Candy-striper Trixie with Doctor Pierce

And now…the full recording of PIERCED HEARTS written by Keeley Geary and Tanya Eby, recorded and mixed (with original music) at Sound Post in Grand Rapids, Michigan and starring:

Tanya Eby as Trixie, Keeley Geary as Nurse Darla, Todd Lewis as Dr. Pierce, Laural Merlington as Mrs. Hathaway, Noddea Moore as the Woman in the Cafeteria, Greg Rogers as Mr. Corn and Calin Skidmore as the Narrator and Little Timmy.

Click on the title below to listen to the full recording:

Pierced Hearts: On Life, Love and Kidneys

Nurse Darla

Entering PART TWO of “Easy Does It”. What is Julie thinking? Why is Eve dressed as Catwoman? What’s going to happen to poor Dan the Man? Listen:

EDI Chapters 47 through 50

Okay. Granted, I was a little grumpy yesterday. But I’m breathing and doing yoga all while sipping mojitos with festive sprigs of fresh mint, and really I feel just fine.

It’s all led me to think of my dysfunctional relationship with turkey. Turkey, to me, is a like that bad boyfriend you had in high school, you know the one with the mowhawk who got high on lunch hour and listened to Depeche Mode; that boyfriend that you knew your parents disapproved of but you kept going back to him. The boyfriend all your other dysfunctional relationships are measured against.

I’m totally lost now. This is why you should never extend a metaphor.

Oh! Okay. Me and turkey. I love turkey. I hate turkey. I’ve tried to quit turkey…er….cold turkey, but the rat bastard calls me back. It’s all that golden skin and rich lusciousness. And basically any turkey is good turkey with a good wine-based gravy. Turkey makes a home smell homey. It makes Thanksgiving feel like a real holiday instead of an awkward reception dinner.

You bad turkey, you

One year, I tried to cook dim sum. We had pot stickers and eggrolls and spicy tofu and little dumplings and you know, I missed the turkey. And it’s everything that turkey goes with: the potatoes, soft and fluffy and occasionally lumpy, the stuffing (mine with sausage and apple), the bad casseroles that no one quite understands but take heaping spoonfuls anyway.

I never cook a turkey right. It’s always overdone or underdone. It’s that love hate thing again. What I’ve noticed though, if you’re with friends and family, if you’re drinking a little wine and reminiscing, if everything is awkward and slightly uncomfortable, if someone starts a fight with a sibling or someone else starts crying, it’s the turkey that makes it bearable—for there’s the one magical moment where everyone sets the personal issues aside, sits together at the table and takes  a collective breath, and there is peace. And sometimes in that moment of quiet, we realize just how much we love the people in our lives, even though they make us crazy.

And of course, afterwards, everyone takes a nap due to turkey-drug-effect. And that’s not bad either.

Speaking of…time to cook the artichoke dip and get ready for the hike to Brendan and George’s. There’s no dim sum today, and that’s just the way I like it. I like my old bad boyfriend. He does, after all, have great legs.

All right, people, through this whole divorce, I have (honestly) been the kindest, sweetest I could possibly be. After all, I did the leaving. There are a lot of good reasons for my leaving. Really, really good reasons. Just ask my mom. And my sister. And everyone in my family. And my friends. And the mailman. And my lover. Okay, don’t ask my lover, he doesn’t exist, but you can ask the mailman. Leaving was good. And terrible. But right. You know what I mean.

And through this, I’ve said everything as gently as I could, I’ve used “I” statements, I went for joint custody because it’s better for the kids, I tried not to take any money or ask for too much support (I get $100 a month), and you know what? I don’t want to be Mrs. Nice Girl anymore. I was Mrs. Nice Girl when I was married: quiet, submissive, and just plain gray. Now, I just want to be Tanya: complex, colorful, quirky Tanya. So. Mrs. Nice Girl? Forget it. Forget it! Here’s where I find my voice. Here, P, is where I tell you the whole truth. Right now, I’m pointing to my ass, and telling you to kiss it.

Here’s my letter to you:

Dear P,

The other day you told me you were getting remarried and I thought, duh. Two weeks after I moved out, you were on Match.com. Two weeks later I ran into you on your first date, literally, with our kids, though we had an agreement that you wouldn’t introduce our kids to anyone we were dating. You said you weren’t dating. Two weeks later, your relationship was “Very Serious”. On Halloween, you brought your girlfriend and her kids and our kids into my house and I took a family picture of you because the kids wanted one. And now six months later, you’re getting married. Well. Yes. Good for you. That wasn’t enough though, you had to keep going.

Then you told me that you had a deep connection with your first wife, and with your new fiancée you have found a love you didn’t think was possible, and then you said you married me because you wanted kids.

So. I was right. When I told you I felt like you didn’t honor me or cherish me, when I felt like you just wanted a wife and a cook and someone to be a mom to your kids, I was right. And it’s nice to hear you finally admit it. You never took the time to know me. You never read my writing, you never wanted me to act. You wanted me to stay home and cook…and I did, because I thought that we’d have a good family.

But you were controlling and a general asshole, and now, I feel sorry for you. I feel sorry that you weren’t able to spend even two weeks alone before looking for someone to take over my role.

Last night, I had to meet your fiancée. She seems perfectly nice. Already she’s organizing your schedule, taking care of you, and now I feel sorry for her too. I hope your connection is real. I hope you haven’t misled her the way you misled me.

I’m tired of being nice. I’m tired of being a victim.

I met with a trainer at the gym today and he said: “Tanya, you’re doing a great job. You just need more confidence.” I wanted to hug him. He was talking about working out, but for me it meant a lot more. I need more confidence. It starts here. I release you, P. You never knew me. That’s your loss. Our kids will be great. I love them deeply….but you…you are a stranger to me and no longer have the power to hurt me. You took a lot from me in our marriage, and now, I’m taking it back.

***

Readers, I hope you’ll forgive my digression here, but sometimes, you’ve just got to tell the truth. The truth is, I am free from a really bad marriage and someday, sometime, I’m going to have the happiness I want. I wish this for you too.

I was at Dog Story Theater last night watching a fabulous night of improv with very talented people. I’ll link it so you can see who I’m talking about. Then they did their Open Improv Jam. Basically they let anyone try their hand at improvising. I was grumpy and wearing black and generally feeling very moody, so, of course, decided to jump on in. It made me feel better. First off, everyone was funny, and secondly, I sort of like the challenge. Also, secretly, I like being on stage. In a spotlight. It’s warm up there. Anyway….Our prompt: holidays. My epiphany: Santa desperately needs to be updated.

Traditional Santa: The Reality

It occurred to me the current image of Santa Claus was invented by Coca Cola. At the time, a jolly old man with a long beard was warm and appealing. Now, he’s a little bit creepy. He’s vastly overweight, with a long, unkempt beard, and he wants kids to sit on his lap. It makes me uncomfortable.

I say he needs an image makeover. First, a serious diet. And someone should check him for diabetes. That much weight around the middle is a sign that something’s not right. Let’s put him on a treadmill, get him on a healthy diet with plenty of fiber, and then, I’m sorry, but that beard has got to go.

I want a lean Santa. A clean-shaven Santa. A Santa that says “I’m approachable and healthy. I’m well-adjusted. I take pride in my appearance”. In fact, I want Santa all to myself, in a dark room, lights twinkling, some mood music in the background. In fact, as long as I’m reinventing Santa, I want my Santa in his late thirties, open to commitment, with a good stable job. And I want him in a thong*.

My Santa: Merry Christmas to YOU.

Where was I going with this?

I have no idea. I’m totally distracted now. And I’m thinking maybe it’s time I picked up some romance books and had some time with myself.

Santa’s probably good as he is. Belly and all. Cookies and milk. Beard. That’s wholesome. Good for everyone’s spirit.

I think maybe I just have some issues.

Happy holidays.

*A note on thongs: I actually think they’re ridiculous and if I ever saw someone wearing one, Santa or no, I might actually experience palpitations and pass out.

The last chapter of Part One. Hey…subtle hint…if you’re listening to this and you like it, consider buying a copy for a friend or a sister or a mom. Seriously. It’s a good gift, and it shows that you support my work. Just look for it on Amazon. And “Blunder Woman” is waiting for you in the summer. Thanks for listening!

Easy Does It CH 46

Okay, I know that I’m supposed to talk about Afghanistan, football, water on the moon, Thanksgiving, twitter and tweeters, and I promise I’ll get there. But first I want to talk about a party I went to last night.

My favorite sound studio, Sound Post, threw a little Happy Hour. That made me laugh because it was a Happy Hour scheduled from 5:30-7:30. In the land of commercial work, Happy Hours last double long. I decided to go. And I brought cookies and little cheesecake bars because that’s the kind of girl I am. A domestic dork. I should’ve arrived in an apron too. I do owe Sound Post for all the work they’ve done for me/given me and I’ve calculated that it amounts to a year’s worth of food, my soul, and a child. I’m working on all three.

At any rate, I’m an incredibly awkward person. I guess I’m gifted that way. So when I walked in and saw all these professional people, a little part of me died. It occurred to me that networking would be easier with an actual net, and I had visions of me as Spiderman (Not Spiderwoman mind you. My boobs would be distracting in a suit that tight.) I has visions of me as Spiderman shooting webs from my wrists actually forcing people to talk to me and take my business card.

I also wanted to channel a little old fashioned Mr. T. Arrive with my white girl mowhawk, say “Whatchou talking about Willis?” and take people down. Oh, wait. That’s Channeling Diffrn’t Strokes. See? Awkward.

Mr. T, or, the appearance of my attitude.

But the night went okay. Dave from Pop Scholars joined me. He’s cute and comforting and very tall. (He did a white boy rap in the booth which is too funny for words.) Oh! I got to bat my eyes at Stuart, always fun, and see Jerri’s adorable dog, admire Sean’s buzzcut, talk to a few casting people and advertising peeps, and actually have a really fun conversation with a gentlman who ran in fear as soon as he heard that in my books people have sex. A lot of sex. (Which isn’t true at all. In “Blunder Woman” Chloe doesn’t get laid AT ALL.)

The night ended on a high note when I climbed into the recording booth and did my naughty phone prompts. In a sexy-ish voice: “Thank you for holding. Are you still holding? You must be lonely. I’m lonely too. My name is Tanya. What are you wearing? Mmmmm.” Oh. Yes. And I created a new word. “Thank you for holding. We can’t answer the phone because we’re getting schmastered.” I meant to say either ‘smashed’ or ‘plastered’ but I somehow said them at the same time.

That was my evening. I liked it. Next time I’ll wear an apron though. Just an apron. And maybe heels. That should get some attention.

Now that I know how to do longer podcasts, I can post FULL recordings. Here’s “Hot Summer Cool Breeze”. I’ll repost here so it will also be available on iTunes.

Hot Summer Cool Breeze Full Recording

I asked for some suggestions on what to blog about. One was dating…a particular sore spot because while I am a virile woman with hips and attitude, I’m a little frustrated. That sounds wrong. I’ve just had a string of really bad, awkward things happen in the dating area. But that’s a separate post. So, here I wax on and off about dating, and it starts with a story.

I was in the recording studio the other day with Kevin Yon, a teddy bear kind of guy who looks like he must have some Viking DNA, and Kevin was mercilessly teasing me. He was messing with me about the usual things: my sorry history in dating, how I was drunk on Sunday night and sending regrettable emails that ensured my exes will remain exes, and my attraction to quirky, awkward places. See, I have a soft spot in my heart for Russ’s Restaurant, not only because it’s cheap, but mostly because when I’m there, I’m the hottest chick around. That is, of course, because Russ’s Restaurant is frequented namely by centenarians. (That’s not a sci-fi term, I mean people nearing their 100^th birthday). And you know, legitimately, I like their burgers. (Again, I’m referring not to old people but to Russ’s Restaurant. They serve a killer olive burger.) And they serve pie. Everyone should have pie within easy reach. It’s just a philosophy of mine.

At any rate, Kevin was telling Stuart about this place and how one time I coerced Mr. Yon into going with me. “Stuart!” he bellowed into the microphone. “Stuart, I ordered a salad and it was WHITE. The vegetables were WHITE. And I don’t even want to tell you about the women there. Hair dye, man. Hair. Dye.” Kevin thinks that  obsession with this restaurant could be why I’m currently not dating. I tend to agree with him.

Russ's Where I Am the Hottest Chick Around (and the youngest by 4 decades)

Yes. I like Russ’s Restaurant, and even Lawrence Welk…but I’d only take a guy I was dating to experience the place with me once I felt comfortable enough in our relationship. You know, comfortable enough that he wouldn’t run in fear. “They all run in fear from me anyway,” I said. I was feeling sorry for myself. I have a right to, as I’ve had a pretty big string of bad dating luck. And, oh yeah, a failed marriage.

Kevin said, wisely, that I should stop wanting to date and then I’d find someone to date. But here’s the thing. If you want to go out with someone, you simply want to. It’s sort of like saying “Stop being hungry and then you’ll have something to eat.” When that’s not true at all. No. When you’re hungry, if you don’t eat you know what happens? You get all emaciated and a bloated belly and then you DIE. You. Die. What girl doesn’t want someone to think she’s pretty and take her to dinner? I’m not asking for backrubs or marriage, people, just…you know…someone who isn’t gay. Isn’t gay is pretty much my only requirement, and actually, if the person is gay and at least tells me I’m pretty then I don’t even care. I guess I’m saying I just want to leave the house on occasion. Which I’m doing.

Just ask Pop Scholars. I went out with them and had A DRINK. A big old tall gin & tonic. I only drank half, but still, that’s a start.

Lost where I was going with this. Oh, yes. Kevin and Stuart teasing me about dating. Now, seriously, I have had opportunities, it’s just I’m being picky. And I’ve decided that what I want is someone I can laugh with. Someone who is quirky and awkward and geeky and I can be ridiculous with and, yes, laugh. Because if you can’t laugh with someone, then how can you practice those illustrations in the Kama Sutra and follow it up with a big old olive burger at Russ’s.

That’s all I’m saying. And Kevin, yes, next time I’m drinking alone on a Sunday night and I decide to start writing drunken emails, you’re on the top of my list. Better beware, Viking Boy. BEWARE….

In this segment, everybody thinks about everybody else…and we meet Ronny the Rocker…again.

EDI Chapters 42 through 45