. Seriously. I walked in and it was like a cloud of Testosterone. The room dripped with it. It may sound gross, but it was actually rather pleasant. I had a training session with James and he promised to give me an upper body workout that would get my heart and endorphins pumping.

And there was a lot of pumping up there, let me tell you. I blush to even write about it. There were men everywhere. Using the weight machines, rolling on the floor, jumping up and clapping, playing basketball in the gym, stretching, doing yoga poses (really) and the sound! Oh, god! There were groans, and oomphs, and Aaaaaaahs! I did blush. It was like a porn movie. Like there were all these male-orgasm sounds around me. Where was the Barry White music?

While I waited for James, I had to sit down and fan myself. I was having palpitations. One man stood to my left. I secretly watched him from the corner of my eye (because I have Super Powers and I can do that). He lifted this barbell that I was certain would give him an instant hernia and as he lifted he groaned “UUUuuaaaaaaAAAAHHHHH! Uh!” I gasped. And then just in front of me, another man orgasmed. He was more of an “Ehhhhhh” which was, admittedly, a little creepy. And then : Oh! Ahh! Grrrrrrr! OOOOOWWWWMMMMMAAAAA! All around me. When James came over I couldn’t even stand.

He asked if I was ready to work out. I said “Oh, yes”.

Now, here was the dilemma: apparently while lifting weights (as I’d observed) one is supposed to make an exclamation that sounds particularly intimate. James put me on this strange machine and handed me some ropey things to squeeze. I lifted my arms above me, pulled down and said “mmmmmmm” and then “Ohhhhhhh” real soft-like. James just looked at me and blinked. “What?” I said. He cleared his throat and said: “Let’s try a little more weight.”

After a while, I stopped moaning. It was too distracting. I was too focused on sticking my chest out so far that my boobs could knock out Little People if they were unlucky enough to be within a foot of me. And I was trying to squat, but couldn’t quite do it because of the RoboBoot. And I was trying to use my shoulder blades and not the wrong muscle group and James kept touching me and all these sexual groans were around me. I couldn’t focus. I needed a cigarette. And I don’t smoke.

An hour later, I hobbled down the stairs, out the elevator, and into the sharp cold air. I’m working out next week Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday. I’m bringing my iPod. It will be playing Barry White, and I’ll be smiling.

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.

Thoughts on Gender Leadership Class

It’s my first week of the new semester, and once again, I’m energized by my classes. Yes, I’m the professor, but I swear I get a lot from the students like energy, ideas, thoughts. I’m teaching a new class this term, one that dear Ruth O’Keefe (who passed away last semester) was going to teach. It’s called “Gender Leadership”. It’s (honestly) an honor to teach it for her. I wasn’t given much more than a title to go on, so I’m creating the class day by day, based on what discussions are generated in class.

We’re starting with looking at the difference between the words “Sex” and “Gender”…and then charted stereotypes of the sexes. I’ve already learned (or became aware of) the spectrum of diversity in people. We are such complicated creatures. We’ll be reading “Sexing the Body: Gender Politics and the Construction of Sexuality” by Anne Fausto-Sterling. Already, it’s pretty enlightening.

The students seem particularly keen on discussing the emotional differences between men and women and why they exist. Nature? Nuture? Culture? The first topic to write about: Write About The Moment You Realized Your Sex. I was curious to see if there was a defining moment when the students realized they were a boy or girl or who they’re drawn to sexually. Most students can’t remember a time of realization; it’s just something they know. It could also lead to some interesting discussions on sexual preference. Is it something you choose or something you just know?

My first realization was in 6^th grade, during a competition with Olympics of the Mind. I was an awkward girl. Very homely. Feathered hair. Boys didn’t like me. And then at the OM Competition, a boy noticed me. We hung out. We high-fived. And at the end of the competition, he asked if he could kiss me. “Sure,” I said. We kissed. Fireworks!! (Or hormones) Then he asked my name. “It’s Tanya,” I said. He looked at me blankly. “My name is Erin,” he said. Wait a minute! She said! We both freaked. Turns out we were both homely awkward girls, and thought the other was a boy. Gender confusion indeed.

Tangent there.

Back to the class.

Is there a War of the Sexes?

I’m also looking for more questions, and I’m asking you, dear reader, to submit one. What’s something you’ve always been curious about in regards to gender or the opposite sex? If you could pose a question for discussion, what would it be? I’d like to know how men think about relationships. Is it just sexual? Is there more than that? Do they think about it? I’d like to know why we seem to have a Rule Book in how men and women are supposed to act. We all know the stereotypes of Manly Men and Flowery Women, but is this TRUTH or is this suggested by our culture?

I don’t know. I may not even be qualified to teach this course. What I can do is ask questions, pose ideas, get them writing, and bring in some books in and movies.

Seriously, though, if you want to help, submit your question below. I’ll ask my class and keep you posted on our discussions.

And, yes, we’ll be moving into leadership too….but not for a few more weeks.

Adventures with my Sister: The Juice Ball

Last Friday I decided to attend a party thrown by my old roommate Tommy Fitzgerald. He’s a chef in Grand Rapids. Big heart. Big ideas. Occasionally, a big ego. I met him while waitressing at Sierra Room. I needed an apartment and he had a cool house with a finished attic. I moved in. I spent a few months there, and we hung out quite a bit. We also fought quite a bit. He called food “Product” and I thought food was “Passion”. Come to find out, we really think of food the same way. It’s more than food, it’s a way to connect. At any rate, I decided to move to New York, moved home after 9/11, and haven’t seen him since then. So. He decided to throw himself a huge 40^th birthday party, raise funds for Kids’ Food Basket, an organization that provides sack lunches to kids on their way home from school…and he called it the Juice Ball.

And I wanted to go. I wanted to see Tommy, I wanted to support his cause, and selfishly, I wanted to have a good time. If you’ve been reading my blog, you know that my holiday was pretty horrible. I spent most of it alone. On the couch with a broken foot.

So I rented a room at the JW, called up my sister and braved the 400+ people at the Juice Ball…all while on crutches. Did I get stares? You bet. Did I care? Not at all. I loved it.

Sis and I stood in line for the “cafeteria” food. Or rather, cafeteria reinterpreted.

Gourmet gratin cauliflower, a deliscious asian salad, this succulent chicken with a tasty crispy coating, and meatloaf. Of course, I couldn’t carry my drink or my tray. Heidi held the drink just in front of me, like leading a horse with a carrot. And another lady stood in line for me and carried my tray. Then she snagged us a seat.  We sat across from, seriously, our future.

Heidi and I couldn’t believe it. Two sisters sat across from us, probably 30 years our senior. One had dyed red hair (like mine) and the other had silver hair, a lot of makeup, and jewelry so heavy she probably had neck pains. “Oh my God, Heidi,” I whispered. “That’s US in like thirty years.”

Then we listened to them talk.

Silver watched a carriage go by. “Oh,” she said, fanning herself. “Look at that. There’s a couple in that carriage. They must be in love.”

“They aren’t in love,” said Red. “The carriage costs so much they have to pretend they’re in love.” Red leaned in conspiratorially and said “My sister is a romantic. That’s because her husband is dead. I’m a realist. That’s because my husband is still alive and sitting at home. He refused to come tonight. He should’ve come.”

“He should’ve come,” Silver echoed.

Heidi and I then went to the ballroom where we promptly did a couple of shots. Nothing like getting blitzed while on crutches. It makes it so exciting!

The ballroom was huge and moody and dark and everyone around us was, well, attractive. Men wore velvet jackets and button shirts and jeans. Women wore shiny shirts with big necklaces that emphasized their boobs, and tight skinny jeans.

I’d had this sort of daydream that when the music started playing, someone would ask me to dance. It would be like in “Sixteen Candles” when the girl in headgear actually dances with someone. (Doesn’t she?) I had this image of a gentle, quirky man leading me to the dance  floor. “But I can’t dance,” I’d say, resisting.

“It’s okay. You’re on crutches.”

“Even if I weren’t on crutches, I still couldn’t dance.”

“It’s okay. I’ll carry you.” And then he wraps his arms around me, holds me against him snugly and lifts, so that my feet aren’t even touching the ground.

I’d nearly convinced myself of this image: me, dancing close with someone, floating.

Of course, it didn’t happen. Mostly, men gave me that “Aw, man, tough luck” sort of smile. But that was okay. I had a great time with my sister.

I did meet one man who said crutches were sexy. “Who paid you to say that?” I asked. It might have been his wife. Still, it was nice to hear.

There’s no moral here. No deep epiphany. It was a nice night with my sister. I got to see and hug Tommy. I did not meet the man of my dreams, nor did I dance. I sat, watching, crutches beside me, laughing until my tummy hurt. And then when my sis headed home, I went up to my giant room on the 18^th floor, turned out the lights, opened the window and looked at Grand Rapids, alight, beneath my feet. That, too, was a pretty cool feeling.

Oh yeah? And the dancing? It’s going to happen. It really is.

Adventures with my Sister: Online Dating

I have to say I’m really glad it’s a new year. When you think about it, there are several opportunities for new starts throughout the year, which is good, because most of us need them.

One of my new starts is The Return to the World of Dating. (Please reread that sentence with a booming-announcer-scary voice.) I’ve dabbled here and there since splitting with my ex: the man I wanted to love who wanted to love someone else, the zen Beautiful Man (really) who broke a date because “I’m going on a week long cleansing with my guru, but I’ll let you know when I get back”.  Hmmm. Nice.

And now, well, now I’ve decided that I’m ready to date for real. No more practice. I’m ready to date. And am just waiting for my phone to ring.

And waiting.

And waiting.

Feckers.

No ringing. Looks like I’ll have to do this on my own.

Actually, (excuse tense changes here) my sister decided to help me out. “The next guy you meet needs my approval,” she said. I laughed. “No. Seriously. I want to meet him, and if he’s not attractive and smart and funny, he’s out of there. I’m kicking him to the curb for you.” She was serious. She could do it.

On Tuesday, she came over to help me out. “We’re going to go on those dating sites, I’ll look at the pictures and tell you who you should date.”

“Okay,” I said.

She came over bearing wine and sausage and cheese. (You’ve got to love a sister who brings sausage. There’s just something cool about that.) I booted up my computer, logged into the site and showed her the pictures of men I’ve been emailing. First one popped up, Heidi took one look at it and said, “Hehhhhhlllll nooooooo.”

“Why? He’s nice.”

“No.”

“He’s really smart.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because his eyes are so small he could use dental floss for a blindfold.”

I looked at the guy again. My sister was right. Now, how could I go on a date with a man who I would envision wrapping in dental floss?

“Okay,” I said. “Good call. What about this one?” I showed her a picture of an attractive guy and began to read his profile out loud.

Heidi stopped me. “Whoah! Whoah!! No. Would it hurt for him to smile or something? And look, he says he’s in nursing. You know what that means?”

“What?”

“It means he’s can dismember someone no problem. He’s been trained. Next!”

I didn’t mention to Heidi that she’s in nursing and she could dismember people. We clicked on the next one. And the next.

“Why don’t you just date a woman?” she asked.

“I would. I’m open to that actually, but I can’t seem to meet anyone.”

“There’s a chick right there!!” she pointed. Actually, there was. Did the woman mean to be listed with the men? Or was she transgendered? Hmmm. I clicked on the next one.

“Stop!! Stop!! I think I have an erection,” Heidi said.

We looked. Cute, nice smile, big blue eyes. Profile was spelled correctly. “I don’t understand,” I said. “He says he’s an engineer and he manages work sites. What does that mean?”

“Oh, honey, that means he’s blue collar mixed with white collar. Blue collar men, let me tell you, HOT. It doesn’t bother me at all that he’s 42 and lives with his parents.”

“No? It bothers me a little.”

“No. He’s saving for a house. Contact him.”

“He’s already contacted me.”

“Well, let’s read it!!”

That’s how the night went. Us, laughing, drinking, picking out men. It wasn’t like ordering a pizza as I think I said in “Easy Does It”. It was more like trying on jeans. Which one is a good fit? You’ve got to see a pair that looks cute enough to try on, but every pair fits differently, until you find the one that just hugs your ass like a….Hmmm. Better stop that extended metaphor. And stop thoughts like Ass Hugging. Thoughts like that could cause me to spontaneously combust.

If you have any advice for me, let me know. If my history with blundering is any indication on how dating is going to work for me…well…let’s just say this is going to be interesting.

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?

Something Fragile and Beautiful

Usually, I try to look at life lightly…to interpret the bad things that happen with a humorous slant. Every once in a while, though, it gets a little hard to be funny. This is how I felt this week. The idea that my life right now is just not funny. There are, certainly, funny elements, but mostly right now it’s twinged with pain.

So on Wednesday while I was on break from recording, I sank into my chair, closed the door to the booth and had a good old-fashioned cry. I cried because everything right now takes so much energy. I cried because when my kids call for me to pick them up, I can’t do it. I cried because my foot hurts, because it’s broken, because I’m still humiliated that my ex’s fiancée took me to  the emergency room and I had no choice but to accept her kindness. I cried because my arms shake from using crutches, because there’s snow and ice everywhere and I’m terrified of slipping. I cried because everywhere I go, people offer to help me and I accept their help. I can’t manage all the doors on my own; I can’t carry anything to my car. Right now, my life is a series of “I can’t”s and it is, at the heart of it, very sad.

On top of that, it’s the holidays. I offered to let my ex take the kids Christmas eve and day because another thing I can’t do is get presents ready for them on my own.

Everything will work out. I have friends and family helping me. There are times though, when I just feel like I’ve had enough struggle. Of course, good things have happened too: my book getting published, my narration gigs, my job at Kendall, my radio plays. But when you’re feeling blue, you just feel it.

I’m trying to look for the hidden purpose behind this. What’s the message I’m not getting? One possibility: for most of my life, I’ve felt invisible. Never pretty enough or smart enough or talented enough. In my marriage, I was never seen as a full person. If writers have a theme, then mine is one of longing to be seen.

Right now, everywhere I go people see me. They open doors for me. They take time to slow down and help me to my car. They ask me questions: “How are you managing?” “I see your car seats. How old are your kids?” “What happened to you?” This too has made me cry. The irony is it’s not because it makes me sad. It’s that in all of this, I am profoundly amazed by the kindness of strangers:  the time they take to see me struggling and offer to help.

I think I’ll emerge from this a more empathetic person. A more humbled person. A person grateful for the smallest of things, like being able to pick up your own child and hold them to your heart. It’s not a funny moment in my life, but, eventually, maybe I’ll see it as something fragile and beautiful.

Two Conversations with my Mother

If you don't know my mom...well...she's a wonderful being. She's also extremely quirky. This is not a surprise if you look at me. I am, essentially, my mother's daughter.

I present here two telephone conversations with my mother. The first, is the conversation I wished we'd had. The second is the one we actually did have. Remember, I'm staying in the Days Inn because I'm narrating this week, and I have a broken foot with a ginormous green cast. These two details are important.

CONVERSATION #1

MOM: I just had to call you! I wanted to tell you something really exciting!

ME: Great. I could use some good news.

MOM: You got another bouquet of flowers!

ME: I did?

MOM: Yes! And this one is from MATT DAMON!

ME: Again?

MOM: He really wants to get back together. He says he’d divorce his wife for you. In fact, there are flowers and candy here from all your handsome, famous admirers. Isn’t that wonderful?

ME: I’m bored by it now actually. Being so desired is awfully tiring.

MOM: I know, honey. Boy, do I know.

CONVERSATION #2 (The Real One)

MOM: I just had to call you! I’ve got some good news!

ME: Great. I could use some good news.

MOM: Airway Oxygen just dropped off a knee scooter for you!

(PAUSE)

ME: Oh?

MOM: You are going to love it. It’s got wheels and you put your knee on it and you can roll around, and it’s black with cushions, and there’s this little bag in front so you can carry stuff, I mean…

ME: Mom? I gotta go.

MOM: It’s just wonderful! You’ll never have to use your crutches inside again!

ME: Mom...

MOM: And it folds up and it’s only $70 a month and your insurance, get this, will pay for EVERYTHING!

ME: Mom!! Mom! I’ve gotta go! I’m stuck in my pants!!

MOM: What?

ME: I can’t….muther fucker….I’m sitting on the hotel bed and my pants are stuck on my cast. I can’t get my pants off!!

MOM: Okay then. I’ll let you go.

END SCENE

My life just gets better and better. Really. It’s just so wrong I can’t help but laugh about it. Hopefully, you’re laughing right along with me.

sigh

An Exercise in Humility or Humiliation?

So far this whole broken foot fiasco has either been an exercise in humility or humiliation, maybe equal parts of both. I’ve had wonderful people offering to help and I’ve had horribly sobering moments where I sort of float outside myself and think “Aw, who’s that sad sap crawling up those stairs?”

Some random moments:

WORK

River City called me in to do one of my recurring voice-overs. I’m the Phone Lady for a major local health care group, so you can blame me when you hear prompts like “Thank you for calling. To speak with an operator, please hold for 27 minutes or so while standing on one leg, then maybe we’ll let you through” OR “If you are bleeding profusely, please hang up and dial 911.” Okay. Tangent.

So when they called me, I thought “Sure, I can handle this. This is a five minute gig.” I’d forgotten about the stairs. And the slope in their driveway. I got in the car, harder than it sounds since my driveway is an obstacle course of slush and ice, pulled my crutches in, drove, and was faced with a slope of sheer ice. I slipped my way up, rang buzzer and faced The Stairs. Granted, these stairs are not a big deal if you walk like a normal person. If you’re on crutches for the first time in your life, they are The Steep Stairs of Death. I stood there, looking at them, and thought “Fuck it”…and I crawled. That’s right. On my hands and knees.

Then there was another set of stairs leading to the basement studio. No big deal, I thought, I’ll just scoot down on my butt. Only there was a leak in the ceiling and I sat down on wet carpet so by the time I got down the stairs, not only was I butt crawling, but now looked as if I couldn’t hold my bladder.

Thank god everyone there has known me forever. My foot is broken, but my bladder works just fine.

DATING

I thought I was ready for this. Especially with my ex remarrying I feel like I ought to at least be dating. I decided to meet someone I’ve been writing to for a while online, and damnation, I was bound and determined. Plus I had a goal with my writers’ group to go out on a date with a man who wasn’t gay. (Though I really wish I could date gay men.) I limped my way to the restaurant and had a fine time talking, but at the same time, I was acutely aware of how I must smack of just a little bit pathetic. I managed to not wear stretchy pants, so that was a bonus.

I had these flashes in my mind of what sex would be like with a cast. I can’t take a bath so shaving is out. Imagine a heated moment and I lose my balance and fall over onto the floor. Or I’m trying to be sexy while I unzip my pants and then can’t get them off because they’re stuck on my cast. And then…naked bodies…imagine the awkwardness of a solid, rock hard CAST in the way. Not to mention my Sasquatch legs.

I’m thinking dating is out for a while.

HUMILIATION #459

The most recent humiliation with my ex. On the phone. Presented in dialogue.

ME: Hi, P. I’m calling because my foot is really broken. Like seriously and I need some help with the kids.

P: Okay. Well, I have them this weekend so that should help.

ME: Yes, but what I mean is…

P: Me and Miss R. are going to decorate the tree. Just want you to know in case they talk about that.

ME: Okay, but what I was going to say…

P: She was pretty upset about you having all the Christmas decorations since somehow in her split she didn’t get the Christmas decorations from her ex. But I told her it would be fine. We’d just give the kids some money and they can each buy an ornament and we’ll hang them all together and it will be a wonderful bonding experience for our family.

ME: (silence)

P: So. What are you planning on doing with the kids?

ME: Oh, you know, I have a broken foot and can’t take care of them and I’m single and can’t offer them any family bonding so I thought, I don’t know, that they’d watch TV while I eat chocolate bonbons on the couch and cry my heart out. Thanks for asking.

END SCENE

That dialogue is true, except for the last part. The last part I just thought but wanted to say. He doesn’t even realize how his words affect me.

Blast.

THE FUTURE

I talked to my sister. “You know, you’ve got to stay off your foot.”

“I know.”

“Seriously. Because if you don’t, you could have surgery.”

“I know.”

“P. is a fucking asshole.”

“I know.”

“He’s going to get testicular cancer…”

“Heidi…”

“No. Seriously. It’s karma, man. And after all you’ve been through…you know what’s going to happen?”

“Tell me.”

“Something fucking great. You’re either going to transform into a real superhero or you’re going to be rich and famous because of your books.”

“Do you really think so?”

“I know it.”

With that thought, I sit back on my couch and change the channel on the TV. Good things are coming. My sister says it’s so, and if there’s one thing I know, you don’t mess with my sister.