My first mammogram! Yay! OR My boobs meet the Scone Maker

I had two very weird medical experiences this week and they both make me feel old…and oddly itchy.

Warning, the following might contain a little TMI which is really T&A. At least the T part.

I had my first mammogram and all I can say is OW! It’s routine. My doctor recommends having a ‘baseline’ between 35 and 40 and since I don’t know if I’ll have a full-time job next year or insurance, we figured 37 was a good year to start. Walking into the Lacks Cancer Center for a general mammogram must be frightening for normal women. For a woman who’s also a writer, it’s a downright House of Horror…of the things that Might Be. I sat in the waiting room and looked around and thought “Shit. One of us here probably has breast cancer. Which one of us is it? Is it me?” And then I won’t tell you all the horrible things I thought of. It’s enough to say I thought about my kids and how much I love them and I was about in tears when they called me in.

The nurse led me into a weird corridor surrounded by tiny changing rooms. “Undress everything from the waist up and put on this little shirt.” She was awfully friendly about it. So I got nekked and put the scratchy little shirt on and then went to the Top Secret Waiting Room where three women were already waiting. We were all braless and in these awful shirts and I have seen my boobs’ future. Boobs, meet my knees. Hello, knees.

There was a nurse (wearing a brown habit, and they called her Sister), a 90-something women in a walker, and a woman who looked like she probably had college kids. There was awkward conversation that I tried to not listen to. I was too busy thinking about the weight of my boobs and when would they really give up and accept gravity?

Then I got called into the little room. Another nurse was there and she positioned my body up to The Vise. I mean, the mammogram machine. She told me to undo my shirt. I looked around looking for candlelight or at least to hear a little Lionel Richie love music, but no. Nothing. Then the nurse gently lifted my right boob, placed it on a cold table and then told me not to breathe as the Mammogram Vise smooshed my beauty into more of a scone than a pancake.

Ouch. It was disturbing. The whole thing. A) That the nurse just cradled my boob B) That she could actually lift the boob and place it on a table and C) That I could actually think about scones and get hungry as my boob was being pressed into a triangle.

I tried not to look at the image as it appeared on the wall. I don’t know what a healthy mammogram looks like…and I have now spent approximately three hours of my life researching images on google and trying to remember what the Xray image of my breasts looked like compared to what the should look like. It’s worse than trying to remember the names of the people you went to high school with.

The whole squeezing boob thing happened twice on each breast. It was painful. For real. But now I feel like I have crossed the threshold into Middle Age. There’s no denying it. I’m part of the Women’s Club now. I have gone braless with three other women of varying shapes, sizes, and ages. I’ve been fondled by a nurse. And if that doesn’t get me into the Sisterhood, I don’t know what will. And honestly, I hope to not do it again for another five years.

Growing up is okay…but getting old…that bites.

The other experience was in the allergist’s office with my son. At least there my boobs were safely under wraps. Except for that one moment but, sheesh, what can you do?

That story comes later.

(And in case you’re curious, no I didn’t flash anyone. I was just making a joke.)

Meeting Kealoha's Parents

With National Novel Writing Month starting tonight at 12AM, I thought I’d better post one last blog before the chaos begins. I really wish NaNoWriMo were not in November. It’s such a crazy month with holiday prep and Thanksgiving and Christmas peeking around the corner. Add to that I’ll be recording two novels around my teaching schedule. That means running to the studio in between teaching sessions and on Fridays and taking care of the kids and planning classes…AND I’m going to try to write a novel in a month? What kind of crazy am I?

Don’t let my complaining fool you. I love it. Last year, NaNo was how I completed “Pepper Wellington and the Case of the Missing Sausage”…and that comes out in February by Champagne Books.

Anyway. Uh…awkward transition.

I was going to blog about meeting Kealoha’s parents, and I gave you the highlights in the last blog, but here’s more of the story:

On the ride over to his parents’ I was feeling fine. Louis and Simone were chatting in the back seat, Kealoha and I were chatting up front…but then as soon as I got there I felt a wave of nervous energy come over me. I was meeting Kealoha’s parents! That’s stressful enough…but this time, I was meeting parents and I had my kids along with me. I’ve dated a couple of men this last year, but my kids never met their parents. Suddenly the whole “Girlfriend Meets Boyfriend’s Parents” in my head morphed into “Single Mom With Two Kids Meets Boyfriend’s Parents and Hopes She Doesn’t Come Off As Needy Or Desperate And Hopes To God That Her Kids Don’t Break Anything.”

This was new territory for me. And while Kealoha knows that the kids and I are a package deal, that he’s dating me, yes, and I have two children and they’re a big part of my life…it suddenly dawned on me that by meeting his parents my kids would be viewed as potential grandkids. I’m not saying that K. and I are on that path yet, but come on, you can’t help thinking about that. I’m sure it was on his parents’ minds. His mom even asked him in the kitchen “So, are you ready to become an instant dad?” (He said his answer was “Sure!”)

It’s not that this stuff never occurred to me. It did. I just never had to look at it face-to-face while standing in a condo with thousands of breakable objects and Simone jumping up and down and crawling over the furniture and Louis pulling sword toothpicks from the appetizers and playing Clone Wars with them.

I was nervous. I laughed too much. I tried to ask questions. I was greatly relieved that his parents were laidback and funny, and I liked watching Kealoha interact with them. Clearly, there’s a loving relationship there.

Simone crawled in my lap. Pulled my shirt down and flashed everyone. Luckily, I like my boobs, so while I was mortified, I was also slightly proud. Louis hid in the corner for a while until K’s mom brought the appetizers out on little green swords. His dad walked around talking about the new “Damn Dog” they were going to pick up on the way to Florida. Their two parrots squawked from their room.

Then we had dinner. I was terrified that once the kids saw the Cornish hens that they’d freak out and say “Tiny birds! We’re not eating tiny birds!” They didn’t say that. Quite the opposite. They sat at the table and ate with us. I don’t know what we talked about but I couldn’t help but laugh when Louis buttered his bread with about half a cup of butter, and Simone kept crying “More chicken! More chicken!” while I tried to cut the meat from the hen. Those buggers are tiny and I was trying to be all dainty. Then I thought, fuck it, picked the hen up and just tore pieces from it.

When I noticed a little undercooked part, a little blood, I quickly covered it up, hoping K’s mom wouldn’t see it. Simone cried “Mom? MOM! Is that blood? That’s blood, isn’t it? THAT’S BLOOOOOD!” Followed by “Can I have more chicken?”

K’s mom was in the kitchen and I looked at my plate where I had three halves of Cornish hen carcasses on my plate. I barely had a few bites, but Simone’s belly was all bloated and happily full. I put a hen on her plate and Louis’s, so I’d look at least normal and like I hadn’t eaten three of the hens all by myself.

Then came dessert. Louis put M&M’s on his ice cream. Simone wanted the apple pie and ice cream. She ate like some kind of vacuum, inhaling entire pieces of food. I’d just taken a bite of my pie and I turned to look at her and her face was in her plate, smashed up against it and she was sucking. Literally. Like a vacuum cleaner!

I turned completely red. Everyone laughed. K’s mom said “So, has Simone always been a good eater?” And then I laughed too. What else can you do?

K’s dad gave the kids some seashells. Louis said in his low grown-up voice, “Huh. You guys are a lot nicer than I thought you’d be.”

We packed up. Went home. Kids passed out in the car immediately. Kealoha drove and held my hand.

I don’t know where my relationship with K is going, but I do know that I’m so grateful with how gentle he is with the kids and loving, and how he treats me. I feel safe around him. Comfortable. Supported and loved. And after meeting his parents, I can see now where he gets his sense of humor and his love of collecting things, and even his laid-back disposition.

It was a nice night. An awkward night, a horrible night, an embarrassing night…all of that. And strangely, it felt right. It felt like having dinner with a family.

Not-So-Crabby Anymore

So I had the whole day to think about my previous blog. Man, I sound crabby. But I had to get that out there. You know how it is. When you’re a creative, emotional person, you’ve got to get those thoughts out. Then you can release them. And by you, I mean me. SO….Letting go. Breathing deeply.

All the stuff with my ex and his wife will be okay. It really will. I'm just shaking it off. And shimmying while I do it just because I can.

Here’s the good stuff.

Me and the kids met Kealoha’s parents this week. It involves the following things:

1) Simone grabbing my shirt and flashing my boobs to Kealoha (possibly his dad) while Simone cried “Boobies! Boobies!”

2) Louis saying after quite some time to Kealoha’s parents “You’re a lot nicer than I thought you’d be”.

3) And me gushing obsessively over Kealoha’s mom’s pottery. I really do love pottery, but, holy cow, I sounded like a female Eddie Haskel. “Gee, Mrs. K., you sure have great plates! Geez! What I wouldn’t do to have plates like these!

All of to the music of parrots squawking.

This is a good story. I’ll tell it this weekend.

Until then, be well, be happy, and cheers.

2 Steps Forward, 2 Steps Back, Everybody Dance! UPDATED

I pulled this blog.

Why? Because it was hurtful. And that's not the person I want to be. Sure, we need to vent, but I'm still trying to figure out the line between venting as therapy and venting as attacking. Was this blog an attack? Not on purpose, but that doesn't free me from the fact that it was hurtful.

There are a lot of great things about my ex and Abby. Things I need to start focusing on. Unlike a lot of divorced families we do, for the most part, work as a team in giving our children the best, most healthy lives. My mom and stepmom never met to discuss scheduling. My dad was never around. My kids have two families that love them.

And over the last year, Abby took me to the emergency when I broke my foot and my ex watched the kids. She talks to me; acknowledges my role and importance in the kids' lives. We work on scheduling together. We're planning a birthday party for my son. We're taking care of the kids' health needs. There's a lot that we do right. And P. (as awkward as it has been) is supportive of us building a relationship for the kids. And this morning, we all met to talk about the blog I deleted and our feelings.

That's pretty extraordinary. And wonderful.

I want the kind of life for my kids where, again, they exist in a sphere of love. Abby and my ex are a part of that...and I'm working really hard to stop being so angry.

It's what I see Dr. Dave about. It's what I write about. I'm getting there, little by little, but I need to do so gently.

So. I am sorry for being and feeling angry and hateful...but maybe it was a breakthrough of sorts too. Maybe this was the moment where my ex, Abby and I finally became a unit working for the kids and not against each other.

That's pretty extraordinary too.

Not a NonBlog. A Real Blog. I'm baaaaack.

When I said I wasn’t going to blog for a whole week…I meant a business week. And I meant a business week with a bank holiday in it.

Aw, fuck it. I’m blogging. Yes. There are words here that will never go in to my novel, but let’s face it, I’m writing a gothic historical suspense messed up novel. My current words don’t belong anywhere near that. And when I don’t blog, I then have to schedule a therapy appointment and as much as I love my therapist (Dr. Dave) he costs me money.

Not that I really need to talk to him about any of this.

Random things I wanted to blog about but have not:

My mom was so excited to get “Blunder Woman” in her hands that she started crying. Seriously. She’s so cute. And she’s very proud of me. There are a lot of writers out there whose parents have never really understood their passion for writing. My mom on the other hand? Well, you know those crazy parents that support their superstar football players by wearing body paints and squishy hats and screaming “THAT’S MY BOY! KILL THEM, TIGER!!” That would be my mom. If I let her paint herself and wear a shirt that said “My Daughter Is A Writer” she’d totally do it.

My Mom. Internally.

She told me that she sold one of my books. (I’d given her two.) She said, “I told a few people at the retirement village that your book came out.”

“Oh?”

She paused for a really long time. I could see her collecting her thoughts like apple picking in her mind. “Actually,” she said and I could hear the excitement in that one word. “I’m telling everybody! I showed the woman at the gas station and I talk to people in the grocery store and I was talking to this 80-yr-old woman at the apartment and she wanted to buy your book so I sold it to her! And I told her that it was X-rated and she said that she was really looking forward to that.”

I just shook my head. And then laughed. The book isn’t x-rated. Not exactly. I mean there’s not a lot of bonking going around. There is a lot of thinking about it. And I guess there are a lot of clitorises. Or would it be clitori? Mostly, there’s some language. Fantasies. Little people. You know, every day romantic comedy stuff.

I could go on here but I have to go teach a class and now I’m terrified I might actually say the word “clitoris” to my students.

(Pause)

See why I need to blog? I can’t carry this stuff around with me. Seriously. This stuff’s got to come OUT. And there’s more, but I’ll wait until tomorrow.

Cheers,

Tanya

Nonblog #1

I really want to blog right now. Seriously. I want to blog right now so bad, I'm sweating. It's like withdrawl symptoms. This week at the doctor's, he said I should cut back on coffee because it might be contributing to my anxiety. Internally I said: "Are you serious? Anxious? WHO? ME? I'm NOT FUCKING ANXIOUS!!!"

I'm a little anxious.

Here's what I'm not blogging about: love, communication issues with my ex and his wife, the idea that even if you're moving forward your past goes right along with you, why you shouldn't overcook pork loin, what I should work on for NaNoWriMo, how I have utter political fatigue, Kealoha says he loves me, and where to put my anxiety if I can't blog or drink coffee or run.

Buh.

A Blog About Why I'm Not Blogging

I follow a few blogs online. One of my favorites is The Bloggess. She's hilarious, swears a lot, and writes dialogue so funny that I'm both entertained and envious. And she's taking a break from blogging. Why? Because she's got a novel to finish.

Damnation! So do I! I have a literary novel to work on, a memoir I've been toying with, and next week NaNoWriMo starts and I want to do that. A friend of mine, Eduardo, just sent me a notes quoting someone that said "Every word on your blog is a word not in your novel". Hmm. I don't like that, but it's sorta true. And I've got to finish this "Tunnel Vision" or they're going to have to put ME in an asylum. That would be okay but only if they serve gin&tonics and fan me a lot.

So this week I had a goal of blogging every day. Why? Because I like goals that I can attain. Makes me feel like a real superhero.

My next goal is to NOT blog everyday for at least a week. And of course, I'm starting off with a blog. How meta is that?

I'll miss you. I really will. But I'm putting on my yoga pants and Wonder Woman t-shirt, hunkering in, and writing this be-damned novel that I want to fall in love with and will, given a little more time.

Luckily, there's a writer retreat tomorrow I'm attending. I'm hoping that my fellow writers of GRRWG can help me focus. They're should be plenty of wine and food to help the brain cells and destroy my waistline.

It's all in the name of art.

See you soon.

-Tanya-

I'll Get You New Novel (& Indian Music Video)

I woke up early this morning thinking I’d be productive and get some writing done. Then I sat at the computer for an hour tweeting, stalking random people on Facebook and looking up Indian pop songs with ‘supposed’ translations.

Man. What am I doing?

I’m working on this novel called “Tunnel Vision”. You’ve probably seen posts here. It’s killing me. The novel sometimes feels like a dysfunctional relationship. Like, if the novel were a man I were dating, I’d feel like, oh, I’m not smart enough or good enough or devoted enough to understand all the mind games. It’s making me crabby. What I need is some serious one-on-one time with the novel. Like a romantic getaway in a cottage somewhere, only there won’t be any romance or love oil. Just me staring at the endless blank space that is Tunnel Vision’s future and thinking “Good god…what on earth happens next.”

I don’t have time for love affairs with new novels, healthy or unhealthy. This was my day yesterday:

4:30 AM Cats woke me up by head banging against door and then jumping on me and biting my face.

4:31 I flung cat across room and then jumped up immediately feeling horrible saying “Oh, baby, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

4:35 Fed cats wet food to assuage guilt.

4:36-8:00 Random things like packing the kids lunches, wiping noses, putting cough medicine in juice and then mixing it, fixed breakfasts, rubbed cats, worked on computer, took a shower, wiped more noses, struggled into coats, into car, then daycare and then off to work,

8:01-11:20 Graded papers, tried to look professorial, taught a writing class where the students basically just wrote and I pretended I was helpful.

11:30-12:40 Shoved a sandwich in my face. Ran to River City Studio. Recorded a webisode.

12:41-6:00 Drove an hour to Muskegon. Narrated for an audiobook for two hours where I tried to channel South Carolina accents and might’ve ended up sounding just slightly relaxed and/or drunk. Drove home.

6:00-8:30 Shoved a sandwich in my face. Went for a walk with a friend of mine and talked writing and relationships and why we do what we do, and when, like Rob Gordon in “High Fidelity” do you stop fucking around and commit?

8:31 End of day. Kicked back with Kealoha and watched Dexter AND Boardwalk Empire.

Where’s the time for Love Fest with “Tunnel Vision”. Hmm. It’s right now. And I’m blogging.

I’m going to conquer this novel. By God, if I have to dress up in a big old dress and wax all “Gone with the Wind”…this novel will not defeat me! I will go on, as god is my witness…I will go on!

But not today. Maybe…oh…I dunno…next week.

The Dilemma Of What To Blog About When You're Happy

In a serious, melodramatic voice, possible with strings in the background:

And now…Tanya Eby approaches a serious dilemma in her blog writing…how does she write when there are no huge dramas? Oh, the absence of pain! The absence of heartache! Even now she is throwing herself around the kitchen, her hand on her forehead “Oh, woe is me!” she cries and pounds the stove. “Oh, unjust world!” she sighs, and leans heavily against the refrigerator.

“Hey, mom, could you get me a Nutella sandwich and stop acting so weird?” says a little boy.

“Yeah, mom, you’re freaking us out,” says a girl in pigtails.

Tanya smoothes her apron, dries her tears, takes a deep breath and says “Two Nutella sandwiches coming up!”

End scene.

Yep. That’s sort of my life now. (You can stop the dramatic reading and violin music.) I’ve made it through a year of horrible stress, of starting over, of redefining myself as a single, independent woman and mom. I’ve dated. I’ve had disasters. I’ve been in the fetal position crying, in the bathtub crying, cooking crepes and crying.

But today I feel pretty okay.

The dilemma comes in with…well, fudge, what do I blog about now? Katie asked me that same thing on Dim Sum night. I had friends over to make assorted Chinese dumplings and play charades. That’s hard-core partying in my book. Katie said “I read your blog when you were happy and all Disney. So…what are you going to blog about now?”

I laughed, but the question has stayed with me. If I made it through this blunderful year, what do I blog about now that things are going well? And do I continue to blog? Has my blog served its usefulness? Why is it that the more times I use the word “blog” the more ridiculous it sounds? Blogblogblog.

Hmm.

I want to keep blogging. I like blogging. I like cheese logs and sausage logs and yule logs too, so it may be I’m just fond of words that have ‘log’ in them. And loaf. But mostly log.

What do I blog about? I dunno. Life?

If you have suggestions let me know. I’ll probably continue to blog awkwardly, and there are dramatic things that have happened…I just haven’t felt so angsty about them. Whatever. I’m not questioning it. Sometimes it’s nice to just take a breather.

And I could always write about my favorite things: Bigfoot, sandwiches, Tom Selleck, Matt Damon, old-fashioned words like ‘canoodle’ and ‘ferhoodled’, canning preserves.

Oh dear Buddha. On second thought…I really might need suggestions.

Cheers,

Tanya

PS If you haven't signed up for my newsletter, please do. I'm sending out one soon with "Blunder Woman" news and a recipe for veggie potstickers.

The Trouble With Secret Identities? Names Names Names.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hmm. Probably everything.

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

I said, “No.”

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

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

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

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

Breathing.

Okay.

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

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

TUNNEL VISION: Chapter Fourteen

Outside was a blur of white. Kinney stood at the window of his large home and watched the wind whip the snow into giant drifts. The snow covered rocks and benches, deck chairs, the wheelbarrow and eventually Kinney’s very own car. The world was swallowed whole. He returned to the fireplace, a smile spreading coolly across his face. With most of the staff, save Mallie Lyn Peters, away for the holiday, Kinney had his Rose all to himself and no one would be able to interrupt them.

He sat in his favorite green velvet chair and listened to the fire crackle. Rose was upstairs dressing. He’d given her a very special outfit to wear for this evening. One he’d had recreated from photographs. The one Rose…the first Rose had been wearing when she’d…

The fire popped, startling Kinney. He no longer wanted to think of the first Rose and the new Rose. He wanted one wife, one Rose, and he wanted her to be perfect. Tonight, his wife would wear the dress that she’d worn when she’d almost died. Almost. Yes! Almost! Because his wife hadn’t died at all. He hadn’t chased her into the frigid water and held her under until she stopped fighting him. He hadn’t cured her diseased mind with death…but with love. Why even now his Rose, now fully recuperated and looking more perfect than ever, dressed for him in a white gown upstairs.

He imagined her stepping into the gown, her bare legs smooth. He could hear the dress being pulled up over her hips and the image of the white fabric against her smooth skin caused his blood to roil within him. The dress slid over the curves of her hips, over her full breasts. She reached behind her back and tucked the buttons into the loops. Later, Kinney would tear those buttons free, rip the dress from her smooth body, and reclaim all that he had lost.

He heard the footsteps running down the hall. She was running to him! Running to him at last! His Rose! His wife!

And then he heard Mallie crying. It was Mallie, wasn’t it, and not his Rose? Kinney stood and turned to watch Mallie run to the stairs, stumble, and then roll completely down them, her body tumbling as much as a sack of laundry.

There was silence in the house, save for the crackling of the fire, and a great gust of wind outside swirling snow ever closer to the windows trapping them inside. Kinney did not run to Mallie immediately to see if she were all right. He was still processing the words she’d cried right before falling down the stairs: “She’s gone, sir! Rose is gone! He’s taken her!”

Mallie groaned and reached for Kinney.

He spun on his heels and went to fetch his jacket and gloves. The stupid girl could die there for all he cared. There was only one thing for him to do and that was to head to the asylum. He’d thought he could take her away from there, wipe her memory like a chalkboard, and start afresh. She had no idea what happiness lay in front of them and now…Now!

The sleeping beast within Kinney twisted and turned. Kinney took a breath and for the first time in over three years allowed himself to fully feel the rage that lived within him. He would make everyone pay. Everyone. If only they had left him and Rose in peace to live their life quietly. But they hadn’t, had they? No. The world was against him. It had always been against him.

Kinney swung open the door and ran into the white. It took only moments for him to leave the house and Mallie’s cries far behind him.

Pre-teen Love & Dry Humping Barbies

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

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

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

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

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

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

BARBIE: I love you too!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

TUNNEL VISION - Chapter 13

Letter to Dr. Elliott Kinney

Dear Dr. Kinney:

TheBoard of the Northern Michigan Insane Asylum accepts your request for personal time off. The transition from physician in a hospital for the body to an institution devoted to illnesses of the mind is a difficult one.  We have reviewed your log sheets and have discovered that for the past few months you have worked approximately sixty hours a week, an exhausting load for any professional. We have agreed to grant you the holidays off with pay. You are asked to return to the Asylum on February 1, 1933. At that time we hope you will resume your duties to the patients that have so come to rely on you.

From the Record Eagle

December 27, 1932

…According to the State of Michigan Health Department, the rate of new tuberculosis cases is on the rise. While not officially an epidemic, the disease is spreading at an alarming rate. The Northern Michigan Insane Asylum has donated one of the wings of the institution to offset Munson hospital’s overburdened facility. If you or a loved on develops symptoms common to tuberculosis, please seek medical treatment at the asylum at once. It is a closed ward and will allow you to fully recuperate and lessen the chances of spreading the disease.

*****

Ama placed her hand over the curve of her abdomen. She could no longer fit into the dresses her husband had given her. For Kinney called himself her husband and it was how she thought of him. She thought she could remember their wedding on the shore of Lake Superior. No. Michigan. Lake Michigan. And the wind was warm and the waves were gentle and the sun shone as if blessing them with good fortune.

There was something not right though. Ama sat in a chair and breathed heavily. She could no longer inhale and make her stomach flat. It would not flatten. She wasn’t sure what was happening to her, but felt perhaps it was like the stories her….who? Who told her? She vaguely remembered hearing her papa tell her about demons and the fight against evil and the other papa drawing pictures on her walls. But that wasn’t right. It couldn’t be right. A girl didn’t have two papas. She had one. And her father’s name was Edward and her mother’s name was…Lucy…and her name was Rose.

At that moment something within her stomach fluttered and she became aware of the creature inside her.

*****

Mallie Lyn Peters was in the kitchen when she heard Mrs. Kinney screaming. She thought of her now as Mrs. Kinney as it was so much easier than Rose or Ama or whomever the doctor wanted to believe she was. “I don’t know that I agree with his experiments” she’d thought to herself over and over. At the same time, they didn’t seem to do harm exactly. It’s just that the woman who he claimed as his wife had started out so wild and raw and beautiful in a way. Now, she was like so many of the doctors’ wives. Pale and timid and as tremulous as a butterfly. This wouldn’t happen to her, Mallie assured herself. When George finally asked her to marry him (for surely he would) she wouldn’t lose an ounce of who she was to him. Not one ounce.

She abandoned these thoughts along with the slice of cake she was eating and ran up the long stairs to attend to the mistress. “Madam! Madam Kinney? Are you all right in there? May I come in, ma’am?” Mallie hesitated at the door. There was, of course, no lock on it and she could certainly enter it of her will, but she didn’t want to upset the doctor if he found out. She placed her ear to the door and confirmed that the Mistress inside was crying. Mallie opened the door gently and then just as gently closed the door behind her. Mrs. Kinney stood in front of her, naked, and achingly beautiful. Her long dark hair fell over her shoulders and touched the top of her heavy breasts, for they were heavy and Mallie noted at once the curve of the woman’s abdomen.

“What is wrong with me?” Mrs. Kinney asked in a shaking voice. “There’s a creature…” she whispered.

“A creature?” Mallie felt a deep sadness penetrate her heart. She’d really thought that Mrs. Kinney was well. That somehow she’d managed to avoid the illnesses that floated in the asylum like a mist.

“A creature! Here!” And she pointed to her stomach.

It took Mallie a moment to understand. “Why…Ma’am, don’t you know? That’s not a creature but a child you’re expecting. You’ve got an angel growing inside you, you do.” Mallie smiled warmly at the woman and reached for her robe. She draped it tenderly across the woman’s shoulders. She seemed to flinch at the touch and then relaxed into the comfort of the robe. “Ma’am, sit down. Please. I’ll get you something to eat. You’ve got to eat more when you’re eating for two.”

Mrs. Kinney sat on the side of her bed. She did not acknowledge Mallie, but turned instead to look out the window. Outside it was swirling white: a blizzard. “A child,” she said as Mallie left the room. Mallie wasn’t sure if she’d said the word with hope or with fear.

****

Inside the asylum, chaos swirled. White sheets flapped as orderlies made beds, moved equipment, set up screens between the beds, then abandoned doing so when they ran out of both. The coughing could be heard even outside the ward. At first men and women were separated, but within a week the ward was filled with both sexes. They lay on cots, sat in chairs. The coughing became a chorus and blood sprinkled. Fevers spiked and nurses ran from bed to bed tending the sick. There was running. Cries of pain. Screams pleading to be released. The Superintendent stood at the entrance to the ward, watching the chaos rise and crash like waves. “You are here for your own good!” called Christopher Grooms. “For the value of society! You are here to heal!”

To that, a frail woman with stringy blond hair said “We are here to die.”

“I don’t know what to do,” the head nurse said to him. “We don’t have any more beds left, sir. We don’t have the staff to support this. Tell the city we cannot…”

Mr. Grooms stopped her with a glance. “You have no concept at all with what we’re dealing with. The state has offered us money, real money and…” He breathed heavily. “Take over Ward C. Combine the three levels of asylum patients into one area except for the highest paying ones. Let them continue to have their space until we can figure out something for them. Call in all support staff and physicians that are on vacation. We will ride this out. It’s only an epidemic. Epidemics pass.” He did not finish the sentence but the nurse understood. Epidemics passed when everyone died.

It was during this conversation when an inmate disappeared from the asylum. Robert Kostic was no longer in solitary. No longer in the Men’s Ward. The orderlies assumed he’d been sent to the TB ward, and the TB ward no longer cared who entered. They only recorded how many they were treating to secure funds from the state. And so, Kostic slipped quietly out of the asylum and straight into the brewing storm.

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

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

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

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

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

Hmmm. Anxiety much?

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

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

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

“Yep.”

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

“Yep.”

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

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

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

Uhhhh….

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Random Generalness or General Randomness

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

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

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

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

Seriously. It was grueling after awhile.

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

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

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

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

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

Walk with Katie--PT 2--Mini Revelation

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

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

I don’t understand it either.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What was I talking about?

Oh! Asses.

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

Back to the story.

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

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

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

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

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

Ahem.

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

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

To Be Continued….

TUNNEL VISION: Chapter 12

Kinney dreamed of walking on the beach of Grand Haven with his Rose, his first Rose. She ran ahead of him, laughing, but it was a laugh of pure hysteria. “You can’t catch me!” she called to him. He ran. It was November and the lake had not cooled enough yet. By January entire waves would be frozen mid-crash, but now, the water was simply as cool as ice but still a liquid. Rose ran, her dress pressing against her body. It began to drizzle. Kinney felt his lungs expand and his heart beat. He had to catch her! He had to.

And then he did. She turned to look at him and her bare foot caught the sand. She did not fall as much as fly, landing face down in the sand.

“You are a foolish, foolish woman,” he said to her. “Stand up! Stand up at once!” She refused. He did not think, but reacted, allowing his hand to fly through the cool air and smack her with such force that electricity jolted through him. She stopped laughing at once.

“Do it again,” she said.

And he did. And then something strange happened to Kinney. A deep, residing anger uncoiled within him and he was hitting her, shaking her, forcing her to the ground. He lifted her dress, pushed himself between her legs and then…

It was over in moments.

He pulled back, looked at his hands that were not his hands, looked around the beach to see if anyone had seen his monstrous act.

“Who’s the crazy one now?” Rose asked him. “It isn’t me, Elliott. It’s you. It’s you! You! You! You!”

He longed to throw her into the water, hold her head beneath cool surface. Instead he got to his feet and walked away, leaving her in the sand, an abandoned doll.

Kinney woke with a start. He was in her room. In Rose’s room, his new Rose. She was asleep beside him breathing heavily. He felt his fingers tingling with electricity again, and that familiar sleeping anger within him began to roil.

Things were not moving fast enough. He needed more time with her. If he did more memory exercises, more actively tried to wash her mind free of her own history, he would have his wife back to him, only this time she would be perfect. He thought of the things he hadn’t tried: more aggressive therapies, hypnosis, reshaping her personality through discipline. There was so much to do! So much to do! First, he would put in a leave of absence at the asylum. He would devote all his time to creating the perfect wife, one who would not laugh at him or taunt him.

Kinney reached for her bare shoulder, drew his fingers across her skin.

Then suddenly realized that the episode on the beach with Rose hadn’t been a dream at all, but a memory.

******

In the halls of the asylum, a storm was brewing. It began with a whisper: “Kinney took Ama” and was repeated and repeated until the syllables slurred. The words drifted through the staff at Building 50, the three floors of the women’s ward, and finally slithered under the locked doors of the men’s ward, pouncing on Robert Kostic’s chest. He was twisting in bed, writhing as if being attacked by tiny knives. Ama was gone. Cut. Kinney had taken her. Slice. Kinney was not coming back. Stab.

Kostic bolted awake.

Though the drugs of his ‘therapy’ pulled at him, he shook his head as if he could shake free of their grasp. Whatever it took, whatever face he needed to wear to convince the foolish doctors that he was normal, he would do. What was normal anyway? Find out how a doctor understood normal, and be that for them. Change for another doctor.

Kostic silently stepped out of bed, touching the cold floor with his bare feet. He was in solitary for a few more days he knew. Though he couldn’t actually hear the men in the ward breathing in their sleep, he felt the rise and fall of their lungs. He bent to the floor, placed his hands flat against it, and pushed. He would do pushups until his muscles bulged and burned. And then he would run in place. And then he would box. He would be ready for what was coming.

He sent a whisper back through the corridor, knowing the words would eventually find Kinney: “I’m coming for you,” he said.

The words took flight.

Breakfast with My Sister Suki

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She nodded. “The application to date you?”

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

“Are you shitting me?”

“Nope. Seriously.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

I don’t know.

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

It's a start.