Things Not To Say At A Christmas Party

Things Not To Say at a Christmas Party

There are some gaffs I've made that I've never gotten over. One is a Christmas party I attended years ago with my roommate, Keeley. I'd been invited to the party by Sara…she was part of our writing/acting group and she was pretty cool. I didn't know what she did as a job, but I knew she made money and it had something to do with medicine. To me, though, she was an actress. Just like I'm sure that to her, I was a playwright and not the girl in charge of fundraising at a local nonprofit.

Keeley didn't want to go. I forced her. "It's going to be so much fun! We'll meet lots of people, we'll get gussied up, free food. Come on, it's the holidays. And we're bored. And broke. And seriously in need of a party."

So Keels broke out the makeup and we played dress up. She wore a long black skirt with a bright blue angora sweater. Very chic, very stylish, very Keeley. I wore thigh-high black boots, a neon pink skirt and a stretchy black top. I was going for cute and artistic, but I think I just looked desperate.

We walked in the door and I knew we were in trouble. Everyone there wore khaki. A sea of khaki. In December. Khaki pants, shirts, skirts, even a khaki suit. There were about equal men and women, but everyone seemed paired up. The music played softly in the background: something classical and smart. People milled around talking in hushed tones, using a lot of medical sounding terms. "Wooo-hoooo!" I said to Keeley. "Are you ready to par-tay?".

She sat down in a corner and hugged her bag. I walked to the food table to get some dip. I interrupted a group of people and to show Keeley that we really belonged here, I busted right into that group and introduced myself. "Hey there! I'm Tanya, a friend of Sara's." they looked at me, at my outfit, collectively blinked. "So. Okay. What are you talking about?"

"We're talking about work," a woman said. "We're pediatrists."

 "Wow. All of you? Pediatrists, huh?"

They nodded, eight heads bobbing. "Are there that many people in Grand Rapids with bad feet?"

More collective blinking. "You must like warts," I offered. Hehehe. "I've got one I could show you. It's a doozy!"....

The woman swallowed a smirk. "I believe you're thinking of podiatrists. We're pediatrists. More commonly called pediatricians. You know, we help children."....

"Sure. Yeah!" I said. "How are their, uhm, feet? Probably pretty good." Then I dipped a celery stalk into some ranch dressing, got a glob on my shirt and turned to Keeley. Before I could make my escape, a gentle man in the group asked: "And what do you do, Tanya?"

I could have told them I wrote, produced plays, acted. But none of it paid me any money. And it was only local stuff. So I told them my real job: "I work in fundraising. At Gilda's Club. It's a cancer support center. A great place. Super fun."

I swear there was a gasp. 

The Pediatrist Woman said: "Cancer? Fun? My mom just died of cancer. It wasn't fun. It was terrible. Four horrendous years."

A guy said: "Yeah. My dad has cancer right now."

Well, Merry Christmas everyone.

The khaki sea parted.  I walked over to Keeley. "You ready now?" she asked. And we took off quietly for turkey ruebens.

Sara never invited me to another party again. I guess Christmas parties and cancer don't mix. Who'd have guessed?

I Still Want Your Real Blunder Woman Story

I Want Your Real Blunder Woman Story 

 

 My friend Dionne posted a hilarious update that went like this:

From Dionne Thornton, New York City:

I was almost a victim of a Nigerian dating scam! My life simply kicks ass! I mean really, who, but me???. This "great guy" had to fly to London for a business trip, but BA lost his luggage and now he's stranded. His "friend" is trying to send him money, but needs my credit card to do it. Of course his cc was in his luggage... Ugh...I'm I supposed to be that gullible???

She said it her story should be another chapter in Blunder Woman. 

It occurred to me that we all have Blunder Woman (Or Blunder Man) moments in dating. We do stupid things, we love the wrong people, we wear ridiculous get ups, we cook fresh crab rangoons while wearing an apron at a keg party because it said to bring a dish to pass even though everyone else just brought chips and salsa.

Er, that last one is mine. 

Here's another true story: I really did wait outside a Brooklyn apartment for three hours in the rain because the guy I was dating said "I'll be there in just a minute" and I didn't want to hurt his feelings by leaving when he'd called to say he was running late. 

Sad, but also a wee bit funny.

So send me your Blunder Moment with your name as you want it to appear and I'll post it on the site. After all, sharing is a bit of therapy, really. Here's a cheap way to do it. And who knows? Maybe I'll write a sequel to Blunder Woman using your story for inspiration. 

Tanya

  

Send Blunder Woman stories to:

heyblunderwoman@gmail.com .

It can be long or short. 

She Remembered Her Epiphany about Socks & Men EDI #6

Chapter 6

Changes to your ad will be reviewed!

 Julie watched the video again. 

She could not believe it. 

Did she do that? No. She didn’t. Wait. Maybe she…She remembered her epiphany about socks and men. She remembered writing the ad and then thinking it worked better as a script. She remembered drinking a glass or two of wine to gain the courage to push the submit button. And now she was vaguely seeing herself setting up her cell phone and trying to figure out how to get the blasted thing to record a video. 

Julie looked down and saw that she was wearing a red negligee that she’d bought on sale at Victoria’s Secret a year ago. Eve told her that if she felt sexy on the inside she’d emanate sexiness on the outside, so Julie bought the lingerie. She’d worn it once, for an hour or so, and waited to emanate sexiness, but the feeling she emanated was closer to itchiness as the lace chafed the inside of her thighs. And now look at her, sitting at her computer drinking wine and wearing a red teddy. She might as well be posed on the couch looking like a…

Wait! She had posed on the couch and recorded a video. And her thighs were chafing.

 Frantically Julie signed into her account and scrawled a new ad to replace the hideous fiasco of Easy Lady Requests Guy with Two Socks. Since she was now sober, or relatively so, Julie thought she could delete the video, write something a simple non-offensive ad, something that would capture who she was really looking for, and forget about last night entirely.

And what (or who) was she looking for exactly?

She was looking for someone to make Ronny jealous. That was all.

And so she wrote an ad that said the truth:

                        Hi there. I’m a nice, sweet down-to-earth girl

                        looking for someone to get to know over time.

                        I like reading and writing and cooking and

                        going for long walks on the beach.  I appreciate

                        fine wine, fine food, and fine conversation.

                        In five years I want to own a house and start on a family. 

God. Was Ronny right about her? Was she boring? Predictable? Was this the ad of a woman who sucked the marrow from life? Julie shrugged. Maybe it wasn’t exciting, but it was the truth…except for the part about going for long walks on the beach. She liked to read at the beach, but not walk. And she should have mentioned that she was obsessed with cooking, and not a good cook. And she should have put in there a little bit about her affection for the world of Star Trek…from the polyester 1960’s series to the dark Deep Space Nine. In Star Trek, at least, there was a code people lived by. And no one was a rock star.

She hit Edit Ad and tried to delete the video. It wouldn’t delete. She tried to post her new written ad to replace it, but something wasn’t working. Ah, the submit button. She submitted, she really did. She pressed the button. A message popped up onscreen that, if it had a voice, would no doubt have that perky cheerleader type voice she so hated:

Thank you so much!  Changes to your ad will be reviewed!

If accepted, your changes will appear in 3-5 business days.

Happy hunting! 

Three to five days? Three to five business days! Julie quickly did the calculations: it was Friday night. That meant her ad would remain as is until…Monday. Until next week!

An instant message chimed on her screen. It was Eve.  

LadyEve:            Nice video. 

Julie1976:            Oh god. You’ve seen it.

LadyEve:            Me and about 300 others.

Julie1976:            What?

LadyEve:            It’s on YouTube. How many responses you get?

 Julie1976:            I hate my life.

LadyEve:            Must be a lot.

Julie1976:             My life is a shipwreck.

LadyEve:        It’s hysterical.  My favorite part is the bit about your knockers.

Julie1976:             What if someone I know sees this?  How can I go to work with Bud knowing what I look like nearly naked and drunk off my ass?  What if I’m walking down the street and some guy gives me a sock and asks me for a quickie?  I never should have listened to you….I hate….

At that point, Julie’s cell phone rang.  She answered by completing her previous thought: “I hate my life and right now I really hate you for getting me into this.” She could hear Eve laugh on the other line. 

 “I did not get you into this. It’s all you, sweets. In fact, I warned you not to drink and operate heavy machinery.”

“I thought that meant don’t drink and drive.”

“It also means don’t drink and operate a camera. Ever. So. What’s the damage? How many emails did you get?”

 Julie moved her cursor over to her mailbox. In spite of herself, her heart did a quick skip. “One hundred seventy-eight.”

 “Holy shit, woman! You’re a movie star!”

 “Yeah.  And that’s up from only a hundred and fourteen like fifteen minutes ago!”  Julie couldn’t help but smile.  She’d never had so much attention in her life. True, it was a completely misleading ad and she probably wouldn’t want to talk to the kind of person who would respond to it, but…still. Nearly two hundred men found her interesting.  Titillating. Over the course of one night, Julie had transformed herself into a vixen. She sort of liked becoming someone she wasn’t, especially since no one online was exactly who they said they were anyway. It reminded her of her college days when she and Eve were in the Dracula Musical together. She’d been really good in that, she remembered. Eve had played Mina and Julie had been a remarkably believable maid.

            “You’re smiling aren’t you?” Eve asked. “I can tell you’re sitting there feeling all happy. I told you you’d get a response! See! Who needs Ronny?”

            Eve was right. Since she’d posted her ad, Julie hadn’t thought once of Ronny or his orgasm face or how miserable she was without him. In fact, she hadn’t thought of Ronny at all. “Come over,” Julie said. “I need you to help weed through these. This could be fun. We’ll see how many whackos are out there.” 

Easy Lady Requests Guy with Two Socks EDI #5

Chapter 5

It was nearly three in the morning and Eve sat at her laptop in her kitchen wrapped in her favorite pink silk robe. She’d given up on trying to get to sleep, and decided to check and see if Julie really did post that ad. She hadn’t gotten any emails or calls yet so she figured Julie probably hadn’t done it. Eve reached for her home-made cappuccino and took a deep sip. Of course, she thought, drinking four cups of cappuccino a day since she got her new coffee maker probably didn’t help in the sleep department. 

She moved the cursor over the screen and typed in the web address. She didn’t even have to search for Julie’s ad as it had been chosen as the member spotlight, and was featured on the first page of the website.

There was Julie: sweet, withdrawn Julie, for the entire world to see in a red negligee sprawled on her couch holding up a nearly-empty bottle of wine and what Eve recognized as a very drunken expression on her face. To others, Julie’s smoky eyes and slight smile might be misinterpreted as a come-hither-now stare. And it looked like there was a paperclip stuck to her forehead. Laughter rose within Eve and then she noticed the little sideways triangle underneath her post. A play button? Why was there a play button. Eve pressed the button and it became clear: Julie had posted her not a written ad, but she’d actually recorded one.

The Picture wobbled and there was a close-up of Julie’s cleavage, then she ran to her couch and jumped on it, her yellow robe flying like a superhero’s.  “Hey there,” Julie said in a voice that was pitched low, as if she were trying to sound sexy. “I’m Eaaaaaaasy Laaaaady and I want some socks. A two pair of socks. One two. Me…” she pointed at the screen. “You.”

Then Julie got off the couch and walked up to the screen, and said:

Look, I’m here you’re there and if you wanna

know the truth I’m tired of this being alone stuff

I don’t wannta be a lonely sock and it’s not like

I’m looking for marriage exactly but you know

what? I’m talented and smart and fairly attractive

and have killer knockers so why not come knockin

you write me and if not then forget you I’ve got

plenty of things to meet and people to do.

Julie flicked her hair, dropped her robe and the screen went black.

 Eve laughed again. This was good. Too, too good. This was exactly the sort of thing that made her love Julie: she had an astounding knack for complicating her life. 

Easy Does It -- 4

Chapter 4 

She laughed. She cried. She was drunk.

That night, Julie logged onto CoupleMe.com and began typing in her personal ad. She considered it again. What exactly did she want? Posting for a mate was sort of like ordering a pizza. Did she want another vegetarian, or something with a little meat?

Meat, she thought. This time I want meat.

She typed. Took a sip of wine. Thought: Mmmmm. Merlot is yummy. Took another sip of wine.

What was she supposed to say? The truth? I’m lonely. I’m in love with my ex-boyfriend. I’m totally dependable and predictable, which means…I’m boring. You could feel those things, but you couldn’t write them. She sipped her wine. 

She looked at the picture of Ronny she still kept by her computer. It was her favorite shot of him on the night they met nearly five years ago. He was playing piano for his band, The Two Wets. He stood in a spotlight, head tilted up, his face pinched. It was a familiar expression to Julie since it was the same pose he struck when he had an orgasm, except without the spotlight.  

Julie toasted the picture and gulped. Usually, she’d stop at one glass, because wine tended to make her loopy, but tonight was a special night. She was in search of loopy. She poured another glass, stuck her tongue out at Ronny, and slammed his smug orgasm-face on the table. She couldn’t look at him any more especially since she hadn’t had an orgasm-face in months. 

If she were being honest, and drinking an entire bottle of wine led her to be pretty honest, Julie admitted she felt like that miscellaneous sock at the bottom of the laundry basket, the one you keep washing in hopes that its second half would eventually show up. “Thass me,” she slurred to the computer screen. “I’m a sock. A hole filled socky-sock-sock.” 

Julie tried to pick up her cell phone and call Eve but she was having trouble seeing the buttons clearly. No need. She could post this ad on her own. She didn’t need Eve to hold her hand with everything. She would post this ad!            

She grabbed her “Semen” personal ad and began typing. Maybe she would change her ad. Cheer it up a bit, like Eve said.

She made a small change. Good. Then she thought: I’ll just erase the pottery shards and tweak it. Just tweak it a teeny, tiny bit. Tweak, tweak!

She wrote so quickly she barely knew what she was typing. Her words flew from her in a torrent. She laughed. She cried. She was drunk. She hit “submit”, and then slunk back in her chair for a very quick nap.

                                                            *

Five hours after Julie posted her ad, she awoke still sitting at her computer. There was a paperclip stuck to her forehead and a swollen mailbox brightly signifying mail. Oh my God, she muttered. She picked the paperclip off her forehead and slowly dragged the cursor over the screen. 

114 messages.

Then Julie saw what she had done. “Young Treasure Seeks Seaman on Love’s Sea” became, with the help of her computer’s thesaurus and a fourth glass of merlot: “Easy Lady Requests Guy with Two Socks.”

Worse than that, she’d posted the ad not as a written personal…but as a video.

The Would Be Hacker

I’d love to say that being in a loving and rewarding relationship with my boyfriend makes me more stable when it come to my behaviour. Well, it does to an extent, but now and then, ever so occasionally, I’ll fall off the wagon and insanity will set in once more.

They say the devil makes work for idle thumbs and that’s the only excuse I can feasibly give for why, one day, while bored at work, something strange came over me.

It all began as I innocently contemplated how well I really knew my beau. Kind of like my own Mr and Mrs Quiz:

What colour is his toothbrush? Blue.

Where was he born? Hertfordshire.

What's his favourite book? Oh Christ, I don’t know. Noddy Goes To Toytown?

But did I actually know how his mind worked? Psychologically?

What happened next was always going to be a bad idea. But like a child who can’t resist playing with fire, I carried on anyway. Foolishly, I decided to see if I knew my boyfriend well enough to guess his hotmail password.

With the benefit of hindsight, this could obviously be misconstrued as wanting to pry into my boyfriend’s private correspondence, but I genuinely saw it as bit of a sudoku-style challenge - if I guess the password, I am clearly a genius!

I tried different variations. Titles of songs he liked, my name, his mum’s name, his ex-girlfriend’s (I'm not sure what I would have done if that one had actually worked). But, alas, nothing. I was just cursing my chap's superior brain, when to my horror a message popped up announcing that the login had been suspended. Because of ‘security’ issues.

‘Shit!’ I thought. ‘I've broken his email!’

Panicked, I confessed my crime to my workmate Isabel.

‘You tit!’ she laughed, shaking her head.

Then I called my boyfriend and owned up. My admission was met with a deathly silence. ‘Why were you trying to hack into my email, Charlotte?’ he asked.

I noticed he’d used my full Christian name instead of ‘Charls’ or ‘my little mentalist’, which indicated I was in big trouble.

‘I don't knoooow, I was booooored’ I whined churlishly. 

He sighed and then uttered the following mortifying sentence: ‘I’m really disappointed in you.’ Bugger. As it happened, my futile amusement had another alarming consequence.

That day I’d been wearing a 24-hour monitor which took my blood pressure every half an hour. The doctor had insisted on it, as my BP is routinely high for my age and he wanted to see how it averaged during the day. Typically, it went off, whirling and squeezing my arm, in the middle of the attempted-hacking drama. When I inspected the reading after my grovelling phone call, my blood pressure had gone through the roof.

I could have died of a heart attack. I blame the devil.

Charlotte Ward, London

author of: 

Why Am I Always The One Before The One?' Here's the website:

www.theonebeforetheone.co.uk

Peekaboo -- Real Blunder Woman

Real Blunder Woman #1

Peekaboo

So I met this really cute guy at the roller rink and he was a little older than me. We exchanged phone numbers and I was thrilled when he actually called me.

The next day he called and we chatted for quite awhile. During the conversation he asked where I lived so I told him. Then he said he was having his friend drive him over and he'd be there in a few minutes.

What?!

I wasn't expecting that and I didn't know how to tell him I didn't want him to come over. He was older! and I was home alone.

So when he pulled into the driveway and rang my doorbell, I hid in the family room and peeked out the window through the bushes watching him until he gave up and went away.

When he got back home, he called me and wondered why I hadn't been home. Ummm.... I said I had to take a cup of sugar to a neighbor or something equally as ridiculous. I didn't have a problem with him calling or visiting again.

I don't think I've ever told anyone that story before!

Andrea Dickinson www.andreadickinson.com

Easy Does It -- 3

Chapter 3

I’ve always wanted to be a hermaphrodite. Then I could have sex with myself.

Julie unfolded the piece of paper in front of her, smoothed out the creases and passed it to Eve. They were seated in their favorite booth near the back of the bar, huddled over the table.  “I wrote it really fast. It needs work,” Julie explained.

“Seems kinda long,” Eve said as she reached for her reading glasses from her purse.

“Yeah, well, there’s no real word limit online. Glory of technology, I guess. Be honest, Eve. Should I really do this?”

“You said you wanted to do something crazy. Though, I have to admit, online dating doesn’t sound all that wild to me, although it was wild like in 1994. Now everyone does it. I was sort of thinking you were going to do something wild and drastic like a sex change or something.” 

“Yes,” Julie agreed. “I’ve always wanted to be a hermaphrodite. Then I could have sex with myself. You want some more cake?”

“Of course. So with this ad you want, what? True love?”

“No. No! I was thinking…maybe I want dating practice or something. I want to experiment with being crazy. I guess at the heart of it, maybe I just want to get over Ronny, or back at Ronny, or something, and I want to do it as quickly as possible. I can’t take any more of his postcards. I want to have postcards of my own! I thought…I don’t know. It’s stupid.” She reached for the paper and crinkled it in her palm.

“Give me that!” Eve said. “It isn’t stupid at all. What I meant was that when you said you wanted to do something spontaneous I thought you were going to go on a trip to Europe or have a radical make-over. But online dating is good. It’s a start. Give me your ad. And the cake.” She read:    

         Young Treasure Seeks Seaman on Love’s Sea

            When I was young, I collected broken pottery shards

            that had washed up on the beach. Each one, I knew,

            was from a shipwreck. In my palm, a tiny piece of

            white plate became the last dinner of a couple in love.

            A brown half of a beer stein with edges smoothed by

            sand and time became a sailor’s last drink just as the

            swell of the lake surged and took him over. These

            collected pieces of plates and bowls from the last

            moments in people’s lives proved to me that all things

            end: childhood, careers, and yes, even love. I am

            resigned to this reality. Still, I am looking to date.

            Casually. If you are interested, here I wait, at the

            bottom of the sea, for you to find me and uncover me.

Eve wound a finger in a lock of her honey hair. “Okay, Young Treasure Seeks Seaman on Love’s Sea. That’s catchy.”

Julie couldn’t tell if Eve was emotionally affected by the impact of her personal ad, or if she had something stuck in her teeth. “Is it all right?” Julie asked again. “Oh, you hate it, don’t you? I sound boring, don’t I? Oh, forget it!” Julie took a huge bite of her sandwich. Her eyes were burning with tears.

“I don’t hate it. Not at all. It’s just…a little sad.  It sort of makes it sound like your life is a shipwreck.”

“Exactly!” said Julie emphatically. “A complete and utter shipwreck.”

 “Let me read it again,” Eve said. Julie watched her intently, looking for any reaction from her, good or bad.

She read it again, coughed, set the paper aside, and quickly downed her glass of water. “Julie…Look,” Eve continued. “I love you. To pieces, and anything I can do to help get Ronny out of your system, I’ll do. But you say here Young Treasure Seeks Seaman. It sort of looks like you misspelled ‘semen’, like this is a personal ad for semen.”

Julie gasped. “Eek! No. No no no. I was trying to be poetic.”

“It is poetic, but maybe you should just say sailor instead.”

“Okay. I can do that. Anything else?”

Eve hesitated. “Can’t you cheer it up a bit?”

“Cheer it up? Why?”

“Julie, you sound like you don’t believe in love. You’re posting an ad to find love and you’re saying here, quite effectively, that you’re obsessed with things ending and dying. Do you really think that all of life is a shipwreck?”

Julie felt a rush of tears forming. She was so emotional lately, and talking about love did nothing to help her. “Not all of life, just mine.” 

“You’re smart. You’ve got talent. A wicked sense of humor, and, need I say, killer knockers. Your life is not a shipwreck. And I’m sorry to be such a hard-ass with you, but ever since Ronny took off you’ve been swimming in your own misery, and you’re better than that. Now write this down. We’re going to write you a personal ad that really works. That sings. An ad that will bring the man of your dreams to your feet.”

“Fine.” Julie said as she reached down and picked up her personal ad. She liked what she’d written. She didn’t think it was that depressing.

 Eve leaned in.  “Now take this down…”

Bud interrupted from the bar. “How about…Hot Mama Seeks Love Slave And Marriage. That would reel me in.”

Easy Does It -- 2

Chapter 2 

The only thing she knew how to cook was takeout.

            Eve opened the back screen door to Bud’s Bar and barreled through, bringing the cool, crisp smell of leaves with her. Otis Redding was blaring on the jukebox, and Buddy Henderson stood behind the bar counting bottles.

“What?” Eve called. “No applause?” She struck a pose. Bud looked up from the glasses he was cleaning, wiped his hands on his watermelon belly, and gave a slow clap clap clap. With his graying beard, round glasses, and smiling face, he looked a bit like Santa Claus…if Santa Claus wore his hair in a ponytail, greased his handlebar mustache and wore a leather jacket.

“You’re looking good, old man,” Eve said. She leaned over the bar and gave a quick peck to his beard-speckled chin.

Bud sighed. “I tell you, Eve, it’s a real struggle for a looker like me to stay single.”

“Please. You’re still single because you haven’t let anyone know you’re on the market.”

“Ah,” Bud said, shaking his head. “I’ve been on and off the market so many times, I’m just plain tired out. I’ll give it one more try, though, when you’re ready.” He winked at her. “You know who we need to get back on the market?” Bud asked.

“Where is Julie anyway?”

Bud grabbed a beer, cracked it open, and handed it to her. “Where do you think?” He nodded towards the kitchen. “Can’t you smell it?”             Eve took a deep breath. The bar (which usually smelled of stale beer and smoke) smelled warm, buttery and yummy. “Good God, she’s making bread?”

“She’s been here since last call last night…on her day off no less. And it gets worse. She’s got something in there with little pine trees and garlic.”

“Rosemary,” Eve said. “This is serious. All right if I check it out?”

“Be my guest. But be careful. She was working with chocolate earlier.”

Eve crossed behind the bar and walked through the swinging doors into the kitchen. When Bud opened the bar, he’d made an attempt at offering food, but over the years the menu had shrunk to whatever could be prepared in the deep fryer or microwave. Consequently, he only used one small corner of the kitchen. When Julie came in, he let her have the run of the rest of the place. During slow times in the bar, Julie would prepare warm meals with garlic and wine sauces for her and Bud to munch on. If someone happened to be in the bar, she’d feed them something too.

Eve’s stomach growled. The only thing she knew how to cook was takeout. She tried not to think about eating because she knew that if Julie were cooking up a storm then she was still upset over the breakup. She hoped this time Ronny was gone for good so that Julie could move on. “Julie?” Eve called. “You here, sweets?”

Eve couldn’t believe what she was seeing. The tiny kitchen was stacked with dishes of food: flourless chocolate cake, a steaming casserole of leeks and butternut squash, and a colorful salad with flowers and berries. Julie was slicing a loaf of French bread into thick chunks. “We’re having a little snack,” she said.

“More like a feast. Are you okay?”

Julie didn’t look up from the bread. She buttered one side and began layering the bread with red peppers, kalamata olives, and goat cheese. “Am I okay? No,” she said.

“Put the goat cheese down and come here.” Eve extended her arms; Julie turned around and gave her a hug.

“I hate him, Eve. I’m serious. And I can’t stop going over the whole breakup, and what he said to me. He said he wasn’t the problem, I was. I’m the problem. Can you believe it? So he’s living the life of a rocker with ‘string free romping’. Worst of all…do you know where he’s touring?” Julie didn’t wait for Eve to respond. “The Midwest! Dead-end bars. He’s left me for tight pants and Cincinnati.”

“Shhhh,” Eve said. “It’s okay. You’re going to be fine.”

“Look at this!” Julie handed Eve the most recent postcard. “Cincinnati rocks, cheers, Ronny. That’s all it says. No ‘Wish you were here’ or ‘I’m thinking of you.’ No. He just wants to rub it in that he’s off living this amazing life and I’m still stuck.”

“I’d hardly say a tour of the Midwest in dead-end bars is an amazing life.”

“Oh, it doesn’t matter! He thinks it’s amazing. He thinks it’s a great adventure. He’s having the time of his life! And look at me! I actually look forward to getting another postcard! He was right. He said I was dependable. Old! He said…” Julie pulled away from Eve, and turned to a sandwich the size of a skateboard. “I want to show Ronny that I can suck the marrow with the best of them.” She grabbed a butcher’s knife, and walloped the sandwich, splitting it cleanly in two. “Okay?”           

 “Okay,” Eve said. “But no need to get violent.”

“I’d like to get violent with Ronny and I have a pretty good idea how.” Julie slid the sandwiches onto a hot griddle, placed a pan on top of them, and turned to Eve. “I call them Poor Man Paninis,” she said and smiled sweetly.

Eve laughed to herself. No matter how sad Julie was, if she was cooking food, she could always pull herself out of it. “It sounds divine,” she said. “Let’s eat, and you can tell me what you want to do to Ronny.”

“I don’t want to do anything to Ronny ever again. What I want is to do something to myself. And I will too.” Julie grabbed two plates, loaded them with French fries and coleslaw, and turned back to the sandwiches. “We’re gonna need some energy for this.”

Eve nodded. “Then I’ll grab this bread here. And this roast. And that cake. And you grab a bottle of wine because I don’t have any hands left to grab with.”

Easy Does It -- 1

Chapter 1 

It’s not me. It’s you.

     Julie held the postcard and read it for the hundredth time. On the front was a picture of a pig with wings and a caption that said: “Cincinnati. Home of the Flying Pig Marathon.” On the back, written with a red marker were the words: Cincinnati rocks! Cheers, Ronny.

     This was the fourth postcard she’d received in the two weeks since Ronny had left her. He’d stood in the middle of her bedroom, cheerfully stuffing all of his band clothes into a couple of army duffel bags. She replayed the whole Day of Being Dumped once again, as she did every time she looked at another of his cheap postcards.

     There he stood at the foot of her bed, and there were his army green bags, and there went his clothes. His clothing resembled the costumes of hair-band rockers in the late ‘80s complete with mesh t-shirts and too-tight jeans. “Look, Jules. I’ve got to be honest here,” Ronny said in his thick English accent, thicker perhaps because he was from Detroit and not England. “It’s not me. It’s you. You’re too dependable.”

     “Dependable?” Julie asked. “That’s a bad thing?”

     “Well, yes, actually. If I’m going to be a rock star, I can’t bloody well have a girlfriend. I’ve got to keep open. Be a sex symbol. I’ve got to be more like the lead Singer of Cold Play.”

     “Chris Martin? He’s married.”

     “Yes. Okay.”

     “He and Gwyneth are really happy. And he’s actually super responsible.”

     “But he didn’t start out that way, did he? I mean, he’s a rock star. Purebred. Like me. What I need is some spontaneous string-free romping. You stay home and watch the Food Network and Star Trek. It’s like you’re sleep walking through life or something. I want to tear life apart and suck the marrow from it, you know? And I would too if I weren’t a vegetarian.”

     Julie couldn’t believe this was happening. She’d been dumped before, too many times to count, but they always tried to spare her feelings. True to form, Ronny spared nothing. “I mean, what’s the last really crazy thing you’ve done? Besides take up with the likes of me?” Ronny paused here and Julie realized he was waiting for an answer. She tried to think but she couldn’t come up with anything. Three years ago she’d taken Ronny home with her after his set. It was, truly, the last, first and only spontaneous thing she’d ever done.

     “Look,” he continued as he rifled through the closet and pulled out his studded leather jacket and slipped it on. “It’s a terrific opportunity. We’re touring all of the Midwest including Cincinnati. Can you believe it? Cincinnati! We’ve even got groupies following us.”

     “Meg and Marla?” Julie asked. She hadn’t meant to say anything, she was too numb for that, but the words sort of slipped from her mouth.

     “Yes. Meg and Marla.”

     “They’re not really groupies,” Julie said softly. “They’re your band members’ wives. And they’re in their fifties.”       

     “What bloody difference does it make?” Ronny’s voice was high-pitched and tight. “I’m leaving, Jules, and that’s all there is to it. Maybe when I’m back, if I’m back, we can try again.”

     “You mean after you get rich and famous?”

     “Yeah. Exactly.”

      Ronny stepped up to her, pulled her in close to him, and kissed her; because she didn’t know what else to do, she kissed him back. “Later, Jules,” he said, and then left.

      Now, just two weeks later, Julie’s apartment was empty of all traces of him, except for her four postcards from the Midwest with notes like “I’m living the vida loca” and “Flint is wilder than I ever dreamed.” And what was she doing? Flipping through her pictures of him, eating cold Indian takeout, and crying. She’d really thought Ronny was The One, or at least tried to convince herself of it. And just when she’d thought she’d gotten over him, she’d get another stupid postcard in the mail reminding her that he was on the road, and she was still stuck in Grand Rapids, Michigan.

     She blew her nose into a tissue and tossed it on top of the pile at the foot of her bed. “It’s not me,” he’d said. “It’s you.” End of story.

     Or was it?

     Julie grabbed her cell phone and speed dialed her best friend, Eve. Dependable, huh? Living her life as if she were asleep? Julie Mills was about to change that.

A Thank You to Blunder Woman Readers

Blunder Woman Readers, 

You've stuck with Chloe through a horrible Kentucky Derby party, her attempt at running a half-marathon, girl fights, a fundraiser under the stars, and numerous digressions. And I can't thank you enough. A special thanks to all the people who sent me comments, encouraging me to go on. Here are their names, in no particular order. If they give me permission, I'll write their full names:

Molly Kelly, Denise, Beth, Katy, Renee, Kelly, Diana, Tessa, Bronwyn, Rodger, Brynn, Connie (My Aunt), Pat, Sheila, Missy, Sharon, Jason, Curlista, Randy, Lili, Vicki, Caitlin Eby (my friend and niece), Joe, Anne Bancroft (My mom), Tracey, Brendan. And to Cory Young...the best Turtle Racer on the Planet. 

And to TM Camp who created the site and without whom, I'd never have been able to post anything.

Blunder Woman might be done, but there are other things in the works, including publication of "Easy Does It" my first book. But that's another story. Literally.

Thanks for reading,

Tanya

Blunder Woman -- 78.5

78.5

Digression #23 Conversation With Matt

AKA Fodder for Therapy

            It’s at this point that I have to take a little digression, not exactly a U-turn or what have you, but a little pause while we go down this misadventure road to tell you about a conversation I had with Matt. I’m doing this, yes, in self-defense because when you analyze what he said to me, how he talked to me, maybe then you can understand why I went out of my head. And when I look back on it, it seems ludicrous that there was no physical intimacy happening. And I mean none. No more lip smacking, hand holding, or naked pubis areas touching. No dry humping either, the kind that I made Ken and Barbie do when I was a girl. We were just friends, with hinted at benefits. With Matt, it was always hinted at. In my defense, I offer this conversation taken word for word (which means pieced together from my splotchy memory) that happened a few days after my meeting with Lisa when everything was still in the planning session.

            I went over to his house, which had returned to its former bachelor appearance, where Matt had a dinner all ready for us, sitting on a table with two candles lit. The curry was still in the takeout containers, but I found this profoundly romantic and not a symbol that he wasn’t taking me serious.

            After curry and chit chat, here’s the meat of our conversation that night that we had while I snuggled in his arms between the commercial breaks of The Daily Show and The Colbert Report:

            Matt: This feels good.

            Me: What?

            Matt: You. Here with me.

            Me: Mmmm.

            Matt: And there’s something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about.

            Me: Yeah?

            Matt: No, don’t look at me. Just look forward. I just want to talk a bit okay? I just want to ask you some hypothetical questions.

            Me: Er, okay.

(I have to say at this point I was in deep danger of throwing up our curry dinner because my nerves were going absolutely bonkers.)

            Matt: Let’s say you were really good friends with someone and you’d never, say, crossed a line with them physically.

            Me: Yeah?

            Matt: Do you think if you crossed that line that you could still be friends with them?

            (WTF? In Matt-speak I figured out he was asking me if we slept together would it change our relationship. No. It would not. Fuck me now!! Ahem. Sorry for the outburst. I very gently and slowly said the following: )

            Me: If you are very good friends, true friends, real friends, then maybe crossing the line will actually, uhm, enhance your relationship. Maybe you will find something even more wonderful than friendship.

            (Subtext here: Maybe you will find love.)

            (Matt turned my face to look at him then, and then kissed my forehead. It was a wildly chaste gesture.)

            Matt: You’re the coolest girl I know, you know that?

            Me: Yes.

            Then we continued to snuggle until I fell asleep in his arms. An hour later after he’d shaken me asleep, I was in The Beast on the way home dreaming of the time when we’d finally, at long last cross that line. Surely he meant soon. Right?

Notes on Blunder Woman So Far

It's Friday and I've finished another week of daily posts to Blunder Woman. I'm pleased to hear that a few of you are sticking with Chloe, waiting to find out what will happen next. 

If you've read this far (through 44) then you are at the end of Part Two. On Monday, I'll begin Part Three, the final leg of Chloe's journey. I'm a little ahead of the posts in terms of writing but I know a couple of things: Chloe isn't finished yet with Matt, and she's about to take on a big challenge which ends in a night of motorcyclists, high wire walking, and a very strange public display.  She's also going to meet a couple of new 'friends'. We'll see what you think.

Thank you for reading, and for your encouragement. Whether you realize it or not, just having a group of readers has helped me so much. I'm going to finish this book and then begin the long quest for an agent. Or maybe I'll just publish this and my first book "Easy Does It" on my own.

Thoughts or suggestions? Always happy to hear from you. Let me know what you think. (And if you don't want your comments posted on the website, let me know that too. I can keep a secret.)

See you Monday with the beginning of Part Three and Chloe's final (mis)adventure.

-Tanya-

PS Like what you're reading? Please tell a friend. I don't make money on this, but I am trying to build a readership for this book & whatever comes next.

A Recipe for Flaming Turtles

If you're reading Blunder Woman, you may have wondered, wow, what exactly is Hippie Hash? Or what's arecipe for a Flaming Turtle?

The answer? No one knows. They're both products of Tanya's twisted Fantasy World. But that doesn't mean they can't become reality. 

To make her fantasy a reality, Tanya contacted her friend EZ (aka RBJ aka Russell Belvadere Johosafat Parsimion III) to see if he could actually create a real, live flaming turtle...that is a drink and not an actual reptile set aflame. Here is his delicious response:

"My thought on a 'turtle' is that it is a slow drink. Something warm on a winter's night. I sugar the rim of a brandy snifter (cinnamon and sugar works better) and then add a half shot of Contriuea. Contreau? Cointrieau? The French orange liquor. Contreau is flamable where Grand Marnier is not....

Light the liquor, swirl the flame over the sugar cinnamon until it carmelizes on the rim... then you can add Godiva for the chocolate....

As for mixers.... Hot chocolate, coffee, or half and half ought to work nicely. The coffee version with whipped cream is actually one of my specialties.

I don't know if you can float Cointrteaiu or not, thus allowing you to serve it "flaming"... But flaming the rim works about as well...

Or you can float brandy and flame it as you present.

The hint of orange with the chocolate would be sensational."

Blunder Woman-- 2

2

A Brief (but not brief enough) History About Matt

            I met Matt at a group training camp, you know those places that companies take their awkward employees to, employees who don’t get along and work better on their own. So the Company makes everyone go to a weekend long ‘retreat’ which is really a weekend long house arrest without the little ankle bracelets.

            I’ve done these things before.

            You have the group leader and you’re locked in a room with your ‘teammates’ (or office workers who usually you have nothing to say to), and then the group leader leads you in an exercise of trust…usually something like falling backwards from a high perch and hoping to God your coworkers catch you. It’s supposed to teach you about trust and the importance of working as a team, but I don’t think it translates at all. During one of these exercises, I actually spend most of the time obsessing about how much I don’t trust my coworkers and how very little I want to fall into their arms. But I digress. Again.

            I didn’t want to go to the stupid Employee Esteem Training but I had to. I’d just been hired part-time at the musical society to write grants and organize fundraisers and I had to show that I was part of the team, a real go-getter, a team player. (More on this musical society later. Work is important, but right now I’m talking about the love of my life: Matt M. Or as I like to think of him “Mmmmmm”.) So the team building thing was mandatory. No go, no job, end of story. So I was very pleased to walk into the Wedgwood Center (aka The Happy Place) and see a very handsome and very male individual standing in the center of the room, arms open and smiling. Sex appeal came off of him in waves, the way the scent of Axe deodorant pours off high school boys.

            I can tell you what he looks like, but it doesn’t do him justice. Descriptions never do, you just end up envisioning a freakish monster with whatever hair and eye color I’ve described and try to think it’s sexy. So instead of saying he was tall and had dirty blonde hair and a wide smile (words that don’t really describe him at all). I’ll say instead that he was a mixture of Jason Batemen of Arrested Development quirkiness, with a Harrison Ford grin, and a body (I imagine) just like an oiled-up man posing in Glamour’s Hot Guy of the Month. This was Matt: sensitive, sexy, warm, sexy, opening, funny, sexy, tall, ripped, sexy, and a smile that made me feel like he was looking just at me, even if he was looking at everyone the same way. And he was sexy. Did I say that? Like the kind of guy that should reproduce because, duh, that’s what we’re designed for, right?

            I should have known I was in trouble right there. A man you’re attracted to somehow makes your brain stop working. It’s some kind of alien power I’m sure of it. Attraction = instant stupidity.

            And when he opened his arms and welcomed us, I was ready to do any stupid trust exercise he asked, including the high wire walk between trees, which I did, all the while screaming “I hate this! I can’t do this! Let me down!!!” But I looked down at Matt, and there he was, my rock, my force, and the new obsession of my life.

            Two days later, I called him at his work. I called at 6:30 on a Sunday, certain he wouldn’t be there, and he wasn’t, thank the Gods, so I left a truly awkward message:

                        Hi! Matt! This is Chloe!

My voice was so tight and peppy it sounded like I was on helium.

                        "Oh. Chloe from that group you just had, you know, Mozart fundraiser go-go-go! I was the one with the curly shortish reddish hair, the one who talked a lot, the one who screamed 'FOR GODDSAKES GET ME OUT OF THIS TREE!!!'

                        Yeah. So I was wondering if you’d like to go out for coffee  with me? Scratch that. I don’t drink coffee, but maybe you do. You could get coffee and I could get something else. Tea  maybe. Probably hot chocolate. Or maybe just water. And a scone. I like scones. Do you like scones? Yeah. So. I’d like to  meet you. For an uncoffee. Okey-dokey? Okay."

            Not only had I actually said ‘Okey-dokey’, I also hung up without leaving my number. I had to call back and leave another message which I knew he’d get before the previous message so I basically had to repeat the entire thing. It was terrible.

            He called me Monday morning.

            We had uncoffee on Tuesday. Followed by unlunch (I was too nervous to eat) and an unwalk (we sat on a park bench and talked). I thought “I’ve found him. He’s the One,” and leaned in to kiss him. He answered a call on his phone. It was his mom. At the end of our ‘date’ he hugged me to him, told me he loved spending time with me, that I was unlike anyone he’d ever met.

            I’d been in love with him ever since.

            I’ve loved him for two years. Two years of incredible conversations and ‘undates’. Of having dinner together, and movies, and celebrating each other’s birthday parties. Two years of meeting him for uncoffees and having unsex (meaning elaborate sex fantasies only in my mind), of being at his beck and call. Two years of celebrating holidays not on the holiday, but near it.  Of talking about our daily lives on the phone or while curled up watching a movie. And when I stop to think about it: two years of never meeting his friends, never meeting his family, and never, not ever, meeting his penis.

            I loved him for two years. Two! I probably love him still. And I hate his guts for that. Really. I do.

Blunder Woman--1

1

Me, Chloe Knaggs,

Currently with Megan

(And ‘with’ I mean sitting and eating with

Not ‘with’ as in sexually.)

            Megan and I were at our favorite restaurant, Bud and Julie’s Bistro aka the BJ Joint (although no one really called it that), having our morning staples: veggie hash for Megan, and bacon, eggs and toast for me. This had become our tradition. After a night out of a few too many cocktails, we’d recover in the morning together, nurse our hangovers, and analyze everything about our lives to death. And since we’d become like religious zealots hanging out there, we sometimes pitched in during the busy times to help out and make extra cash. Much needed extra cash. I’d wait tables, mixing up orders terribly, and Megan would help at the bar or in the kitchen where heavenly scents wafted from, making you pray to Jesus for a little lunch. It was a good arrangement, for all of us.

            Bud and Julie’s was the perfect spot, just down the block from my apartment in Heritage Hill and with food so good you’d swear the toe-curling was because of an orgasm and not just a really good scone. Speaking of which, I took a bite of an amazing cinnamon currant scone, curled my toes and said: “I’m going to give up sex.”

            Megan choked on her coffee. “Give it up! For what?”

            “I don’t know. I’m giving it up for Lent Lent.”

            “Lent is in April, Chloe.”              “So?”              “It’s May.”

            “Well, I can still give it up for Lent if I want to.” I was mumbling a bit, depressed by the teeny tiny scone crumbs on my plate. Maybe I could order another one. Surely one more wouldn’t do much damage. “I’m giving up sex for my very own personal Lent. Lent for the terminally late. I can do this because I’m not Catholic. I’m hardly even Christian. If they were handing out pins, like ‘I’m a Christian’ pins, I’d seriously have to think about putting one on. No, I’m just going to give it up.” I took a sip of my coffee and waited for Megan to think it over. When you talk to Megan, you get a lot of awkward pauses as she cogitates. I think that comes from her job in a bankruptcy law firm. She says she has to be awfully careful that she says the right thing or she can seriously send someone into counseling.              “You’re going to give up sex for what?” She said at last, and the added: “Forever?”

             “No. Not forever.” That sounded like a major commitment, forever. I didn’t think I was ready for anything so serious. FOREVER. “Geez. Not forever. I mean, God, I hope not. No. I’m just going to give it up for…” I paused here. I hadn’t really thought about putting a number on it. “A year.”             “A year? An entire year?” Megan said loudly. Then she looked around to see if anyone was paying attention to us. No one was. They were too busy stuffing their faces and having mini-food-orgasms. “Do you know what that means?”

            “It means 365 days of no sex.”

            “No. No!” Megan pushed her plate away from her in disgust. It wasn’t the food she was disgusted with, she’d actually licked her plate clean, it was the idea of a life of no sex.  “It means spending Christmas, New Years, and Valentine’s Day alone or sober, or possibly both.”             I hadn’t considered that. Nothing was worse than a holiday by yourself, sexless, watching Comedy Central and laughing out loud. I’ve been there. It’s a sad sad sad world. “Well, you haven’t had sex since you broke up with Eri…” Megan sent eye daggers across the table to me. I wasn’t supposed to say his name. Eric. A perfectly nice name, but a name that could make Megan curl up like a frozen shrimp. “You haven’t had sex in over a year and you’re doing just fine,” I said. Megan harrumphed, and gave me a gesture that somehow said, “You really believe I’m fine?” I continued. “You know, I could have a boyfriend. I wouldn’t have to be alone. I’m not opposed to a boyfriend. I could have a boyfriend and just not have sex with him.”

            “You already have a boyfriend that you don’t have sex with. Matt. And how long have you been in love with him?”

            I didn’t answer that one.

            “No,” Megan said gently. “I think you’re doing the opposite of what you should do. For you, I do not recommend a sexless year. For you, I recommend...tossing Matt over, finding someone new, and having sex every single day for a year until Matt is out of your heart.”

            “Oh. It’s that easy, huh? I should just toss the love of my life, my destiny over, and date some hapless guy. I should just date and fall in love with…” I looked around the restaurant and pointed at the guy by the window. “Him.” He was reading a book and bobbing his head to his iPod. At least I hoped it was his iPod and that he didn’t have something wrong with him.

            “You’d date him and not have sex with him for an entire year?”

            “Why not?” I asked. “I’m tired of sex. Sure it was fun for a while, but now it’s all in and out in and out and the whole thing is boring. Plus, I think I’m a little messed up with it emotionally. Maybe I just need some time to figure myself out without letting my hormones whack up my thinking.”

            “Oh, I get it,” Megan said nodding. “You want to give up sex for a year because Matt isn’t head over heels for you yet. I mean he’s never even kissed you and you’ve been seeing each other for over a year”             “Almost two.”

            “A year and a half. You’re way past the third date mark with him, slipped into Sorryville. So now, a year and a half later…”

            “It’s closer to two!”

            “Whatever. You say you’re officially giving up sex, then there’s no more pressure for Matt to have sex with you and you can keep going out and fantasizing about him and you don’t have to be depressed anymore that you’re not sleeping with him because now it’s your choice, and not his.” She reached across the table, took a piece of scone from the center plate, the scone that I had mentally claimed as rightfully mine, and then popped my scone into her mouth! The demon. I was so breathless over what she’d just said I didn’t even move.

            “I did not want to play Therapist with you,” I managed. Her insight hit just a little to close to Reality, and I was not into discussing Reality in the morning. Over breakfast. With a hangover.

            “I wasn’t playing Therapist,” Megan said and then reached for the other piece of MY scone. I grabbed it before she could get to it and smiled smugly. She looked at me and blinked. “I’m not playing with you. I was telling you the truth,” she continued. “We only play Therapist when your mom is with us.”

            “Well, anyway, you can just stop. And by stop I mean shut up,” I said softly, my heart beating so hard in my chest I thought it was going to erupt Alien-style. “That’s not it at all. I’m not going to have sex for a year not because of Matt. I don’t care that he doesn’t seem to notice me even though I’ve been in love with him forever. I don’t care that we’re not sleeping together because our relationship is better than that, stronger. I’m not giving up sex because I haven’t dated anyone besides Matt in forever and I’m thirty-two and I hate him and I can’t seem to get a date and I’m a complete and utter loser and my boobs are starting to droop. No. I’m not going to have sex for a year because this is about empowerment, Megan, this is about choice. This is about sticking it to the Man, without the, uhm, Sticking, the It, or The Man.” I angrily shoved the rest of the scone in my mouth in a So There type of way. And then I choked a little bit. It was a really big piece. Like, really enormous.

            Megan took one look at me, reached in her purse, and handed me a tissue for the tears that were threatening to fall if I couldn’t get it together. I swallowed the scone without tasting it, and used the tissue.

            Who was I kidding?

            My decision to go without sex was all about Matt. It’s always been about Matt.