Breathing

Okay. As often happens, I have a huge tantrum, cry, fuss, throw up (I have a weak stomach), and then the next day I’m fine. So, I’m not in love, in a relationship, dating. Plenty more time for me to focus on being a mom and a good person…and to get things in order. Yep. I’m getting things in order. Working out, working hard, writing. That’s what I’m trying to do. Get things in order. For what? The apocalypse? God, I hope not. Naw. I’m getting my life in order so when something like this happens:

I’ll be ready for it. Plus, this gives me time to slim down. I wouldn't want to give the guy a hernia from having to hold me up.

Universe, yes, you’ve let me down. I forgive you though. You have good things coming for me*. Great things.

*If not, I’ll kick your ass.

Dear Universe: Bite me.

Dear Universe,

I say “Universe” instead of “God” because I’m not crazy about the G-word. It’s rather limiting. (So is the…er….G-spot. Still searching for mine) But still. You , Universe, and I need to have a conversation. Don’t worry. I’m not breaking up with you…exactly.

I do need to tell you…Universe, it’s not me. It’s you. It really is. You are the problem. Everyone tells me “Don’t worry so much. Don’t try to find love. Don’t think about finding anyone. When you least expect it, The Universe will provide.”

Who made up these rules? It was the guys who penned the Constitution, wasn’t it? I knew it! I blame them for massive consumerism, bad traffic, and, well, freedom. (One of those isn’t bad). I’ll now blame them for my lack of love life.

I’ve been quiet about this. Trying not to complain. Trying to Be Strong and Independent. Trying to Be Busy and Fulfilled. But sometimes, Universe, I want to smack your face. You heard me. Me. Your face. General smacking.

Why. Why does good love happen to bad people? That’s what I want to know. I try to be a good person, I really do. A caring, sensitive, decent person, and if it’s the extra 7 pounds I’ve gained since December…well I blame you for that too because YOU’RE the one that broke my foot. Figuratively. I fell down the stairs. But I’m certain you were to blame for it somehow because Everything Happens For a Reason.

Bollocks.

Yeah.

I’m so mad I’m going to start swearing like a stereotypical English chick.

Universe…I smite thee.

I don’t know what that means, but it feels good to say it.

See my fist? I’m raising it in the air and gently extending my middle finger. That’s for you, baby. That’s. For. You.

Sincerely and with love and affection,

Tanya

Why Zombies, Aliens & Vampires ARE REAL

This week I’m having my students work on their research papers, MLA style. Everyone hates research papers. It must be a universal law. And I for one hate grading them. So to try and make it at least passably interesting, I told my students that their research papers is to make a ridiculous argument and then support that argument. Turns out, their arguments aren’t exactly ridiculous. They’re interesting. Some topics:

Why I Would Survive a Zombie Infestation

Why I Should Be Batman

Why Time Doesn’t Exist

Why The Existence of Aliens is a No-Brainer

Why Anne Rice’s Vampires Could Kick Stepanie Meyer’s Vampires Asses

This has come to be an assignment I actually look forward to reading. That’s why today I’ll make my ridiculous argument (but without the support. I don’t feel like doing the research). I’m going to argue that the following exist: Aliens, Zombies, and Vampires (but I’ve yet to prove that there are any cute, available 30-40-something year old men who want to go out on a date but not meet through the Internet).

Here’s my theory. I think Zombies, Aliens, and Vampires are real. They’re actual people. Really. Maybe they’re exaggerated for movies and all, but the Zombie-essence if you will is real. Zombies are motivated by one thing: hunger. They go after what they want ruthlessly and attack. These are your basic addicts. Maybe it’s drugs they’re addicted to, or power, or sex, or what have you. They have one goal and they want it.

Vampires are a little more tricky. They are also ruled by desire, but for them, they’re a little more sensual. They’re the dark side of our psyche. They want things, yes, but their hunger is kept hidden, in the shadows, and they want a little romance with their desire. These creatures are real people who have saucy quirks, best explored in the cover of darkness, and hopefully with a willing partner. There’s a little bit of ‘forbidden love’ to them and it isn’t actual blood that they hunger for, but intimacy. And then probably a big old sandwich afterwards.

And I think aliens exist amongst us too. And Superheroes. And mutants. These are the people who are eccentric. They’re weird. They don’t follow all the rules. They aren't traditionally pretty or attractive, but they’re smart. They aren’t afraid to be different. They like it in fact, and many times they’re the people who become real heroes, real leaders. Not politicians, exactly, but maybe artists or teachers or, yes, writers.

I could go on and on, I suppose. What I’m saying is all of these creatures are real, in a sense. They’re us. They’re a new category of a common psyche or desire. And they’re everywhere.

Sometimes I’m a zombie, and I’ve certainly had moments of being a vampire. I’d like to be a vampire right now actually, but sort of need a, uh, neck to bite. Right now, I’m more of an alien, drifting along in the universe, finding my own way. I’m certain there are other creatures out there. Why in my class at Kendall alone I have a Sasquatch, 2 aliens, a few vampires, no zombies, and one gnome. I’m sure he’s a gnome, because sometimes just looking at him, I want to put a hat on him and put him in my garden. Gnomes are generally happy folk, and birds like them.

Just thinking out loud here, people. Just thinking.

While thinking about Jesus and Zombies...

Yesterday, while I was thinking about Jesus…

Okay. I can’t actually finish that sentence without laughing a bit. I’m not a religious gal. I’m really not. While organized religion really works for a good deal of people (and that’s great), I never quite got the hang of it. For me, Easter was always about ham and chocolate rabbits that I’d immediately decapitate with my teeth. But yesterday, I did actually think about Jesus…while taking a short break from listening to “Pride and Prejudice and Zombies”.

I decided to go for a walk. And not just any walk. I decided to walk around Reed’s Lake, all 4.5 miles of it.

It was beautiful out. Birds singing. Sun shining. A slight breeze. The kind of day you expect animated Disney birds to fly out and throw a beautiful gown over your head. So, naturally, as I walked I thought about Easter and then Jesus…and then if I were teaching Easter to my students or my kids, how I’d ask them about the importance of the story. So, a super spiritual guy dies and is super dead. Then he rises up from the grave and now he has even more super powers. He’s almost a deity! Actually, he is a god. (You can tell my Sunday school is really limited.)

I couldn’t quite figure out the meaning of all this, the importance of the story, until I did something crazy. I started running. I ran. And I felt no pain. (Remember that I broke my foot in December? Doctor said I could try running in May, but there might always be a little pain. Sort of like The Mermaid walking on knives.) I ran for four minutes and NO PAIN. And I started laughing this crazy-single-lady laugh. It was a laugh of happiness. Of, dare I say it, rebirth.

If you’re looking at Jesus and Easter and all that jazz as a story, as a parable to understand our own psyches, I love it. We all go through periods of great darkness, of death even, and then with time, we rise up. We are changed, yes, but somehow by going through the pain, we emerge stronger, with more super powers. More god-like if you will.

Do you get what I’m saying?

I think that we live many lives without our lifetime. And we have times of forming a chrysalis. There are times of transition: from child to teen, teen to young adult, young adult to parent, parent to full adult. And it happens during times of crisis: birth, divorce, broken hearts, job losses, depression, etc. These are transformative events and while they are so hard to get through, you’re almost guaranteed to emerge stronger, more connected with people, more…I don’t know…not more god-like I guess. You emerge as a better human.

I could only run four minutes. I didn’t want to push the foot and re-break it. It was enough, though, for me to realize that I’ve come through all of this as hopefully a better person.

I went home. I got to see my kids for a while. I played in the yard with them. I ate cake. I watched “Hot Tub Time Machine”. I listened to a story about Zombies. I even thought about Jesus. If that’s not a day of rebirth, I don’t know what is.

Awkward Moment with AT&T Guy, Narrated by David Attenborough

Every once in a while, a strange thing occurs in my life. It’s not often, mind you, but when it happens, it reminds me that I am, indeed, alive. And probably fertile.

There are moments when I am transported and suddenly become the star of a wildlife documentary narrated by David Attenborough. This happened just the other day when I was visited by a distractingly cute AT&T guy. Our eyes locked and instantly I heard Mr. Attenborough say: “Look how the female’s pupils have instantly dilated. This is, for sure, a sign of attraction. While the female says inane things like ‘Please. Yes. Hook up my….phone’ the male is keenly aware that she may not be talking about a phone at all. See how his face flushes with red. This is the subtle mating dance of two humans of similar age…and possibly similar histories. Let us observe what happens next.”

Now, before you get excited, I have to go back and set the stage for you.

AT&T guy did NOT show up when I was alone, drinking wine and wearing nothing but a white slip, Blanche Dubois style. Awwww no. He showed up when my ex was there telling me he was going to bring his fiancée to Parent Teacher Conferences because they are a parental unit, even though they’re not married. My kids were running around the house shooting each other with chicken nuggets, and Louis would occasionally grasp my leg and do something that was curiously like some kind of humping dog. “Stop it, Louis. Go do that somewhere else.”

Then entered two young Direct TV installers. They were walking around my house interrupting my ex and I as we had a civil, but horrible, conversation in which my ex told me that I should be seeing a therapist…and then I said: “Hmmm. Really? You really think your choices are all healthy? Let’s examine this. Sometimes, you just piss me off. No, sorry, not you Direct TV, go down to the basement. No, not you, Louis, go into the room. Simone, yes, I love you too. P. Listen to me as I calmly explain how messed up your reasoning is…”

THEN the Distractingly Cute AT&T Guy entered just while I was about to tell my ex that he’s a narcissist. I opened the door. “My, he’s cute,” I thought. He was a beefcake, nice guy type. You know, big guy, but clear blue eyes, speckled gray hair, kind face. “Oh,” I said, “Hi.”

“Hi,” he said.

We stared at each other while David Attenborough cleared his throat and my ex said “And you are?”

If AT&T had had a tie, he would’ve adjusted it. “Oh, I’m here to fix Mrs…”

“It’s Miss,” I said hurriedly, and held up my left hand as proof. Then I looked at my ex and rolled my eyes as if to say “Oh? Him? I’m totally over him.”

So. I finally got my ex to leave, the Direct TV guys to go, and my kids settled down and then I sort of floated into the living room where it seemed to be taking the AT&T guy an awfully long time to install things. Like 45 minutes long. “Is, uhm, something wrong?” I asked.

He was blushing. I could see that. “Man, I’m so stupid, I just typed in your number wrong and it’s right here in front of me and I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Mr. Attenborough knew. “When the male is attracted to a female, all the blood rushes from his brain to his reproductive organs, hence making it difficult to think.”

Then AT&T Guy helped get me connected. To the Internet. Just the Internet. And just as he was leaving he said “Yeah. It’s tough. When I went through my divorce, it took forever to get things changed over.”

“Oh? You’re divorced?” My mind raced frantically. What to do what to do?

“Cool.”

His brow furrowed. Actually furrowed. “Okay then.”

“Yeppers,” I said.

“Okay, if you have any trouble…here’s my card. Any trouble at all.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

“Bye. Thanks for the, uhm, phone.”

“Okay.”

And then he left. Cue David Attenborough: “Ah, it looks as if there will be no mating between these two. They were unsuccessful in their dance. In time though, in time, it will happen again…if the human species is to be successful.”

Yep. Mr. Attenborough is pretty much a genius. And me? I’m still fanning myself, waiting for that next moment…and, of course, the kindness of strangers.

Painting & My Ghost Self

Blogging topics are always tough, unless you want to talk about politics or abortion or Justin Biener. Beiber. Weiner. Whatever. It’s a good thing I’m so self-focused I just talk about myself.

Speaking of myself…

Oh. Bad transition.

So..what’s been happening here as I begin the new novel in my life…anxiety. Yep that about covers it. ANXIETY. I probably should take Valium, or at least give up coffee. Giving up coffee would be a good start, but I have this sneaky suspicion that if I give up caffeine, I may spontaneously combust and/or take uncontrollable naps. Narcolepsy, people. That’s what I mean.

Why the anxiety? I’m moving to my new home. I honestly thought this would be a smooth, delightful transition but it’s stressful. I’m floating in some nether world of no-home-ness. I have all my cooking supplies at the new house, and all my food at the old. My computer is at the old, my internet access is at the new. My furniture is at the old, my specter self is at the new. On top of that I’m teaching, taking care of kiddos, practicing yoga (not really), obsessing, not dating (but dreaming of dating), and trying to rewatch all of Battlestar Galactica by Friday.

Why? Why do I give myself impossible deadlines? Because I’m a freak of nature. And it keeps me sane.

I did have a curious thing occur while walking around on my own in my empty house. I saw the ghost of the person I thought I’d be. She was choosing paint with her husband, and then they were in the master bedroom, and she was wearing a bandana and coveralls…because when you paint, aren’t you supposed to wear that kind of outfit? And they were laughing. And then he came over and he kissed her and she told him to get back work. And then they did. And I imagine they made love in every empty room of the house.

Of course, my reality was a bit different. I turned on the 80’s Weekend music, tried to get the paint can open. It was stuck. Cursed having to do it on my own, then got it open. Then I started painting. By myself. Quietly. It was sad and not-sad. And I was wearing a blue t-shirt and jeans. I admit, I wanted to cry a little. I always thought that I’d share my dream home with someone I loved, who loved me, but real-life novels are not like books: they are rarely predictable.

Later, my sister came over. We sang to the radio, we chatted, we high-fived (just once) and then spent waaaaay too long eating at a Mexican restaurant while drinking a gigantic Margarita for Two. It was not the life or the moment I envisioned, but you know, this real life, although way different from my ghost life, has its beauty too.

And my room? It’s earthy awesome. Perfect for me to cocoon up in…and eventually….cocoon up with someone else too. Just, you know, not my sister.

If I could decide what my kids will do when they're grown...

Okay. I should’ve done this Friday on my Week O’ Blogs, but I was moving, and I tried to clone myself and have one self move while the other self wrote, but it just didn’t work out.

So, Friday’s question came from another great artist (I’m so lucky to have such talented friends). In fact, I should post some of her stuff here and some of my other friends’ stuff and then you could buy their art. Tangent.

Jane VanderLaan asks: “If you could decide what your kids will do or who they will be when they've grown up, what would it be?”

Now, of course, a mom’s instinct is to say “I will support anything my kids want to do. I will love them for who they are and not try to force them into who I want them to be.” That’s the secret Mom’s Hippocratic Oath.  But…that’s not the question Jane asked. She asked IF I could choose, what would I decide.

Hmmmm. A tough one. Well, if I had my choice, they’d both get a good, solid education and get into college and then enroll themselves right away in a program that takes them overseas. I want my kids to travel, to open their minds to the world, and to have a bigger, better life than I’ve had. I have a passport that every ten years I update. My first passport I got at twenty, then  updated it when I got married, and will need to update it again now that I’m single…and that passport? Not a single stamp on it. So. First thing is I’d want them to travel.

Louis seems to be interested in science and history. I’d love for him to be a professor or to work in research. Whatever he does, I hope he’ll use his knowledge for the power of good. For real.

Simone seems to like drawing and dance and unicorns and Barbies. It’s still a little early to see where her interests go, but if I had my choice, she’d be a writer or performer. Maybe write and illustrate children’s books.

In all honesty, I don’t care what they do. (There’s that oath again.) My greatest hope for my kids is that the are emotionally strong, that they can be empathetic for others, that they learn how to love and to know that they are beautiful people worthy of love themselves. And I hope they make enough money to have a comfortable life, one that is not weighted with worrying over bills and food and healthcare. Of course, a little struggle when they’re in college and just starting out is good for the spirit.

I just want…I want my kids to be good people, kind, loving, and confident in who they are. I don’t want them to settle in life, but a little compromise is good. I want them to know that I love them just as they are and I am so proud of who they are becoming.

And if they want to take me on one of their world travels, that would be okay with me too. Just saying.

Advice for Aspiring Superheroes

Today’s question comes from a great graphic designer on Twitter. Check out @magicray . AND he makes amazing balloon animals and creations. I’m not kidding. He made me one for my birthday last year. What’s his question? Ray asks:

“What advice do you have for aspiring superheroes?”

This is a really great question, and at an important time…because right now, I think the world really needs more superheroes. I’m not joking. I mean with a bad economy and general depression feelings and broken hearts and gas pains from too much fast food, we could all use a little rescuing. Here are some bullet points in case you’re thinking of becoming a superhero. (Except I couldn’t figure out how to do bullets so I numbered it instead.)

HOW TO BE AN AVERAGE SUPERHERO

1) Choose a name. Let’s face it: most of the cool superhero names are taken. Don’t despair!! Those superheroes are from other planets or have been transformed by radioactive materials. You don’t want to be Superman or Spiderman anyway. Who wants that much baggage? No, it’s far better to be an average superhero. How do you do it? Simple. You find one thing you’re really good at and then you add Man or Woman to it. See, me, I’m brilliant at mistakes…hence, Blunder Woman. Maybe you make an amazing cookie. Then you could be Cookie Man, or better yet, The Amazing Cookie Man. Or maybe you can do fart noises with your armpit. Armpit Music Woman has a certain ring to it. Just choose the one thing you’re great at and keep it simple.

2) Make an outfit. All superhero outfits require a cape and a mask. Most outfits, especially if you’re a guy require either a unitard or tights. I like men in unitards. They look very awkward and it leaves little to the imagination. Ehm…now I’m distracted. Oh. Right. Just get a cape, a mask and maybe sew on a letter, and you are good to go.

3)         Determine your Secret Identity. Your Secret Identity is your day job. Maybe you work at an office, you teach, you cook. It doesn’t matter. Just make sure you wear glasses. When you put on glasses NO ONE KNOWS YOU’RE ACTUALLY A SUPERHERO. That’s cool. Plus, I think glasses are hot. Just in general. Nothing is sexier than someone who’s smart. Unless it’s someone who’s smart, likes to give back rubs, and likes sci-fi shows. That’s on fire.

4)         Practice general acts of kindness. Everyone should do this actually. It’s just good people skills. And karma.

That’s really all the advice I have. Being a superhero is hard work, but it’s also rewarding. See, now when I totally embarrass myself I feel good because I know my superpowers are working and the world is in order…and it’s so much cheaper than therapy.

Cheers,

Blunder Woman

In Which I Imagine Meeting Gandalf, C3PO, and The Doctor.

Tim Beeler, an awesome artist (seriously. check out his creepy fun stuff at timbeeler.com) posted today’s question. He writes:

“An old grey wizard, a flamboyant golden robot and his best friend, or a man living in a blue box show up on your doorstep to tell you there's a great adventure waiting for you and you have to leave right now. Do you go?”

Okay. So this is a question that goes straight to my GeekHeart. Do I go? I am out the door!!! Okay. Wait. I’ve got to breathe. Let me think this through. If they all showed up at once, I’d have a heart attack, so let me imagine different scenarios.

Scenario One:

Blunder Woman Meets Gandalf

There is a knock at the door. Blunder Woman doesn’t answer. She’s too busy eating ice cream and watching Battlestar Galactica. The knock is more insistent. A WIZARD, GANDALF, barges into her living room.

GANDALF: There’s no time to lose, no time! Get up, young whippersnapper.

BLUNDER WOMAN: Did you call me young?

GANDALF: I did indeed.

BLUNDER WOMAN: I love you.

GANDALF: There is no time for love. Right now you must save the world from certain destruction! No time to think! You must come now!!

BLUNDER WOMAN: Okay. Just let me update Facebook, Twitter, get a sitter for the kids, call my mom, paint my toes, put on a push-up bra and grab a clean cape and I’ll be right with ya.

END SCENE

SCENARIO #2

BLUNDER WOMAN MEETS C3P0 and MIDGET ROBOT

BLUNDER WOMAN is doing sit ups while watching a BBC romance. There is a strange beeping coming from the front of her apartment. The door swings open to reveal a shining robot and his wee friend.

C3PO: Oh, R2, I am quite sure you did not need to use your photokinetic blastermatron.

R2D2: bebebebebbeeep

C3PO: We haven’t time! We have a message for someone! For…Why, hello there.

BLUNDER WOMAN gets up from her crunches.

BLUNDER WOMAN: Yo.

C3PO: We have an urgent message sent from a galaxy far, far away…

BLUNDER WOMAN: Is Han Solo there?

C3PO: Why, I can’t be sure. R2?

BLUNDER WOMAN: If he’s there, then I’m in, no questions asked. If it has to do with Luke or any of the prequels, sorry. I’m working out.

END SCENE

TANYA MEETS THE DOCTOR

TANYA is in her living room wearing a silky negligee since she’s tired of being Blunder Woman. Her hair is perfect and she’s practically glistening with sex appeal. Hmm. That sounds gross. Let's just say she sparkles like a VAMPIRE. She opens the door to reveal a strange man wearing a trenchcoat, standing in front of a blue phone box.

TANYA: Helllooooo…..Doctor.

DOCTOR: I’m sorry?

TANYA: I’ve been waiting for you.

DOCTOR: What’s this?

TANYA: Oh, let me just take you by the coat lapels like this and then run my hand...

CENSORED BY INTERNET COMMUNITY FOR INNAPPROPIRATE LANGUAGE.

Ahem.

Sorry about that last scene. I was, er, uhm, a little distracted.

In all honestly, if any of these people came to my door, I probably wouldn’t open the door. I hate it when people want to sell me something and I have to hurt their feelings and say no. Better to pretend you’re not actually at home watching Firefly than risk opening the door.

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Got more questions? Please ask. I'm answering serious and/or ludicrous questions alllll week.

What the last year has taught me about marriage and love.

This question comes from Laura Michels. She is a fantastic actress newly returned to Grand Rapids and performed in the piece I wrote for the GRAM as well as ‘twelve scenes about loving’. She asks: “What has the last year taught you about marriage and love?”

I had to think about this for a while. I’m still not sure that things happen for a reason, though I do believe that we can get meaning from even the most horrible experiences. So what is the meaning of this year for me? What have I learned?  I learned to find my voice again. I’ve learned what marriage is not, what it shouldn’t be. I’ve learned that I still believe in love, but I’m still struggling with the fear that it might never happen for me, at least the good kind of love. The kind of love that is balanced and, well, kind.

In my marriage, I thought that to keep P. married to me, to keep the family happy, I had to give up on my self.  I mean that. I mean, I gave up on My Self. I gave up on things that made me happy as an individual. I thought being married was sacrificing everything in order to make your family happy. By doing that, I disappeared. I became mute. I was a living ghost. By leaving, I rediscovered that self and now know that though I am flawed, maybe even tragically, or at least melodramatically, I am, essentially human. I’ve learned that everyone is at some point a fuck up. And it’s these flaws that are endearing. Achilles without the flaw in his heel is just another God. With that flaw, he’s vulnerable. He has a heart. He can be loved.

I’ve learned that I have a big heart. I’ve learned that I now know what love is and how to recognize it. It isn’t giving up your self. It’s finding someone who loves and supports you not in spite of your flaws…but because of them.

I’ve learned that marriage should be a partnership. There should be passion, and fights, and times of quiet. There should be support. I’ve learned that a woman has value. She is more than a collection of roles like mother, wife, cook. She is a full person. A person to be treasured. I should have been in my marriage. I was not. I take partial blame because I allowed it to happen.

What I’m still learning is how to be kind to myself. To look at the wrinkles, the silly mistakes, the wonderful blunders I’ve made and to laugh. And there have been nights, alone, in my apartment, where I have turned up the music and I have danced. I have very little rhythm and my body rarely moves the way I want it to, but I have danced. A year ago, I was too afraid to do this.

So. What have I learned? What has this year taught me? That being alone is okay. Loving who I am is okay. Hoping to find a relationship built on trust and compassion and passion is possible. I just have to be a little more patient. I’m working on it. I really am.

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Got another question for me? It can be about anything: serious or ridiculous. I'm blogging all week...if there's an interest. Simply comment here, tweet me, or leave a message on FB. And I'll answer you. I really will.

First Ridiculous/Serious Question of the Week

This week I’m answering ridiculous and/or serious questions about life, dating and cheese sandwiches. In essence, anything you want to ask, I’ll answer. I may even offer advice. What gives me the right to do this? My gigantic pair of cajones. A warning, please don’t actually take any of the advice I may give. I’m a 36-year-old divorced single mom struggling to make it as a writer. I have issues.

Our first question comes from RPFangirl_ on Twitter. She asks:

Do you have different capes for each day of the week or moods?

Blunder Woman’s Response:

Hey, RPFangirl, thanks for your insightful question. Here’s the thing. I would love to wear a different cape for every mood I have because I have a lot of them. Moods that is. But, sadly, according to The National Handbook and Rule Book for Ordinary Superheroes (or the NHRBOS) “An Ordinary Superhero is allowed only one costume. 1) Because they’re probably poor and 2) Because it’s their brand and people must be able to recognize their superhero by clothing alone”. I understand because Super Man in a shiny green leotard with fringe would really be a freak of nature. Or starring in some interpretive dance.

I have a red cape and a red mask. That’s my costume. Here’s how I accentuate…sometimes under the cape I wear a nice black dress and heels. Sometimes a t-shirt, running shorts, knee socks and my favorite brown 1970’d style tennis shoes. Sometimes, ahem, nothing at all. Today, it’s a black t-shirt, jeans and boots. I’m trying to say “Rockstar”, though I probably shouldn’t use jazz hands when I say that.

I don’t really need to change my cape except for washing it. I think anyone paying attention to my face can get my mood just by my facial expression, with the exception of my ex. He couldn’t read me at all and didn’t know that when I said “Everything is fine” I was really saying “I’m entirely miserable and we need to fix this ASAP”. Uh…where was I?

Oh yeah. My cape.

Cheers,

Blunder Woman

The Ending I Am Writing

I was thinking, again, how Beth W. said that often my life reads like a novel. This, as you know, is an idea I keep returning to. And I thought, yes, it has the drama and the pain of a novel, but unlike a novel, it just keeps going. Loose ends are never tied, things are never resolved, and complications just keep complicating. Then, on my walk today, I returned to this idea and thought, “You know, we’re all walking novels.” And that sounds melodramatic, but what I mean by that is this: there are events in our lives, transformative events that like a novel, have a beginning, a middle, and an end. So in this way, my life this past year is very much a novel. Now, looking back, I feel that I’ve come to the close of this transformative experience. That doesn’t mean that my life stops; it doesn’t. It means that I’m now entering a new novel, a new time, filled with new characters. But this year, this particular year, I’ll remember for a lifetime.

It began in taking a step that was ferociously brave: to correct the mistakes I’d made by starting my life again. Now, it ends with something quiet, something sweet.

When I look back, I have to shake my head at this year. From running into my husband (just two weeks after I’d left him) on his first date with the woman he would later propose to while they were pushing my kids in the stroller….to the hopeless Christmas I spent entirely alone with a broken foot…to trying desperately to get a house and being told I could not have it. And there was the day when The Friend of the Court told me I would only have $100 a month in support and I left sobbing, thinking I was destined for poverty, only to have a message on my phone from Ruth O’Keefe (now passed away) offering me a full-time position at Kendall. I walked across the street, literally, cleaned myself up in the bathroom and then signed the paperwork accepting the job. And then there was the first man I dated, the mad I treated coldly and unfairly to see if I was still capable of feeling anything. He was followed by a man I could-have-loved, but now I see as only a false kind of love. And there have been times when I cried in my empty apartment because I did not think I mattered, or I was strong enough, or I was smart enough.

Now, though, things are different, and I find that I’m not apologizing anymore for being an emotional person. I look at my kids and they are happy. I have students and a vibrant work life. I am writing and producing my work. And I have friends, real friends that I can talk to and laugh with and share food with. And that house? I signed on that house. It's now mine.

So. If this year were a novel in my life, here is the ending I would write:

She walks into the empty house that has all the things she ever dreamed of: a warm kitchen, a sunroom, nice bedrooms for her kids, and a back yard where she can have a garden and toys and people over.

The house is empty but she can see the things that will be: she can see the Christmas tree in the corner, the turkey on the table. She can hear laughter and hushed voices talking. She can see all the things that will be brought into her house to transform it into a home and, after a long time of searching, she feels, finally that she can rest.

She does not know what will happen in her life in the coming days. She does not know what kind of love and happiness and sorrow waits for her, though she does know there will be all of these things somehow. She doesn’t know anything other than (at this moment, standing in her empty house that will one day be her home) what she has right now is enough. Her life is enough. It’s enough. And in that small word ‘enough’ there is a quiet beauty. So, for now, she simply sits on the bare floor, and breathes, and waits for what will happen next.

My Grumpy Gripes about Dating Inequality

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the inequality of dating. Yeah. That’s right. You heard me. INEQUALITY. And it’s not like I’m going to wave a flag or burn my bra (my boobs are too big to go carefree), I just mean there’s some gender differences in regards to dating that really piss me off.

Now, tell me if I’m right here or just being neurotic, BUT it seems like guys my age (late 30’s almost 40) are looking to date hot, beautiful twenty-somethings. Guys in their 50’s are looking to date women my age. So that pisses me off a bit. Not that I wouldn’t want an older guy, but I sort of want to share a life with someone who’s the same age as me, so that when I make pop culture references to The Brady Bunch or The Electric Company of the 70’s that we both get it and feel connected. So that’s my first gripe.

My second gripe is that I feel this intense pressure to be hot. And not like pre-menopausal hot, I mean, I feel like to date anyone at all, it doesn’t matter if I’m smart or interesting or quirky. On the online websites, it’s all about appearance. The question men think when they look lat my picture is: Does she look like hot enough that she could be one of the gaggle of women on The Bachelor? And I wonder: Is my hair long and straight, nose thin, boobs enhanced and firm, skin pulled, teeth whitened. Am I a Mom Someone Would Like to (ahem)? I am not. I’m short. My hair gets frizzy. I have a big jaw and a defined nose. Big boobs, but they’re all natural, and even my son says he can see my wrinkles. But I am also very bright, dare I say witty, and a mean cook. And I’m not kidding when I say I can cook. I really mean it. But these qualities, they don’t matter.

Here’s the cold, mean truth: I’m not hot enough to get the attention of professional, successful guys. I AM hot enough to get the attention of high school educated, salt of the earth guys.

Not that there’s anything wrong with them…it’s just…I’m not the girl for a man who smokes, hunts, and swears and works in a factory. That sounds horrible, I know, and I don’t mean it to, it’s just I need someone who’s educated and likes different food and travel and reading and music and art. I’m generalizing here, but I think you get what I mean.

It seems like guys don’t have the pressure to be hot if they’re successful and have a job: they have the power in the dating realm to choose whomever they want. And whomever they want happens to be girls named Sera or Denver or Amber and are 22. Girls who are tall and thin and well endowed. Girls that when the men think about them, it’s not their brains they’re dreaming of.

Selfishly, I want a guy I’m attracted to too. Not just mentally, but physically. I feel horrible for saying that, but it’s the truth. So maybe my griping about all these men my age looking for plastic women is really envy. Not that I want a plastic man, I just want a man that I feel electricity with, and I want that to be accepted. All the men who seem to be interested in me sort of look like my dad.

Then again, maybe that’s the reality of dating men in their 40’s and 50’s. They all start to look like your dad. A little disturbing to get hot and bothered over that.

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

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

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

See? Wandering.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dreaming of Summer (and an extra fantasy)

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

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

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

(Ten minutes later.)

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

What was I saying?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No Title Strong Enough For This

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

New Radio Play BOY MODELS

And now...the final radio play....Boy Models: I Want My Dream!! written by Keeley Geary & Tanya Eby.

STARRING

Stephen Grey, Ralph Lister, Greg Rogers, Rob Karel, Dave Lyzenga, Jason Masters, Keeley Geary, Joyce Bean, Tanya Eby, and Laural Merlington.

Thank you to everyone who participated and helped produce these six radio plays, with a special thanks to Stuart Poltrock and the crew at Sound Post in Grand Rapids, Michigan. I'm sad this expereince is over, but it's possible we'll do more if there's a strong enough interest, or we find a place to actually play these. Until then...please enjoy this presentation. It's sexist in the happy way that Mad Men is sexist, only it's sexist towards men. In a totally fun way.

Enjoy. Let me know what you think. I'll pass your comments along to the cast. Find the other plays by clicking on RADIO PLAYS link. You can also read bios and see actual pictures of people in the producion. Well, not everyone, because not everyone has gotten back to me yet.

Love and kisses,

Tanya

Boy Models: I Want My Dream!!

A Moment At The Susten Pass

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

A Moment at the Susten Pass

a one-act play based on the painting by Durand

written by Tanya Eby

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

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

LYNNE: It’s beautiful, isn’t it?

JUSTIN does not look at the painting. He nods.

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

LYNNE is struggling with some emotion. JUSTIN seems concerned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

JUSTIN: Oh. Okay. Good.

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

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

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

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

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

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

LYNNE: Listen.

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

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

JUSTIN: El…?

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

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

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

JUSTIN: Sounds nice.

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

JUSTIN: One of your…

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

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

JUSTIN: Well? What happened? Was he okay?

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

LYNNE motions to the painting.

LYNNE: Can you see him?

JUSTIN looks. Really looks.

JUSTIN: Elnono or your dad?

LYNNE smiles.

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

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

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

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

LYNNE: There’s no…

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

LYNNE: One is all you need.

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

pause

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

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

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

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

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

JUSTIN: You do, huh?

LYNNE: Yes. I do.

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

LYNNE: You don’t see that!

JUSTIN: No?

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

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

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

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

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

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

There is a moment.

LYNNE walks up to JUSTIN and holds out her hand.

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

They shake hands. They shake hands for a while.

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

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

JUSTIN: We’ll tell people?

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

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

LYNNE: Good.

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

JUSTIN: It’s beautiful.

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

LYNNE: Yeah. It is.

LIGHTS

Application to Date Tanya

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

Application to Date Tanya

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

1) Are you currently:

a) Married

b) Separated

c) Divorced

d) Single

e) Separated but still living with ex

f) Separated but emotionally damaged

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

2) Do you have a job and a car?

a) Yes

b) No

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

3)  Do you currently

a) Own your home

b) Rent

c) Live with your mom

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

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

a) Yes. Love it.

b) I’m a little uncomfortable with this.

c) My mother would be offended.

d) No way.

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

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

a) Plain old meat & potatoes for me

b) I’m a vegetarian or vegan

c)  Anything my mom cooks for me

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

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

6)  Are you dating anyone else?

a) Yes

b) No

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I wish the answer was as simple for my heart.