I Feel Dirty -- OR-- How I Was Just Emasculated By The Florist
You know the term ‘penis envy’? What’s the female equivalent of that? Whatever it is, I feel like I just experienced it. And it happened at the florist’s. I was totally just emasculated, and felt a deep feeling of Penis Envy, although not for a bigger penis (or any penis at all for that matter). No. What I felt was like a total loser for not having a bigger budget and getting bigger flowers. Or at least more expensive ones. Rat bastards.
Kealhoa and I want to have a good party, but we’re putting most of the budget into the food and alcohol and the really great location (The JW Marriott). I really didn’t want to spend a fortune on flowers. As pretty as they are, they’re a suck of money. They look pretty but you can’t eat or drink them and they die in a few days. I want people happily full, drinking till they’re dancing and stupid, and celebrating in a great place. So I decided to cut back on the flower budget. Surely I should be able to get a decent bouquet for my sister and me for a couple of hundred dollars…and buy some flowers to put in the centerpieces. It’ll all be classy and sophisticated and save money for the more important things (like flourless chocolate cake).
Today I walked into the “Appointment Only” florist and should’ve known by that sign alone that I was out of my league.
I entered a brick building/warehouse and opened the door to a plushly decorated waiting room. I immediately encountered a Future Bride and her Floral Consultant. The Future Bride was about 22 with tiny perky breasts (from what I could see), wearing a silky skirt and shirt, hair in a happy-horse-like ponytail, and perfectly arched eyebrows and makeup. I was wearing old jeans, a gray t-shirt, and I haven’t washed my hair because it still has yesterday’s style and looks 60% decent. The Floral Consultant was in gray wool pants and a bright green cardigan. I have a feeling it was cashmere.
She was talking to the Future Bride about the furniture they could bring to the event and how she can have a buffet of pies and smores and her fresh apple cider…and I thought “Man, I want a buffet of pies”. Then they started to talk about all the flowers and decorations and I experienced a deep pang of what can only be Penis Envy only I was envying the Future Bride’s youth, dress size, and bottomless checkbook.
I met my consultant and told her that I was looking for two bouquets and maybe some flowers for the centerpieces. Then I told her my budget. There was a slight pause, an inhalation of breath and then she turned and looked longingly at the other Future Bride as if to say “I so wish we were besties”. She controlled herself then said “Well, what about boutonnieres?”
“Yeah,” I said, feeling like I was developing a slight rash or something. “The guys really don’t want those.”
Her face contracted as if she’d just swallowed a piece of glass. “Ah. Really. Well, I've never heard of that.”
"Yep. Well. Golly. Uh..." I responded.
The whole meeting took ten minutes and I left with her promise that they would get back to me with an estimate (in about a week). As I left, another Future Bride came in with her Even Planner. They were actually in matching outfits.
Somehow I crossed over into some freaky alternate universe and/or a Twilight Zone episode. That is sooooo not where I belong.
Thank god we’re tasting mai tais today. That’s something I can handle, without feeling like a Flower Loser.
If I'm not Blunder Woman anymore...then WTF?
On Twitter yesterday I found out that @WanderingWilbo had posted a tweet about me. He said he was having an existential crisis about my upcoming nuptials. Ha! Turns out he wrote a whole blog about it. Read it HERE. His existential crisis is only echoing my own. I think I’ve been struggling with this all summer long. I mean, who am I anymore? Do I need to hold a skull and just get this monologue out of my system?
Apparently so.
I took great comfort in being Blunder Woman for a time. I liked being her. She was fun; and she was me. Truly me. I was single again, out of the closet with my romantic writing, and totally embraced my awkwardness, even when I fell and broke my foot, even when I had bad dates followed by even worse relationship(s). (Two dates is a relationship, right?)
But I’m not single anymore. Nope. Me and Kealoha are walking down the aisle. (He’ll walk; I’ll shimmy.) So, who the hell am I if I’m not desperate and nerdy? If I'm not Blunder Woman, then am I no longer funny or relatable, or god help me, quirky?Something very strange has been happening to me, and I hesitate to even say the words. Over these last two years…I’ve grown up. Really. Damnation! But it's true.
It started innocently enough. First, I had to get tough enough to believe I could make it on my own and raise my two kids with kindness and love. Then I had to suck it up and work really hard at earning an income through teaching and narrating. Then I had to pump iron and be all Rocky Balboa when it came to my writing and not give up. And every time I fell over or broke a bone or cried on my kitchen floor while my sister said she didn’t know how things could get any better, but maybe they couldn’t get worse…all through that, I’d do what the song says. I’d pick myself up, brush myself off, and start all over again.
At nearly forty, I’m starting all over again with Kealoha by my side. Gone are my thoroughly awkward days. I have confidence now. I believe in my writing and in myself. And I have the comfort of loving someone who loves me for my quirks and not in spite of them.
But if I’m not writing about my anxiety and heartbreak, what do I write about?
I’ll tell you what…and it’s taken me all summer to figure this out…I may not BE Blunder Woman anymore, but I can still channel her. And I may be getting married, but I can still remember every painful moment of being alone. And I may be happy, but inside, there are characters who still want their story told. (And Kealoha assures me I'm still quirky. I think my friends would agree.)
Honestly, I didn’t even think anyone was following my story. I’d sort of given up on the whole quirky writer thing. Then something else strange started happening. In the last couple of months, I’ve heard from several readers and many friends who’ve told me they are reading my stuff. They read my work and laugh or just remember it, and I can’t tell you what that means to me. I thought I was writing to an empty auditorium and every day it’s like I get to see someone else’s face who’s been sitting in the seats listening to me go on and on. I just can't get over that. I'm not talking to an empty void. There are people out there! PEOPLE!!! (Yay.)
I don’t know what stories I’m going to tell or what happens in my future, but I can tell you that I’m still, at heart, awkward and nerdy, even if it’s covered with a sheen of confidence.
I may not know exactly who this new woman is that I’m becoming, but maybe there’s something wonderful in that. I guess I’ll just have to turn the page to find out.
Hokey. But true.
In short, this summer I almost gave up (for the hundredth time), but I’m back. I’m writing again. I can figure out how to be happy and still be a writer. And I hope you’ll continue to read my work and see how it’s all evolving.
Imaginary Conversation About the FUTURE
Here is an imagined conversation between Kealoha and me. Imagined, you ask? Yes. Sometimes I have conversations in my head. And they start with oh, wouldn’t it be funny if I asked Kealoha…. And you have to cut me some slack. I can't have a real blog because I've been in the studio all week and then taking care of kids, so there hasn't been time for real conversations. Only invented ones. Here’s the transcript from one of those conversations. It’s probably a sign that I’m not quite done with comedy yet.
Imagined Conversation
The Choices of the Future
by Tanya Eby
Last week, Kealoha and I were at Russo’s. I can’t even explain to you why were there, but I wanted some wasabi peas and I was like “You know who has wasabi peas? I bet that uppity Russo’s market has them and they’re like twenty bucks” and Kealhoa said: “Let’s go”.
So we went there and I’m not even going to go into that experience except that I was walking the aisles of heaven looking at all the weird food that I’ll probably never eat but it looked so sophisticated because it was in foreign packaging. It was here that we had the following conversation:
me: Okay. We’re in the future and you have to choose between losing your head, all your limbs, or your torso, what do you choose?
Kealoha: Why do I have to lose something? Isn’t the future supposed to be like all futuristic and they can replace things like that? Don’t they have futuristic limbs and stuff?
me: This is my future, Kealoha. And in my future, we’re fucked. So. What do you give up?
Kealoha: (after a moment). I can give up my torso but keep my head and limbs? How does that work? Are the limbs then attached to my head? Or are they separate? Like am I then a head, two arms and two legs, all independently, or are they fused together like that creepy Toy Story doll.
me: I don’t know. That’s not the point. You have to give something up. The limbs are probably fused. It wouldn’t make sense to have them all separate.
Kealoha: Okay then. I give up my limbs.
me: You want to be just a head and a torso? You want to be a nugget in the future? Kealoha: No. I do not want to be a nugget in the future, but I don’t want to be a creepy head with limbs either.
me: Bad choice. I’d totally give up my head. In the future, they have like these microchips and you don’t even need a head anymore. It can replace your real head with like a fake head and NO ONE WILL KNOW THE DIFFERENCE.
Kealoha: So what are you saying? They can replace your head but not your limbs or torso in the future?
me: That’s what I’m saying. I’m also saying I win.
We found the peas but by then I didn’t want them. I did want some ice cream nuggets though. Don’t know why.
More sexy veggies. Er...plants. Whatev.
I want to blog, but I'm too busy with kids and narrating this week. Instead, please sit back and contemplate the following two pictures sent in by reader Jim Bradshaw. The two pictures will make you ponder the wonder of nature. Ponder in a way your inner sexed up teenager ponders things. I mean, really.
And my favorite, because it's subtle for about two seconds...
Enjoy these meditative pictures.
I'll return to my normal blogging schedule soon.
Guest blogged
Today, I guest-blogged at my writing group's website. CLICK HERE.
You can also read a guest blog I wrote for Sarah Pinneo's blog "Blurb Is A Verb". It was picked up by shewrites.com and re-published.
And CLICK HERE for something completely different and slightly inappropriate, especially in an office.
Short Story (as mentioned in Tumbling)
Here's the first story I wrote when I arrived in New York. It's a fictional version of my last night in Michigan. To read the post it was mentioned in, click here.
Red Trunks and Blue Water
by Tanya Eby
When you see him on the beach, just the back of him, you see only the brightness of his red trunks, the slight dawning on his shoulders of sunburn. When you see him, when you watch him watching the water, you wonder what he would feel like lying beneath you. You can almost trace the sharp curves of him; how his shoulder blades rise like the curve of a Frisbee, how his hipbones, like bottle caps, would dig into the softness of you. Then you remember the softness of you. You are mounds of sand, folding. You are dunes and white hills. You would swallow him. There would be nothing left.
"You want some chicken? Have some chicken." It is sunset. You are on the back porch of a cottage overlooking Lake Michigan. Everything is washed in a warm, red light and you finally understand the term rose-colored glasses. Your friends, who own the cottage, bustle about. They want your last days in Michigan to be memorable. In New York, looking at the cool brick walls of your apartment, they want you to be able to close your eyes and hear water on the sand…and you will.
"Chicken is good for you. It's grilled." This is Brian. He is tall and blond and gay. He stands looking down at you, smiling. "You'll waste away to nothing in New York. You won't be able to afford anything. You'll have to eat Ramen Noodles."
"Ramen Noodles." His partner, Greg, echoes from the kitchen where he stands, doing dishes, listening.
You eat your chicken.
Later, the sun slips away in a burst of magentas and deep purple. You all applaud, you and Brian and Greg, as if the sun could come out and take a bow, as if the sunset would perform an encore if you shouted loud enough.
Brian sits next to you. "What are you thinking?" he asks. He squeezes your knee. You know you should tell him you're thinking of the flight tomorrow, of being scared, but you're not. You're thinking of the heat in the air, the lake rolling against the sand. You're thinking, briefly, in flashes of red, of someone you've only just met. You wonder what he's eating at the cottage next door with his sister and her family.
It's that slight time of bluing…daylight blending into the dark denim of memory. The bugs are out. You slap your thighs, your legs, your ankles. But none of you wants to go in.
"I'm thinking I'd like to go for a swim," you say. Brian nods slowly.
"Not too far," Brian says, ever the big brother, ever watchful.
In the water, you are a buoy. Your breasts bob, your stomach lifts, your legs drift apart. You can lie like this forever, suspended in the gentle rocking of the lake. It is a good time for this; the water is calm. Tomorrow there will be waves; great waves and heavy rain and you will have no regrets. You bob. You feel as if you are water breathing-your hair fluid around you; no sound, save the beating of your heart, the surge of sand beneath you. You stretch. You are beautiful. Here, the moon shining on you, you being water, you are a round pearl smoothed. You are reflective. You are light.
This happens earlier.
"Why New York? Why do you want to go there?" Your mom asks. She is not angry; she only wants to understand. You try to be honest with her, to not hold back.
"I don't know," you say. " It just feels right."
"But what are you going to do with your things?"
"I'm going to sell them."
"Everything? What about your furniture?"
"I'm giving it away."
"But why?"
You can't explain.
"I'll keep some things," you say. Your mother smiles weakly. "I'll keep my clothes. Some books."
"What about your movies? I could keep your movies for you. And your Christmas ornaments. You can't give up everything. It's not healthy."
"Would you mind keeping some of my things?" Your mother's eyes beam.
"No! Not at all!" Then she shows you the Martha Stewart labeler she ordered straight from the magazine, and the huge Tupperware tubs she bought at a garage sale for an event such as this. She's always like this. She plunges forward. She focuses. Later she will cry heavy tears and try to understand. You don't want to think of her crying.
"Promise me," she says. She holds you at arms length and stares you in the eyes. This is her old trick. She's done this for years to see if you ate the cookies, if you hit your brother, if you changed your grades with a pencil and eraser. "Promise me whatever you do, you won't use the elevators." She pauses. Waits for you to blink. "They have those rolling blackouts and I don't want you to get stuck in an elevator with someone crazy."
This is the only thing she asks of you. This is her one great worry about New York.
And then you laugh.
Both of you.
On the sand, he watches you, but you are not aware. In your mind, he is just a speck, a grain of bright red.
There isn't a reason for your moving…just a sense that something in you has shifted, as the shore shifts, as your body floating on the surface of the water shifts. You could give a hundred reasons if pressed. You draw your fingers through the water as if able to create an angel that will linger behind you, wings spread. There's only one reason that matters: because you want to. Because you want to become someone new. You want to emerge as an orange.
Peeled.
Brian and Greg ring the dinner bell. They're telling you to come in; it's too dark; they can't separate your shape anymore from the water. You swim to shore trying to memorize each motion of your body. Crawling out of the water is like surfacing from a dream. It still clings to you, still wants to pull you in. You wrap in a towel. You can hear laughter between the two cottages and the crackle of a bonfire.
You imagine the rest of the evening before it happens. This is not to say you're psychic; they haven't created a word yet to describe how far from psychic you are. You imagine because you are bored. You are trying to keep your mind from thinking other things…of things like leaving everyone you know and love, of moving to a place where everything, even the rain, will be terrifyingly, wonderfully new. It's the ripple effect. You toss in a stone and follow each ripple as it grows. Sometimes you get lucky: sometimes you see where the ripples go.
You imagine there will be laughter and stories passed and marshmallows too burnt laid over half-melting chocolate. Your friends will sing your praises of having the balls to move. You will glance between your legs and the circle will laugh because, clearly, you have no balls. You will catch his eye and your face will redden and you will blame it on the heat of the fire. "This is a great fire," you will say and their faces, illuminated and shadowed, will nod, heavy of sleep.
It isn't that you want love. It isn't that you need it necessarily. You just want someone to notice you. To do a look-again. To imagine kissing you, touching the soft of your arm, brushing the bangs from your face. It is always about this: hoping for someone to pause because you exist.
This, too, is a memory being made. Later, in the heart of Manhattan, you will have trouble recalling the exact shade of blue of the night sky, the exact words spoken. You will remember only this:
You sat on the beach, you and the man whose name you won't quite remember who looked at you from the beach and wore red swimming trunks. You sat on the beach while the rest of the world was weighted with sleep, shoulders just touching as if by coincidence, as if you weren't aware of the closeness of your skin, as if electricity were normal. You were talking and then he reached over and touched your cheek. "You're touching my cheek," you said, though maybe that's not what you should have said. And then you were kissing. And then, later, you will remember that you imagined you were outside yourself, observing. You watched from above; your two bodies like bleached wood entwined, rolled smooth from years of wind and sand.
You will remember kissing him and looking at the night sky and feeling vastly empty. You will remember that your tongue moved and your body moaned and you tried to count the stars one by one by one by one. I am not this, you thought. Just that.
This is not who I am.
In the morning the sky is smoke gray. It's an old stretched canvass empty of paint. In the car, your cheek against the glass, the rain heavy on the window, you have no regrets. Not really. It was a good swim. You felt so alive then, buoyed by water, floating in the own expanse of your skin.
You leave quickly. A hug and a kiss to Brian and Greg. Chin up. Feet moving forward. No looking back. Ghosts of you, of the turns you could have taken, spiraling around you and then evaporating as mist.
Barreling through the clouds, the plane hits a great lake of blue. It is so blue and so bright, you shade your eyes. You are now soaring from the bottom of the deepest lake, reaching bravely for he surface that somewhere stretches just before you, blinking white.
My Last Night in Michigan. July 09, 2001
July, 2001 (28 years old)
After I said goodbye to my friends and family and packed my remaining belongings into two suitcases, I decided to spend my final evening in Michigan in the best place I could think of: on the shore of Lake Michigan at my friends’ cottage.
Brendan and I were so close that we could finish each other’s sentences. Sometimes we’d have entire conversations just looking at each other. But it wasn’t the healthiest of relationships for us since he was George’s partner and they really should’ve been sharing that kind of telepathy; and I was a single girl looking for love. Brendan and I filled a gap for each other that should have been filled by a love partner. Do you know what I mean? It would take time and distance before either of us would be able to let go.
You see, as much as I loved Brendan and George, there were certain things they couldn’t do for me. Not even if they were really, really drunk.
So I spent the last night at their cottage. It was a beautiful day. There was a family renting the cottage next door and I noticed a very attractive guy about the same age as me. And he was French. Since it was my last night in Michigan, I decided to flirt. I was a terrible flirt, but somehow we ended up taking a stroll down to the water around two in the morning and kissing in the sand. It sounds romantic, but it really wasn’t. It was another one of those moments that on the surface seems beautiful and sexy and emotional, when really it was just cold, sandy and with a lot of pointless lip wagging.
I woke up in the morning in my own bed (alone of course) and then Brendan and I drove my car to the airport.
I was driving and I was nervous. Brendan was going to let me keep my car at their place for a while until I could figure out how to turn it in. (It was leased.) About thirty minutes from the airport, a woman pulled out in front of me and we collided in a crash of screeching metal. Brendan was tossed forward. I think I was too but I was too stunned to do anything. The car was totaled, and my flight was leaving in an hour and a half.
I didn’t know what to do. Was it a sign? Was the universe saying I should stay home and that only way it could get me to listen was to put me in a car accident?
Then I told myself that was ridiculous. Of course it was just an accident, and the cop told us it was the other driver’s fault entirely. She was seventeen and scared bloodless.
I don’t know how I got to the airport after the tow truck came. I think Brendan drove me. His back was messed up and I ached all over, but I was getting on that plane. I had a destiny to meet and it wouldn’t wait any longer.
I got on the plane. I said goodbye to Grand Rapids.
Later, I would write a story about my last night in Grand Rapids. I changed the details, added some salacious bits, but at the heart of it the feelings were real. I’ll post it in a separate post. It’s interesting to me because I wrote it just two months before the Towers were hit, and it seems to be a story that is relentlessly hopeful, even though it’s weighted with sadness.
I find that very curious.
The Trouble With Directions
A Conversation between Kealoha and me.
ME: So, your mom will be here soon. We’re driving to Binder Zoo. I want to drive but what if she wants to drive? I mean, will it be okay? Will she go too fast? What kind of a driver is she?
KEALOHA: If you’re asking if she’ll kill the kids, no, she won’t kill the kids. You should let her drive.
ME: Wait. Are you saying she’s a better driver than me?
(Pause as KEALOHA considers how to deftly answer the minefield question.)
KEALOHA: She knows what North and South is and knows where she’s going. You just had to ask me which way to turn to go South.
ME: I hate directions. Why do they have to use directions? They’re stupid. Why don’t they just use left and right? I know left and right.
KEALOHA: Directions are easier.
(I pause as I try to explain.)
ME: Look at me. I’m facing North, okay?
KEALOHA: Yes.
(I turn a quarter-step to my right.)
ME: Okay. Now I’m facing North again.
(I turn another quarter-step.)
ME: And when I turn again, look! This is me, facing North. See? Wherever I turn, I’m facing North! That’s a problem. That’s why I don’t like directions. Wait. When I first said I was facing North, was that really North?
(KEALOHA can’t answer me because he’s too busy laughing at me. He does nod his head though.)
ME: Weird.
*I did actually end up driving, but only because I'd told K's mom I was going to and I had the car seats. I think she probably would've been a better driver and gotten us there a whole lot faster.*
My "This Is Your Life" (on PMS) Week
I’m sitting here almost-crying and I fully realize that it mostly has to do with PMSing. I even have a ridiculous app on my iPod to tell me when I’m PMSing. I check it frequently. just to see if I really am actually angry, vengeful and depressed or if it might have to do with hormones. Today, it’s definitely hormones, but it’s also a smidge of my This Is Your Life week.
You know I’ve been writing a little on my 9/11 “Tumbling” memoir. So that’s made me revisit ten years ago and the person I was and the people I knew and cared about. Some of the people are still in my life. Some of them aren’t. Not because of 9/11. Thankfully, I didn’t lose anyone then. But just because of life.
So I’m a little tender from all of that.
Then I ran into the guy that I just wrote about. He and I tooled around Northern Michigan trying to make a film. We became great friends, and it was because of that connection that I made my trip to NY. I saw him at the sound studio, haven’t seen him in a decade, and it was terrific. He’s such a kindred spirit. It also made me sad. Sad how friends drift apart. It’s natural and good, but it still has that tinge of sadness to it.
I also had the whole Dog Story VIP experience this week.
It was a lot of fun and the actors were terrific in reenacting my life, but it was also a little emotional for me. They asked me all sorts of questions about growing up and I tenderly tried to tiptoe through the questions and share the fun bits of my life, and keep the not-so-fun bits closer to me. But even the fun bits made me a little melancholy.
My mom, brother and I moved a lot when I was young. We were poor and she was a single mom and my brother and I were alone a lot and then my brother got into some 'bad behavior' and on and on. And I was devastated when my brother moved away to Coopersville. I followed him a year later. So my childhood is laced with sadness and loneliness and a whole host of things I didn’t want to share.
The actors brought out the funny/craziness of my childhood and showed my brother protecting me from neighborhood bullies with his bebe gun (true) and my sister as a tough ass cookie who swears like she's in a Tarantino movie (true), and my total preoccupation with pretending I had certain ailments from age 7-17. Also true. I’d walk around with a limp pretending one leg was longer than the other, or pretend I was blind and/or deaf. The thing is, I wouldn’t do this for minutes or even hours BUT ENTIRE DAYS.
It’s why when I limped for a week complaining that I thought I had blood poisoning, that my mom didn’t believe me…until I showed her my purple foot. That prompted a visit to the ER room, and I had to have my foot elevated above my heart for a week. Really. I can’t blame my mom because I also called her one time crying, saying I’d been hit by a car.
It was character research and my attempt at understanding different people so I could act and write about them.
So Dog Story was great, but it also made me revisit most of my childhood.
And we just got some refusals on the wedding. Of course, it’s not personal, but the one that hurt the most was a relative who was going to sing a song for us. I got this image in my mind of how the wedding would be and all the people important in my life being there to support us, but reality doesn't always match up with how you think it's going to be. It’s not personal, but on a week like I’ve had, if someone complains to me about the economy, I’m going to apologize for it being my fault.
Damned PMS. I’m pretty sure it’s PMS. Let me check my app…
pause
pause
Yes. According to the app, I’m at 80% PMS. I love that app. Now I have scientific proof that I need a good cry, and a gigantic bowl of chocolate ice cream.
I can't handle all this "This Is Your Life" stuff. Man, I need to hug my kiddos, BBQ with Kealoha and watch some delightful "Weeds" episodes. Seriously. (All while eating ice cream of course.)
Backstage look at narrating! A video blog!
Thanks to Kealoha, I'm posting my very first video blog. I'm not entirely sure there will be more, so it could also be my very last video blog. I look sorta crazy here. I guess that's just me naturally.
Enjoy the video. Let me know what you think. If you don't want to watch the whole thing, fast forward to the questions at the end. That's my favorite part.
Tumbling 9/11--A million little details
August 8, 2011 (38 yrs. old)
It’s weird when you look back on your life and see how a million tiny decisions lead up to something that feels like fate. Maybe it even IS fate. I don’t know. I probably would never have moved to New York if all of these things didn’t happen. So part of me thinks I was slowly preparing for it, even though I wasn't aware of that.
2000 (28 yrs. old)
1) I had a gorgeous boyfriend who was a partial inspiration for Ronny the Rocker in “Easy Does It”. He was fun, hot, and we didn’t have a whole lot in common. I probably could’ve happily dated him for some time, but after a few months, I broke up with him. It didn’t feel real to me. It felt like we were pretending at being in love, and as fun as that was, it didn’t leave me feeling very fulfilled. I broke up with him. Or he broke up with me. Basically, we shook hands, said “That was fun” and parted ways. I wanted something “More”.
2) I thought I had that something “More” with a guy I’ll just call M. I’d known him for two years and was seriously head-over-heels in love with him, even though I knew he only saw me as a friend. (He’s the inspiration for “Blunder Woman”.) Because of this unhealthy fixation on him, I couldn’t seem to move forward. No other guy compared.
It was Christmas time and we met at a coffee shop to exchange gifts. The snow fell outside in great big flakes, that soft snow that happens in movies where the guy kisses the girl outside. I thought this could happen. I made sure I looked cute in my big scarf and red peacoat.
I gave him a quilt I hand-quilted. It took me weeks and as I quilted I made little wishes for him, wishes for his happiness, for love, for health. (I blush to think of this now.) He liked the quilt, said thanks, and then gave me a book he found in his parents’ basement. He didn’t read it or know anything about it, just, well, it looked old. And then he told me he’d met and proposed to a woman he met just a few weeks before. I said “That’s great!” stumbled out into the snow and never felt as cold as I did on that night.
Later I found out that, like me, he had three or four other ‘very close female friends’, all of us pining for him to love us. All of us thinking we were special. It broke my heart. And worse than that, I was embarrassed to have fallen in love and had a relationship that primarily existed in my head.
2001, (27 yrs. old)
3) In January, I was waitressing at The Sierra Room. It was fine dining with lush velvet curtains, fusion cuisine. I started really learning about food and wine there. In between shifts, I acted in a lot of shows, got together with friends, partied, and came home most nights tipsy and lonely. I lived in a two bedroom apartment in a not-so-good area of town and I was beyond broke. A waiter at the restaurant (Tommy) needed a roommate. We had good chemistry, softly flirtatious, but nothing serious. He said I could move in with him. I sold all my furniture for extra cash since he had a furnished room. I packed my three suitcases, and my computer, and moved into the attic of his very cool apartment. He was training to be a chef, and I started to realize that I was a foodie in the making.
The main thing here is that I sold everything. I was now boyfriend-less, without furniture, and heartbroken. The perfect storm for a writer. The perfect storm for change.
4) In the spring, a friend of mine needed help making a short film. We tooled around Northern Michigan and tried to film this short piece. I was in charge of locations and script. We never finished the piece…it was way harder than I thought it would be, but we’d become friends. In June, he called me in a panic. His sister needed a roommate in her flat in New York City for two months. And she needed a roommate immediately.
June, 2001 (28 yrs. old)
So. I was renting a furnished room, had no relationship, was heartbroken, desperately wanted a new start, and I wanted MORE from life. And I’d just turned 28. 30 was looming. And what was I doing? Did I want to be a waitress my whole life? I could be a waitress anywhere. If I was going to be a waitress…I was going to do it in New York.
I called my friends. I quit my job. I had a going away party where my friends and family came together and donated money to help me start over. I booked a plane, and with about $800, I was ready to make a new start. In New York.
This was it! This was fate! I was going to New York. I’d find my heart’s desire. I’d find true love, my writing career would take off, and I’d live happily ever after. I was made for New York.
What could possibly go wrong?
Tumbling 9/11-- It starts with a conversation
August 7, 2011... 38 years old
I’m having a hard time writing about my experience in New York. It’s not that I’m all emotional or anything…it’s just that it was ten years ago and I’m having a hard time organizing my thoughts and memories. I didn’t keep a journal and I can’t find the calendar I kept then with all my appointments and meetings (which might trigger memories). All I have are sort of disjointed flashes of memory.
But I guess if you don’t at least try to organize your thoughts, they’ll never get out there. So. Let's go back.
1999...26 years old
I was in Actor’s Theatre’s production of “Angels in America” in Grand Rapids. I played Harper. And I remember a conversation I had with one of the actors, Craig. We were in the hallway waiting to rehearse and he said: “Tanya, you’re so talented. I just have one question for you.”
“What’s that?”
“Why are you here?”
I looked at him, puzzled. “What do you mean why am I here? I love acting? This is a great role?”
Then he cracked his big ol’ grin and he said, “No. Why are you here in Grand Rapids? You should be in New York or something.”
I shook my head. “I’m twenty-six. I’m too old. Plus, I’ve got my life here.”
He laughed. “You’re still young. Honey, if I were you I’d pack up and move.”
That little conversation stayed with me. I thought I was so settled, but what did I really have? I worked part time at a music society (St. Cecilia), I waitressed, I was just out of another bad relationship. I didn’t have kids. I wasn’t married. And according to Craig…I wasn’t even old yet.
But it would take me another two years before I’d take him up on his little challenge, but in that hallway, the seed for a major change was planted.
(It’s funny that a little conversation with someone in a hallway could change your life. But I do look at that moment as a life-changing conversation. I guess it shows that you never know when or how you’re going to affect another person. It’s an awesome, beautiful thing.)
What Kealoha Did For Love
When you’re in a relationship, it’s all about give and take, compromise, communication, etc. In short, sometimes you do something for your partner that you really don’t want to do, would never do on your own in a million years, but you do it for them because you love them. Like me. Going to Lowe’s. I know Kealoha loves me because he sat through “Insidious” with me, and the man hates scary movies. This isn’t the first time he’s endured something scary for me (besides my unshaven legs). The first time was when I wanted to watch “The Crazies”. All I knew is that it had Timothy Olyphant in it and I loved him in Deadwood. It sounded funny. I imagined crazy shenanigans and big punchlines. I honestly thought it was a comedy. About three minutes into the movie, we realized that it was an intense, eat-your-face-off zombie movie and we watched the whole thing.
Here’s the preview: It wasn’t ha-ha crazy, but it was kick-ass crazy. I loved it. Kealoha reluctantly agreed.
Then, this week, I asked him to please join with me in watching a scary movie. I’d heard it was a good one and I was sure it wasn’t THAT scary. I mean, most scary movies nowadays are more gore than anything.
We sat on the couch. Kealoha was a little uncomfortable, but he put his arm around me and said he was doing this for me. The opening credits rolled and a peculiar sound came from Kealoha. It was like a deep man-sob. Then a face flashed in a mirror and Kealoha jumped and did a deep “Arrghhh!” Then he sat there, panting.
I knew this was going to be a terrific experience.
We clutched at each other like scared teenagers. Kealoha curled up in a ball and did deep breathing while I comforted him. It’s good my kids were with their dad because we actually screamed. Several times. Consider the following:
It honestly was a great, scary movie with a good twist on the basic haunted house plot. In fact, I want to watch it again. I asked Kealoha to watch it with me. He looked at me with a “Fuck you” expression. I guess watching it once was enough proof of his love for me. Anything beyond that is really torture.
But I’d really like to hear his terrified man-screams again. They’re so funny. I’ll wait until after he’s married me to make him sit through something like that again. I mean, I don’t want to scare him off. Literally.
Join Me at Dog Story Theater on August 8 at 8PM
Well, I'm not giving a reading...but that's okay. This is actually more fun. (And less stressful for me.) Dog Story Theater invited me to participate in their VIP Comedy Show. Don't worry. I'm not doing the improv part. Basically, they let me sit in a comfy chair and ask me about my life and then they do an improv show about it. For $5, you too can be there to witness embarrassing truths about my past...and see just how they're going to work in the title to my books. I imagine they'll ask me what's so good about sausage.
So. Dog Story Theater. Monday, August from 8-8:50. I'll be there. I'll have extra books. Come to laugh and hang out.
I used to do radio shows and plays at Dog Story when I had a little more free time. Their location has changed since then (for the better). They're now by St. Cecilia Music Center and around the corner from that Chinese Buffet place on the corner of Fulton and Jefferson.
A Philosophical Discussion Between Me and the Blunder Kids
Usually, my mom-time is spent saying things like “Stop it! Do not touch each other! You now need to sit at least fifteen feet away from each other. What’s fifteen feet? It’s a lot. It’s like the size of a giant serpent. I will turn into a giant serpent if you two don’t stop touching each other and fighting. I’ve had enough. Enough. ENOUGH!” In fact, I think I said that exact thing yesterday after my daughter’s twelfth tantrum to which Louis (6) said: “Mom, so, I believe that everyone has good in them, even you do when you’re having a really bad day. Somewhere deep, deep inside you is something good.”
Uh…(That's almost a direct quote from something I told Louis earlier when he asked if I believed in God.)
It was hot yesterday and the kids took turns throwing gigantic meltdowns. First, I had to literally drag Louis to his summer camp at Meijer Gardens. I dragged him to the car, we were rear-ended on the way to Meijer Garden (no damage), then I dragged Louis across the parking lot to check him in, he took off running, I ran after him, he hit my cell phone as I tried to call his dad, it went flying in pieces, then I dragged him back to the check in and he cried for about an hour until I was able to leave.
That’s an example of tantrum number one. There were eleven more that followed throughout out the day. (I had one of them.)
On the way to swimming lessons, we had the following conversation:
LOUIS: So, Ma, do you believe in ghosts?
SIMONE: I don’t believe in ghosts. I do believe in fairies but NOT ghosts!
LOUIS: I’m asking Mom.
ME: Well, I don’t really believe in ghosts. But sometimes I pretend to believe in them because it makes ghost stories better.
LOUIS: What about aliens?
ME: Full stop. 100%. I totally believe in them. I mean, the universe is so huge that to think that there’s no other life forms out there is just ridiculous to me.
LOUIS: Yeah! Me too. My friend Beck and me? We’ve talked about this and we think that like thousands and thousands of years ago there was like these aliens? And then there was a bam! explosion and it blew them all up and turned them into meteors and the meteors hit everything and that’s why there’s spots on the moon.
MOM: Huh. I can see that.
SIMONE: Are there alien ghosts, Momma? Do you believe in alien ghosts?
MOM: No. That seems like stretching it a little bit.
SIMONE: I think so too.
Then the kids went back to poking each other and screaming and general blood-pressure-raising behavior.
I’m hoping that once all these tantrums are done, we can have more conversations like this. They haven’t yet asked me about my theory on sandwiches or my belief system in Sasquatches. I want to tell them that everything I believe in I learned from Leonard Nemoy’s “In Search Of”.
I have BIC. But it's okay. (And it's not a razor)
I think I’m suffering from a serious condition. Well, first, I’m pretty sure I’m a hypochondriac. I self-diagnosed myself ages ago. Mostly, I do okay with being a hypochondriac. I try to talk myself down when I develop symptoms of the bubonic plague, or when I’m certain that my inability to breathe means I have a collapsed lung and not, say, an exercise-induced mini asthma attack. But this condition is real.
I have Blog Identity Confusion, or BIC (not to be confused with the razors).
When I started this blog, I primarily posted excerpts from “Blunder Woman”. It was a way for me to keep writing during a tough time.
Then I left my marriage and my blog became a terrific vehicle for talking about being a single mom, starting over, and all the things that happened that year from radio plays to getting published to the most pathetic Christmas ever.
Then my blog became about bad dating experiences, an ugly tormented dating relationship (if you read my blog regularly then you know who I'm talking about), and then just feeling like a general Blunder Woman.
But now…
Now...
Who am I?
I’m pretty well-adjusted, happily employed, mom to two kids and soon-to-be Kealoha’s wife. Gone are the turbulent dating stories, the stresses of starting over (I’ve started), and the radio plays (sadly).
Now I’m sorta a mish-mash blog of mom-stuff, writer-stuff, narrator-stuff, foodie-stuff, and the random jibberjaw.
And I don’t feel like a Blunder Woman anymore. I feel like I’ve finally gotten my life together.
So. Now what? What do I do with my Blog Identity Confusion?
Nothing. I guess I just whine about it. And then one day I write about being a mom, the next I write about the wedding, the next I write about the crazy characters forming in my mind for the next novel. I'm still wondering whether or not to blog about my time in NYC during 9/11 but I'm wondering if that's too far from my 'blog brand'. Hence, the confusion. Gah.
I’m fairly okay with this confusion. Just thought I’d mention that yes, I’m aware of it, and sadly there is no cure. I’ve never been extremely focused on one thing like politics or mothering or building things from plastic soda bottles. I’m more of a catch-everything (as long as it’s not an STD).
And that’s my deep thought for the day. Now I’ll go back to researching what possible chronic conditions I have and if I can cure it with the new juicer I purchased but have yet to use.
My Million Dollar "Jesus" Idea. (Not a tortilla)
To understand this little story, you have to understand that my 5-year-old is obsessed with ‘lift the flap’ books. Basically, it’s a board book with little flaps in it, and you lift the flap to see the picture underneath. Today while she was at ballet class (in which her underwear kept falling off so I had to take them off her and put them in my purse—she was in a leotard) I picked up some books for her at the library. I tried to only get lift the flap books and found six or so. They’re harder to find than you’d think. So I didn’t care what kind of books they were, I just put them in the bag.
Then I ran errands with Louis and Simone stayed with the babysitter.
On the way to taking the sitter home, Simone said in a rather disgruntled tone “Mom, one of the books isn’t a lift the flap book.”
“Really? That’s weird. I thought they were all flap books.”
“No! It doesn’t do ANYTHING. And it’s a book about Jesus.”
I crinkled my brow. “Wait. Are you saying I got you a plain old Jesus book?”
“Yes!” Simone said, on the verge of tears.
“That must’ve been a mistake. I wouldn’t get you a Jesus book honey.” I turned to the sitter and said “Not that there’s anything wrong with Jesus. I just don’t swing that way.”
Simone continued “It’s a book about Jesus AND NO FLAPS.”
Louis said, “Ma, if it was a book about Jesus AND had flaps, would you have got it?”
Then I started laughing. “Oh! That’s brilliant! A Lift the Flap Jesus Book! He’s on the cross; he’s off the cross. He’s on the cross! He’s off the cross!” I started laughing. The kids started laughing. The babysitter was laughing. “One fish and loaf of bread….fish and bread everywhere!”
The baby sitter said “He’s in the tomb, he’s out of the tomb!”
- My limited understanding of Jesus would involve a sandwich.
I laughed for a good twenty minutes. When we got home Simone showed me the book. “Oh!” I said. “That’s not a Jesus book, honey. That’s some kind of Jewish book. They’re lighting a menorah and when you pull this tab you light a candle. See the candle? And I guess you light a candle on every page or something. I don’t know. But there’s no Jesus in this book.”
Funny thing is, there actually IS a Lift The Flap Jesus Book. Too bad. I really wanted to make a million dollars. I’m trying to pay off our wedding, and eventually this house.
Oh well.
New series of blogs on 9/11 starting soon. Maybe.
While working out yesterday with a friend of mine, we somehow got on the subject briefly of New York. She knows that I lived there from July 2001 to February 2002. I didn't even last a year there, but it was an experience that has shaped my adult life. For many reasons, but most of all because of 9/11. Over the years I've had people say that I should write about my experience there and what happened. I've always said no, for the following reasons: I don't want to capitalize on or trivialize the experience; I was just an observer to the events; I don't feel as if my experience sheds any light on what happened. My family and close friends already know the story, so I also feel like I'm repeating something they don't want to hear. Mostly, I just don't want to be another writer capitalizing or dramatizing what was a devastating experience for so many people.
But...
The ten year anniversary is coming up, and of course I think about 9/11 and that day; more and more though I think about my life as it is now and the reverberations of that day. I have "What Ifs" about my life. It's like my life split. In one life I stay in New York.
I can see my life as it might have been: me still in New York, working at some nonprofit arts organization, working up the ladder, attending social events. In that life, I'm a more successful writer than I am now. I'm published by a big literary house. I have artistic friends. I'm still single. I have no children. I am happy but missing something. I have hard edges. I am lonely.
In the life that I chose, I'm here in Grand Rapids with my kids, my house, my fiance, planning a wedding. I've written three books that haven't sold much. I'm working on a fourth. I teach. I cook. I am happy, but still wonder if I could've been something better artistically. I wonder if it's too late for my work to be anything more than it is: fluff. I am loved. I am supported. I feel like I matter.
I guess this is why I've decided to write about my experience in New York, but not just the day on September 11. I wasn't there that long, and I'd like to tell the story from the beginning. Thankfully, I didn't lose anyone in the towers. I didn't see some of the horrors that others did. But I was there. Maybe in that story, of a 28-year-old giving up everything and moving from Grand Rapids to New York, working at Carnegie Hall, going through September 11, and drastically changing her life...maybe there's something valid in that too. I'll try to be totally honest. I'll try not to sensationalize or make September 11 about me. It wasn't about me. But maybe my little story shows how that day changed all of us. Sometimes for the worse...but...I think in my case...it changed me for the better.
I'll still do some fun, pointless blogs too.
Look for the "Tumbling 9/11" tag to read these posts. Other posts will be sorted into the regular 'blog' post.
-Tanya-
How about a naked wedding?
So the muther humping dresses I ordered don't fit. I'd like to blame the company I ordered them from, but I think instead I'll blame my genetics. When people ask me my nationality, I usually say, I'm not sure but we were a people who birthed babies and carried heavy objects. Hence my hips. And, apparently, my ENORMOUS ribcage. If I wear a cape for a wedding, no one will know that the blasted thing won't close and I can give up my impossible dream of trying to diet myself into thin-dom. I am not thin. I'm no Princess Kate. I'm possibly TWO Princess Kates sharing the same body. Yeah. Each one of my legs is a Princess Kate.
I'm not bemoaning being fat. I know I'm not fat...but searching for a wedding dress is bringing up every single insecurity I've ever had in my entire life over everything.
(Sometimes, a girl needs hyperbole.)
My future mother-in-law is coming over in a few minutes to take my enormous hips out to find a dress. I envision much crying to come. Why is this so hard? Why is it hard to find a dress that is flattering to a woman with hips and knockers? Huh? I ask you, why is it hard to find a dress for a WOMAN, a dress that doesn't look like a mumu, or like I can hide midgets under my skirt, or a dress that is so tight I can't breathe or if I want to breathe then I have to remove some ribs?
This shouldn't be so hard.
If this doesn't work, then I'm sending out new invitations to everyone. They will read as follows:
Please Join Kealoha And Tanya for their Clothing Optional Nuptials. Please note, they will not serve hot food or drinks to cut down on possibilities of burns. They will also not offer a limbo contest (for obvious reasons).
On second thought, if I don't find a dress, maybe I'll just paint one on. The wedding is during Art Prize after all. Maybe we'll make the top ten and win a big prize. Maybe even a trip to Paris!!
*sigh* Let me have my fantasies, please.