The Trouble With Secret Identities? Names Names Names.

Coming up with Secret Identity Names for my friends on this blog is harder than you would think, and it requires some nimble footing. I’ve been trying to rename my girlfriends. The first idea was to ask folks on Twitter. They had lots of suggestions including: Limber Lucy, Cornelia, Gertrude, and Sasparilla. Honestly. That sounds like a naked version of the Golden Girls! No. No! I can’t do that to my friends. My girlfriends are smart and sophisticated and sexy, and if they’re limber, I don’t want to know about it.

I’ve dubbed one friend Katie and my sister Suki. The rest shall be named as needed.

Of course, when I dated Biff, I came up with that name. Biff Turlington. Odd, that choice, as he ended up having certain similarities to the character in “Death of a Salesman”.

Now I’ve been trying to think about how I should refer to this new person I’m dating. I don’t mean to play the pronoun game. I’m not dating a woman. I’m dating a man. A manly man whom I wanted to call Manny. He tweeted me and said, “Have you seen "Modern Family"? Manny is a pudgy, Metrosexual Columbian boy!” Oh. See? Naming people is hard. I lucked out with my kiddos and only had two names in mind. But naming adults? Sheesh.

I told the not-named-Manny that I’d come up with another name. A name that bespoke of his masculine sensitivity. A name that conjured up feelings of a…teddy bear, only with more sex appeal. (Side note: I got in trouble when I was seven for humping my Care Bear. My parents asked why I’d do such a thing. I looked at them like they were crazy and said “Uh…because it feels good.”)

I thought of the perfect name. Petunia! What’s more masculine than that?

Hmm. Probably everything.

Over breakfast this morning I asked him again. “So, what if you started wiggling into my blog. Would that be okay?” I’d asked him when his mouth was full thinking then he could only nod. Instead, he waited until he’d finished chewing and said, “Call me the Big Kahuna.”

I said, “No.”

“Why? Why won’t you call me the Big Kahuna?”

Really? Did I need to explain it? Call a man anything “big” and it has penis-size connotations. It just does. And usually when you call a guy “big” you actually mean he’s tiny, and tiny guys get called “big”. Irony for the masses I guess.

I came home and did some research. I wanted to call him something Hawaiian island-y. It just feels right. So I found a Hawaiian baby-naming site and found some great names. “Alemana” means great man, but that sorta reminds me of the Muppet song “manamana”. And if I’m kissing a man, I don’t really want to envision Muppets.

That’s not entirely true. Some Muppets are hot. Wait. What am I saying? Oh God! I think I have a secret attraction to stuffed animals. OH GOD NOOOOOO!

Breathing.

Okay.

“Hannaaloha” means “Love Magic” but that sounds like some kind of sensual oil. I liked “Haumakapu'u” but there are two problems with it. 1) It means “Lord with the Bulging Eyes” and that’s just freaky. And 2) If I’m ever in the throes of passion with this man (possibility in the future) I just think shouting out “Oh, Haumakapu’u” would take an awful lot of focus.

No. I’ll just keep it simple. I’ll call him “Kealoha”. I’ll tell you later what it means.

Pre-teen Love & Dry Humping Barbies

While dropping my 5-year-old son off to kindergarten the other day, I walked past two kids…probably 10 or 11. The girl had long hair and was wearing tights and a skirt and a plaid shirt and sweater. The boy was in shorts and a t-shirt. She was trying to walk past him and he danced in front of her and screamed “Come on! Are you dating him or not? Or are you just leading him on? Make up your mind already!!” She didn’t say anything. She just walked right on ahead and into school.

And I thought, holy shit. Do the drama of relationships start that early? Really? I mean, they’re not even pre-teens. Aren’t they supposed to be playing with Barbie Dolls and GI Joes or something, or am I out of touch?

Hmm. Now that I think about it, when I was ten I used to play Barbies with my friend K (who I just reconnected with on Face Book). The Barbies had their own business at first, a clothing store where we made all their clothes. And then Ken moved to town. Then it was just a bad porno movie made by confused 10-yr-old girls. Consider the following dialogue, something we would’ve acted out with the dolls:

KEN: Oh, excuse me. I didn’t realize I’d stumbled into a fashion boutique.

BARBIE: Yes! You did! What do you want?

KEN: You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. I love you!

BARBIE: I love you too!

(And then Barbie would dry hump Ken. Barbie was usually on top.)

Uh...I think this Ken might just want a platonic relationship.

So, okay, maybe at that age I was trying to figure out the whole dating thing. Still, though, when you’re 37 and hear kids talk about ‘dating’ it just makes you squirm. Yesterday in the car Simone was talking about her boyfriend. “So I have this boyfriend and he’s really nice.”

Louis said, “Wait. Wait! Mom, he’s not her Boyfriend. He’s her Boy. Friend. A friend that’s a boy. Nothing more than that.”

Simone: “Right. My Boy Friend. I don’t have a Boyfriend.”

Me: “Yeah. You guys are really too young for that right now. Wait until you’re at least seven please.”

Louis: “Mom, we know. Just keep driving.”

Ugh. So it freaks me out and makes me laugh and then ultimately concerns me. When Simone starts playing with Barbies, I wish I could be there with her and show her how Ken and Barbie spend a long time getting to know each other, and Barbie continues to follow her dreams and then maybe after a while they decide to kiss a little, and then if sex happens, it’s not on the floor of her work, but in a bedroom and they both feel like there’s love there, and then they move in together and then maybe get married, but only if there’s a deep bond and personal respect, then they have kids while maintaining their identities and finding time to appreciate and love each other and then…

Well. Yeah. You can see why I don’t play Barbies anymore. The dry humping was a lot more entertaining.

I’m not really going anywhere with this. Just that when I saw that boy bugging the girl about dating, I wanted to say “Dude, back off. She’s got to work on herself and what she needs and she doesn’t need to think about boys right now.”

I might be a little overly sensitive on the playground. It’s why Louis tells me to be quiet a lot.

I'm a Walking Disney Movie (and other mixed metaphors)

A lot of times when I don’t write, it’s because (as Anne Shirley used to say) I’m in the Depths of Despair. Even when I’m in that place, I still try to be funny…still trudge through. It’s when I’m completely silent that you need to get worried.

I’ve been pretty silent this week. (At least on my blog.) But it’s no Depths of Despair. I almost feel like pulling a crazy Tom Cruise moment and jumping on someone’s couch, if it wouldn’t get me arrested. I haven’t written this week because…well….drum roll anyone?  I’m happy. There I said it. I. Am. Happy.

Now I’m bracing myself for the wrath of God, or at least one of Zeus’s thunderbolts or maybe like a backache or something.

I don’t know how to be happy, not for any sustained period of time. I think it’s something I need to learn to do. I had a moment this last week when I was walking to my car and I knew my kids were home and the sun was shining and I’d just had a great class and I started thinking about all the things going right in my life. And I started laughing. But that crazy this-is-not-appropriate type laughter…you know, when you try to hold back a laugh and then you end up snorting and eventually guffawing. That happened to me while walking on Ionia. I held in the laugh, it burbled, and then I started laughing. (Do not mention farts here, please, though there is a similarity.) And then I started crying. And laughing. And burbling. I was a mess.

Don’t worry. I’m not in a bi-polar moment or anything. This was pure happiness. Happy tears and awkward laughing. Happiness for all the good things going on and where I’m at in my life. I started seeing a great guy, a man I’ve known for nearly fifteen years. (That’s another story.) My kids are good. We have a great home that I love. I love teaching. I love my students. I love my writing and just found out that “Blunder Woman” has gone to paperback. I love this amazing group of friends I’ve developed in the last year. I love bunny rabbits and rainbows and dancing squirrels and….

On second thought, maybe it is a bi-polar moment.

No. No it’s not! It’s just that after a few years of being in a really dark place, I find that I’m in Oz and everything is in Technicolor (though I will seriously freak out if the streets start filling with Little People.)

I’m trying to enjoy it. I’m trying not to think “Okay, I’m happy now, but when is something terrible going to happen.” I don’t know when I learned that happiness comes at a price. I don’t want that to be true.

I almost don’t care that I’m walking around in a Disney movie. And a bad Disney movie at that. A 1970’s Disney movie with bad animatronics and all that. I don’t care, because I like it. I like it. And you can tell I’m happy because I’m using weird similes and metaphors and mixing things up all over the place.

I don’t care. If this is happiness, then I finally know what all the fuss is about. It almost makes me want to break out into song…but for now…I’ll stick with the awkward laughter. It just feels right.

Monday. Day of Horrors! (I might be exaggerating)

(Please read the following in Rod Serling’s voice)

Imagine if you will, an ordinary Monday morning. It’s fall and cold out. Tanya is a single mom and she doesn’t have her kids this morning. It begins as any other day, quietly, with coffee. But Tanya’s day is about to slip from the ordinary to the massively fucked up. And it begins with her car and a drive….into The Twilight Zone.

(Drop the Rod Serling voice, unless you like reading like him.)

At 8AM I was super excited. I was ready to get to class and be early and correct papers and show the world how Responsible and Together and Dependable I was. I put the key in the ignition and turn it. RRRrrrrruuurruu. Seriously? I tried again. It sounded like a gnome had crawled in there and was having a coughing fit. And then it died! The car died, not the gnome. I sat in my car for a good minute or so and thought “I don’t know what to do.” I had class in a couple of hours and in three hours had to pick up my kids. If my car was broken, how would I get to school? How would I get the kids? Then my mind spiraled: I don’t have enough money to fix the car. If I don’t have enough money, I won’t have a car and I won’t be able to get to school to work and earn money and they’ll fire me and then I’ll have NO money EVER and not be able to take care of my kids and then their dad will get full custody and I AM THE WORST MOTHER EVER.

Hmmm. Anxiety much?

I went inside. Started shaking, picked up the phone, cancelled class. Emailed people until I figured out what to do. Called a tow truck, got it jumped, took it to the shop and found out that it was the battery. That and the tow would cost $200. It could’ve been worse. I waited in the lobby of Fox Honda while golf played on the TV and Aerosmith sang about dudes looking like ladies. Then I got my car.

I picked up the kids. All was well. I was not the worst mother ever. I decided to celebrate by taking the kids to Meijer Gardens. I had a plumber coming to look at the faucet upstairs first though. The upstairs faucet had been leaking (more like streaming) for a couple of months. Biff had fixed it once, but it just insisted on being broken, and I needed to step up and take care of it. The toilet had been making funny noises too so I flushed it just to make sure, and then the funny noises stopped. As did all the water. WTF? Broken car, broken faucet, broken toilet.

The plumber showed up, a handsome man in his later thirties. (I know this because he told me he was in his later thirties.) After a while, I figured out he was hitting on me. After a longer while, I figured out he was flirting with me for his brother who is also a single parent. It was an awkward conversation to say the least. “So you have two kids?”

“Yep.”

“I always wanted kids. I thought one but two would be okay. So…you’re a single mom?”

“Yep.”

“My mom was a single mom too. Hard, but man, I totally respect her. You doing okay?”

“Yeah, I just can’t fix stuff that needs fixing. It’s frustrating.”

“You can call me anytime. I’m around here all the time…”

Uhhhh….

After the Friendly Plumber left, I recorded another $176 in my checkbook.

The kids wanted ‘active time’ so we took off for Meijer Garden. My membership was expired. $22 for an hour (we got there at 4; they closed at 5). We began a race through the exhibits looking at art. Louis really liked this creepy glass-headed kid sculpture. Simone was scared of it. Simone said the art was “Weird” and she wanted me to “vote thumbs down on everything”. She was just tired. Come to think of it, a lot of the art was pretty bad and if I could vote, I might’ve voted thumbs down.

Then we came to a fountain. The kids wanted to make wishes. I gave them a nickel. Simone dropped her nickel in. “I wish for an elephant and a dolphin and some Squeekies.”

Louis chucked his nickel in. “I wish for all the Star Wars action figures and Season three of the Clone Wars.”

I silently tossed my nickel in. I made a tiny wish that I could give my kids a life that made them happy.

Louis said, “Mom, you should’ve wished for a husband.”

Some days, I would’ve explained that there are all kinds of families and you don’t need a husband and blah blah blah…but yesterday, I just laughed.

We went home. We had a picnic in the basement and watched Chowder. I tucked Simone in with her Elnono and Dolphiny and Rosabella the Platypus. We sang the Itsy Bitsy Spider. I tucked Louis in and sang the “Mr Sandman” song with new lyrics that ask for Mr. Sandman to “bring Louis a dream” filled with Star Wars action figures. By eight o’clock, the kids were deep asleep and I was watching Dexter with a friend of mine.

The day started out in the Twilight Zone, but ended up somewhere just in the land of happy. Proof that maybe wishes can come true.

Random Generalness or General Randomness

This last week was really busy. Not only with balancing kids and packing lunches and taking them to school and day care, but teaching and deciding what to teach and writing, and in between all of that, I’d run to the studio and narrate. An audio book generally takes three full days to record. I did it over 4 days, with three hours on Tuesday and Thursday, an afternoon on Wednesday and then all day Friday.

I love narrating. I love slipping inside a novel and living as the characters for a while. I try to bring the words to life. It’s an emotional and intellectual exercise and I try to do a great job. Sometimes I do. Sometimes I don’t. Some people love the sound of my voice; some people can’t stand it.

At any rate, this was a hard read because it was a collection of nonfiction stories based around the idea of Thinking Positive. The stories were really short so it was hard to get lost in them, and there weren’t any characters or development. Now, I did enjoy the stories, but I think I’m a fiction girl at heart.

Some of the stories were really hard to read. I mean emotionally. People who’ve been through horrible illnesses and loss of loved ones and tragedies…but somehow not only survived but found some kind of meaning through difficulty. That sounds great but it was sort of like “I lost my leg to gangrene, and then my other leg, and then I lost my ability to chew…but I discovered that I’m amazing at making shadow puppets. If it hadn’t been for the loss of my legs and needing to get my mind off chewing, I’d never have discovered my power to create a realistic woodchuck with just my hands and the use of light.”

Seriously. It was grueling after awhile.

But, I’m determined to Think Positive, so I decided that what I’d take from this was a simple question: “Am I living the life I want?” Not the life I’m destined for, not the perfect life, but am I living the life I want. When I was with my husband, I asked myself this question and I made gigantic changes. While living in an apartment, I asked myself this question and decided that the life I wanted involved a home and stability for my kids. When I was in an unhealthy relationship, I asked myself this question and it allowed me to make changes again to keep myself on track.

This weekend, I was mowing the lawn and listening to my iPod. I think it was “Glee” actually. It was cool out but every now and then the sun sent down warmth. I stopped for a minute and looked at my house and the life I’ve created for my kids and me. It’s not perfect. But is this the life I want?

Without question, that little voice in me said: “You bet, mutherfucka!”

Okay, my inner voice didn’t swear. I’m trying to make her sound cooler than she really is. So, when I asked, “Am I living the life I want?” my answer was simple: “Yes”.

Thank god I didn’t need to lose any limbs to finally figure that out.

Walk with Katie--PT 2--Mini Revelation

Did I mention this was a long walk? We walked for 1 hour and 1 minute and 39 seconds. And, yes, I know this because I fucking timed it. Arrrggghh!

I love timing things. I do. And I hate math.

I don’t understand it either.

At any rate, then we talked about relationships. Katie gives me advice on dating. She’s great at it. She’s very pragmatic and she has this way of…well..imagine you could make a situation into a ball and then hold that ball in your hands. You could twirl the ball around, look at it from all angles, and then describe it. That’s what she does.

My question was, why are the people we’re most attracted to, bad for us?

Really. The men I’ve had the deepest physical attraction to have been really, really bad for me.

Katie and I had fun analyzing that. We could have a Dr. Phil type show, only not based on any training or medical background, but just on our guts. What we decided is that men who are bad for us, we react to physically. Either they scare us, or have patterns similar to people who’ve hurt us, or something. Or maybe they remind us of our dads, which is okay if you have a good relationship with your dad, but not good if he ignored you or you have serious abandonment issues. Anyway, we think that because they’re bad, our bodies react with a shot of adrenaline. The trouble is, adrenaline can tell you to run, but it also feels GOOD. So that bad man makes the body feel good. And that spells trouble.

I don’t know. I feel like I’ve broken through some hefty wall here. I don’t want jolts of adrenaline anymore. I want…I want safety. Comfort. I want a man who I trust and who makes me feel safe. I want a man that I can feel attracted to and then grow with. And if that initial jolt of electricity fades, I want a man that I’m so comfortable with that we get jolts of electricity in other ways. And I don’t mean a malfunctioning vibrator. Maybe we travel somewhere. Maybe I buy silky, lacy panties and push-up bras. I want eventual boredom balanced with comfort trust and, yes, love.

Katie and I decided this would be good for me. She’s already got that. She’s in a comfortable place with her husband, a good place.

By this time it had passed from getting dark to being officially dark. We walked a bit more, I felt my legs burning, and then we said our goodbyes. We’re getting together with a group of women this weekend for some good food and laughter. I probably won’t mention malfunctioning vibrators to them though. That’s what my blog is for.

Oh, and that man I’ve been looking for? It’s possible I might have met him, or re-met him. I don’t know. It’s too early to tell. But at least I know that what I feel for him isn’t a warning jolt of adrenaline telling me to watch out. It’s a warm glow. It’s something that just maybe could build into something else.

I’ll have to ask my sister Suki about it. She’ll tell me straight up. (I just won’t wear the watch when I talk to her.)

Walk with Katie Pt. 1: Dog Whisperer, Naked Man Ass, etc.

I went on a walk with a good friend last night. It was 8PM and getting dark. We decided to walk to the Big Rock by Reed’s Lake. I totally didn’t want to go as I was aching for fuzzy pajamas, a glass of wine, and a little personal time with my TV and futon. (Not THAT kind of personal time, people. Just, you know, vegging time.) But I went on the walk anyway. I’m glad I did.

There’s something great about getting your body moving especially when you’ve been sitting all day. I’m convinced that as you sit, your ass begins to spread. It’s like the Blob. If you don’t stand up and control it, your ass will take over everything. BECAUSE IT CAN. So, it felt good to control the beast a bit. I’m pretty sure walking helps make it shrink. Or at least look perkier.

What was I talking about?

Oh! Asses.

(Side note: Naked Man Ass makes me laugh. I’ve never seen a Naked Man Ass that wasn’t in a magazine or on a romance novel that looks the least bit sexy.)

Back to the story.

I got Katie and we walked from her house. I immediately pressed the timer on my watch. She said: “I thought you weren’t wearing your watch anymore. I thought you promised in your blog you weren’t going to wear it.” I dropped to my knees in a Charleton Heston-esque pose and screamed to the gods: Damn you blog!! On the other hand, I was super excited that she reads my blog.

We walked. Talked about our kids. Katie has been watching the Dog Whisperer. She has seven cats. (She’s fostering five of them. Anyone need a cute kitten?) “Uh, are you going to get a dog?” I asked.

She looked at me like I was insane. “No! I’m using it to train my son. See, I have this theory that boys are like pack animals and if I use the same techniques as the Dog Whisperer, maybe I’ll stop stressing out so much.”

I stopped walking for a second. I couldn’t breathe. It was bloody brilliant! We started walking again. She went on to give me examples. “See, the Dog Whisperer says dogs need Exercise, Discipline then Encouragement.” Actually I forget the last one, but it was something like that.

We talked about this. My own son has been giving me lots of attitude. Last weekend he screamed that I was a horrible mother, he wanted to run away, and I was fat. Why? Well, he has trouble transitioning between houses. And he was mad that his dad house has a Wii and his stepbrother. And maybe because I have gained a little weight. But then after Louis had some exercise, a time out, some affection and a good nap, then I was back to being The Best Mom Ever! Maybe there was something to this Dog Whisperer thing. Katie said she’s just trying to be calm and consistent. I get that. I like it. I’m going to try it out. If I press the timer on my watch, I’ll know just how long I can do it for. Blast! I’m not supposed to wear the watch!

Ahem.

Then we talked about relationships. Which I’ll put in my next post, because, well, I love my left hand and it’s getting awfully tired from typing. (My right hand is pretty strong from lots of use.)

Wait a minute! That sounds dirty. It’s not. I’m a Righty.

To Be Continued….

Breakfast with My Sister Suki

My sister and I have a complicated, beautiful, complex relationship. Our parents got married (my dad, her mom) when we were 3 and 4. I moved in with them when I was thirteen, and my sis (let’s call her Suki) and I had to share a room. And a bed. We shared a bed until she was 18 and I was 17, and then she moved away for a year. By that point, we couldn’t stand each other. It took me years to be able to sleep in a bed without looking like I was in a coffin. We both slept perfectly still, arms crossed over our chests, in an attempt to not touch each other EVER.

We were best friends. And then we hated each other. And then we were best friends. Then in 2000, she moved in with me. She got pregnant. I couldn’t help her. I moved to NYC. She got married and had a baby. We didn’t talk for seven years.

Flash forward to now. Both of us have two kids. She’s still married. I’m single. She’s loud and boisterous and swears like a muther fucker and I’m a little more reserved. At least in person. My loudness comes out in my writing. She’s a voluptuous brunette. I have hair that ranges in color from blonde to deep auburn, depending on my mood. And she’s the one person in my life who has no problem telling me like it is, and I have no problem hearing it.

“You’re wearing that fucking watch again.” She said as she sat down at the table at Wolfgang’s. We were meeting for breakfast. I slid the sausage and gravy ‘appetizer’ over to her. “That watch is my nemesis.”

We’ve had this conversation before. She hates my gigantic watch, mostly because I time everything. Everything. Like, I have three alarms set and I'll time how long it actually takes the waitress to bring hazelnut coffee when she says "Just a sec!" Not because I'm mean or anal. I just like to know the actual amount of time it takes. (3minutes 37 seconds.) My sister thinks I need to relax a little bit.

Two seconds later, she said “Okay, tell me the truth. How are you and what happened with Biff?”

I told her the story. The whole story. Even the bits I hadn’t told anyone else. “It’s good he’s gone,” she said. “I know it was hard, but he’s not right for you. Not right now.” Then she eyed me suspiciously. “What else?”

“Well, you know how I had that application on my site to have someone fill out?”

She nodded. “The application to date you?”

“Yeah.” She stared at me. I said: “Someone filled it out.”

“Are you shitting me?”

“Nope. Seriously.”

“Did he pay the $5?” We laughed and I shook my head. I said I waived the fee because I knew he had a job and didn’t have to prove it.

“Well?” She asked. “What do you know about him?”

“A lot actually. It’s a friend of mine.” And then I told her the story. I liked that he filled out the application not only because he passed, but because he was sort of showing a sense of humor and acknowledging that he’s interested in me. And maybe that the list I have is important. And I like that. I like that a lot. I asked Suki if she thought it was too soon for me to start dating. I don’t remember her exact words but it went something like “Tanya, if you want to date, date. You learned so much from your marriage and then Biff. If you want to date this guy, then do it. But first we need to get you some new pants because you have some serious droopy ass in those jeans. I think you might want to go a size smaller.”

So we went to Old Navy and she grabbed an assortment of clothes for me to try on. I purchased all of them.

At home, she looked at my garden, told me how to care for it, what to cut down. She looked at my foot (which has been hurting) and rubbed it and told me I should probably check with my doctor about it. She told me to stay strong and by god take my fucking watch off.

I’ve learned over the years that my sister is a smart cookie. She has her issues. I have mine. We’re completely different and don’t really have a lot in common. What we do have is a history and love and time. So when she tells something, I stop and listen to her.

I don’t know.

Suki is savvy. She knows stuff. She’s fierce. She’s beautiful. And she’s the only person that can get me to take off my watch and chill out for a while. I’m trying at least. I take the watch off occasionally...

It's a start.

The Power of Words-Let's Get Metaphysical

I usually go on and on about emotional stuff I’m going through, but I thought I’d talk about something different today. It’s my philosophy, if you will, on the power of words. Mostly, it’s about the power of connecting with others. Now, I’m not really a new-agey sort of person, or all that philosophical really, but this is something I think about a lot and I wanted to share it.

Here’s where I vaguely quote studies and have no idea where they come from. I can tell you that on NPR this morning there was another story that talked about how touch affects the body. I’ve had this conversation with my aunt, a psychiatrist who has studied the effect of touch on the brain’s functions. So. Our skin is the largest organ and just under the surface is this massive network of wonderful (or horrible) receptors. It’s why when we’re touched, we FEEL it. Touching someone connects you. It can lower cortisol (a stress hormone) and provide comfort. It can transmit pain. But let’s focus on the good stuff. When we touch or are touched, a peculiar magic happens. And it goes beyond feeling good. Sure, a massage feels good especially if it comes from someone named Sven who’s bulging muscles glisten. But the everyday touch is pretty miraculous too. Bodies connect. Babies need touch to develop their brains successfully. Partners need touch to feel connected. We all need touch because it soothes us and makes us feel alive.

Here’s where I start to get metaphysical. Through touch, bodies connect because our atoms collide. Is this scientific? Not at all. It’s high school science mixed in with poetic interpretation. But I believe when we touch someone (or are touched) we connect on a spiritual level because for a brief moment we occupy the same space. Literally. We share the same space. It’s why when you’re intimate with someone your relationship takes on such a different meaning. You’ve shared a part of yourself. Literally.

Stay with me here.

So if it’s proven that touch can calm and connect and at times heal….isn’t it possible that words can do the same thing?

When we talk to each other, think of words as floating through the expanse of space between you and gliding over your body. It’s why tone is so important. When someone uses harsh words and anger, it’s why those words FEEL cutting. I believe, on some level, they do physically cut you. Maybe we don’t see it, but if words take the form of sound, and sound travels in waves…isn’t it possible that our bodies feel it? Isn’t it possible?

Now, when someone speaks lovingly to you, imagine words warming you, holding you gently. It’s why therapy works. You let go of anxiety and are comforted by the words’ release. It’s why girlfriends talk and why we connect with each other. It’s why when you’re dating, you have these awkward conversations. You’re checking each other out with your words, gently at first, then with more confidence. It’s why when you fall in love with someone, just the sound of their voice comforts you. Words are probing, people. They probe. And they become intimate.

Hmmm. I swear to god I’m not smoking anything.

So…if physical touch connects us, if language connects us, is it possible that we can connect through words alone?

I think so. I think it’s the curious magic of art and music and beauty. We are physically touched by these things, sending off all those receptors in our bodies, building pathways in the brain. You can tell I have no medical basis for any of this. It’s just a belief. What I’m saying is stories are important. Sharing stories is important. But to get the full healing effects of words, to truly connect with someone, you have to allow your body to feel.

Being vulnerable is important even when we are very scared because it allows our bodies to be open and accepting of magic. That’s where love happens. For our friends, for our families, for someone else.

Bah. I’m close to figuring out something here, I’m sure of it. If I were smoking something, I’d have figured out this potential epiphany AND solved the global economic crisis. Alas. I’m too neurotic for drugs.

What was I saying? Oh yes. Touching. Healing. The power of words. Atoms colliding. Magic. Love.

Wow. Maybe I should open a church.

Tinfoil hats may be required.

Gremlin Emotions and that B!#$% Timing

It’s Saturday morning, dark and rainy outside. It sort of matches my mood. I’ve done a good job staying busy these last days, but, well. You can only stay busy so long, and then when you rest, all the things you were trying to run away from sort of catch up to you. Tricky little gremlins, emotions. They’re always chasing after you. And they never tire or give up. Nope. They don’t stop until you actually FEEL them. It’s disturbing, actually.

I miss Biff. Deeply. And, yes, I know that ending it with him was the right thing to do. There’s no question there, but it’s still hard. We’d reached that point in dating (at nearly five months together) where we were really comfortable. We knew each other’s likes and dislikes. We could sit together and be quiet. There was passion and there was comfort. And, yes, there were lots of troubling things about the relationship. But now it’s quiet here and a little lonely, and I’ve reached that point where it’s harder to remember the bad and easier to remember the good. Still, I’m staying strong on this.

But that comfort level, and the good things, and how it felt to love and be loved even for only a short time….I want that back. I want it again. But I want it with the right person. Actually, Biff could’ve been the right person, but the timing was all wrong.

This is what gets me. That muther fucker Timing. I swear, I have the worst timing ever. EVER. I can name four wonderful men I’ve met and known in my life and it’s all come down to timing. One was just out of a divorce and not ready. One I wasn’t ready for because I had some serious work to do on myself. One was ready but I met him a little too late. He was already dating someone else. And now, with Biff, well, I’m ready but he needs to do some work of his own.

I think I panicked a little last week. I thought, jesus, I want to be in a relationship. I want love. I want a partner. So I immediately signed up for Match.com. It’s all the same. Same faces, same men emailing me who haven’t read my profile. Then I thought “Honestly, do I want to meet any of these people? Now?”

I went out for drinks with a girlfriend and she gently and lovingly said “Uh, Tanya, I think you’re probably not ready yet.” Pause, pause, pause. And then a little more firmly: “Tanya. You are not ready yet.”

I took down my profile. Expensive lesson, but a lesson well-learned. I’m not ready yet. I can’t imagine what I’d talk about with a man and not think of the heaviness my heart is currently under. How can I even hope or expect to open my heart again right now? I can’t. It’s the muther fucker Timing again. I was ready, I opened my heart to Biff, it failed, and now I’m not ready again.

So. What do I do? I mean, I have a life. I focus on my kids and work. My writing. But I can’t stop myself from wanting love. I don’t want to live alone. Some people are okay with that, fulfilled by that, but I never have been. My life has been a series of heartaches and disappointments. I’m not exaggerating here. And I think at 37 I’ve earned a partner. I’ve done the work.

Still, I’m not ready. So. I work. I’m trying to stay connected to people. I’m getting my hair done. I bought new shoes that make me feel feminine and pretty. (Can shoes do that? Sometimes they can.) I’m re-reading familiar books I love. I’m working on that old beast self-esteem…and like Jack Handey did in those old SNL skits, I’m trying to tell myself that I’m good enough, and pretty enough, and by golly people like me. I’m trying to believe it.

I believe that love will happen again, and the next time, the timing will be good for both of us. I have to believe that. I have to. So, I guess I’ll just get ready. I’ll do my hair, I’ll hang out with girlfriends, I’ll get strong. And maybe today, I’ll cry a little bit.

Cut me some slack. It’s Saturday, it’s rainy, and I’m also trying to give up eating frozen cookie dough for comfort. If that’s not enough to make a grown woman cry, well, I don’t know what is.

TUNNEL VISION - Chapter 10

PART TWO

Chapter Ten

The Tunnels of the Northern Michigan Insane Asylum, 1911

Dark. Cold. Aboveground the world was caught in a fierce storm as the gales rushed through the bay, broke ships like teacups onto the shore. The wind howled. Moaned. Tore through woods. Shook trees to the roots, lifted roofs and spun an outhouse up by Kids’ Creek.

In the tunnels, all was quiet.

And then there was a panting. A slight humming. No light. Just darkness and shadows blending. You could not see her if you were looking. She was quiet as a secret. Husssshhhhh. She thought over and over. Husssshhhhh. Her fingers to her lips. Even as her belly grew, she guarded her secret fiercely. She was a feral dog and her growing secret a bone. In some corner of her mind, she knew what was happening. She was one person becoming two. She did not associate it with the animal functions she’d done countless of times with men. At her house, in the woods, in the doctor’s office, and one night down in the tunnels itself. An orderly he’d been and he’d been nice to her. He gave hear a pearl button. She kept it under her tongue to keep it a secret as well.

He had shown her how to crawl down in to the tunnels and he had met her here countless times to grunt and paw at her, to nuzzle her like a dog. To lick and pant and eventually to give her pleasure in a way different than the button. The button at least she could keep. And then he was gone. Fired. Let go. Moved on with his wife and children. She did not know. She did not understand. She understood secrets. She understood Hussshhh. She understood how to be very, very quiet even when under incredible pain. She could be completely quiet. In fact, she never said a word.

And so when the child emerged from between her legs, the woman did not cry out or scream. Her daughter entered a world of secrets and silence. Only aboveground did the world cry out and moan.

Northern Michigan Insane Asylum, Building 50, 1933

Bill Pepperidge pulled his truck up to Building 50 just as Kinney had asked, at precisely 9:00PM. Course, to Bill, 9:00PM was a strange time to make a move, and in December no less, when the nighttime wind had a real bite to it. If Bill had a place to move into, he’d wait until spring to do it. Course, if Bill had a place like the doctor, maybe he’d make the move right away too. He looked around, noted Kinney standing in front of the door. He noted that the doctor stood still, but there was an air of unrest to him. Bill nodded to himself. So much darkness and only more darkness to come.

“Seems you’ve collected some things there, doctor,” Bill said. “I remember just a few months ago driving you up here and you had naught but one bag with you then. How’d you manage to get all this?” He motioned to the stacks of bags behind him, luggage and what not.

“I’ve ordered some things for the new house,” Kinney said in a way that seemed to say that was the end of the discussion. Pepperidge tugged on his hat, nodded, and lifted the rest of the bags into the back of his truck. The bed sighed with the weight, just the way the Bill’s own bones were sighing now. He’d worked too hard and too long and there was no end in sight. Not with all the folks out of work and the dust bowl happening in the south. If there was one thing Bill knew it was that as a hired hand there were times where it served you to remain quiet and stupid. This was one of those times.

He didn’t look at the woman, or he tried not to. The little Irish girl had brought her out, wrapped her in a big blanket. The young woman was beautiful and clearly terrified out of her skin. She looked around as if she’d never seen a night sky. Course, if she was a loony (and she certainly looked like a loony) maybe everything was always new to her. Sometimes the mind was broken that way. Bill took this in without appearing to notice a thing. He’d worked at the asylum a long time. There were certain skills a man developed over time and this was one of them.

He didn’t even acknowledge her presence as Kinney pried her free from the Irish girl’s embrace. He took the frightened woman by the elbow guided her into the truck. She seemed to not know what to do exactly. Not how to get up into it or what to expect. Kinney had to lift her into the truck and when he took the seat next to her, she seemed to try to crawl inside Kinney’s own body. He held her.

Bill climbed in to. Didn’t have to worry about touching her as she was so close to the doctor. “We ready?” Bill asked and the doctor nodded his head. The woman near jumped out of her dress at the sound of the engine coming to, but Bill knew better than to ask.

Truth be told other doctors had taken lovers just as it appeared Kinney was doing. There was a fair share of loose women in the asylum, Bill knew, and sometimes they ended up as housemaids at cottages for a time. And sometimes they weren’t heard of ever again. It didn’t matter to Bill. It seemed that the women went willingly enough. Shoot, some of the women were so feeble minded they didn’t know up from down. Maybe staying with one of the doctors gave them a little bit more comfort for a time. What mattered to Bill was that he have money to put food on the table for his wife and four kids and grandchild. Sometimes, you just had to close your eyes to things.

It took a lot for Bill to drive to the doctor’s new residence in silence, but he did it. And he was rewarded handsomely for it too.

* * * * *

To Ama, the outside world was filled with scents and sounds she did not understand. There were no walls to keep her secure, no loving family to hold her. She tried to press close to Doctor Kinney but she felt no warmth there. She wanted her papas, her mammas. The world breathed ice on her face and it hurt. She wanted the shadows of her underground, not the great dark ceiling above her. She wanted her woodland creatures and her music and her box of special things. She did not understand what was happening or how they were sitting and moving so fast. The world was so loud, so loud and she pressed her hands to her ears to drown out the sound, but still it seeped in. She felt herself begin to cry. It started in the depths of her stomach, where her deepest pain resided. She felt the tears and anger forming and she let it pour out.

The Doctor held her. “Hussshhhh,” he said. Just that. “Hussshhh.” And Ama stilled. It was a magic word, a word that meant be quiet or they will find you. It was a word from her childhood and her growing years. It was a word almost as close as the name she had chosen for herself. Hussshhh. She closed her eyes. She let herself be rocked to and fro, the way Liliana would hold her and sing to her.

And then, after a time, the sounds and motion stopped. Kinney took her hand and helped her reach the ground. “This is your home, Rose,” he said to her.

Ama looked around. She knew that Kinney called her “Rose” and sometimes she answered to it. It was so dark out that the world now seemed smaller and that was a comfort. “Say, thank you dear Kinney.” His voice was a needle.

Ama closed her eyes. Her family had warned her of this moment, when she would be discovered and taken from them. She knew this could happen. She also knew that though she felt alone, she was not. They had taught her many things, ways to defend herself, weapons to use in case of danger. She would be able to use all their warnings and protect herself. “Thank you dear Kinney,” Ama said evenly. She smiled at him.

The first weapon was to make them believe you. Make them believe you would give them what they wanted. Ama could do that. She was a very talented girl.

Kinney led her into the house and out of the darkness. Ama continued to smile even as the light in the house blinded her.

The second weapon was to remember everything they did to you. Remember. Remember. Remember. Ama’s eyes were open now. Very wide open, indeed.

Tunnel Vision (The Summary & Backstory)

In the early days of summer, I asked for help deciding what kind of novel I was going to write next. My three novels are all romantic comedies. Did my readers choose for me to write another romantic comedy? No. No they did not. They wanted to challenge me and voted for a Gothic Suspense Historical novel. Holy expletive.

I thought about it for a while and decided to go back to my roots: an insane asylum.

Let me explain. So I grew up in Traverse City, Michigan with my house two blocks from the bay. I could hear the waves on the water and when storms rolled in, my house shook.  My mom was as single mom and worked as an arts and crafts advisor for a place called "The Friendship Center", a mental health care nonprofit that helped people with emotional or physical disabilities. Most of them lived in foster homes as the psychiatric hospitals had all shut down. Some were very functional, and some had sever psychoses. From the age of seven, I spent a lot of time at my mom's work and I even 'volunteered'. On a week long summer camp, I was there with all the campers. I poured their orange juice for when they had to take pills...three times a day. I met people with epilepsy, schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, OCD, and people whose minds were blank from too much drug use. It sounds scary, but as a kid it wasn't. They were just kids in adult bodies...and I felt cool because I was smarter than most of them. A horrible thing to say, but that's what it was like.

10 years later, my mom worked part-time at the Traverse City State Mental Hospital. It was being refurbished and was no longer a hospital. She took me on a tour of the tunnels and the grounds and told me a story that there was a child born in the tunnels and raised by 'inmates'. It was just a rumor, she said. The story, the tour, and my experience with the mentally ill has stayed with me.

This is the genesis for "Tunnel Vision". It is 1933 and Doctor Kinney arrives to the Northern Michigan Insane Asylum (as it was called then) to start a new job. He is mourning the loss of his wife and he has dark secrets. We meet interesting characters and a vast tunnel system. After exploring the tunnels, Kinney thinks he sees his dead wife. It is not his wife at all but a woman named "Ama". Ama exists and doesn't exist. She was born to an inmate in the tunnels and cared for by a collection of people. She knows no past or future, only present. She knows nothing of the outside world. She is passionate and kind and fierce, and Kinney decides to own her. She is such a blank slate that Kinney believes maybe, just maybe, he can reshape her. Give her some memories of his wife's, make her act and talk like his wife. In this way, he can raise the dead. He takes Ama away from the asylum and is joined by a nurse, Mallie Lyn Peters. He is going to experiment with mind control.

There's a parallel story of a young woman in the 50's looking into her past.

That's where we're at now. I'll tell you, there are a lot of issues with it. There isn't enough dialogue and I didn't flesh out the supporting characters. I'm making weird choices that are confusing at times. So...read with caution. You are reading a rough draft. A first draft actually. I write it, look for typos and post it.  I'll be re-writing extensively in the future. If you want to see how a novel develops, keep reading. And thanks for taking the time.

Best,

Tanya

Now What?

Did I really only post the “Exit Biff” blog just three days ago? It’s funny how time can feel so much longer. I’ve packed a lot into this week with kiddos, teaching, narrating, hanging out with girlfriends and watching Dexter. All very important things. I haven't really had a lot of time to question "Now what?" since ending it with Biff. I've just been doing as much as possible, and that seems to be working.

On Wednesday I went to the Viceroy for kicking back with some professional, lovely women. We just wanted to have a couple of drinks, relax and chat. It’s a little low-key networking that we’re doing, because (let’s face it) it’s hard being a working woman especially in a creative field. There are big mosquitoes out there and they will bite you. And by mosquitoes I mean life. Life is hard, and it’s nice to know that you’re not struggling out there alone.

We all had different professions and fields, and even different romantic statuses: One of us was happily  married, one single but dating, two of us divorced with kids and in our late thirties, and one divorced no kids in early thirties. But we could still connect.

We talked about aging, how you think you’ll never accept having people help you, but you eventually do. We all have parents who are getting older and you kind of have to step up and take care of them. Then I asked the question of when, exactly, do you cross over in that land of aging and buy a pair of gigantic granny panties because they look so comfortable? (I’d been eyeing them at Kohl’s, circling them in contemplation. I’m single now so I don’t really need the lacy boy shorts, I could, you know, go for it. I could wear gigantic underwear that reaches to my boobs and NO ONE WOULD KNOW.)

Then we talked about dating. Of course we talked about dating. How it’s hard, and complicated and funny. I’m talking to so many great single women in their thirties and older and there’s a refrain happening “I know great guys are out there, I believe that, I just have no idea where to meet them.” We don’t want to go online. We don’t want to meet them in the bar. And checking them out in the grocery store can prove very awkward especially if their wife is standing next to them. (I won’t say if this is from experience or not.)

I wish I could throw an event for meeting singles and divorcees, or divorced-ed. And not single twenty-somethings. That’s not what we want. We want nice, thirty-to-fifty something guys who might have kids. Guys who are stable and loving and are willing to give love a second or even a third chance. I don’t know how to make this event happen, but if I did, there would be wine and appetizers, and stupid dating prompts on cards. I don’t think there would be Twister though, I mean, sheesh, it’s not a birthday party.

Then on my second drink I confessed that I wanted to write a new series of romance novels. I’d make them really realistic. The ladies helped me brainstorm. I’m going to call it “Tepid Connections” and go against every romance cliché. In my realistic romance, the muscular heroine meets a petite and slender hero. They’ve been set up by coworkers. Neither one of them wants to be there, and it’s horribly awkward, but they figure “Hey, it’s dinner”. And they hang out and it’s okay. And then when they make love, there are no fireworks or heaving bodies or glistening torsos. The slender, petite hero says “Do you feel that?” and the muscular heroine says “Uhhh…I think so.” Then they eat cheesecake.

Huh.

Might want to spend some more time brainstorming.

I don’t really have a point with any of this except to say a big thank you to my friends, both men and women. I know creative, quirky wonderful people and I wish I had some magic dust (that wasn’t an illegal substance) that I could sprinkle over all of us that would make life easier and love more permanent.

Then again, there’s something really beautiful about the complexity of life and heartbreak and struggle. It makes sitting back with a group of friends that much more of a cherished moment.

And I’m still thinking of that party idea.

Exit Biff, Stage Left.

I don’t know how much I want to blog about this, and I guess part of me wants to and needs to, and then part of me doesn’t. The thing is: I made a promise to myself to try out a year or so of blogging honestly about my life, and I’m going to stick with that.

So if you read my blog even semi-regularly, you know that I’ve been dating Biff and we’ve had great times and horrible times (steak anyone?). Lately, though, it’s been getting tougher and tougher (not talking about steaks anymore). Last week I struggled with a checklist I had in my mind and heart and the realization that I was justifying away every quality that was important to me. I wanted to date a man who was independent, employed, had transportation, was motivated, supportive, liked my cooking. Biff had some of these qualities…and I don’t just want to bash him. It doesn’t really matter what happened detail-wise with Biff, except that I started out having things that were very important to me in a relationship and I talked myself out of their importance. Why? Because I met Biff and we connected and he had very good reasons for not having some of those qualities. It’s a tough job market. He moved from Chicago so didn’t have a job. He loved me and wanted to work on the relationship and if I were just a little more patient, etc. etc.

Here’s my conclusion though. Those things were important to me. They never stopped being important to me. It may seem shallow to want a boyfriend who has a steady job and transportation, but it’s more than that. (And I don’t think it’s shallow.) I’ve decided that I don’t even want or need to justify it to myself anymore. I want a man who has his life together. I want a partner. I want someone who is as focused and motivated as I am. I want a man to treat me and my kids kindly. I want a man who can talk through issues without attacking me or defending himself.

I saw some scary things this weekend. Hints of deep, residing anger. Biff said some mean and threatening things. I went to a girlfriend’s place until I felt safe. And I understand that it came from a place of fear on his part of having to look for a place to stay and to take care of himself, but the things he said to me were not okay. I’m only glad that it happened when my kids weren’t around. It was a tough weekend and I feel sad and confused and mad at myself for letting it go on as long as it did. I’m not sleeping. I’m still scared. But I have friends looking out for me.

I learned a lot. I learned that it was great dating someone creative who understood that part of me. I also learned that my needs are important. I can feel sympathy for someone going through a tough time, but I can’t fix them or support them or take over their life. I’ve got enough on my plate. I’m trying to look at this as an empowering experience. I think the longer the relationship went on, the more dangerous things would’ve become. That huge fight we had this summer wasn’t an anomaly; it was a pattern.

Biff is, at the heart, a good guy. At least I think he is. I think he’s deeply wounded though (aren’t we all?). He’s lost, and hurt, and wanting someone to make his life easier. But he’s got to do it for himself. “Out of ruin comes transformation” was a line in “Eat Pray Love” I connected with. I’m not ruined by this. Biff might be for a time and either he’ll find someone else to support him, or he’ll finally land on the ground and take care of himself.

Am I angry? A little. But just at myself. I’m moving forward. And I’m moving forward a little bit smarter, a little bit stronger, and a little more sure of the person I want to share my life with. He’s a great guy. Kind and funny and warm. I just haven’t met him yet. Or maybe I have met him, but the timing has been wrong.

I’m certain of this.

And I’m certain of this for my girlfriends too. It’s not about finding the love of your life. It’s about finding your self. Be strong. Listen to you heart. Know that what is important to you matters…no justification needed. If you need a man who likes waffles, you need a man who likes waffles. Wait for it.

Sorry to wax self-help here…

Actually, I’m not sorry about it at all. Not one bit.

(Insert smiley face or warm, happy smile here. I’m going to end up somewhere wonderful. Even if it takes a bit longer to find exactly where wonderful is located.)

Application to Date Tanya -- Revisited

Back in February, I posted a silly little application for interested parties. You know, men who might want to date me. It was done in jest, of course, sort of in response to a series of dates I went on where the men were either still married, in love with someone else but taking me out as "practice", unemployed, car-less or living with their parents, or a combination of all of those things. So, I made a joke about it. It WAS a funny application. I still think it's funny (and I'll repost it below). Still, there was an element of truth to it.

I wanted to date someone who was emotionally well-adjusted, working hard, had a good job, maybe a house. Essentially, I wanted to date someone who was pretty similar to me, without the boobs and severe PMS. I also wanted someone who appreciated that I write, who likes interesting and diverse food, who's healthy. When I type out all my wants it seems like a big list, almost unattainable. And when I returned to dating and met a wonderful man, I tucked that check list away.

If you really connect with someone, if there's a possibility for love, how important is something like a checklist? What if they have a very good reason for starting over? What if they're trying desperately to get on their feet? What if they don't have a car because they moved home from a big city? What if they just need a little time to start over and find a good job?

What if the really important things are there: What if they love you? What if they love who you are at the very core of you? What if they love that you write? How important is it that they like things like baked goat cheese in a homemade marinara sauce? There's a simplicity to a man who prefers turkey sandwiches.

Should I even be talking about any of this? Probably not, but I don't know what else to do.

In the movies, the Perfect Man is easy for the female lead to spot: he's the one that's super cute. Maybe he's awkward, but their connection is real. But movies don't touch on real life. What if that female lead is a single mom and spends every moment of her day either parenting, teaching, narrating or prepping to narrate, promoting her work, or writing in the hopes of building a stable life for her and her children?

Here's the big question I'm leading to: When is love not enough? Is it wrong to have a checklist? To want a partner who is secure in more than his affection for you?

There are more questions too. Questions I talk about with my girlfriends. Why do we so often justify relationships or behavior in relationships that makes us feel awful. One of my girlfriends went out on a date with a guy. She had a great time. When the bill came, he said "We'll have to split it because I can't afford to get yours. I'm kinda in transition right now and don't have a job, and I wasn't sure if this was a date or not." She likes him. She wants to see him again. And we tried to figure out if it's okay for a guy not to pay on the first date. Of course it's okay. Then again, what if it's not okay for YOU? What if, for you, that Bill Paying Issue is a sign of respect, of a man who wants to treat you well and like a woman. Then again, are these old-fashioned gender roles?

See what I'm saying? It's fucking complicated. I don't usually swear too much, but there are time when only a good 'fucking' will do.

Pause. Pause. Pause.

Ehm...moving on.

I'm at a point in my relationship where I feel like that Gilbert lady in "Eat Pray Love". You know the part where she's praying and says "God, just tell me what to do and I'll do it." I wish there were the Voice of God to tell me what to do, but not like in Monty Python. I've always found their 60's show annoying and uncomfortably tripped out. I just want someone to tell me what to do.

I want Alec Guiness to talk to me like he did in Star Wars to Luke. "Tanya, you must feel the Force within you. The Force will tell you what to do." And then he tells me that A) either my list IS important and valid and I need to honor that or B) Love supersedes any list of expectations.

My boyfriend is having struggles. I want to be there for him, but I'm also terrified. Am I terrified of love? Yes. It's very hard to trust. But it's doubly hard to trust when your partner can't find a job. I always look a few feet down the road. This is a writer thing, a neurotic thing, and a single-mom thing. If he can't find a job, what happens in a month. What happens in two? What happens if I fall in love so deeply that I marry him? Can I be the sole provider for my family? Do I want to be?

For now, I'm re-reading my checklist. If I were updating it, I'd also add Do You Like To Take Walks and Do You Smoke? But I'm not updating it. I'm re-reading it to see what I really need. Do I need all of these things? Or do I just need a man who loves me with his whole being...because honestly I have that. Maybe I should just be grateful for that and hope the other things work themselves out.

Here's the old application:

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.

How do you forgive when you're an angry Mofo?

Last night I had an interesting conversation with my ex’s new wife. I’ve jokingly referred to her in the past as my Sister Wife, as when I was still legally married she was the one who ended up taking me to the ER when I broke my foot. We both had to listen to the nurse say to me “Oh, your husband will have to treat you well this Christmas” when, of course, my husband was my ex and living with her. It was awkward and horrible and now, frankly, it’s very funny.

My ex and his wife had asked me to switch the holiday schedule in the custody agreement and, well, I’m not proud to say this, but I lost it. I Big Time lost it. You could blame it on just returning from a pretty emotional trip to New York, or blame the intense pain I was under because I needed a root canal. Blame the stress of realizing my bank account was really, really low; blame that my boyfriend is having job troubles and that freaks me out. Blame my hormones; blame the moon; blame the stars. Blame Glenn Beck just because. Mostly, I just blame myself. I felt like they’d asked me to (yet again) change my life to fit their needs, and because I didn’t matter and wasn’t important I should just do it.

And I got angry. Really angry. Angry enough to call my ex and yell at him and cry and tell him all the horrible things he’d done to me over the year. It went something like this: “Do you know what it felt like to have to take a picture of you and your new family on Halloween when we’d only be separated for a few months?” and “How could you bring the kids over on the day you got married when you were all still dressed up? Why couldn’t you at least have the decency to change your clothes so I didn’t have to see you in your wedding outfits?” Pointless stuff really. He didn’t say anything. He just listened. And then he said he was sorry.

Then that evening I wrote a long email. I pointed out all the ways they’d hurt me again. I threatened attorneys getting involved and possibly sending Mothra over to their house to get them. Did the venting, evil email make me feel better? Not really.

What did make me feel better was talking to my ex’s new wife. Boy, that’s a clunky way to refer to her. Let’s just call her Abby. My ex stayed home. Abby and I have decided to do the scheduling because my ex and I just can’t seem to communicate, part of the reason we’re divorced. So Abby and I went through the email and she asked me to be specific about what they had asked me to change over the year. I gave her details. Some she knew and disagreed with, some she didn’t know. What became clear as I talked to her is that I’m still angry at my ex for our years of miscommunication. I’m also angry about this year of divorce since he remarried so quickly with 4 new stepchildren, it feels as if again he’s more important than me. When we were married, his work and life were more important than me and anything I wanted or needed and I felt invisible. In our divorce, his new family is more important because there are more people. I’m just a single mom with Louis and Simone; he has a wife and (now) six kids. So, again, I feel invisible.

Abby said I should work on forgiveness. Now, if she’d said this to me earlier, I would have told her to go, er, have intimate relations with herself, but I didn’t. Why? Because she’s right. I have spent so much time and energy and emotion feeling hateful that’s it turning me bitter. You know those crazy dried-up apple faces they sell at arts and crafts shows? I feel like that’s who I’m turning into. It takes a lot of energy to be hateful.

The question is…how do you forgive? I’m not religious so I can’t turn it over to a higher power. I can only turn it over to myself. That’s tough when you’re neurotic because when you turn something over, you re-turn it and then analyze it and then get mad and then….it’s exhausting. But can I forgive? Can I let go? Can I move forward? Can I?

At what point do you stop feeling angry about the life that you don’t have and just focus on making the life you do have better?

Hmmm. Damnation. Harrumph! Blast. And I’ll throw an ‘egad’ in there for good measure.

It’s time for me to let go. It’s time for me to move on. My ex hurt me. I hurt my ex. This last year was horrible with starting over, seeing the kids in pain, fighting for a job, breaking my foot, fighting for a house. I’m so used to fighting it seems it’s all I do now. There’s a tiny realization happening here though that maybe, just maybe it’s time to stop fighting so much. I’ve forgotten to breathe.

Maybe forgiving for me starts with that: it starts with taking a deep breath and then gently, gently, letting the breath go.

We’ll see where I go from there.

Last Day in NY: Mini Epiphanies (almost as good as mini org...Ahem)

Quiet Day in New York

I woke up feeling a little bit better. Must have been some powerful antibiotics. Still, when I turned to one side, I really did resemble Jay Leno. I was okay with this. I just pulled my hair over my jaw, batted my eyelashes and tried to look mysterious instead of bloated. I popped some Tylenol with Codeine (just one.  I’m a tender flower) and headed outside while my niece slept in. By Day 4, we’d fallen into a routine. She would stay up until 3am while I slept, and I’d wake up at 6:30am while she slept and explore the town.

I left the hotel looking for a flea market on 39^th street. I didn’t even make it. Around the corner from my hotel on 6^th Avenue, the entire avenue was shut down. Overnight a fair had sprouted…and they were selling stuff CHEAP! What was it with things sprouting overnight? In the country, mushrooms sprout. In New York movie productions and street fairs sprout.

I decided to check it out. I walked for blocks and blocks just looking—not just at stuff (though there was plenty) but at the people.

THE PEOPLE

What is so amazing about New York to me is the diversity of its people. In Michigan, pretty much everywhere you go you see people who look just like you or at least like your extended family. And it wasn’t just the cultural heritage of people that fascinated me, just the overwhelming diversity. So consider these glass necklaces I found: they’re all pretty much the same thing. But when you sift through them, you see all the different colors and shapes and…

Okay. I’m about to slip into Cheeseville.

Forgive me, but people are damned interesting. There were so many different skin colors and ages and shapes and eyes and I noticed that women (whether fat or skinny or curvy) all had little bellies sticking out. I found the bellies comforting. I found the differences comforting. I don’t know. I always worry that there’s something fundamentally different about me, that I stick out in some way. Then while checking out a random street on NY I see that everyone is fundamentally different. Epiphany: No one is perfect. Further epiphany: We’re all a little fucked up. No one even noticed my enormous half-chin. I rubbed my belly in happiness.

AFTERNOON

I took a rest and some more codeine. Strange. I’d taken Tylenol with codeine before and it was like floating on an uncomfortable ride through Disney World…or a tripped out Simpson’s episode. This time, it felt like it was having no effect, except I wasn’t in as much pain. That’s how I knew that I really was suffering. Ah well. I could bully through it.

My plan was to meet my cousins in Central Park for a couple of hours and then meet my very cool friend Dionne downtown to watch a play in the Fringe Festival and get Indian food. I made it to Central Park…but sadly had to bail on Dionne. At the end of the day I was throbbing all over, and not in the way that happens in romance novels.

I loved the park too. When I lived in the city, I’d take my lunch breaks there since it’s walking distance to Carnegie Hall. I love that everyone just hangs out, collectively but separate. There’s an ease to Central Park and, of course, people everywhere.

I talked with my cousins and their friends. Watched little Travis and Lizzie run up to people and dance and try to climb a gigantic tree. We ate popsicles and watched a group of break dancers do incredible flips and I worried whether they had health insurance.

At the end of the afternoon, I realized that there was no way I could make it downtown and handle another four or five hours of walking around. Frankly, I was sick and the pain in my tooth made me feel like crying. I said goodbye to my cousins, texted apologies to Dionne and made my way to the hotel.

FINAL NEW YORK THOUGHTS

I picked up a slice of pizza and nibbled tenderly on one side. My niece met friends for dinner and I had the hotel to myself to watch “Dark Knight”. I have to say in the hotel room, I had another little epiphany. Living in New York was a time where my life fractured. If 911 hadn’t happened, I could see myself still living there. I think I’d have a small apartment in Brooklyn, a collection of friends, a boyfriend. I don’t know if I’d have children…though I might’ve if things had worked out with Harrison. I could see this Other Tanya and her Other Life. It would be fast-paced and energized and rich and creative. The truth is, 911 did happen and it did change me and the life of the Other Tanya never was. I moved back to Grand Rapids.

But here’s the moral, folks, and I’m sorry if it’s cheesy or pat. It’s the truth. I can see the Other Tanya and her life but This Tanya, the Tanya of right now, is no longer envious. See, I may not have the energy or the excitement of New York, but I have a beautiful house where I can hear the crickets at night. I have two amazing and quirky children that I love with all my spirit. I have dear friends, true friends and a wonderful supportive family that I can call and see whenever I want. I’m a professor of writing at an art college for as long as they’ll have me, and I’m writing and publishing my books. My life now is fast paced and energized and rich and creative and, possibly more importantly, filled with love and purpose.

And I can always visit New York.

Sunday my niece and I flew back to Grand Rapids. It was a long and exhausting trip and my face hurt; when I pulled up to my house, Biff was standing there. He opened the door. He welcomed me home.

New York Day 3: Toothzilla

When I joked about having misadventures in New York, I sort of meant wearing a dress and accidentally tucking my dress into my panties. Not on purpose, mind you, but just doing embarrassing things that I happen to have a knack for. I did not mean develop an abscessed tooth and spend an entire day trying to get medication before my head exploded. Suffice it to say, yesterday was not the most pleasant of days.

To use a complicated and possibly mixed metaphor: You know that scene in the classic Godzilla story where he’s like smashing all of Tokyo and people are screaming and the beast is all “ROOOOAAAARR” with tiny arms flailing? The pain I’m experiencing is like that. Or it’s sorta like labor. Intense coming in waves, but at least with labor you get a baby out of the deal.

The Tooth has caused my deepest neuroses to surface. What if the infection spreads? What if I overdose on Ibuprofen and ice packs? I’m found dead in a hotel room and the paramedic shakes her head and says: “If only she’d taken antibiotics”.

Still, I did some cool things yesterday. Caity slept in and I explored the city in search of Orajel and coffee. Then we moved from out Times Square hotel a few blocks into Midtown: The Sofitel Hotel.

This place is so snazzy they actually had a bellman on his hands and knees scrubbing the sidewalk to get rid of any stains. I think he was a bellman. He might’ve just been a random guy with OCD. Anyway, the hotel is classy: wood and lush fabrics, classical music playing in the rooms, lotion scented with lavender. It’s got a French flare and it makes me want to wear a beret and speak in obtrusive poetical sentences like they do in French films: “Caity, I cannot accompany you to dinner because I am floating on a sea of pain and the pain is the color of emptiness.” You know, annoying stuff like that.

Caity was exhausted from walking Times Square until 4 in the morning. Uhm, not like a hooker, just a twenty-year-old exploring. So I had the afternoon to myself. I did my favorite thing in New York. Hopped on the N train to Lincoln Center and found my favorite art movie house. It’s a dingy, dirty little place that shows foreign films and independent movies.

When I lived here I’d go there on payday and see whatever movie was playing next. I remember seeing Swimming Pool there and a few others. I decided to roll the die and do it again. I walked up at 12:45; at 12:55 they had a movie playing. I bought tickets to that. Turned out to be “Soul Kitchen”. It was in German. Yay! And about a restaurant! Yay! And had Manni from Run Lola Run in it and Soul Music and montages of food and a guy who kept doing stupid mistakes….why…someone made the movie just for me.

I was the youngest in the theater by about three decades. I sucked on ice instead of eating popcorn. I actually couldn’t eat anything. By the end of the movie I was high on endorphins from seeing a really fun film, and from the intense pain. I called my friend Vicki in Michigan for advice. She’s a stay-at-home mom who was trained as a doctor. Her husband is an ER doctor. They discussed my symptoms and said I’d better get an antibiotic or I might have to go to an ER. They suggested I call my primary care physician and he could call in a prescription.

Thus began my two hour search for medicine. My primary care doctor….I have several obscenities here. He wouldn’t prescribe medicine, feeling that I should get checked out first. I think he was afraid I was going to try to sell an antibiotic on the streets of New York, perhaps to earn plane fare back.

I walked to Carnegie Hall to have an anti-climactic “Oh I used to work there” moment and then started crying on the street corner of 57^th and 7^th. My body hurt. My face hurt. I was shaking with hunger. How was I supposed to find a doctor? Then a beaming ray of light fell on a Duane Reade and angels strummed harps. (That could be an exaggeration.) There was a Duane Reade with a “Doctor On Premises!” She saw me. She took a look at me and said, “Your face is all swollen”. I started crying again. “Look, I don’t know anything about teeth but I’ll prescribe you an antibiotic, okay, honey?” I loved her a little bit right then.

Prescription in hand, I hopped on the subway to Union Square and met my cousin Mike outside his work. He’s a very cool graphic designer and a director. That means he gets to tell people what to do. Caity and I walked around his office, met his coworkers. I was supposed to go with Mike and Caity to meet his wife Tessa in Central Park. We were going to have a picnic, but I couldn’t do it. I was either going to pass out or curl in fetal position and I sorta wanted some privacy to do that. I told them I’d see them later, made my way to the hotel, found a deli where I could get dinner: mashed potatoes, chicken soup, and rice. Best. Dinner. Ever. I took the codeine, the antibiotic, the ibuprofen, put an instant ice pack on my face, watched bad TV and got to talk to my Biff for a few minutes.

This morning I’m writing from a little diner down the street. The pain isn’t as bad but my face is still swollen. Not bad, I just look like I have a really defined chin on one side. If I’m lucky, I’ll feel well enough to meet my friend Dionne and go to a Fringe play and to Alphabet City (that’s the name right?) for Indian food. We’ll see what the day holds. So far, everything’s looking up and Toothzilla, for now, is taking a nap.

Day Two: My New York State of Mind

Morning

I wake up to a colossal headache. Correction. A toothache. In New York! You’re not supposed to get a toothache while on vacation. And you’re not supposed to have half of your face swell up so you look like you have an allergic reaction. Blast. And I have no hairspray or gel because of ‘plane safety issues’. I look bloated. At least half of me does. I pop some serious ibuprofen and hope this is just a momentary toothache and not, say, cause for a root canal.

I need coffee. I throw on a 1980’s type floppy shirt over my yoga pants. One thing I love about New York is you can look swollen, puffy, and crazy in your yoga pants and 80’s t-shirt and NO ONE CARES.

Out the door of my hotel, there are all these trucks. Wait a minute…not trucks. Production vehicles. They’re shooting a film on my block. (I call it my block even though it’s mine for only twenty four hours.) I’m hoping a casting agent will see me and maybe put me in the film as a Crazy Cat Lady. I have the hair and face to prove it. I just need the cats. And a wool coat. And then it’s off in search of coffee….which I find at The Hot and Crusty. I’m not kidding you. It’s a deli called The Hot and Crusty…and it’s incredible. Eggs, toast, hash-browns and coffee for $4.65, and the guys behind the deli will flirt with you for free.

I don’t look flirt-able right now. Although, someone reminded me (Biff) that women hit their sexual peak in their late 30’s. Maybe that’s why everywhere I go men are awfully nice to me. It’s either that or because I have big boobs.

Afternoon

My niece Caity and I check into our next hotel, the Hilton in Times Square. Compared to our first night in the city, this place is gigantic. My brother booked the room for us using his super-important-VIP status. They let us check into the hotel three hours early. I think they would’ve given me a foot rub if I asked.

Then we explore Times Square a bit. There are people everywhere: most of them are obviously tourists. Caity and I try to blend in with local New Yorkers by walking really fast and looking mildly grumpy. It works.

We discover Bryant Park on our hunt for a sandwich and are smitten. The foodie in me emerges because I want to take pictures of all the delis and the buffets. Keeping my niece’s tender self-esteem in mind, I refrain, but it takes a lot to do so.

We shop at H&M. It’s a flashback to 1984 and I find that I am actually supportive of this. I mean, come on, paint splattered shirts are fun. It’s like “Look at me! I’m wearing paint splatters!” I like the oversized droopy shirts, the belts, the crazy patterns. I try to remember that I’m 37 and not 17 and that I really probably shouldn’t tease my hair again and wear rubber shoes and bangly bracelets and a Like A Virgin shirt. (Although secretly I really like the idea of being a mom with two kids wearing a Like A Virgin shirt. Something about that is very appealing.)

Evening

At 4:00 I get a call from my old boyfriend. He says “Hello, darlin’. How are you doing?” His voice is soft and low and I can hear him smiling when he talks to me. We decide that drinks are still on so I get dressed. Caity tells me what to wear. The long sundress I love is a big No. “You look like a soccer mom taking the kids on an outing.”

“But I have cleavage!” I say.

“Tanya, moms have cleavage too. They feed babies.”

Ah. So I try on a new dress I bought at Filene’s Basement. It’s short and tight and again, my boobs are enormous. I’m having Boob Paranoia. I can’t do that dress. I’ll wear that dress when I’m out with Biff. But not for an ex. So I put on a cute wraparound blue dress where the cleavage is easy. I mean classy. I was slipping into the Summertime song there. I apologize.

The bar we meet at is called the Vanderbar, on 45^th (I think) and Vanderbuilt. I get there early and sit by an open window. They have the air blasting so you get the benefit of open windows without sweating. New York is smart that way. I order a drink. A martini made with blackberry vodka with real berry bits. I don’t like how the term ‘berry bits’ sounds…sort of like something exploded. The drink, though, is good.

I watch men walking by the window, into the bar. They’re in suits and I have a surreal moment where I look around for Christian Bale thinking I’ve slipped onto the set of American Psycho.

My old boyfriend…let’s call him Harrison (with a nod to Harrison Ford though my ex doesn’t look like him at all) texts me and says he’ll be there in five minutes.

I try to relax and I find that I do. I also slip back into 2001 when I met Harrison. We met online and our first date lasted 8 hours. We went to restaurants and bars and kissed in a bar surrounded by hundreds of people. Our relationship was easy and intense and I loved him. After September 11^th, the city was so depressed, especially that first Christmas. I had no money and no family. I wanted a Christmas tree but couldn’t afford one so I drew a picture of one on a grocery bag, colored it and decorated it. I taped it to the wall and there was one present under it, a quilt I’d made for him. We spent Christmas together walking through the night to Central Park. There was a light snow and the world was draped in stars and Christmas lights. And menorahs too, of course.

A couple months later Harrison broke up with me. He said it was the timing and that “It’s not you, Tanya, it’s me.” I didn’t understand. I thought I’d found the One. I felt totally used and like I didn’t matter. All part of why I moved back home.

I think of this waiting for him. When he enters the bar we look at each other and we smile. He looks the same. Exactly the same. He’s married now with two kids and one on the way and he’s the kind of guy that is just plain comfortable to be with. We sit and talk and drink and laugh. He brings up the past. He says “You know, I’ve often thought about you and wondered what would have happened if we met a year later. I was just in a really difficult time in my life and I wasn’t ready.”

I get teary then because what he’s said is a gift to me. I didn’t imagine a connection; it was really there, and I mattered to him. And now, after being divorced, I understand what he means. It really was the timing. We talk about our lives and kids. I talk about my divorce and Biff. We toast to old times at another bar and then say our goodbyes.

I walk by myself through the streets of New York and I find that a little part of my heart has just healed.

I meet my niece at American Idiot and we see a show together. We spend the rest of the night walking around together and laughing. We eat Tasti D-Lite in Times Square.

The way I feel about New York now is the way I feel about Harrison. It occupies a little place in my heart, but it’s a place no longer of sadness but of a wonderful year. I used to think that moving to the city in 2001 was horrible timing, like meeting Harrison was horrible timing. Now I wonder otherwise. It was a year that changed my life and for the better. And I can be happy with that now.

When I sleep, I don’t dream. I wake up smiling…but I still have a toothache.

Blunder Woman Takes Manhattan! (Then apologizes for not asking first)

To tell you why this trip to New York is important to me is a really long story. Like a novel. Or a memoir. I can’t tell that whole story because I want to blog about what the trip is now and what happens (if anything). So here’s the summary: in July 2001 I sold everything, moved to NYC and tried to live the life of a struggling writer. I got a great job at Carnegie Hall, went through September 11^th and then New York and I changed. I tried to stay. Fell in a love with a man who called me darlin’ and then broke my heart. And I realized I wasn’t cut out for the Big Apple. I came home nine months later. That’s the back story.

Here’s the Flash Forward:

I was so nervous about this trip that I had to take a Valium last night. It made me feel woozy and giggly and allowed me to actually sleep a bit. On the plane ride we (my niece Caity and I) were jammed in to this tiny plane that trembled at every gust of wind. I had to hold Caity’s hand while she tried not to roll her eyes. We got off the plane (once it landed of course) and then found a cab. I felt different driving into the city. The last time I’d done it, I had all my belonging with me. This time, I was a tourist. It was a lovely day, slightly overcast, cool, so the New York City Summer Smell wasn’t so bad.

We found our hotel on West 87^th street (The Belnord) and then went exploring. I quickly realized that this wasn’t the city I left ten years ago. Maybe because September 11 is no longer part of every waking moment. Or maybe it’s because I’m a little older. When I lived here, I was so immersed in my own experience, I never looked around. This time was different. It is different. (Tense change people. To my students: I apologize.) New York isn’t a place really…I mean it is…but what makes it interesting is the people. It’s People! It’s like Soylent Green only you don’t eat it.

We did eat Greek food. Grapes hung from the ceiling. Plastic grapes, thankfully.

Then we were off to kill two hours before checking into the hotel. We found this strange bookstore with books covering the walls from floor to ceiling. It smelled musty. And I listened to the clerk talk to his accountant. They were hipsters, in their late twenties.

“Dude, weirdest thing I’ve ever seen in here was a homeless guy came in with a plastic bag, he dropped his drawers right in the store man and took a crap. A crap! In the bag! Then he pulled up his drawers, grabbed the bag and left.” The clerk shook his head.

The accountant ( a redhead with a bad sunburn) said: “Well, how did he do that? I mean, wouldn’t that be hard to get all that shit into a bag and not make a mess?”

Clerk: “I don’t know man. I guess he had a lot of practice.”

Mmmm. My first New York Story.

We checked into our hotel. It was cute. And made for very tiny people. I’m 5’4 and nearly a giant, but it’s okay. I fit.

Then we went to Union Square. It was a mass of Hipsters. Skinny jeans, crocheted hats, thick glasses. Irony was in the air like a thick fog. Everyone was hanging out looking mildly bored. I wanted to take a brush and comb hair out of Hipsters’ eyes. I refrained.

While walking around Caity and I spied a beautiful man coming toward us. He had long curly hair, was wearing a skirt and a mesh lacy top. Like, totally a woman’s outfit, but he didn’t care. And he had amazing legs. Long, shapely and covered in dark hair. We both agreed that he was the hottest transsexual we’d ever seen, and utterly natural looking.

Caity met a friend of hers and I was left on my own to explore. I found a place to sit and have a drink and while sitting there that old boyfriend I told you about called me. “Hello, darlin’…” he began. I just laughed. It’s not ten years ago. I don’t have any feelings for him, and that’s sort of liberating. Plus, I have Biff waiting for me at home…and HE fixes sinks and stuff.

Then I took a subway to the hotel. I was all cocky like I Know The Subway I lived Here Ten Years Ago. Yeah. Not so much. I immediately got on the wrong train and ended up on the East side. I thought I stepped through a vortex. Then I realized I’d just used the wrong train. So, back to the subway and to Times Square to fix my error. Doors closed. It was hot and smelled of onions. That’s not a pleasant thing. Then we stopped. Mid-tunnel. The lights flickered. The driver came on the speaker “Look, folks, we’re stuck here for a while. Some guy in the train just ahead of us is sick. They’re trying to figure out what to do with him.”

A girl wearing a t-shirt dress (which I suspected might just be a t-shirt) said “Well, get the asshole off the train. We have dinner reservations.”

We waited. I thought, hmm. Someone’s sick? We’d been waiting for twenty minutes. I wondered if someone had a heart attack or explosive vomiting, then decided I didn’t want to think about it. Finally the driver came back on. “Okay. We need to evacuate. It’s not a big deal. Be calm. When I stop the train, you all need to move slowly to the front of the train, but be careful stepping between the trains ESPECIALLY IF YOU’RE IN HEELS. There’s 600 volts of electricity down there, people. It’s not a joke. If you are in heels, be especially careful!”

I was in the last train. Do you know how long it takes to walk from the back of a NY subway train to the front, balancing between cars? It takes forever. And it makes you dizzy.

It’s an hour later now and I’m in my hotel room. I just ate a Tasty D-Lite Strawberry Cheescake cone followed by an enormous piece of pizza. If Biff were here, he’d probably have eaten TWO slices of pieces because he likes to eat things in pairs.

My feet hurt, I’m tired, and I don’t need Valium tonight. I’m utterly relaxed. And the New York I was so afraid to return to isn’t scary at all. It’s just wrapped in skinny jeans and has a wicked sense of humor. I fit right in. I’m wearing a cape after all.