Back in February, I posted a silly little application for interested parties. You know, men who might want to date me. It was done in jest, of course, sort of in response to a series of dates I went on where the men were either still married, in love with someone else but taking me out as “practice”, unemployed, car-less or living with their parents, or a combination of all of those things. So, I made a joke about it. It WAS a funny application. I still think it’s funny (and I’ll repost it below). Still, there was an element of truth to it.

I wanted to date someone who was emotionally well-adjusted, working hard, had a good job, maybe a house. Essentially, I wanted to date someone who was pretty similar to me, without the boobs and severe PMS. I also wanted someone who appreciated that I write, who likes interesting and diverse food, who’s healthy. When I type out all my wants it seems like a big list, almost unattainable. And when I returned to dating and met a wonderful man, I tucked that check list away.

If you really connect with someone, if there’s a possibility for love, how important is something like a checklist? What if they have a very good reason for starting over? What if they’re trying desperately to get on their feet? What if they don’t have a car because they moved home from a big city? What if they just need a little time to start over and find a good job?

What if the really important things are there: What if they love you? What if they love who you are at the very core of you? What if they love that you write? How important is it that they like things like baked goat cheese in a homemade marinara sauce? There’s a simplicity to a man who prefers turkey sandwiches.

Should I even be talking about any of this? Probably not, but I don’t know what else to do.

In the movies, the Perfect Man is easy for the female lead to spot: he’s the one that’s super cute. Maybe he’s awkward, but their connection is real. But movies don’t touch on real life. What if that female lead is a single mom and spends every moment of her day either parenting, teaching, narrating or prepping to narrate, promoting her work, or writing in the hopes of building a stable life for her and her children?

Here’s the big question I’m leading to: When is love not enough? Is it wrong to have a checklist? To want a partner who is secure in more than his affection for you?

There are more questions too. Questions I talk about with my girlfriends. Why do we so often justify relationships or behavior in relationships that makes us feel awful. One of my girlfriends went out on a date with a guy. She had a great time. When the bill came, he said “We’ll have to split it because I can’t afford to get yours. I’m kinda in transition right now and don’t have a job, and I wasn’t sure if this was a date or not.” She likes him. She wants to see him again. And we tried to figure out if it’s okay for a guy not to pay on the first date. Of course it’s okay. Then again, what if it’s not okay for YOU? What if, for you, that Bill Paying Issue is a sign of respect, of a man who wants to treat you well and like a woman. Then again, are these old-fashioned gender roles?

See what I’m saying? It’s fucking complicated. I don’t usually swear too much, but there are time when only a good ‘fucking’ will do.

Pause. Pause. Pause.

Ehm…moving on.

I’m at a point in my relationship where I feel like that Gilbert lady in “Eat Pray Love”. You know the part where she’s praying and says “God, just tell me what to do and I’ll do it.” I wish there were the Voice of God to tell me what to do, but not like in Monty Python. I’ve always found their 60′s show annoying and uncomfortably tripped out. I just want someone to tell me what to do.

I want Alec Guiness to talk to me like he did in Star Wars to Luke. “Tanya, you must feel the Force within you. The Force will tell you what to do.” And then he tells me that A) either my list IS important and valid and I need to honor that or B) Love supersedes any list of expectations.

"Tanya...Listen to The Force. Buy a cute dress!"

My boyfriend is having struggles. I want to be there for him, but I’m also terrified. Am I terrified of love? Yes. It’s very hard to trust. But it’s doubly hard to trust when your partner can’t find a job. I always look a few feet down the road. This is a writer thing, a neurotic thing, and a single-mom thing. If he can’t find a job, what happens in a month. What happens in two? What happens if I fall in love so deeply that I marry him? Can I be the sole provider for my family? Do I want to be?

For now, I’m re-reading my checklist. If I were updating it, I’d also add Do You Like To Take Walks and Do You Smoke? But I’m not updating it. I’m re-reading it to see what I really need. Do I need all of these things? Or do I just need a man who loves me with his whole being…because honestly I have that. Maybe I should just be grateful for that and hope the other things work themselves out.

Here’s the old application:

Application to Date Tanya

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

1) Are you currently:

a) Married

b) Separated

c) Divorced

d) Single

e) Separated but still living with ex

f) Separated but emotionally damaged

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

2) Do you have a job and a car?

a) Yes

b) No

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

3)  Do you currently

a) Own your home

b) Rent

c) Live with your mom

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

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

a) Yes. Love it.

b) I’m a little uncomfortable with this.

c) My mother would be offended.

d) No way.

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

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

a) Plain old meat & potatoes for me

b) I’m a vegetarian or vegan

c)  Anything my mom cooks for me

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

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

6)  Are you dating anyone else?

a) Yes

b) No

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

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

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

Last night I had an interesting conversation with my ex’s new wife. I’ve jokingly referred to her in the past as my Sister Wife, as when I was still legally married she was the one who ended up taking me to the ER when I broke my foot. We both had to listen to the nurse say to me “Oh, your husband will have to treat you well this Christmas” when, of course, my husband was my ex and living with her. It was awkward and horrible and now, frankly, it’s very funny.

My ex and his wife had asked me to switch the holiday schedule in the custody agreement and, well, I’m not proud to say this, but I lost it. I Big Time lost it. You could blame it on just returning from a pretty emotional trip to New York, or blame the intense pain I was under because I needed a root canal. Blame the stress of realizing my bank account was really, really low; blame that my boyfriend is having job troubles and that freaks me out. Blame my hormones; blame the moon; blame the stars. Blame Glenn Beck just because. Mostly, I just blame myself. I felt like they’d asked me to (yet again) change my life to fit their needs, and because I didn’t matter and wasn’t important I should just do it.

And I got angry. Really angry. Angry enough to call my ex and yell at him and cry and tell him all the horrible things he’d done to me over the year. It went something like this: “Do you know what it felt like to have to take a picture of you and your new family on Halloween when we’d only be separated for a few months?” and “How could you bring the kids over on the day you got married when you were all still dressed up? Why couldn’t you at least have the decency to change your clothes so I didn’t have to see you in your wedding outfits?” Pointless stuff really. He didn’t say anything. He just listened. And then he said he was sorry.

Then that evening I wrote a long email. I pointed out all the ways they’d hurt me again. I threatened attorneys getting involved and possibly sending Mothra over to their house to get them. Did the venting, evil email make me feel better? Not really.

What did make me feel better was talking to my ex’s new wife. Boy, that’s a clunky way to refer to her. Let’s just call her Abby. My ex stayed home. Abby and I have decided to do the scheduling because my ex and I just can’t seem to communicate, part of the reason we’re divorced. So Abby and I went through the email and she asked me to be specific about what they had asked me to change over the year. I gave her details. Some she knew and disagreed with, some she didn’t know. What became clear as I talked to her is that I’m still angry at my ex for our years of miscommunication. I’m also angry about this year of divorce since he remarried so quickly with 4 new stepchildren, it feels as if again he’s more important than me. When we were married, his work and life were more important than me and anything I wanted or needed and I felt invisible. In our divorce, his new family is more important because there are more people. I’m just a single mom with Louis and Simone; he has a wife and (now) six kids. So, again, I feel invisible.

Abby said I should work on forgiveness. Now, if she’d said this to me earlier, I would have told her to go, er, have intimate relations with herself, but I didn’t. Why? Because she’s right. I have spent so much time and energy and emotion feeling hateful that’s it turning me bitter. You know those crazy dried-up apple faces they sell at arts and crafts shows? I feel like that’s who I’m turning into. It takes a lot of energy to be hateful.

The question is…how do you forgive? I’m not religious so I can’t turn it over to a higher power. I can only turn it over to myself. That’s tough when you’re neurotic because when you turn something over, you re-turn it and then analyze it and then get mad and then….it’s exhausting. But can I forgive? Can I let go? Can I move forward? Can I?

At what point do you stop feeling angry about the life that you don’t have and just focus on making the life you do have better?

Hmmm. Damnation. Harrumph! Blast. And I’ll throw an ‘egad’ in there for good measure.

It’s time for me to let go. It’s time for me to move on. My ex hurt me. I hurt my ex. This last year was horrible with starting over, seeing the kids in pain, fighting for a job, breaking my foot, fighting for a house. I’m so used to fighting it seems it’s all I do now. There’s a tiny realization happening here though that maybe, just maybe it’s time to stop fighting so much. I’ve forgotten to breathe.

Maybe forgiving for me starts with that: it starts with taking a deep breath and then gently, gently, letting the breath go.

We’ll see where I go from there.

Quiet Day in New York

I woke up feeling a little bit better. Must have been some powerful antibiotics. Still, when I turned to one side, I really did resemble Jay Leno. I was okay with this. I just pulled my hair over my jaw, batted my eyelashes and tried to look mysterious instead of bloated. I popped some Tylenol with Codeine (just one.  I’m a tender flower) and headed outside while my niece slept in. By Day 4, we’d fallen into a routine. She would stay up until 3am while I slept, and I’d wake up at 6:30am while she slept and explore the town.

I left the hotel looking for a flea market on 39^th street. I didn’t even make it. Around the corner from my hotel on 6^th Avenue, the entire avenue was shut down. Overnight a fair had sprouted…and they were selling stuff CHEAP! What was it with things sprouting overnight? In the country, mushrooms sprout. In New York movie productions and street fairs sprout.

I decided to check it out. I walked for blocks and blocks just looking—not just at stuff (though there was plenty) but at the people.

THE PEOPLE

What is so amazing about New York to me is the diversity of its people. In Michigan, pretty much everywhere you go you see people who look just like you or at least like your extended family. And it wasn’t just the cultural heritage of people that fascinated me, just the overwhelming diversity. So consider these glass necklaces I found: they’re all pretty much the same thing. But when you sift through them, you see all the different colors and shapes and…

Okay. I’m about to slip into Cheeseville.

Forgive me, but people are damned interesting. There were so many different skin colors and ages and shapes and eyes and I noticed that women (whether fat or skinny or curvy) all had little bellies sticking out. I found the bellies comforting. I found the differences comforting. I don’t know. I always worry that there’s something fundamentally different about me, that I stick out in some way. Then while checking out a random street on NY I see that everyone is fundamentally different. Epiphany: No one is perfect. Further epiphany: We’re all a little fucked up. No one even noticed my enormous half-chin. I rubbed my belly in happiness.

AFTERNOON

I took a rest and some more codeine. Strange. I’d taken Tylenol with codeine before and it was like floating on an uncomfortable ride through Disney World…or a tripped out Simpson’s episode. This time, it felt like it was having no effect, except I wasn’t in as much pain. That’s how I knew that I really was suffering. Ah well. I could bully through it.

My plan was to meet my cousins in Central Park for a couple of hours and then meet my very cool friend Dionne downtown to watch a play in the Fringe Festival and get Indian food. I made it to Central Park…but sadly had to bail on Dionne. At the end of the day I was throbbing all over, and not in the way that happens in romance novels.

I loved the park too. When I lived in the city, I’d take my lunch breaks there since it’s walking distance to Carnegie Hall. I love that everyone just hangs out, collectively but separate. There’s an ease to Central Park and, of course, people everywhere.

I talked with my cousins and their friends. Watched little Travis and Lizzie run up to people and dance and try to climb a gigantic tree. We ate popsicles and watched a group of break dancers do incredible flips and I worried whether they had health insurance.

At the end of the afternoon, I realized that there was no way I could make it downtown and handle another four or five hours of walking around. Frankly, I was sick and the pain in my tooth made me feel like crying. I said goodbye to my cousins, texted apologies to Dionne and made my way to the hotel.

FINAL NEW YORK THOUGHTS

I picked up a slice of pizza and nibbled tenderly on one side. My niece met friends for dinner and I had the hotel to myself to watch “Dark Knight”. I have to say in the hotel room, I had another little epiphany. Living in New York was a time where my life fractured. If 911 hadn’t happened, I could see myself still living there. I think I’d have a small apartment in Brooklyn, a collection of friends, a boyfriend. I don’t know if I’d have children…though I might’ve if things had worked out with Harrison. I could see this Other Tanya and her Other Life. It would be fast-paced and energized and rich and creative. The truth is, 911 did happen and it did change me and the life of the Other Tanya never was. I moved back to Grand Rapids.

But here’s the moral, folks, and I’m sorry if it’s cheesy or pat. It’s the truth. I can see the Other Tanya and her life but This Tanya, the Tanya of right now, is no longer envious. See, I may not have the energy or the excitement of New York, but I have a beautiful house where I can hear the crickets at night. I have two amazing and quirky children that I love with all my spirit. I have dear friends, true friends and a wonderful supportive family that I can call and see whenever I want. I’m a professor of writing at an art college for as long as they’ll have me, and I’m writing and publishing my books. My life now is fast paced and energized and rich and creative and, possibly more importantly, filled with love and purpose.

And I can always visit New York.

Sunday my niece and I flew back to Grand Rapids. It was a long and exhausting trip and my face hurt; when I pulled up to my house, Biff was standing there. He opened the door. He welcomed me home.

When I joked about having misadventures in New York, I sort of meant wearing a dress and accidentally tucking my dress into my panties. Not on purpose, mind you, but just doing embarrassing things that I happen to have a knack for. I did not mean develop an abscessed tooth and spend an entire day trying to get medication before my head exploded. Suffice it to say, yesterday was not the most pleasant of days.

To use a complicated and possibly mixed metaphor: You know that scene in the classic Godzilla story where he’s like smashing all of Tokyo and people are screaming and the beast is all “ROOOOAAAARR” with tiny arms flailing? The pain I’m experiencing is like that. Or it’s sorta like labor. Intense coming in waves, but at least with labor you get a baby out of the deal.

The Tooth has caused my deepest neuroses to surface. What if the infection spreads? What if I overdose on Ibuprofen and ice packs? I’m found dead in a hotel room and the paramedic shakes her head and says: “If only she’d taken antibiotics”.

Still, I did some cool things yesterday. Caity slept in and I explored the city in search of Orajel and coffee. Then we moved from out Times Square hotel a few blocks into Midtown: The Sofitel Hotel.

This place is so snazzy they actually had a bellman on his hands and knees scrubbing the sidewalk to get rid of any stains. I think he was a bellman. He might’ve just been a random guy with OCD. Anyway, the hotel is classy: wood and lush fabrics, classical music playing in the rooms, lotion scented with lavender. It’s got a French flare and it makes me want to wear a beret and speak in obtrusive poetical sentences like they do in French films: “Caity, I cannot accompany you to dinner because I am floating on a sea of pain and the pain is the color of emptiness.” You know, annoying stuff like that.

Caity was exhausted from walking Times Square until 4 in the morning. Uhm, not like a hooker, just a twenty-year-old exploring. So I had the afternoon to myself. I did my favorite thing in New York. Hopped on the N train to Lincoln Center and found my favorite art movie house. It’s a dingy, dirty little place that shows foreign films and independent movies.

When I lived here I’d go there on payday and see whatever movie was playing next. I remember seeing Swimming Pool there and a few others. I decided to roll the die and do it again. I walked up at 12:45; at 12:55 they had a movie playing. I bought tickets to that. Turned out to be “Soul Kitchen”. It was in German. Yay! And about a restaurant! Yay! And had Manni from Run Lola Run in it and Soul Music and montages of food and a guy who kept doing stupid mistakes….why…someone made the movie just for me.

I was the youngest in the theater by about three decades. I sucked on ice instead of eating popcorn. I actually couldn’t eat anything. By the end of the movie I was high on endorphins from seeing a really fun film, and from the intense pain. I called my friend Vicki in Michigan for advice. She’s a stay-at-home mom who was trained as a doctor. Her husband is an ER doctor. They discussed my symptoms and said I’d better get an antibiotic or I might have to go to an ER. They suggested I call my primary care physician and he could call in a prescription.

Look at my face! The jowl! Oh, woe is me! (You see it?)

Thus began my two hour search for medicine. My primary care doctor….I have several obscenities here. He wouldn’t prescribe medicine, feeling that I should get checked out first. I think he was afraid I was going to try to sell an antibiotic on the streets of New York, perhaps to earn plane fare back.

I walked to Carnegie Hall to have an anti-climactic “Oh I used to work there” moment and then started crying on the street corner of 57^th and 7^th. My body hurt. My face hurt. I was shaking with hunger. How was I supposed to find a doctor? Then a beaming ray of light fell on a Duane Reade and angels strummed harps. (That could be an exaggeration.) There was a Duane Reade with a “Doctor On Premises!” She saw me. She took a look at me and said, “Your face is all swollen”. I started crying again. “Look, I don’t know anything about teeth but I’ll prescribe you an antibiotic, okay, honey?” I loved her a little bit right then.

Prescription in hand, I hopped on the subway to Union Square and met my cousin Mike outside his work. He’s a very cool graphic designer and a director. That means he gets to tell people what to do. Caity and I walked around his office, met his coworkers. I was supposed to go with Mike and Caity to meet his wife Tessa in Central Park. We were going to have a picnic, but I couldn’t do it. I was either going to pass out or curl in fetal position and I sorta wanted some privacy to do that. I told them I’d see them later, made my way to the hotel, found a deli where I could get dinner: mashed potatoes, chicken soup, and rice. Best. Dinner. Ever. I took the codeine, the antibiotic, the ibuprofen, put an instant ice pack on my face, watched bad TV and got to talk to my Biff for a few minutes.

This morning I’m writing from a little diner down the street. The pain isn’t as bad but my face is still swollen. Not bad, I just look like I have a really defined chin on one side. If I’m lucky, I’ll feel well enough to meet my friend Dionne and go to a Fringe play and to Alphabet City (that’s the name right?) for Indian food. We’ll see what the day holds. So far, everything’s looking up and Toothzilla, for now, is taking a nap.

Morning

I wake up to a colossal headache. Correction. A toothache. In New York! You’re not supposed to get a toothache while on vacation. And you’re not supposed to have half of your face swell up so you look like you have an allergic reaction. Blast. And I have no hairspray or gel because of ‘plane safety issues’. I look bloated. At least half of me does. I pop some serious ibuprofen and hope this is just a momentary toothache and not, say, cause for a root canal.

I need coffee. I throw on a 1980’s type floppy shirt over my yoga pants. One thing I love about New York is you can look swollen, puffy, and crazy in your yoga pants and 80’s t-shirt and NO ONE CARES.

Out the door of my hotel, there are all these trucks. Wait a minute…not trucks. Production vehicles. They’re shooting a film on my block. (I call it my block even though it’s mine for only twenty four hours.) I’m hoping a casting agent will see me and maybe put me in the film as a Crazy Cat Lady. I have the hair and face to prove it. I just need the cats. And a wool coat. And then it’s off in search of coffee….which I find at The Hot and Crusty. I’m not kidding you. It’s a deli called The Hot and Crusty…and it’s incredible. Eggs, toast, hash-browns and coffee for $4.65, and the guys behind the deli will flirt with you for free.

I don’t look flirt-able right now. Although, someone reminded me (Biff) that women hit their sexual peak in their late 30’s. Maybe that’s why everywhere I go men are awfully nice to me. It’s either that or because I have big boobs.

Afternoon

My niece Caity and I check into our next hotel, the Hilton in Times Square. Compared to our first night in the city, this place is gigantic. My brother booked the room for us using his super-important-VIP status. They let us check into the hotel three hours early. I think they would’ve given me a foot rub if I asked.

Then we explore Times Square a bit. There are people everywhere: most of them are obviously tourists. Caity and I try to blend in with local New Yorkers by walking really fast and looking mildly grumpy. It works.

We discover Bryant Park on our hunt for a sandwich and are smitten. The foodie in me emerges because I want to take pictures of all the delis and the buffets. Keeping my niece’s tender self-esteem in mind, I refrain, but it takes a lot to do so.

We shop at H&M. It’s a flashback to 1984 and I find that I am actually supportive of this. I mean, come on, paint splattered shirts are fun. It’s like “Look at me! I’m wearing paint splatters!” I like the oversized droopy shirts, the belts, the crazy patterns. I try to remember that I’m 37 and not 17 and that I really probably shouldn’t tease my hair again and wear rubber shoes and bangly bracelets and a Like A Virgin shirt. (Although secretly I really like the idea of being a mom with two kids wearing a Like A Virgin shirt. Something about that is very appealing.)

Evening

At 4:00 I get a call from my old boyfriend. He says “Hello, darlin’. How are you doing?” His voice is soft and low and I can hear him smiling when he talks to me. We decide that drinks are still on so I get dressed. Caity tells me what to wear. The long sundress I love is a big No. “You look like a soccer mom taking the kids on an outing.”

“But I have cleavage!” I say.

“Tanya, moms have cleavage too. They feed babies.”

Ah. So I try on a new dress I bought at Filene’s Basement. It’s short and tight and again, my boobs are enormous. I’m having Boob Paranoia. I can’t do that dress. I’ll wear that dress when I’m out with Biff. But not for an ex. So I put on a cute wraparound blue dress where the cleavage is easy. I mean classy. I was slipping into the Summertime song there. I apologize.

The bar we meet at is called the Vanderbar, on 45^th (I think) and Vanderbuilt. I get there early and sit by an open window. They have the air blasting so you get the benefit of open windows without sweating. New York is smart that way. I order a drink. A martini made with blackberry vodka with real berry bits. I don’t like how the term ‘berry bits’ sounds…sort of like something exploded. The drink, though, is good.

I watch men walking by the window, into the bar. They’re in suits and I have a surreal moment where I look around for Christian Bale thinking I’ve slipped onto the set of American Psycho.

My old boyfriend…let’s call him Harrison (with a nod to Harrison Ford though my ex doesn’t look like him at all) texts me and says he’ll be there in five minutes.

I try to relax and I find that I do. I also slip back into 2001 when I met Harrison. We met online and our first date lasted 8 hours. We went to restaurants and bars and kissed in a bar surrounded by hundreds of people. Our relationship was easy and intense and I loved him. After September 11^th, the city was so depressed, especially that first Christmas. I had no money and no family. I wanted a Christmas tree but couldn’t afford one so I drew a picture of one on a grocery bag, colored it and decorated it. I taped it to the wall and there was one present under it, a quilt I’d made for him. We spent Christmas together walking through the night to Central Park. There was a light snow and the world was draped in stars and Christmas lights. And menorahs too, of course.

A couple months later Harrison broke up with me. He said it was the timing and that “It’s not you, Tanya, it’s me.” I didn’t understand. I thought I’d found the One. I felt totally used and like I didn’t matter. All part of why I moved back home.

I think of this waiting for him. When he enters the bar we look at each other and we smile. He looks the same. Exactly the same. He’s married now with two kids and one on the way and he’s the kind of guy that is just plain comfortable to be with. We sit and talk and drink and laugh. He brings up the past. He says “You know, I’ve often thought about you and wondered what would have happened if we met a year later. I was just in a really difficult time in my life and I wasn’t ready.”

I get teary then because what he’s said is a gift to me. I didn’t imagine a connection; it was really there, and I mattered to him. And now, after being divorced, I understand what he means. It really was the timing. We talk about our lives and kids. I talk about my divorce and Biff. We toast to old times at another bar and then say our goodbyes.

I walk by myself through the streets of New York and I find that a little part of my heart has just healed.

I meet my niece at American Idiot and we see a show together. We spend the rest of the night walking around together and laughing. We eat Tasti D-Lite in Times Square.

The way I feel about New York now is the way I feel about Harrison. It occupies a little place in my heart, but it’s a place no longer of sadness but of a wonderful year. I used to think that moving to the city in 2001 was horrible timing, like meeting Harrison was horrible timing. Now I wonder otherwise. It was a year that changed my life and for the better. And I can be happy with that now.

When I sleep, I don’t dream. I wake up smiling…but I still have a toothache.

To tell you why this trip to New York is important to me is a really long story. Like a novel. Or a memoir. I can’t tell that whole story because I want to blog about what the trip is now and what happens (if anything). So here’s the summary: in July 2001 I sold everything, moved to NYC and tried to live the life of a struggling writer. I got a great job at Carnegie Hall, went through September 11^th and then New York and I changed. I tried to stay. Fell in a love with a man who called me darlin’ and then broke my heart. And I realized I wasn’t cut out for the Big Apple. I came home nine months later. That’s the back story.

Here’s the Flash Forward:

I was so nervous about this trip that I had to take a Valium last night. It made me feel woozy and giggly and allowed me to actually sleep a bit. On the plane ride we (my niece Caity and I) were jammed in to this tiny plane that trembled at every gust of wind. I had to hold Caity’s hand while she tried not to roll her eyes. We got off the plane (once it landed of course) and then found a cab. I felt different driving into the city. The last time I’d done it, I had all my belonging with me. This time, I was a tourist. It was a lovely day, slightly overcast, cool, so the New York City Summer Smell wasn’t so bad.

We found our hotel on West 87^th street (The Belnord) and then went exploring. I quickly realized that this wasn’t the city I left ten years ago. Maybe because September 11 is no longer part of every waking moment. Or maybe it’s because I’m a little older. When I lived here, I was so immersed in my own experience, I never looked around. This time was different. It is different. (Tense change people. To my students: I apologize.) New York isn’t a place really…I mean it is…but what makes it interesting is the people. It’s People! It’s like Soylent Green only you don’t eat it.

We did eat Greek food. Grapes hung from the ceiling. Plastic grapes, thankfully.

Then we were off to kill two hours before checking into the hotel. We found this strange bookstore with books covering the walls from floor to ceiling. It smelled musty. And I listened to the clerk talk to his accountant. They were hipsters, in their late twenties.

“Dude, weirdest thing I’ve ever seen in here was a homeless guy came in with a plastic bag, he dropped his drawers right in the store man and took a crap. A crap! In the bag! Then he pulled up his drawers, grabbed the bag and left.” The clerk shook his head.

The accountant ( a redhead with a bad sunburn) said: “Well, how did he do that? I mean, wouldn’t that be hard to get all that shit into a bag and not make a mess?”

Clerk: “I don’t know man. I guess he had a lot of practice.”

Mmmm. My first New York Story.

We checked into our hotel. It was cute. And made for very tiny people. I’m 5’4 and nearly a giant, but it’s okay. I fit.

Then we went to Union Square. It was a mass of Hipsters. Skinny jeans, crocheted hats, thick glasses. Irony was in the air like a thick fog. Everyone was hanging out looking mildly bored. I wanted to take a brush and comb hair out of Hipsters’ eyes. I refrained.

While walking around Caity and I spied a beautiful man coming toward us. He had long curly hair, was wearing a skirt and a mesh lacy top. Like, totally a woman’s outfit, but he didn’t care. And he had amazing legs. Long, shapely and covered in dark hair. We both agreed that he was the hottest transsexual we’d ever seen, and utterly natural looking.

Caity met a friend of hers and I was left on my own to explore. I found a place to sit and have a drink and while sitting there that old boyfriend I told you about called me. “Hello, darlin’…” he began. I just laughed. It’s not ten years ago. I don’t have any feelings for him, and that’s sort of liberating. Plus, I have Biff waiting for me at home…and HE fixes sinks and stuff.

Then I took a subway to the hotel. I was all cocky like I Know The Subway I lived Here Ten Years Ago. Yeah. Not so much. I immediately got on the wrong train and ended up on the East side. I thought I stepped through a vortex. Then I realized I’d just used the wrong train. So, back to the subway and to Times Square to fix my error. Doors closed. It was hot and smelled of onions. That’s not a pleasant thing. Then we stopped. Mid-tunnel. The lights flickered. The driver came on the speaker “Look, folks, we’re stuck here for a while. Some guy in the train just ahead of us is sick. They’re trying to figure out what to do with him.”

A girl wearing a t-shirt dress (which I suspected might just be a t-shirt) said “Well, get the asshole off the train. We have dinner reservations.”

We waited. I thought, hmm. Someone’s sick? We’d been waiting for twenty minutes. I wondered if someone had a heart attack or explosive vomiting, then decided I didn’t want to think about it. Finally the driver came back on. “Okay. We need to evacuate. It’s not a big deal. Be calm. When I stop the train, you all need to move slowly to the front of the train, but be careful stepping between the trains ESPECIALLY IF YOU’RE IN HEELS. There’s 600 volts of electricity down there, people. It’s not a joke. If you are in heels, be especially careful!”

I was in the last train. Do you know how long it takes to walk from the back of a NY subway train to the front, balancing between cars? It takes forever. And it makes you dizzy.

It’s an hour later now and I’m in my hotel room. I just ate a Tasty D-Lite Strawberry Cheescake cone followed by an enormous piece of pizza. If Biff were here, he’d probably have eaten TWO slices of pieces because he likes to eat things in pairs.

My feet hurt, I’m tired, and I don’t need Valium tonight. I’m utterly relaxed. And the New York I was so afraid to return to isn’t scary at all. It’s just wrapped in skinny jeans and has a wicked sense of humor. I fit right in. I’m wearing a cape after all.

I went to my friend G’s cottage this week to reconnect and share our writing. He’s working on what looks like is going to be a terrific novel. We read to each other, talked writing, had a gin and tonic. I took a nap in the hammock, listened to the wind rustle the leaves. Stronger than rustle, actually. It was full-on shaking the leaves.

It was a great afternoon. G and I are dealing with similar writing issues, and maybe some similar life issues too. And then while he worked on prepping dinner (that I sadly missed, had to get home before falling asleep) I tried to get online. No access. But my mail folder popped up and I clicked something weird and all of a sudden I was looking at email from 2008…and the first message was a harmless message I’d sent to my now ex.

Hi sweetie. Sorry lunch was so rushed. I was trying to get the kids to play and take a good nap. It worked. They’re both napping now.

I hope you have a great trip and all goes smoothly. I’m sorry I didn’t make you bread. I honestly thought you didn’t want me to make sweets right now. Maybe there will be something nice for your return.

I heard from Trillium Farms. Everything is confirmed; and got a receipt for Iowa. Both exciting. When we get our refund check and/or Brilliance money, we should set some aside to pay the balance on the farm. It’s due in April.

love you

Tanya

It depressed me. Deeply. Why? What’s wrong with this note? It’s a simple note from a wife to a husband. It’s about every day stuff. What saddened are the things that are not said. My ex in this email was on one of his many trips, and he’d come home briefly for food before heading out. At that time, I cooked everything from scratch. I apologize here for lunch being rushed. Louis was 4 and Simone was 2 and I apologized! I also apologized for not having homemade bread for him. Then I talk about Iowa. On Iowa, I’d scheduled a writing conference that I wanted to attend on my own, but my ex insisted that he go with me. I was angry at him, but you’d never guess it here. Also, I used money from my voice-overs from Brilliance to pay for it, because it was an extravagance and he refused to use any of our ‘regular’ income.

You don’t hear the sadness in here. You hear a woman being a wife and saying I love you and taking care of things. But how I felt…oh, how I felt. Why couldn’t I tell him? Why couldn’t I explain how miserable I was? Why was I, essentially, lying to him?

The truth is, I wasn’t just lying to him by pretending to be happy and pretending everything was okay. I was lying to myself. Every email I sent him tried so hard to be perfect. I apologized for the house not being cleaner, for not making better food, for spending $10 over our $250 monthly food budget. I said “I love you” more times than I can count. I asked him to forgive me. It turns my stomach now to read it. Why would I expect him to know what I was feeling if I was so very good at hiding it?

I think we all do this. We want a perfect life so badly, we tell ourselves we have it. We apologize for things we don’t feel guilty for. We say yes to things we want to say no to.

I’m mad at myself for being so phony, not only with my ex (because there is an element in there that isn’t fair) but also to myself. If I could’ve been strong enough earlier…

I did the best I could.

While G cooked, I had flashbacks to my life as a wife. There are things I miss so much about it. I miss the comfort and security. I miss the predictability. I miss having my kids all the time. I miss planning menus and having a husband that would eat anything I set in front of him from crazy vegetarian food to extravagant roasts to, fresh ciabatta bread. I miss the ring on my finger that seemed to prove to myself that, yes, I was loved.

Sorry to wax poetic here. My ex has taken the kids camping with his new wife and her children and it makes me feel vulnerable and sad.

I haven’t deleted those emails yet. I can’t bear to look at them all, but maybe they’re some kind of reminder, and maybe those emails, the things I don’t say are part of the reason that right now, I’m saying so very much. After five years of self-imposed silence, I find I can’t shut up.

At least now, I like to think that I’m saying all the things I should. There aren’t any spaces between. It’s sometimes hard to live honestly, to be authentic with the loved ones in my life, but I think too, that the life I have now is richer because of that. And while I still want some kind of proof that I have love in my life, I don’t need the ring anymore. I just look at my kids and I know.

I’m having trouble coming up with a focused blog topic. I thought I’d write about women and friendships with them. I had a wonderful/awful week with women friends…just showing the complexity of these relationships…and then I went and used the word relationship, and my mind spun off into an entirely different direction. Then I started thinking about men. Then Biff. Then me and Biff. Then the many, many reasons why at 37, I am willing to drop him and our relationship at every little bump in the road.

I tell my students not to use clichés, but I’m too tired to be clever.

I can’t make sense of this. Not all at once. So. Back to women and friendships. Here’s what I know: I used to hate women. Growing up, I never had many friends and then when I had a girlfriend, I’d grow dependent on her and then she’d break my heart. Katie Horvath and Rachel Schwartz did this to me in 6^th grade where they took me out into the middle of the playground and Rachel fluffed her feathered hair and told Katie to say it. Katie didn’t want to, I think because I would go over to her house after school. We’d dance to Madonna videos and she’d play the piano and I sing whatever Lionel Richie song she had sheet music for.

But I looked into her blue eyes and she said it anyway “We’ve decided you’re not cool enough to hang out with us.” I was devastated. Heartbroken. You’d think I’d gotten  divorced. Hadn’t we had a relationsip? Didn’t we eat sundaes together and sleep on the floor in sleeping bags watching MTV. Didn’t I tell her that she could be Madonna’s younger sister? I didn’t trust women for a long, long time after that.

Why? Why are my friendships with women so intense? They’re like this with men sometimes too. When you trust your self…Your Self…with someone, you open your heart to love but also disappointment. It’s like you’re Achilles and you say “If you want to kill me, strike me right here on this here soft heel”. Trust is like that. Love is like that. “I’m going to trust you with this because it will bring us closer, and in the end you can use it to destroy me”. Katie Horvath did that to me. I did it to other people. Women…we’re great…and we’re mean. And we’re extremely loyal.

In college I had another close/torturous friendship with a roommate. I loved her. I loved her platonically but wholly and then when I started dating a guy, I gave more time to him and I broke her heart. She and I could’ve been the kind of friends that lasted a lifetime. We lasted one year.

Over the years, I’ve gotten better at being a friend. And I like women now. I get them. We can communicate with just a blink and say everything from “Cute shirt” to “You step anywhere near me and my man and I will kill you and suck out your soul.” We also understand all the nuisanced rules of dating so we can commiserate when a guy fucks up…and he will fuck up because our list of rules is gigantic.

When I’m broken and bruised, I call my girlfriends. I call Rae who I’ve known since college. We don’t see or talk frequently, but she’s always there, and she always supports me. I call my sister. We didn’t talk for 7 years…but that’s nothing. We’re close as ever now. I have other women friends (and a few gay guy friends) and I know that no matter what choice I make or decision I fuck up, they’ve got my back. They’ve got my back because they love me.

That’s what a true friendship is. It’s singing Lionel Richie songs with them and forgiving them for sucking. It’s growing old together and telling each other every time you see them “You look amazing”. It’s listening and when a friend is confused saying, “Whatever you decide, I’m here for you.”

I like women now. I love them. They’ve taught me to be a better person, and a better partner to the men I’ve had in my life. Now, of course, not all women are great influences on me. I’ve had to say goodbye to friends that brought out more of a darkness in me than a light, but I don’t think that’s because they’re women. It’s just that our friendships grew and changed and then we moved on.

Right now, I’m trying to figure out how to be vulnerable again, how to love again, how to protect my heart but leave it open too. And my girlfriends are right along with me. They don’t tell me what to do, exactly, they just sort of walk along with me, even if I’m wearing totally wrong shoes. They know I’ll figure it out eventually.

What I’m saying here is that somewhere along the way in growing up, I went from hating women to needing them in my life. There’s no great moral here or anything, just a general shout out.

As for relationships with men…that’s a whole different blog post. But I’m learning there too. And I’m trying not to sprint for the door at every available opportunity. I’m trying to…as a fortune cookie said…just enjoy being happy for now. And on Wednesday night, I’ll be hanging with some new girlfriends gluing sequins to sombreros to promote “Blunder Woman” because this is what girlfriends do. When one friend is need, everyone comes carrying a glue gun and vodka.

Look at that. There’s a moral in here after all.

One of the problems with blogging about your personal life, is you’re…well…blogging about your personal life. Over the last year I felt like it was a really good thing. I felt really connected to other women (and men) going through a divorce and it gave such a great outlet for finding humor within the painful experience. It also gave me a way to write about real things instead of just imagined ones. I don’t know. It was liberating.

And I felt supported. Loved.

So maybe when I received a message from a friend today that my constant Facebook status updates and blogging are a cry for outside validation, it hurt because it’s partly true. I have been looking for it. For me though, the validation has come more through the process of writing through my own experiences and finding meaning within them. I didn’t really think I was looking for that from other people.

Then when I had trouble in my dating, I did the natural thing. I wrote about it. Was I looking for help and validation? Yes. Was that wrong? Maybe. I’m starting to think maybe it was. I’ve enjoyed sharing my life through words. Not because I want to be in a spotlight but because so many people have written to me and said  “I feel the same way you do” or “life is hard but you somehow find a way to laugh through it”. And everyone in the publishing business has encouraged me to connect through the media, to use social networking sites because you’ll find new readers. You’ll get your work out there.

Now it’s out there. Today though, I’m not feeling too good about it. Are bloggers and people who tweet and do Facebook desperate? Do they need attention? Is there something wrong with them or is this a new way to connect with people and share life experiences and laugh through the suffering? I don’t know anymore. I don’t know a lot of things.

I know I work hard. I work to keep writing because I feel a deep need to create for whatever reason. I work to connect with people. I work to support my family. I’ve enjoyed my blog and tweets. Of going through the day and trying, every single day, to find the funny within it. I don’t always succeed, but most days I do.

I guess I need to think about this. Where’s the line between putting your work out there and being a writer, and when do you just come off as sounding desperate?

I’m sincerely grateful for all the support I’ve received. For anyone who reads my blog or my books or any of the work I put out there, thank you. It is validating. Writers write, and until their words are read, it doesn’t feel like the process is done. It’s like baking a cake. You mix everything but it’s not a cake until that baby is baked, cooled and frosted. THEN and only then can you eat it.

(I’m so close to saying “EAT ME” right now, but will refrain.)

I don’t know the answer to any of this. Do I NEED validation? Do I NEED input from others? And if I do, am I okay with that?

Part of me wants to stop writing, stop promoting. But you know…I tried that in my marriage and it nearly killed me. I disappeared for a long time. I don’t really want to disappear again.

So maybe that’s the truth. My truth is I write because it helps me connect with people and it helps me feel alive. And I’m not ashamed of wanting to share my work with people. If you don’t want to read it, you don’t have to. Many don’t. But if you do…it’s here. I’m here. And my words continue the way my life does: awkwardly, full of errors, and deeply, deeply human.

Nine days since I blogged. Nine days! I feel like I should get a coin or something. Trouble is, I don’t really want a coin. I like blogging. It keeps me off of antidepressants.

So…The Great Steak Showdown is done. That’s a relief. But it doesn’t mean that Biff and I are done. Now, before you react and start wagging your finger at me with “Ohhhhhh, girrrrl” hear me out. I’ve learned a lot this last year. I mean I joke and all about wearing a cape and being an average superhero, but sometimes—more and more lately—I do feel so strong that I could wear a cape and actually get away with it. I imagine myself walking down the street, chest out, chin up, with my cape furling behind me and someone says “Now there goes a chick in a cape” instead of “There goes a chick with a serious personality disorder”. This is a good thing.

Me. As a dog. With a cape.

A year ago when my husband was mean to me or sarcastic or unkind, I took it. I accepted it, I took it like an unwanted hurtful present and I held it close. But this time when Biff was (in my opinion) selfish and hurtful, I didn’t accept it. In fact, I was strong enough to say in an almost superhero voice “This is not good enough for me” and I was willing to end it right there.

What changed then? Biff did not come crawling back and say “Oh, baby, I love you and I’ll never ever do that again.” I would’ve been skeptical if he had. What he did do was better and right. We sat on my deck outside and he said, “I fucked up. I’m really sorry. And when we fight again, I want to be able to talk to you about it.” We will fight again. But if we’re to succeed as a couple or even become better individuals, we’ll need to talk about it.

We’re trying again. Slowly. Differently. Things do feel different. We’re talking more, especially about all those tiny moments in our lives that have shaped us. Why, for example, when he sat down to eat two steaks I remembered the cupboard my stepmother kept locked. It was filled with good food, name brand food, when we kids had nothing to eat. It’s primal stuff like that.

I have no idea what will happen next, but I do know this: I stood up for myself, maybe for the first time ever, and Biff stood up for us. He’s trying. I’m trying. It’s all very adult. And it makes me strut just a little bit. Maybe at 37, divorced, mom to two kids and pseudo mom to two kittens, maybe I’ve finally grown up a little bit. I don’t wear a cape for real, but I feel it on my shoulders. And sometimes I even carry a whip.

That’s probably TMI.

I apologize for that image.

Hope to see some of you at the reading this Friday. I’ll be reading a tiny section of “Blunder Woman”. Come up and say hi. I don’t have a superhero death grip so if you want to shake hands, I promise to be gentle.