The Things Not Said

I went to my friend G’s cottage this week to reconnect and share our writing. He’s working on what looks like is going to be a terrific novel. We read to each other, talked writing, had a gin and tonic. I took a nap in the hammock, listened to the wind rustle the leaves. Stronger than rustle, actually. It was full-on shaking the leaves.

It was a great afternoon. G and I are dealing with similar writing issues, and maybe some similar life issues too. And then while he worked on prepping dinner (that I sadly missed, had to get home before falling asleep) I tried to get online. No access. But my mail folder popped up and I clicked something weird and all of a sudden I was looking at email from 2008...and the first message was a harmless message I’d sent to my now ex.

Hi sweetie. Sorry lunch was so rushed. I was trying to get the kids to play and take a good nap. It worked. They're both napping now.

I hope you have a great trip and all goes smoothly. I'm sorry I didn't make you bread. I honestly thought you didn't want me to make sweets right now. Maybe there will be something nice for your return.

I heard from Trillium Farms. Everything is confirmed; and got a receipt for Iowa. Both exciting. When we get our refund check and/or Brilliance money, we should set some aside to pay the balance on the farm. It's due in April.

love you

Tanya

It depressed me. Deeply. Why? What’s wrong with this note? It’s a simple note from a wife to a husband. It’s about every day stuff. What saddened are the things that are not said. My ex in this email was on one of his many trips, and he’d come home briefly for food before heading out. At that time, I cooked everything from scratch. I apologize here for lunch being rushed. Louis was 4 and Simone was 2 and I apologized! I also apologized for not having homemade bread for him. Then I talk about Iowa. On Iowa, I’d scheduled a writing conference that I wanted to attend on my own, but my ex insisted that he go with me. I was angry at him, but you’d never guess it here. Also, I used money from my voice-overs from Brilliance to pay for it, because it was an extravagance and he refused to use any of our ‘regular’ income.

You don’t hear the sadness in here. You hear a woman being a wife and saying I love you and taking care of things. But how I felt…oh, how I felt. Why couldn’t I tell him? Why couldn’t I explain how miserable I was? Why was I, essentially, lying to him?

The truth is, I wasn’t just lying to him by pretending to be happy and pretending everything was okay. I was lying to myself. Every email I sent him tried so hard to be perfect. I apologized for the house not being cleaner, for not making better food, for spending $10 over our $250 monthly food budget. I said “I love you” more times than I can count. I asked him to forgive me. It turns my stomach now to read it. Why would I expect him to know what I was feeling if I was so very good at hiding it?

I think we all do this. We want a perfect life so badly, we tell ourselves we have it. We apologize for things we don’t feel guilty for. We say yes to things we want to say no to.

I’m mad at myself for being so phony, not only with my ex (because there is an element in there that isn’t fair) but also to myself. If I could’ve been strong enough earlier…

I did the best I could.

While G cooked, I had flashbacks to my life as a wife. There are things I miss so much about it. I miss the comfort and security. I miss the predictability. I miss having my kids all the time. I miss planning menus and having a husband that would eat anything I set in front of him from crazy vegetarian food to extravagant roasts to, fresh ciabatta bread. I miss the ring on my finger that seemed to prove to myself that, yes, I was loved.

Sorry to wax poetic here. My ex has taken the kids camping with his new wife and her children and it makes me feel vulnerable and sad.

I haven’t deleted those emails yet. I can’t bear to look at them all, but maybe they’re some kind of reminder, and maybe those emails, the things I don’t say are part of the reason that right now, I’m saying so very much. After five years of self-imposed silence, I find I can’t shut up.

At least now, I like to think that I’m saying all the things I should. There aren’t any spaces between. It’s sometimes hard to live honestly, to be authentic with the loved ones in my life, but I think too, that the life I have now is richer because of that. And while I still want some kind of proof that I have love in my life, I don’t need the ring anymore. I just look at my kids and I know.

Women, Friendships, and Dancing on the Ceiling

I’m having trouble coming up with a focused blog topic. I thought I’d write about women and friendships with them. I had a wonderful/awful week with women friends…just showing the complexity of these relationships…and then I went and used the word relationship, and my mind spun off into an entirely different direction. Then I started thinking about men. Then Biff. Then me and Biff. Then the many, many reasons why at 37, I am willing to drop him and our relationship at every little bump in the road.

I tell my students not to use clichés, but I’m too tired to be clever.

I can’t make sense of this. Not all at once. So. Back to women and friendships. Here’s what I know: I used to hate women. Growing up, I never had many friends and then when I had a girlfriend, I’d grow dependent on her and then she’d break my heart. Katie Horvath and Rachel Schwartz did this to me in 6^th grade where they took me out into the middle of the playground and Rachel fluffed her feathered hair and told Katie to say it. Katie didn’t want to, I think because I would go over to her house after school. We’d dance to Madonna videos and she’d play the piano and I sing whatever Lionel Richie song she had sheet music for.

But I looked into her blue eyes and she said it anyway “We’ve decided you’re not cool enough to hang out with us.” I was devastated. Heartbroken. You’d think I’d gotten  divorced. Hadn’t we had a relationsip? Didn’t we eat sundaes together and sleep on the floor in sleeping bags watching MTV. Didn’t I tell her that she could be Madonna’s younger sister? I didn’t trust women for a long, long time after that.

Why? Why are my friendships with women so intense? They’re like this with men sometimes too. When you trust your self…Your Self…with someone, you open your heart to love but also disappointment. It’s like you’re Achilles and you say “If you want to kill me, strike me right here on this here soft heel”. Trust is like that. Love is like that. “I’m going to trust you with this because it will bring us closer, and in the end you can use it to destroy me”. Katie Horvath did that to me. I did it to other people. Women…we’re great…and we’re mean. And we’re extremely loyal.

In college I had another close/torturous friendship with a roommate. I loved her. I loved her platonically but wholly and then when I started dating a guy, I gave more time to him and I broke her heart. She and I could’ve been the kind of friends that lasted a lifetime. We lasted one year.

Over the years, I’ve gotten better at being a friend. And I like women now. I get them. We can communicate with just a blink and say everything from “Cute shirt” to “You step anywhere near me and my man and I will kill you and suck out your soul.” We also understand all the nuisanced rules of dating so we can commiserate when a guy fucks up…and he will fuck up because our list of rules is gigantic.

When I’m broken and bruised, I call my girlfriends. I call Rae who I’ve known since college. We don’t see or talk frequently, but she’s always there, and she always supports me. I call my sister. We didn’t talk for 7 years…but that’s nothing. We’re close as ever now. I have other women friends (and a few gay guy friends) and I know that no matter what choice I make or decision I fuck up, they’ve got my back. They’ve got my back because they love me.

That’s what a true friendship is. It’s singing Lionel Richie songs with them and forgiving them for sucking. It’s growing old together and telling each other every time you see them “You look amazing”. It’s listening and when a friend is confused saying, “Whatever you decide, I’m here for you.”

I like women now. I love them. They’ve taught me to be a better person, and a better partner to the men I’ve had in my life. Now, of course, not all women are great influences on me. I’ve had to say goodbye to friends that brought out more of a darkness in me than a light, but I don’t think that’s because they’re women. It’s just that our friendships grew and changed and then we moved on.

Right now, I’m trying to figure out how to be vulnerable again, how to love again, how to protect my heart but leave it open too. And my girlfriends are right along with me. They don’t tell me what to do, exactly, they just sort of walk along with me, even if I’m wearing totally wrong shoes. They know I’ll figure it out eventually.

What I’m saying here is that somewhere along the way in growing up, I went from hating women to needing them in my life. There’s no great moral here or anything, just a general shout out.

As for relationships with men…that’s a whole different blog post. But I’m learning there too. And I’m trying not to sprint for the door at every available opportunity. I’m trying to…as a fortune cookie said…just enjoy being happy for now. And on Wednesday night, I’ll be hanging with some new girlfriends gluing sequins to sombreros to promote “Blunder Woman” because this is what girlfriends do. When one friend is need, everyone comes carrying a glue gun and vodka.

Look at that. There’s a moral in here after all.

Where's the line between promotion and desperation?

One of the problems with blogging about your personal life, is you’re…well…blogging about your personal life. Over the last year I felt like it was a really good thing. I felt really connected to other women (and men) going through a divorce and it gave such a great outlet for finding humor within the painful experience. It also gave me a way to write about real things instead of just imagined ones. I don’t know. It was liberating.

And I felt supported. Loved.

So maybe when I received a message from a friend today that my constant Facebook status updates and blogging are a cry for outside validation, it hurt because it’s partly true. I have been looking for it. For me though, the validation has come more through the process of writing through my own experiences and finding meaning within them. I didn’t really think I was looking for that from other people.

Then when I had trouble in my dating, I did the natural thing. I wrote about it. Was I looking for help and validation? Yes. Was that wrong? Maybe. I’m starting to think maybe it was. I’ve enjoyed sharing my life through words. Not because I want to be in a spotlight but because so many people have written to me and said  “I feel the same way you do” or “life is hard but you somehow find a way to laugh through it”. And everyone in the publishing business has encouraged me to connect through the media, to use social networking sites because you’ll find new readers. You’ll get your work out there.

Now it’s out there. Today though, I’m not feeling too good about it. Are bloggers and people who tweet and do Facebook desperate? Do they need attention? Is there something wrong with them or is this a new way to connect with people and share life experiences and laugh through the suffering? I don’t know anymore. I don’t know a lot of things.

I know I work hard. I work to keep writing because I feel a deep need to create for whatever reason. I work to connect with people. I work to support my family. I’ve enjoyed my blog and tweets. Of going through the day and trying, every single day, to find the funny within it. I don’t always succeed, but most days I do.

I guess I need to think about this. Where’s the line between putting your work out there and being a writer, and when do you just come off as sounding desperate?

I’m sincerely grateful for all the support I’ve received. For anyone who reads my blog or my books or any of the work I put out there, thank you. It is validating. Writers write, and until their words are read, it doesn’t feel like the process is done. It’s like baking a cake. You mix everything but it’s not a cake until that baby is baked, cooled and frosted. THEN and only then can you eat it.

(I’m so close to saying “EAT ME” right now, but will refrain.)

I don’t know the answer to any of this. Do I NEED validation? Do I NEED input from others? And if I do, am I okay with that?

Part of me wants to stop writing, stop promoting. But you know…I tried that in my marriage and it nearly killed me. I disappeared for a long time. I don’t really want to disappear again.

So maybe that’s the truth. My truth is I write because it helps me connect with people and it helps me feel alive. And I’m not ashamed of wanting to share my work with people. If you don’t want to read it, you don’t have to. Many don’t. But if you do…it’s here. I’m here. And my words continue the way my life does: awkwardly, full of errors, and deeply, deeply human.

Progress With a Big Ol' P

Nine days since I blogged. Nine days! I feel like I should get a coin or something. Trouble is, I don’t really want a coin. I like blogging. It keeps me off of antidepressants.

So…The Great Steak Showdown is done. That’s a relief. But it doesn’t mean that Biff and I are done. Now, before you react and start wagging your finger at me with “Ohhhhhh, girrrrl” hear me out. I’ve learned a lot this last year. I mean I joke and all about wearing a cape and being an average superhero, but sometimes—more and more lately—I do feel so strong that I could wear a cape and actually get away with it. I imagine myself walking down the street, chest out, chin up, with my cape furling behind me and someone says “Now there goes a chick in a cape” instead of “There goes a chick with a serious personality disorder”. This is a good thing.

A year ago when my husband was mean to me or sarcastic or unkind, I took it. I accepted it, I took it like an unwanted hurtful present and I held it close. But this time when Biff was (in my opinion) selfish and hurtful, I didn’t accept it. In fact, I was strong enough to say in an almost superhero voice “This is not good enough for me” and I was willing to end it right there.

What changed then? Biff did not come crawling back and say “Oh, baby, I love you and I’ll never ever do that again.” I would’ve been skeptical if he had. What he did do was better and right. We sat on my deck outside and he said, “I fucked up. I’m really sorry. And when we fight again, I want to be able to talk to you about it.” We will fight again. But if we’re to succeed as a couple or even become better individuals, we’ll need to talk about it.

We’re trying again. Slowly. Differently. Things do feel different. We’re talking more, especially about all those tiny moments in our lives that have shaped us. Why, for example, when he sat down to eat two steaks I remembered the cupboard my stepmother kept locked. It was filled with good food, name brand food, when we kids had nothing to eat. It’s primal stuff like that.

I have no idea what will happen next, but I do know this: I stood up for myself, maybe for the first time ever, and Biff stood up for us. He’s trying. I’m trying. It’s all very adult. And it makes me strut just a little bit. Maybe at 37, divorced, mom to two kids and pseudo mom to two kittens, maybe I’ve finally grown up a little bit. I don’t wear a cape for real, but I feel it on my shoulders. And sometimes I even carry a whip.

That’s probably TMI.

I apologize for that image.

Hope to see some of you at the reading this Friday. I’ll be reading a tiny section of “Blunder Woman”. Come up and say hi. I don’t have a superhero death grip so if you want to shake hands, I promise to be gentle.

Mailing List

Hey there. I'm thinking of doing a little newsletter once a month where I can go into a little more detail about fun things that are happening with me, or other writers I know. I might include things like recipes or quotes or (I don't know) random dares and/or pointless information.

A newsletter lets me tell you secrets. Not that I have any secrets, but I might make one up.

If you want to be on this list, please send me a comment here. I'll see your email address but no one else will, and I'll add you to the list. And I won't share your email with anyone because that would be rude.

Cheers,

Tanya

What happened because of the steaks...

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

And it started with steak. Stupid steak.

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

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

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

“Yeah,” he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

TAKE #2

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

TAKE #3

Starting over again.

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

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

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

TAKE #4

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

Random Blogness

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

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

Random things then.

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

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

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

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

“I can’t take it off.”

“Why?”

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

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

I took the watch off.

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

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

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

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

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

Only part of that is true.

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

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

Vote 1986 Romantic Comedy--Or 1932 Gothic Suspense

Wow. I didn’t realize that so many of you would actually give me suggestions on what to write for a blovel. I feel very puffed up right now. Not in a way a hot dog puffs up on the grille, because that’s gross…but how a peacock puffs out its chest and is all “Look at my feathers”. Yeah. Like that.

So reading through the suggestions, I’ve come up with two different pitches. I wish I were smart enough to incorporate every single suggestion, but I’m just not. You get two choices. Cast your vote and I’ll start writing…hopefully post something this week. I’ll write a page a day and post a couple of times a week. This is the plan anyway. Oh, and both stories are set in Michigan. I’ve got to Represent, you know. It’s sort of a big deal for me that all my books be set in Michigan.

#1 1986—Backstage Romantic Comedy

Imagine a group of awkward punks hanging out in Monroe Mall by the waterfalls. They’re depressed. Desperate. And just aching to have an artistic outlet. One girl, 21, joins a local theater company. She’s strictly backstage, working on lights and sets. She feels invisible. And when she’s dressed in black and hiding in the shadows, she really is invisible…which is just great, because she can watch the love of her life onstage. He’s a local star, destined for Broadway, and he’s Not Gay. When the leading actress gets mono, our heroine is the only one obsessed enough to have learned all the lines. She’ll have to trade in her Sex Pistols shirt and comb out her dreadlocks and become a leading lady. But it’s not going to be easy. Or smooth. And maybe being a star and onstage isn’t quite what she imagined. Funny. Quirky. Beach read.

#2 Historical Gothic—Suspense/Mystery

This one is set in Traverse City in 1932 (or late 1800's), but it’s an imagined Traverse City. There may be elements of the supernatural. The story begins in the State Mental Hospital where a new doctor on his rounds sees a woman in the tunnels cleaning. There’s something about her. Something familiar. He examines her and after closer inspection is startled to see that she looks just like his dear wife, who died two years earlier. The doctor tries to rescue the patient by bringing him to his home: a gothic, Victorian era mansion. But he has ulterior motives. He’s so desperately in love with the spitting image of his wife that he tries to brainwash the woman into believing she IS his dead wife. And eventually, she is just confused enough to believe him, even confused enough to hear her ghost child calling out to her. Literary-ish. Moody. A little scary.

Cast your vote!

Tell others to cast theirs.

You can tweet me, FB me, or leave me a comment here. Hope you like the ideas, and thanks for playing along.

I'm Going to Write a Blovel and Need Your Help

You know, I’ve been searching for blog topics. I could keep blogging about my life, but I’m a little tired of me and I need a break. So I posted on FaceBook that I was thinking of what to write and Dana H. gave me a great idea.

Two years ago, I posted “Blunder Woman” as a blovel. A blog novel, if you will. I wrote tiny snippets and posted them online…and now that blovel is a honest to god book—or will be on July 11^th. And since it’s summer and I don’t want to blog about myself entirely, I thought, why don’t I blovel again?

Only this time, I’d like a little help from you.

Here’s my idea. I want to create a story written with readers in mind. I don’t know if I can do it, but I’d like to try. I’ll ask questions, you give me input, and I’ll write. Whatever it ends up being, it will probably be funny, or at least have funny elements to it. There will be quirky characters, and maybe a saucy scene every now and then.

So here’s my first question:

What kind of serial book would keep you coming back?

Do you want another romantic comedy, suspense, sci-fi? Do you want a murder mystery? Vampires? Zombies? Quirky every day women? Divorced? Singles? Do you want to read the further misadventures of Blunder Woman, or would you like to meet some new characters? Just, you know, no Westerns. By god, no westerns.

Tell me what you want. The first step is the genre, or type of blovel. Then I’ll come up with some basic ideas and let you choose.

So. Let’s get started. Tell me what you want to read, and I’ll write it.

And tell your friends. The more input, the more possibilities.

Yeah?

Perfection is Creepy AKA Why I'm Loving my Curves

Yes. It’s official. I’m addicted to blogging. I’m trying to make it take the place of chocolate because if my hips get much bigger, I’m going to feel like I should start birthin’ again.

I honestly don’t know how to transition from that sentence. The only way to do it is awkwardly…

Sooooo….I’ve been thinking about bodies. Yep. Bodies. Mostly, I’ve been thinking about my own body. I’m turning 37 this month (turning, the way that milk curdles) and I’m trying to be okay with that. For the most part I am. I’ve been struggling with my weight though. I can blame my broken foot and that running hurts now, but I also have to blame ice cream, and chips, and delicious sandwiches. But then I wonder, okay, at almost 37, I’m still in pretty good shape. I’m a size 10 and that’s respectable. I have curves. Lots of curves. But they’re in the right places. So what am I complaining about?

Then the next question is “When am I going to let myself be happy with who I am?” How many books do I write? How many accolades do I need before I allow myself to say, look, you’re who you are, curves and all, and it’s okay.

So I’ve been staring at bodies. Young bodies. Old. Chubby ones. Lean ones. Hard ones. Soft ones. And it occurs to me that not one person has a perfect body. And if you see a picture of a perfect body, it’s been airbrushed. We are not perfect, people. Perfection is creepy.

I’ll tell you a secret about my body. Very possibly this will fall under the TMI heading. If you’re a chick, you’ll probably get it. You might even get it if you’re a dude. But my body has changed. A lot. I used to have these tiny little perky breasts. Breasts so firm you could bounce quarters from them. And I did. Breasts so pert, you couldn’t tuck a pencil under them. I can now hold a stapler. My nipples have expanded. That’s right. NIPPLES. I have a soft tummy. I have tiny stretch marks on my thighs. I have a recurring hair on my chin that if I don’t pluck, threatens to look like the root of an orchid. I dye my hair. If I don’t suck in, I could pass for being sorta pregnant.

This is the truth. While I’m not entirely okay with this, I’m trying. I’ve been looking at myself a lot lately. Sometimes, I even like what I see. If I stare long enough, I’ll also see that I look womanly. I look sexy. I have eyes so blue I can sometimes feel them flash. And even though my body is changing, my spirit isn’t. Actually, it is. But it’s getting better. I’m more passionate with age. I’m more understanding. I have good legs. By god, I’m a bottle of wine!

Bad metaphor, because it might sound like an invitation for someone to drink me.

On second thought, that’s a good metaphor.

What I’m saying here, people, is that I’m flawed. Deeply flawed. And you know…no one else is flawed in exactly the way I am. And there’s something beautiful about that.

And you, whoever you are reading this, I bet you’re all kind of beautiful too in your own delicious weirdness.

This is what age does to a woman. It makes her love herself. Let me rephrase that. It makes me love who I am, curves, hair, healing foot and all.

Why I Need To Just Shut Up & Enjoy

Yes yes yes. I know I blogged yesterday. But I was grumpy. And depressed. And possibly hormonal. Now it’s a new day and I’m none of those things. (Except I’m probably still hormonal.) I don’t know if it’s because it’s pretty outside or that I went for a run today and wasn’t in horrible pain, or if I’ve finally had an afternoon to my selfish little self. It’s probably all of the above. And my cold medicine has made me very relaxed.

Okay. So I went for a run today in my cute new running shoes in the hopes that my shooting bone-pain in my foot would stop shooting. I put on the soundtrack to Glee (Yes. Yes.  I did.) and started running. Once I got over the oh-god-my-boobs-move-like-juggling-cantaloupes I started to think. Thinking is good. Obsessing, not so good. This thankfully was just run-of-the-mill thinking (with no horrible bone pain).

In my Intro to Literature class we’ve been talking a lot about irony or, you know, the difference between reality and fantasy. So if Willy Loman in a “Death of a Salesman” knew earlier and accepted that he was just a mediocre salesman, an average guy, could he have been okay? Was it his desire to be #1, to be well-liked that ultimately destroyed him?

It occurred to me that the beauty and drama in writing happens not with actions between characters, but with their emotions. It’s the things in life that we want but cannot have, the lies we tell ourselves, the dreams we have that keep us interesting and involved…and sometimes they can break our hearts.

It’s hard to live in the moment and be happy with what you have. My mind is always onto the next thing. Always wanting more, wondering if I’ve made the right decision. Mostly it’s good. It keeps me striving. But in relationships it gets especially tough. If you have an image in your mind of Mr. Right then how can you recognize your friend Harry waiting in the wings? Yes, that’s a reference to When Harry Met Sally. One of the greatest love stories ever. Here are these two people who are perfectly compatible, but they’re so stupid they don’t even realize it. Doesn’t everyone wonder if they’re standing right next to the One, but you don’t see him because you’re looking in the opposite direction?

I don’t know where I was going with this.

Oh, yeah. Reality. Fantasy. Sometimes though if we’re looking so hard for that movie fantasy, then we miss out on the life we’re having. Maybe if we’re looking for Harry we don’t notice the tall, skinny guy in the corner. It’s so confusing. And if we’re always focused on the life we want instead of have, then we don’t enjoy our friends or our jobs because we’re so busy trying to do something else.

I’m really close to an epiphany. Don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop…

Hmm. Not going to happen today.

I probably need to run a little more. It calms me down and helps me focus. I don’t know exactly what I’m trying to say right now except even with all my neuroses and obsessing and questioning, I really am happy with my reality. Today I got to sit in my backyard and read a magazine. How decadent! I got to talk about literature this morning. Tomorrow I’ll have my kids and I’ll narrate an audio book. Tonight I might go see a movie with Biff (he doesn’t know this yet because I just decided). Next week I’m hanging out with my girlfriends and a hopefully a dear friend who likes to talk to me about soup.

Then why don’t I just shut up and enjoy myself for a while, huh?

Awwww, yeah. That’s the epiphany! I need to shut up and enjoy. I’m going to go sit back outside. Crack open a bottle of wine. Sit back and…

It feels gooooood.

Cheers.

I'm So Moody, I Exhaust Myself--Or--Single Parent & Venting

Just when I think I’m old enough and mature enough and got it together enough…well…just at that point I throw another tantrum. Really, I’m so moody I exhaust myself. Is there anyone else out there like this? And I’m frustrated and exhausted by the countless choices I make every day. I’d just like someone to take over for a while. You know, there are times when I think, wow, I should let people on Twitter decide everything for me from what I eat for breakfast to who I date.

Then again, I guess life is being man enough to make your own choices. Or woman enough.

Bluh. I’m pouting. Again. Or still. Why? Why?

Because life is hard. Last night my son threw a tantrum that lasted about an hour and a half. The house was hot, he was overtired from the weekend and I’d stopped at Subway as a treat for dinner. But I got him a juice box and not the Big Person Apple Juice. It doesn’t matter. Whatever I’d have gotten wouldn’t have been enough. He was tired. And he went into hysterics. I spent an hour and a half carrying him up into his room for time-outs, trying to stay calm myself, dealing with his kicking and screaming and telling me that he hates me. I felt like ‘nothing I do is good enough’. By the end, my arms were shaking from being physically exhausted and he’d fallen asleep in my lap at 5PM after I read a Star Wars book to him. I set my daughter up with a movie downstairs, talked to my fella, and then preceded to have at typhoon of a cry.

When you’re a single mom there are moments, really tough moments, when you feel…

I’m dropping the second person.

Last night I felt alone. And weak. And scared. How can I do this? How do I raise two kids on my own? How do I keep going? How do I have enough energy to work every job I can, to write, to promote, to have a social life, to tend and care to the kids…how is any of this possible on my own? My ex’s wedding is next month and I’m jealous that he doesn’t have to do any of this on his own. I’m jealous that he found a partner who is willing to take on the role of a co-parent and that they seem so easily in love. They're going to Hawaii for their honeymoon. They both have good jobs. Their income is twice or three times what I make. On the personal side, I like how things are going with me and Biff…but Biff is having some personal trouble so I feel like I have to be strong for him too even though he's not asking me to. It’s okay, I just wish sometimes that, well, I’m not writing this so he feels bad. I just wish things were easier, because there are times when I feel like I don’t have the strength left over from being a mom and a worker and a writer to be anything else. It would be nice if someone could be strong for me for a while.

It isn’t like I have a choice about this. I’m just throwing my own tantrum. I don’t want to work all the time. I don’t want to have conflicts with people. I don’t want to start a creative project and have other people push me out of it. (That’s another story.) I don’t want to have to be strong. But I don’t have a choice. This is my life. And it's a life of my choosing.

My son slept for thirteen hours. He’s a new person this morning. Sweet. Loving. And I’m hoping after my day today, maybe I’ll feel like I can do it. It’s the first day in a couple of weeks that I have to myself without kids or work. I did have my mini-vacay, but you know how that was laced with some stress. Today, I’m going to get a pedicure and see a movie and see Biff later. I’m hoping we just have fun and not worry about life so much. I’ll work a little, of course, and blogging is good. And I’ll make a million little decisions on everything. I’m hoping, like my son, that after my tantrum, I’ll feel better.

Venting is supposed to be therapeutic, yes?

I don’t know. Other single parents out there…feel free to chime in. I’m sure I’m not the only one who’s felt overwhelmed. Tell me it gets better?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m pretty sure,” he said.

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

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

“I can’t?”

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

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

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

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

“Yes,” Biff said.

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

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

Still sounds like a euphemism.

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

Aw, fuck it.

He made me laugh is reason enough.

Mimosas and Morals -- Mini-Vacay Part Two

Saturday morning of my mini-vacay started with waking up slowly next to Biff. I thought, “Hmmm. It’s awfully nice waking up next to him,” but he couldn’t stay for breakfast. He had to meet his dad in the morning. My morning was spent, then, slowly on my own. I went for a run in the mist and fog. It was only my second time running on my foot. I felt heavy. My body moved in ways I didn’t like. It’s the extra 7 pounds I put on since breaking my foot. If I don’t suck in, it looks like I could be pregnant. Bluh. The run, though, was lovely. I toured the town and houses, imagined getting a cottage someday. Half an hour later, I was back at the B&B in the shower. Then it was breakfast on my own. I grabbed a paper and sat at my own table. I ate berries with cream. I liked the quiet. I actually need solace now and again so I just savored my mimosa and homemade pecan roll.

An hour or so later, Biff came back and met me at the coffee shop where I was working on the next book. (It’s a memoir. I know. I know. But it is.)

We walked the town. Went shopping. I bought a little picture of a cottage surrounded by red flowers. We ate lunch. We took naps. We ate dinner. And at dinner, I had all these thoughts that were coursing through me and they sort of went like this:

What am I doing here with Biff? We’re so different. He hates his job. I love mine. I have kids,  he doesn’t. He smokes and likes American food. I run and have a sick fascination with lentils. He’s skinny; I’m a little tubby right now. He doesn’t want to be married. I do.

Wait a minute! WHAT?

I don’t know how I started the conversation but I said something like “We’re so different. Do you really think this is working?”

He looked dumbfounded. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that I don’t know, you said you never wanted to be married and I have to think about the kids. I mean, if you’re my boyfriend, then I should introduce you to the kids, but what does that mean? I don’t want them to start to count on you.”

And then he said something about the truth was that if he were called on a movie in Prague or New York he’d go. That the truth was that he was a ‘live in the moment’ guy, but he didn’t say he NEVER wanted to get married.

I nodded. What else do you do? “Okay,” I said.

“I’d really like to meet your kids. I’m nervous about it, but I’d like to.”

“I know,” I said. “But you can’t meet them yet.”

The thing is, I’m a mom. And I can’t risk introducing them to someone who lives only in the moment. That’s my truth. And it’s so hard that I can’t just do what I want and live in the moment and not think about tomorrow and tomorrow, but that’s because I’m a parent. And being a parent and being single means there’s a real possibility I’ll spend the majority of my adult life alone.

There was deep awkwardness after the conversation and though we didn’t decide anything, something in me has shifted and shut down. I have let’s say ‘trust issues’ and need very tender handling. The subtext of the conversation, what I heard was “I’m having a great time with you, Tanya, but when something better comes along, I’m out of here.”

It’s okay. It’s sad. But it’s okay. We walked out of the restaurant. “You okay?” he asked.

“Yep,” I said, and smiled.

By 8PM we were sitting in our cramped little room, Biff typing on the computer, me trying not to fall asleep when I blurted the truth I’d been struggling with for most of the day. It had to be said. Best to say it in one breath. “Biff, I’m bored.” I flinched as I waited for him to go on and on about a waste of money and only boring people are boring (like my ex used to do.) Instead he said, “Thank god. I’ve been bored most of the day.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Well, let’s go home then.”

By 8:30 we were in the car. By 9 we were at home. By 9:30 we were in my basement watching Battlestar Galactica. The next morning, we did super fun stuff like go to Lowe’s and lawn work. Biff helped. I loved it. I really did.

So what’s the moral of this mini-vacay? There is a moral, or at least some lesson I learned. I learned that I am not a good fit for a Bed and Breakfast. I want more attention from my vacation. I want a big tub with jets and room service. I want a workout room. So now I know.

But I also learned something bigger. I want to be married again. I didn’t know that I did until this weekend, but the truth is, I do. Talking to Biff just crystallized it. The sad thing is, I don’t know what that means for me now. I have an image of my future husband and he’s crazy about me and we understand each other and we have passion. And he’s a hard worker and he wants to be not only a good friend to me and the kids, but he also wants to be a good role model. He likes my cooking. He doesn’t mind when I don’t wear makeup and I put on my crazy plastic boots to feed the birds or water a plant I neglected for a month. Sometimes he’ll grab me and kiss me just so that I don’t forget that even though I’m his wife and a mom, at the heart of it, I’m also a woman.

This is a surprise to me. I thought I’d given up on that idea of love and marriage, but I haven’t…it’s just changed form within me. I no longer feel like I have to be in a relationship just to be in one. And I know that the relationship I want is waiting for me. It’s just not the time yet. So for now, I’ll simply enjoy my life as it is. And avoid B&B’s at all cost. Literally. They’re expensive.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh.

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

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

Me. Throwing a Tantrum.

Has it really been ten days without blogging? Really? Well, no wonder I’m crabby. It’s certainly not for lack of topics. I could blog about any number of things, which is why I haven’t blogged about anything. I’ve been too busy curled up in the fetal position, rocking back and forth. I do this when I’m stressed.

Actually, that’s not an accurate description. A more accurate description is I put on an old pair of pajamas, put my hair up, take off my makeup and then I schlep around my house, open the refrigerator and just stare—trying to will food to appear. That’s how I handle stress, by general schlepping and staring. I’m like a Tennessee Williams heroine that way.

Here’s what’s got me acting like a crazy lady: (AKA stuff on my mind.)

1.

Last week I couldn’t walk in Kendall’s graduation. Even though they cashed my rental check for the gown, somehow it didn’t appear. One of the professors said, “Oh, don’t worry about it. It’s not personal.” Today I got an email saying that I wasn’t qualified to be interviewed for the full-time teaching position. I can teach there full-time and fill in where they need me, but for a sustained job with benefits, I’m not good enough. Talk about a blow to the ego. Beyond a blow to the ego. That’s a karate chop to the groin.

2.

I’ve been narrating for two weeks straight. Three books. This means driving an hour there and back every day, through crazy construction, while trying to take care of my two kids and cook decent food and make sure I’m there for them. It’s sucked up entire days and brain cells. This isn’t a complaint exactly. I love narrating and being inside a book…I just wish that the timing had been different.

3.

Went mushroom hunting this weekend. It was great, but sucked up my entire weekend from book prep and prepping for the next class that (apparently) I’m not qualified to teach. It took 3 ½ hours to get up there and another 3 ½ back. On the plus side, I had a great time with the kids and remembered why I love my family and the woods and the lake.

4.

Just had a conversation with Biff. We’re having a mini-vacation this weekend. Basically, I need to get away before I explode, Monty Python character style. Then he asked (half-jokingly) if I were his girlfriend. He doesn’t really like the term girlfriend because it sounds teenage-y. But then, what do you say? “Here’s the person I’m involved with”? That sounds medical. “Here’s the girl I’m seeing”? No soul to that. “Here’s the person I have fantasies about and occasionally sleep with”? Hmmm. That’s nice, but doesn’t quite cover it, and it leaves too much interpretation as a booty-call only. I told him to think about it and see what he comes with. Translation: Yes. I’d like to be his girlfriend but only if it’s because he wants, specifically, me…and not because I’m currently the only option. If that’s the case, if he’s got feelings for, specifically, me…then I’m just fine with the teenage term. Let other people be uncomfortable with it. I’d be too busy giggling to care.

5.

I have three grants to write for nonprofits that I support and no time to do it.

6.

I can’t feel my toes. This isn’t a medical concern. It’s because I remember the scene in Die Hard where Bruce Willis walks on his toes to give himself a massage and I tried that to relax, but then my foot cramped. Further proof that I’m old…maybe even too old to be a girlfriend.

7.

I left my cell phone charger up north. I'm about to lose power in 3, 2, 1....

8.

And did I mention I didn’t get interviewed for the dream job I’m currently in? You know, the one I’m doing but am not qualified for? Oh. Yeah. I did mention it.

Sorry for the bitch fest here, but seriously, sometimes a girl gets so overwhelmed she can’t even breathe. And by girl, I mean me. I mean I’m overwhelmed. And now entirely freaked out about this mini-vacation I’ve planned.

Breathe breathe breathe.

I think I’ll walk around talking in Southern accent for a while. That always helps Tennessee Williams characters. That and saying “I am so hot. Boy, is it hot in here.”

Harrumph.

Dark Love OR Poetry, Nirvana, and More with Darkman

College years. I chose Grand Valley because they gave me a scholarship and said I could be in their Honor’s College. I liked the sound of that. Plus, I could commute from Coopersville, and ‘save money’. That was a serious mistake, but, hey, I was 18.

So after my final day of working at the Dairy Queen, I packed up, and entered school with two goals: 1) To have all night conversations about poetry and 2) To finally Do It. And by Do It, this time, I mean, Do It. According to my timeline, this is what you did in college. And you learned how to drink coffee.

Classes were fun, important. There was one super cute guy I followed into my first class: The Renaissance. He had floppy hair and wore plaid, flannel shirts. (This was 1991-92 and that was the thing.) I stared at him, enamored. He also wore Polo and was extremely smart. Clearly out of my league. I gave up on that idea and focused on where I belonged, the dark recesses of the theater.

And in the dark recesses of the theater I met my First Love. Honestly, he wasn’t even a First Love. He was more like the First Time. He was perfect. He was tall, and dark, and tormented. He smoked. He wore a long dark trenchcoat. And they called him Darkman (after the movie) .

I’m not even kidding. He also had a girlfriend. It didn’t matter. Torment called to us. One night, we bonded over coffee and cigarettes while Nirvana played on my boom box. I read my poetry to him. He nodded in the right places. He listened. And then Darkman showed me his arms.

He’d carved LOVE on one arm and DEATH on the other. I traced the red lines with my fingers. Here was a boy whose torment was deeper than mine. And while it’s sort of funny and dramatic now, at the time, it was rather heartbreaking. Actually, it still is heartbreaking. He told me that he was a Jehovah’s Witness and his parents had disowned him. He’d never had a birthday, a Christmas. He felt invisible.

I didn’t have scars to show him, but I had stories. I felt invisible too. And I told him about my parents and the house and the fear. It was comforting meeting someone equally damaged. We took off our cardigan sweaters, our plaid shirts, our baggy jeans. Put “Prospero’s Books” on the VCR and that was my first time. It was heartbreaking, and dramatic, and filled with angst and I remember thinking while it was happening “This is a really weird movie” and “This is what all the love poems are about? Really?”

By the time Kurt Cobain committed suicide, Darkman and I broke up. I got that Cobain’s death was sad, but I also thought it was stupid. Darkman felt like his world was shattered. Mostly, I wanted to get away from the darkness. I wanted something happy. Something secure. I didn’t like coffee and cigarettes and even poetry was beginning to bore me. So I fixed Darkman up with another girl, and then went back to school.

The next semester, the cute boy in the Polo shirt knocked on my desk. “Hey, Tanya,” he said. “I was hoping I’d have you in another class.”

“Really?” I said, and what I meant was “You noticed me?” It seems he did. We were together 5 years. We moved to Detroit and Miami. We were engaged. I broke his heart. He wrote a New York Times Notable Book. And, yep, that’s another story too.

Secret High School Romance or What Will Everyone Think?

Obvious admission: I spend a lot of time roaming around in my own brain. I think that writers become so because their minds just won’t shut up and it’s the only way to quiet themself down. My mind has a frequent mantra: “What will everyone think?”

I hate that mantra, even more than I hate What Would Jesus Do?

“What will everyone think?” is something I’ve repeated in my head so often and for so long that it’s actually had a deep affect on my life. Some of it’s good like, “what would people think if I shaved a bald spot onto the top of my head just to see what it would be like?”

But then that same annoying thought has stopped me from other things like: “What would people think if I didn’t do all the things I’m supposed to? What would people think if I hurt someone’s feelings by saying no? What would people think if I lived exactly the way I want to…”

What would people think if you became the Authentic You? If you stopped pleasing everyone and started pleasing yourself? Huh. Not talking masturbation, here, but you know what I mean. What if instead of taking the tiny overcooked piece of turkey on the plate, you took the most succulent, the one you’d usually save for someone else? You know what would happen? You’d have a great dinner that you didn’t have to drown in gravy.

I’ve got lost in my own metaphor here.

FLASHBACK:

High school. Me. Poetic girl trying to hide in baggy clothes with half my hair shaved, the other half long and covering my eyes. (I looked like the guy from Simply Red, and that was not hot, let me tell you.)

I could hide behind my hair, my clothes. I could be quiet. Because, you know, what if someone saw me? What if they knew what kind of family I had? What if they saw how scared I was all the time?

In my senior year, I met a boy. He was two years younger, which seemed an impassable ocean of time. We had Spanish together. We hated each other in public. In private, I’d drive over to his house at night, sneak past his parents’ window and creep up to his room. We’d make-out for hours. Every time I felt nervous and sick with the thought of “What would people think if they knew?” I also felt alive because for once, I was doing something I wanted to do.

One night, lying in his bed, he lifted the hair from my eyes, pushed it back so he could stare at me. He said nothing. I was terrified of what he was thinking. What would he think of me? “What?” I asked. It was all I could manage. I couldn’t say: “What are you thinking about me?” All I could say was “What?” my voice quiet as a butterfly fluttering, as if the words themselves hurt.

“You’re beautiful,” he said.

It was the first time anyone had ever called me that. And I felt like it was the first time someone really saw me and told me not what they thought of me, but what I wanted to think of myself.

I’ve learned over the years that it doesn’t really matter what people think. What matters is what you think about yourself and your actions. There are so many ways we can be controlled: by rules, by families, by our passions. It’s all outside stuff. So that constant mantra in my head—I’ve reworded it. Now I say: “What do you think, Tanya? Are you okay with this?” And it’s transformed me. It really has.

Honkey Love

Where Heartbreak Started

Let us go back, back , back…not to the absence of my father or inferiority feelings about being the youngest and a girl, no. That’s all psychobabble. Maybe it’s true, but it’s not fun. And I want to go back to the moment I think my bad luck with dating began. That's where the fun is.

It was in 6^th grade. Central Elementary School. Traverse City Michigan. By some freak accident, I hung out with the popular kids. I shouldn’t have. They were too fast and rich for me. I went to the barber to get my hair cut. I wore clothes from the JcPenny catalogue. But on recess, when everyone was bored, they could say “Tanya, tell us a story where we’re on a tropical island” and I would. I’d fill it with details. I made everyone a hero. I was never in the stories.

Then something strange started to happen. There was a day where Ian and Missy were making out on recess instead. I don’t remember seeing them make-out, but I like to imagine they were in a corner, with those giant red bouncy balls smacking all around them as kids tried to eliminate each other through dodge ball.

At any rate, that was the day when Sex started to happen. No actual Sex. We were in 6^th grade and didn’t have the Internet, but suddenly kids started to pair off. Dave was the most popular. He could Go With anyone. (It was Going With then, although no one ever Went anywhere that I know of). Jason was smart and popular. I liked Todd. He was the class comedian, but he showed no interest. Dave paired with Cathy, the French girl who just moved to live with her dad and had enormous knockers. Meredith went with Jason. Little Bob was with Rachel, and Big Bob went with I can’t remember who.

Everyone was paired up. Except me. I blame two things. One) I had a deep fascination with Michel Jackson and Madonna. I dressed like their love child. Two) I had no desire to Go With anyone. I just wanted to tell my stories.

Then the rumors started. Rumors that something was wrong with Tanya. She’s so weird. Look at her clothes. Maybe she’s not really a girl. I didn’t understand these rumors at first, but I knew that I had to stop them. So when Abe Honkey (Yes. That’s a real name. If you’re reading this, send me a note.) So when Abe Honkey in his thick glasses asked me to Go With him, I said yes.

(As an aside, maybe this is why I like guys in glasses. I’ve always been grateful to Abe.)

After school, Abe waited for me. He reached out his sweaty hand and grabbed mine. I imagine everyone on the playground watching, except Ian and Missy. They were still making out. We walked three blocks to my house. I wanted to throw up. When we got to my house, I said “Thanks, Abe. But I’m afraid I can’t see you anymore.”

“You’re breaking up with me?”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

He shook his head, looking like I’d just destroyed every illusion about love he’d ever had. Maybe he knew I'd only dated him to make people stop talking.

That’s the moment where It started. I was mean to him. I'd used him…and in the breeze there was a slight scent of it in the air and Karma caught it. It would be many years before I paid for that cruelty of using someone else…but eventually it would happen.

(And then I’d write a book about it, but that’s another story.)