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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And I am perfectly okay with that.

A Soft Sort of Sadness

There’s a phrase that I’ve used over and over in my writing, probably ad nauseum, and it’s “a soft sort of sadness”. I like the sibilance of it (especially when I say it out loud. I’m a bit of a lisper with S.) The phrase to me sounds like the feeling, as if sadness is that type of snow that falls in heavy flakes and in pure silence. It’s a sadness that is not all consuming, but comforting somehow, in an artistic-I’m-alone sort of way.

I feel this soft sort of sadness today and most days when I think, really think, about dating. And it isn’t dating necessarily that I mean. I mean when I think about the kind of relationship I want…and that soft sort of sadness? It’s a longing. An ache. An awareness that I do not have the love in my life that I so richly want…and I feel…I deserve.

What I want is simple. I want someone to look at me and love me for who I am. I want them to light up when they see me. I want conversations, and silence, and passion, and above all, I want trust. I want love in the little things. I want to make him breakfast sometimes. I want him to play with my hair, especially when I’m stressed. I want text messages just because he’s thinking about me. And I want those kisses, those kind of kisses that start small and end with an ache so palpable you feel it in the entirety of your body. I want real, honest, true 100% love.

I don’t think I’ve ever had it.

I think I’ve felt it, once. Nearly felt it twice. I think someone has felt it for me. But it’s never been at the same time. And I seem to attract men in my life who feel all these things, but they feel them for someone else, and ultimately, I become someone they can talk to, share with, but it never progresses beyond that.

I had a conversation with someone on the phone last night, someone I would very much like to know, but I’m afraid it’s another soft sort of sadness. One should not read Pablo Neruda poems alone or they will quote things like “Tonight I can write the saddest lines” or “Another’s. He will be another’s.” See? I’m quoting right now.

I don’t have a great epiphany right now except to say that I am finally buying a house (this will connect. Just go with me on this). My whole life, I have drifted from place to place, experience to experience, and what I’ve secretly yearned for was a home. I will have that physical place soon, that place that is undeniably mine. I guess I’m looking for another home too, and forgive me in being corny, but it’s the kind of home you find with another person. That kind of comfort where you feel loved and honored, and you can sit on the couch together, nestled next to each other, so comfortable you don’t really know where one stops and the other begins. That kind of home where you just feel that anything that happens in your life, you will be okay because there is someone there with you, watching out for you.

Yep. That’s what I want. I think it’s pretty simple, and at the same time, it seems to me to be absolutely impossible.

That sadness? Still here. Soft and cool…but maybe like the snow, it’s not permanent.

Where I Imagine Dating with Prompter Cards

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

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

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

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

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

IMAGINED SCENE:

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

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

“You are a clever girl.”

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

Hank winks.

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

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

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

“Why yes…”

“Because I’ve got TWO!”

“Oh…”

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

Hank raises his finger. “Waiter! Check!”

(Thank you Shawna for the great questions.)

END SCENE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What I Need is a Pamphlet

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Secret Land Of Testosterone

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

True Story -- Dating Tangent #2,763

You all know that I'm dipping my toe into the dating waters again, and some of those experiences will reappear as fiction to protect those involved. Before I decided to start dating again, I kept thinking about A) How could I date with a broken foot? Shouldn't I just wait? Isn't it a little pathetic to meet someone while I was on crutches and cast-ed? And then that thought was immediately supported by B) A little personal ad I read 10 years ago while living in New York. And it scarred me forever.

I picked up, oh, I forget the name of it, you know, that magazine that is all about NY...and has fabulously descriptive personal ads with pictures advertising "escorts"...just in case you're so lonely you need to pay someone to hang out with you. I was idly flipping through the magazine, stopped on the Men Searching Women, looked over my shoulder to make sure no one was watching, and then began to read voraciously. Can one read voraciously? Yes. One can. Especially if she's in her mid-twenties, in Manhattan,and the holidays are looming.

I came across a personal ad that totally seemed like it was meant for me. Like, here He is. The man I'm going to love and marry and make babies with.

Here’s the ad from memory:

I am an intelligent man looking for an intelligent woman to share my life with. I’m a professor of English and enjoy fine wine and restaurants. I’m attractive, professional, and well-adjusted. I’m looking for the One.

I stopped reading. I looked up to the heavens and thought, wow. Wow. He is something. But there was still one line left to read. So I read:

Also, I wear a diaper because of some issues. I’m hoping the woman I’ll fall in love with will also wear a diaper.

What? WHAT? Seriously? No! No! (Read the next ‘no’ like Charleton Heston when he discovers the truth about Planet of the Apes) NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

Ahem.

Flash forward a decade later. Past 9/11 in New York, past getting married to a nice enough guy, past 2 kids, past moving out, past divorce, slow down to broken foot.

Then I thought, okay, so am I the new Diaper Guy? Do I show up on a date as a cripple? Isn’t that a little sad?

Then I thought, fuck it. Poor Diaper Guy, he’s in a diaper for life (and maybe he’s found a Diaper Wife) but this walking cast? This bastard comes off in three more weeks. And then I’m wearing a miniskirt.

Rah.

A Short Story--What I Want to Know about my Mother

This is a story that was published a year or so ago in "Kalliope" a journal for and by women. I think they're defunct now. At any rate, this is one of my favorites. I'd entirely forgotten about it until a  friend of mine was digging on the site and re-earthed it. I like the poetic feel. Most of my stuff lately is comedic, but sometimes, I like the lyrical quality of words. I wanted, here, to write a story about understanding, and loss, and longing...and this is the result. Hope you enjoy it.

Tanya

What I Want To Know About My Mother

I was conceived in the parking lot of Zaagman’s funeral home, because as my mom says, love, grief, what’s the difference? They both break your heart.

This isn’t something my mom tells me today, when I find her in Little Bo’s Bar, but a sort of mantra I’ve heard throughout my life. This was her response to everything, from when I broke up with a boyfriend, to when I broke my arm.  Love. Grief. Love. Grief.

She’s probably repeating those words in her mind even now when she nods to the waitress and another cold beer materializes in front of her. It’s the nonalcoholic kind, but you’d never guess that by looking at her. She stubs out her cigarette, her one remaining vice she says, grabs a stick of gum from her front pocket and unwraps. My mother is a mixture of mint and smoke and coffee and something strangely sweet like frosting.

“What’s your obsession here with conception, kiddo? What’s it matter how you start?” She swigs the beer. Her lips are the color of white asparagus. Her hair is two toned—a foot of watermelon red with an inch of white roots.

I shrug my shoulders and stop looking at her. “College?” I offer as if this explains it. She picks at a cuticle. She doesn’t ask why I’ve come here, or acknowledge that we haven’t spoken in two years. She just cocks her head and I see her mouthing something weird, until I figure out it’s the lyrics to the music playing dimly in the background. Then I can’t take it anymore. I have so many things to ask her. Most of the questions begin with ‘why’. Why hasn’t she loved anyone since my dad? Why doesn’t she return my phone calls? Why won’t she come and see me in my new house, with Mike, with our dog, Annabelle? I can’t ask these things though and so I say, “What I want to know, Mom, is just something about you. Just…anything.” It’s like pulling a plum out of my throat.

She picks something from her teeth, studies it and then looks at me. She answers quickly, as if she’d been just about to tell me this spontaneously on her own. “Your dad had the sexiest knees.” She laughs, a short laugh, but deep, and something rattles in her chest. It’s another sign she’s dying. No doubt she’d say I need to get over myself and stop obsessing. “That was just like your dad,” she continues, smiling to herself. “Taking something funky like knees and turning them into something else entirely.”

I try to smile, but it just a thin line across my face. I’ve asked her one simple thing, to hear something about her, to know something concrete, and what does she do? She tells me about my dad. Over the years I figured out that the man she’s talking about, the one she calls my dad, was lying in a closed coffin the night I was conceived. The guy in the parking lot, the one who really gave me his DNA, was just his stand-in. She doesn’t talk about this either. The things she doesn’t talk about, the silence between us (as they say) could fill books. I can’t even fill a story with what I know is true about her.

Mom reaches for the bowl of nuts. “Want some?” she asks, and because I don’t know what else to do, I take one. Just one.

* * *

I know my mom is not dying from lung cancer or late nights; she’s doing the slow disappearance of the broken hearted. It’s taken her over thirty years to reach this point and I figure any day now she’ll be as good as invisible. I can guess that she hasn’t had a lover since 1994, and my mom is the type of person that needs loving. She wilts without attention. She’s wilting right now, right in front of me.

“You want to know Some Thing?” she asks and leans forward. She pronounces it just like that too: Some. Thing. And I nod.

Already my mind has spun on without her and this next part happens in no-time, meaning it happens not at all and only in my head: I say “Yes. Anything. Tell me just Any Thing.”

“I was a single mom, and I loved you.” This part I already know. The next part I’m surprised by. She continues: “That’s what you’re really looking for, isn’t it? Not something about me, but something about you. So there you go, there it is. You’re all right kiddo. Go on and be happy. You had a mom and she loved you and you still have a mom and maybe you’re not friends but you can’t have everything, can you?”

But that isn’t what I want to know at all, not at all. I want something true. And because this isn’t real, because in my head she tells me everything, all the details that will somehow fix me, she says, “Something concrete then. In 1976, you were three, and I worked at the co-op down the street from the Stone Shop, you remember, the place you’d go where the man, Arnold, would polish the Petoskey stones you found on the beach. He’d come over to the co-op, I’d put you in your crib, turn the closed sign and we’d go at it, in the back, standing between a tub of natural peanut butter and a garbage bag of carob chips. I never even liked that man, but he made me a nice necklace so I figured, oh, why not?”

In my mind, this is what my mother says, but today, in Little Bo’s Bar, when I grab a nut to eat, she tells me something different.

“I used to love zucchini. You can do a million things with it. Shred it, add some flour, it becomes a crust for pizza. Pour in a vat of sugar and you’ve got zucchini bread. Dip it in parmesan and fry it and you’ve got heaven. After your dad died,” she lifts her hands and opens them and it’s as if I can see a small, dark ghost the size of an apple floating away from her. “I haven’t touched the stuff. Makes me gag.”

I nod. I nod because this is what I want to know about my mother. I want to know that my mom loved zucchini once upon a time. I want to know who my mom was before Zaagman’s funeral home, and I want to know about my dad who was not-my-dad, and who was she before she decided that there was no difference between love and grief. It is my idea that there really is a difference between love and grief, there’s got to be, and it’s something fundamental, but I can’t tell her what that difference is. Love is a good thing, isn’t it? Love feels good. Right now, looking at her, not looking at her, I love her so much it’s painful. So much it hurts. She doesn’t seem to love me back. Instead of saying anything I just nod.

“You doing okay?” She works on her broken cuticle again.

I could tell her a million of my own things now. In my mind we’ve already had this talk a seventeen times. I could say; “Mike runs marathons and I’ve started running too, early in the morning, just him and me and our dog around the lake. It’s so quiet that the only sound is our feet hitting the pavement at the same time, to the same beat, and our breathing, perfectly the same.”

I could tell her what I really want her to know about me: Mike and I are talking of our future, of having a family, we’ve secretly already been trying to for a year, but nothing’s happened. Not yet, but I’m sure soon. It’s got to be soon, doesn’t it, because right now the only thing growing in me is a sort of ache, an emptiness that not even my love for Mike can seem to fill. I could laugh here. I could shrug my shoulders and say, hey, it’s no Zaagman’s funeral home parking lot, but maybe soon I’ll have my own conception story to tell. I could tell her I miss her and that maybe we’re not friends, but we’re something. Mother, daughter, that’s got to mean something doesn’t it. I say: “I’m doing fine.”

“Well, then, that’s good. Isn’t it. Doing okay. Doing fine. That should be enough.”

We sit. She finishes her beer. Reaches into her pants pocket, pulls out a five dollar bill, and leaves it on the table without saying goodbye.

* * *

I go back on my own.

Ten years, twenty, past the shoulder pads and hair teased into a tidal wave she wore in 1984, past the loom she warped in 1973 and never got around to weaving, past her blue party dress in 1961, the shiny one, the one she lost her virginity in. I pass my mother crying in the elementary school playground because her best friend told her she hated her, past her skinned knees and a broken tooth of her first really good fall on wobbly legs. I slink up the steps of the Ohio farmhouse to the place of mystery, where my mom’s mom rocks back and forth on the old iron bed thinking maybe this time she’d get pregnant, it is bound to happen soon. That’s the point where my mom starts. She starts with a wish that is both hope and fear, love and grief, whatever you call it. She starts with a yearning. An ache. This is the one thing I share with her. It’s the only thing I know for sure.

Thoughts on Gender Leadership Class

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

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

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

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

Tangent there.

Back to the class.

Is there a War of the Sexes?

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

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

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

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

Adventures with my Sister: The Juice Ball

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then we listened to them talk.

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

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

“He should’ve come,” Silver echoed.

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

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

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

“It’s okay. You’re on crutches.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Adventures with my Sister: Online Dating

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

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

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

And waiting.

And waiting.

Feckers.

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

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

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

“Okay,” I said.

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

“Why? He’s nice.”

“No.”

“He’s really smart.”

“No.”

“Why?”

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No? It bothers me a little.”

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

“He’s already contacted me.”

“Well, let’s read it!!”

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

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

The Conclusion to Easy Does It (podcast)

Here it is. The final installment of "Easy Does It". If you've listened to the whole book, thank you. Let me know what you think. I did this all for free for people to enjoy...simply because I want to share my work. If you do like it and enjoyed listening, please pass this website and my work on to a friend. The whole book is available through iTunes as podcasts. So. All I ask is for comments and/or tell a friend. I'll keep writing. Hopefully, you'll keep reading and listening. Thanks. Really. Thanks for listening.

Best,

Tanya

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The Conclusion to Easy Does It

Podcast EDI 68 & 69

Almost there! The second-to-last episode of "Easy Does It".

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Easy Does It CH 68 and 69

Make a Wish for 2010

It’s almost 2010 and I don’t know about you, but try as I might not to analyze my life away on the New Year, it’s an awfully hard temptation to resist. I seem to do this over-analysis three times a year: over the holidays, on my birthday, and for some reason at the beginning of September. September (because of the start of school) always feels like a new start.

I don’t want to write about how the holidays were for me, and if you’ve been reading my blog, you know that 2009 was both a horrible and wonderful year. A year of horriwonderfull. And the holidays this year? Well, let’s just say they were painful. But I’m still standing, or hobbling if you will. And even though there have been certain very dark moments where I’ve wondered what the point is of me, why am I here, what am I doing, I still think that maybe this is just a dark time in what is, essentially, a rich and textured life.

So. While everyone is making resolutions for 2010, I’m making wishes. They're selfish wishes, and I think there are times when that's okay. There are things I want to happen that, honestly, I don’t have any control over, but I want to scatter the wishes like so many dandelion seeds, and maybe something will take root somewhere. Here are my wishes. Both serious and ridiculous.

TANYA’S WISHES FOR 2010

To meet the love of my life (if you’re going to wish, make it big, yes?)

To get a full-time teaching position

That I could meet a Clark Kent look-a-like and that he’d wink at me

That “Blunder Woman” will be successful

That “Pepper Wellington and The Case of the Missing Sausage” will be even more successful

I wish that an opportunity sprouts up for me to go to England and/or Italy. Maybe for writing, or romance, or a crazy girl adventure

That Louis and Simone will continue to grow into strange, quirky, smart, loving, beautiful people and that no matter where they are, they know that I love them deeper than the oceans and higher than a mountain, and with the mighty roar of Bigfoot.

I also wish that chocolate had no calories and that I could eat as much of it as I want. Just for 2010.

I wish that I can host a party to celebrate my books…in which I’ll have lots of friends over and laughter and plenty of wine and mojitos and so much crazy food that people will take pictures of it. (This may happen. Look for invites in the summer.)

And finally, I wish that when this cast is off, when I’m free and mobile again, I wish that one day when the sun is shining, I will lace up my shoes and run and run and run. I will run with joy and hope, looking ever forward. One day. In 2010.

Those are my wishes. What are yours?

Easy Does It Podcast 66 and 67

Only three more episodes of "Easy Does It" and then it's done!! Wow. A whole novel through podcast. Listening? Like it? Let me know.

And now...click below for the latest installment:

Easy Does It CH 66 and 67

Easy Does It Podcast 63-65

This episode of "Easy Does It" features the worst series of emails EVER and an awkward proposal.

Easy Does It CH 63 through 65

1st 10 Pages of Pepper Wellington...

And now...I present...the first ten pages of my novel-in-progress called "Pepper Wellington: The Case of The Missing Sausage". I actually finished a very rough draft of it and will now commence tweaking. Tweak tweak! Let me know if you like this. And if you hate it, well, keep that to yourself. I am a tender flower people and very emotional. Happy Holidays. Happy reading!

EXCERPT FROM

Pepper Wellington

and the Case of the Missing Sausage

by Tanya Eby

Author’s Note:

No people were actually murdered in the writing of this book, although there were plenty of times when the author would have killed for a good piece of chocolate.

Prologue

At first she looked like a mountainous mound of meringue, and perhaps someone might have taken a spoon to her if it weren’t for two things: 1) Why would a mountain of meringue lay in the middle of the lodge’s ballroom and 2) What, exactly, was the pool of red next to it? The pool (in the shape of a Jurassic-size squashed bug) certainly didn’t look like raspberry sauce. It looked more like (and was) blood.

Pepper Wellington pointed her purple shoe and fluffed the meringue. “There’s a woman in there somewhere, I’m sure of it,” she said to her daughter.

Her daughter, though 29 and counting, immediately began to cry.

“Oh, she’s dead all right,” continued Pepper. “Really, really dead. That’s a sad thing, isn’t it?”

“And not only that,” her daughter sniffled. “She’s wearing my dress.”

“That’s your wedding dress?” Pepper questioned. “Really, sweetie, that’s a bit over the top. You should have gone with something a little more understated. I mean all this toile is really too much. But it does look smashing on a corpse.”

They studied the corpse for a moment. She was, underneath the fluff, indeed smashing. Thin, tall, blonde. Pepper grabbed her daughter’s elbow. It was awkward but necessary. “Well, it looks as if we should go.”

“Shouldn’t we call the police?”

“No. I’m thinking we should probably make a run for it first.”

“But, Mummy, shouldn’t we do something? I mean she’s dead. And she’s wearing my wedding dress and I don’t understand any of this. Peter is going to be so upset. The timing of everything will be way off!”

“No, I think maybe we ought to make a run for it now.”

“But why?”

“Because, my love, of the blood on your hands.”

Pepper turned her daughter’s hands over to reveal that they were slick and red. The blood just beginning to dry.

“Oh, no,” her daughter said. “Oh, no! This is all your fault, Mummy! All your fault!”

Pepper nodded. Somehow, it probably was.

CHAPTER ONE

The Major Players

Pepper Wellington, according to her daughter, was cursed with being interesting. It was infuriating, really, because her mother seemed to be completely incapable of doing anything boring or normal—which resulted in Pepper naming her one and only daughter something truly horrendous and unforgivable. She named her daughter Sausage. Not only was Sausage donned with a horrible name, but she was also cursed with hair as bright as brushed copper. Both these things became a curse to her, although her mother seemed to only notice the issue with her name.

“Oh, have a sense of humor,” Pepper said time and again to her daughter as she grew up. “Sausage is a terrific name. You’ll never meet another Sausage, I guarantee you that.”

Pepper had been right, which was why, at the tender age of 9, Sausage (in bright red pigtails and a homemade tie-dyed t-shirt dress) had marched in to the local police station and demanded that her name forever be changed to Amy. There were Amy’s everywhere, and very few of them as far as she could tell, were interesting.

Now, at the tender age of twenty-nine, Amy had completely transformed herself. Gone were the Goodwill clothes and handmade sweaters. Gone were the hippy communes and artist retreats her mother had dragged her to. Gone was the red hair cascading down her back. It had grown into a nice dulled auburn, and she wore it up in a clip, securing most of its color and sheen from sight.

In the last decade since her escape from her mother’s abundant bosom, Amy had gone to a respectable college and took all the suggested classes. She majored in Business Administration and wore clothes purchased from Talbots in an array of colors ranging from khaki to grey to black, of which she accented with pink. She didn’t really care for pink, but it seemed to her to be so wholly different from her childhood that it was now a color she found inexorably drawn to, the way diabetics were sometimes drawn to sweets. Sausage—or rather, Amy—now worked for a local hotel at the front desk where she managed not to be impressive or promoted…and she had just met the man of her dreams: the very boring, very white, Peter.

Peter did not know Amy’s true origins. He could not even guess at her genesis and relation to a woman who read auras and believed (even at the age of 63) that sex should be enjoyed frequently, loudly, and with many different partners. Nor could Peter guess that his wife-to-be’s true name was Sausage, so that together, married they would be Peter and Sausage Johnson…the association with penises here so painful to Amy that she dared not think about it. And she dare not tell her beloved that she was not plain, dull Amy, but had a past much darker, much more interesting than he could ever dream.

Amy’s greatest fear was that he would find her out and decide he could not marry her. And if he could not marry her, then she would not be able to stick to her timeline of married by 29, pregnant by 30, and first born by 31. The earth would tilt off its axis. Had the choice been left to her, Amy wouldn’t have invited her mother to their wedding at all. She’d even contemplated hiring someone to impersonate her mother so that her secret could be kept safe, but it was not to be.

Peter had seen the pictures kept at the bottom of her dresser drawer when he’d calmly been searching for the box of condoms she kept hidden there also.

“Hey, there, Amy,” he said (he often addressed her with her name no matter the situation) “Who’s this lady with the crazy hair?”

She’d had to explain that the woman with the red Afro was her mother, and then quickly disguised the reason for the t-shirt that read “Cunt Is My Favorite Four-Letter Word” as a t-shirt protesting that very word and using irony as a tool.

“My mom,” she’d explained “is a radical Christian.” He’d nodded once, pushed the photos back under her white cotton panties, and then slowly unrolled the condom over his penis that he then inserted into her with medical precision. Precisely four minutes later, they’d both used the facilities, pulled on their clothes, and gone to Red Lobster for their Friday night fish fry.

Amy thought he’d forgotten her mother entirely until they’d been drawing up the guest list. “Amy, dear,” Peter’s mother Melody said softly, “Why, we haven’t invited any of your family. Please don’t tell me that you’re separated from your family.” Peter’s mother said the word ‘separated’ the way one would say ‘cancer’, with a horrified whisper.

“Separated! Goodness, no!” Amy laughed shrilly. “Why, my mom is so excited to come to the wedding. And my father, rest his soul, died when I was two.” Peter’s mother smiled a soft understanding smile, and clasped Amy’s hand, never realizing that Amy had told two lies: 1) her mother had no idea there was a wedding as Amy hadn’t spoken to her in nearly a decade and 2) her father was not dead, but was alive and only reliable in his heroin addiction. He was currently living in Prospect Park in New York City. And by saying living in Prospect Park, it doesn’t mean he had an apartment there. No. He pretty much lived in the park. That was a sad tale and best left in the dark.

Peter rubbed Amy’s shoulders. He always rubbed them a bit too hard and always in the same place, one hand placed on each shoulder squeeze, squeeze, squeeze. “Two months, Amy! Just two more months and I will finally meet your mother and we will be Peter and Amy Johnson.” Squeeze-squeeze. Amy flinched not only at the squeezing, but the repetition of her name, which still, somehow, all these years later, felt as if it belonged to someone else.

***

Amy had hoped that in those intervening two months, Peter would forget about the existence of her mother. Sadly, he did not. In fact, he seemed to insert mention of her mother’s existence into every banal conversation they had. So much so that Amy began to look over her shoulder fearful that Pepper had somehow materialized in her living room. For the time, Amy was safe. And then, “Say, weren’t you going to invite your mother?” Peter asked. And, “where’s the invitation to your mother,” and “Of course, with your mother coming and all we can have a fine family picture.” So after much hemming and hawing (internally only; externally she didn’t make a sound), Amy picked up the phone.

Amy held the phone in her hand, considered dialing the number, and then placed it gently in the receiver. She picked it up again, studied the earpiece and then noticed there was a bit of grey film over it. Peter had greasy hair. Or perhaps a greasy face. At any rate, grease was involved and it was disturbing. Deeply so.  She rummaged in her purse until she found one of the prepackaged wipes she used to clean everything from her glasses to the computer screen to the mirror to, now, a phone receiver. She scrubbed. Then put the phone back in the cradle. She picked it up again.

“You call your mother, yet, Amy?” Peter called from the living room. He was watching News Hour on PBS and eating popcorn. He always watched News Hour on PBS and ate popcorn; on the weekends, he was at a loss as to what to do until he’d started recording News Hour and then he’d simply watch his favorite segments. Amy found this two-hour fixation unbearable and would try to make herself busy; after fifteen or so minutes, though, Peter would call for her and she’d have to sit next to him and not listen to him crunching away and not forget to keep smiling and not, god help her, fall asleep. Tonight, she’d said she was calling her mother. And she was. Any moment now.

“Just left a message!” she called back. “It must be Bingo night!” She laughed and it was tinny and false-sounding. Peter’s silence in response made her breathe easier: he’d seen nothing amiss. Amy was lying all the time now, it seemed, thanks in no small part to her mother. Still, in her mind, she reverted she called her “Mummy” a joke they’d had from when they pretended to be English. Amy hadn’t spoken to her mom since she was seventeen and still her mother was fucking up her life. Even that, the word ‘fucking’, a word Amy would never, ever employ, she now thought of freely. It was her mother’s fault. And now, tonight, the lies came effortlessly. I’ve left a message! It’s Bingo night! My mummy will be so happy to finally meet you! She’d called these things to Peter as if they were true.

Mummy. Why she’d suddenly chosen to give her mom a British-sounding moniker instead of her flat Midwestern m-aaah-m was beyond her. Lies humped like rabbits it seemed.

There was another word: humped. She hadn’t even thought of humping in ages. She never thought of humping period! And now her mind was a flurry of humping. Peter did not hump her. What they did was far more clinical. Peter and she performed intercourse with each other…though to be honest, sometimes Amy followed it up with a little solitary manipulation of her own in the bathroom. But all of this was just a digression. She needed to focus. She blamed her mother again. When she thought of her mother, her mind wandered. She worried it was genetic.

Internally Amy said: “Just pick up the phone, Sausage, and call your mother!” And then externally, she’d gasped. She’d referred to herself as that ‘other person’ and if she thought of herself as ‘Sausage’ how long would it be before she slipped and Peter found out the truth? She was not Sausage anymore! She would never, ever be a sausage. She didn’t even touch the stuff anymore. Not even chorizo. And she liked chorizo.

She sighed. She picked up the phone. Her fingers punched in the number. She never even paused to consider that all these years later her mother might have a new phone number…but she was not so lucky.

“Sausage, love, you still breathe like a sick horse.”

That was her mother’s greeting. No, hello, how are you, I’m sorry….no. In fact, Amy hadn’t even said a word so how did her mother know?

And in answer to the question Amy did not voice, her mother responded ,“Caller ID, honey, though it says Amy Wellington. I never did figure out why of all the names in the universe you chose one as plain as Amy. Everyone and their brother is named Amy.”

Amy inhaled sharply. Her mom continued. “So, are you pregnant? Or just getting married?”

She felt the word forming in her throat before she was able to croak it out “Married”.

A pause. She heard something familiar, the striking of a match. Her mother, yoga connoisseur and sometime vegetarian, was probably getting high. She said that it realigned her chakras. “Okay, then, pet. My only request is that I want to wear my stilettos and a red dress. If you’re okay with that then I will be there with bells on.”

“No bells,” Amy said. “And only if the stilettos are short.”

Another pause, an exhale, and then her mother said the words that started it all: “It’s a deal.”

EDI podcast 60 through 62

CLICK HERE For \"Easy Does It\" CH 60 through 62

Something Fragile and Beautiful

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

EDI 57 - 59 Podcast

Hi there. Sorry for the delay in posting this. I was a little distracted. Here's the next episode of "Easy Does It". Now, for my shameless plea. If you're listening to this and enjoying it....don't you think there's someone in your life who might apreciate the book as a holiday gift? Hmmm? There's still time to order it from Amazon for the holiday season. What better present than laughter? (Shameless plea ends).

CLICK HERE for \"Easy Does It\" CH 57 through 59