Is it really the full moon, or am I just an overly sensitive, emotional heap of estrogen? That’s what I want to know. If I really had superpowers, I think mine would be Sensitivity To Body Language & Reading Way More Into Emails Than Is Necessary.

I just want to fast forward to this...

Last night, after a strange dinner party, I came home to a very confusing email. Two confusing emails. One, I received; the other I wrote. First though: the party. It was an awkward dinner party to discuss the possible local filming of a pilot for a PBS series. I was there to pitch my powers as a writer. I walked in and immediately my super powers kicked in. I registered looks, tics, nervous giggles, forced humor, and imagined that no one thought I could possibly write and maybe I was just there as the lead actor’s date (even though he’s married). I got over it though and I think I managed to convince people that my strength is as an emotional storyteller. I tried not to cry while saying it.

Then I came home to an email from the Man I Could Have Loved. He’s the one that said at any other time we would have a passionate love affair, but just now he’s decided to date someone else. And then let me know that he’d really been already dating her for almost a year. My heart? A trembling soft mess. We’ve emailed on occasion. And then the email last night. He misses me. He wants me back in his life. He’s hoping “we can we could get together occasionally and just… you know… talk.   Share…. whatever.” This is the sort of thing that sends me over the edge. Because…what is in between the words?  What nonverbal stuff is happening in those ellipses? What does this MEAN?

I hate feeling attracted to someone who is just plain no good for me. Bluh.

I told him, really, how can we be friends? Is he going to introduce me to his girlfriend? Have me over for a BBQ? Or would he like to meet in a dim restaurant in a corner booth, hunkered down. Listen, I am no secret.

So then I immediately wrote an email to someone I have been talking to for some time, someone I’m attracted to and, well, I don’t want to talk about that one. I think I blundered big time and ame off as just a little left of creepy. Why? Why isn’t there a send button that actually delays sending the email until you get control of yourself? Then again, why can’t you say what you really think of someone? Why does there have to be all this stuff under the surface? I’m interested in him. I’d like to know if he’s interested in me. Bluh again.

Suffice it to say, really maybe I should re-read that 1960’s dating manual. In fact, I think in my next blog I’m going to quote it and rewrite it for modern daters. Not that I’m an expert. Clearly, I have issues. Not Lex Luther issues of controlling the planet—just controlling my emotions long enough so that I don’t make a complete fool of myself.

...and some of this...

I think in dating, there is far too much thinking, and talking, and wondering, and obsessing. What dating needs, what I need, is more kissing. Just good old-fashioned puckering up and….

Uhhh, I was going to say “puckering up and blowing” but that’s not exactly what I mean.

I mean, in short, that somebody better kiss me or my evil twin Thunder Woman is going to unleash some kick ass fireballs. (Or just sit in front of the TV and eat a giant bowl of ice cream followed by a chaser of chips.)

..and eventually some of this. That's all I want.

Why is dating so hard? It seems to me that things are rarely equal. If you are into the guy, he’s not into you. If he’s into you, you’re not into him. And if you are both sort of interested, you still have to jump through all these awkward “Getting To Know You” hoops before you can really be comfortable.

I wish I could fast forward some of it and just, you know, be happy with someone. Thekind of happy where you’re on the couch together, your legs over his, just, you know, comfortable. Relationships, though, aren’t just based on chemistry. They’re also based on time and shared experience. It’s not like you can just add water and there you go: Instant Relationship.

What I’d really like is a pamphlet to tell me how to act.

Great advice huh?

One of my students gave me a handbook from the early 60’s telling girls how to be well groomed, behave on a date, and what to expect. It’s sort of like “Be sure you have washed thoroughly and spray a bit of perfume to interest your date.” And “At the end of the date you may tell your young man that you enjoyed yourself and would like to see him again, and then quickly enter your home”.

I’d like a book like that, but modernized.

“You must reach for your wallet when out to dinner fully prepared to pay, while secretly hoping your date will pay. His quickness to pay will show his level of interest in you. If he doesn’t offer to pay, then, move on lady, he’s not interested.”

There’s not a handbook though. Maybe I’ll work on one, only I don’t seem to know what’s going on or how I should act exactly. I mean, what’s the proper length of a chatty email? If you write too long of an email, do you risk seeming obsessive? If they don’t respond to emails because they’re busy, do you text something sweet? If you text something sweet, you may come off as desperate, which assuredly you are not. Do you tell someone you’d like to kiss them or do you wait, enduring an awkward silence in the parking lot while you stand by your car and he stands next to you and you say “Well, see you later” and he says “Yep. Sounds good” and you say “Okay then,” and he says “All right” and you say “I had a great time” (hoping he’ll say he’d like to see you again) and there’s this pause while you imagine your lips against his but really it’s too soon for that so maybe you should shake his hand and then he says “Okay, then” and you say “Yep. Okey dokey” and you really wish you hasn’t said that and then….aw fuck it…you retreat to your car and the kiss dissipates in the air like an unanswered wish.

I’m not, uh, talking from experience here, just you know, hypothesizing.

Can you believe I’m thinking these things at 36? I guess when it comes to love, we’re all sort of perpetual teenagers.

At least that’s what I’m hoping and that’s it not just me.

I recently had a very odd experience and imagined how a crew member of Star Trek would feel after materializing on a foreign planet. The planet I materialized on? The third floor of the MVP gym. More specifically, the weights room. I took the elevator to the second floor (wore my workout outfit and super-Robo-boot) then hobbled up the flight of stairs to the mysterious realm of Testosterone. Seriously. I walked in and it was like a cloud of Testosterone. The room dripped with it. It may sound gross, but it was actually rather pleasant. I had a training session with James and he promised to give me an upper body workout that would get my heart and endorphins pumping.

And there was a lot of pumping up there, let me tell you. I blush to even write about it. There were men everywhere. Using the weight machines, rolling on the floor, jumping up and clapping, playing basketball in the gym, stretching, doing yoga poses (really) and the sound! Oh, god! There were groans, and oomphs, and Aaaaaaahs! I did blush. It was like a porn movie. Like there were all these male-orgasm sounds around me. Where was the Barry White music?

Uhhh....he needs a minute alone.

While I waited for James, I had to sit down and fan myself. I was having palpitations. One man stood to my left. I secretly watched him from the corner of my eye (because I have Super Powers and I can do that). He lifted this barbell that I was certain would give him an instant hernia and as he lifted he groaned “UUUuuaaaaaaAAAAHHHHH! Uh!” I gasped. And then just in front of me, another man orgasmed. He was more of an “Ehhhhhh” which was, admittedly, a little creepy. And then : Oh! Ahh! Grrrrrrr! OOOOOWWWWMMMMMAAAAA! All around me. When James came over I couldn’t even stand.

He asked if I was ready to work out. I said “Oh, yes”.

Now, here was the dilemma: apparently while lifting weights (as I’d observed) one is supposed to make an exclamation that sounds particularly intimate. James put me on this strange machine and handed me some ropey things to squeeze. I lifted my arms above me, pulled down and said “mmmmmmm” and then “Ohhhhhhh” real soft-like. James just looked at me and blinked. “What?” I said. He cleared his throat and said: “Let’s try a little more weight.”

After a while, I stopped moaning. It was too distracting. I was too focused on sticking my chest out so far that my boobs could knock out Little People if they were unlucky enough to be within a foot of me. And I was trying to squat, but couldn’t quite do it because of the RoboBoot. And I was trying to use my shoulder blades and not the wrong muscle group and James kept touching me and all these sexual groans were around me. I couldn’t focus. I needed a cigarette. And I don’t smoke.

An hour later, I hobbled down the stairs, out the elevator, and into the sharp cold air. I’m working out next week Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday. I’m bringing my iPod. It will be playing Barry White, and I’ll be smiling.

For real? Really?

You all know that I’m dipping my toe into the dating waters again, and some of those experiences will reappear as fiction to protect those involved. Before I decided to start dating again, I kept thinking about A) How could I date with a broken foot? Shouldn’t I just wait? Isn’t it a little pathetic to meet someone while I was on crutches and cast-ed? And then that thought was immediately supported by B) A little personal ad I read 10 years ago while living in New York. And it scarred me forever.

I picked up, oh, I forget the name of it, you know, that magazine that is all about NY…and has fabulously descriptive personal ads with pictures advertising “escorts”…just in case you’re so lonely you need to pay someone to hang out with you. I was idly flipping through the magazine, stopped on the Men Searching Women, looked over my shoulder to make sure no one was watching, and then began to read voraciously. Can one read voraciously? Yes. One can. Especially if she’s in her mid-twenties, in Manhattan,and the holidays are looming.

I came across a personal ad that totally seemed like it was meant for me. Like, here He is. The man I’m going to love and marry and make babies with.

Here’s the ad from memory:

I am an intelligent man looking for an intelligent woman to share my life with. I’m a professor of English and enjoy fine wine and restaurants. I’m attractive, professional, and well-adjusted. I’m looking for the One.

I stopped reading. I looked up to the heavens and thought, wow. Wow. He is something. But there was still one line left to read. So I read:

Also, I wear a diaper because of some issues. I’m hoping the woman I’ll fall in love with will also wear a diaper.

What? WHAT? Seriously? No! No! (Read the next ‘no’ like Charleton Heston when he discovers the truth about Planet of the Apes) NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

Ahem.

Flash forward a decade later. Past 9/11 in New York, past getting married to a nice enough guy, past 2 kids, past moving out, past divorce, slow down to broken foot.

Then I thought, okay, so am I the new Diaper Guy? Do I show up on a date as a cripple? Isn’t that a little sad?

Then I thought, fuck it. Poor Diaper Guy, he’s in a diaper for life (and maybe he’s found a Diaper Wife) but this walking cast? This bastard comes off in three more weeks. And then I’m wearing a miniskirt.

Rah.

This is a story that was published a year or so ago in “Kalliope” a journal for and by women. I think they’re defunct now. At any rate, this is one of my favorites. I’d entirely forgotten about it until a  friend of mine was digging on the site and re-earthed it. I like the poetic feel. Most of my stuff lately is comedic, but sometimes, I like the lyrical quality of words. I wanted, here, to write a story about understanding, and loss, and longing…and this is the result. Hope you enjoy it.

Tanya

What I Want To Know About My Mother

I was conceived in the parking lot of Zaagman’s funeral home, because as my mom says, love, grief, what’s the difference? They both break your heart.

This isn’t something my mom tells me today, when I find her in Little Bo’s Bar, but a sort of mantra I’ve heard throughout my life. This was her response to everything, from when I broke up with a boyfriend, to when I broke my arm.  Love. Grief. Love. Grief.

She’s probably repeating those words in her mind even now when she nods to the waitress and another cold beer materializes in front of her. It’s the nonalcoholic kind, but you’d never guess that by looking at her. She stubs out her cigarette, her one remaining vice she says, grabs a stick of gum from her front pocket and unwraps. My mother is a mixture of mint and smoke and coffee and something strangely sweet like frosting.

“What’s your obsession here with conception, kiddo? What’s it matter how you start?” She swigs the beer. Her lips are the color of white asparagus. Her hair is two toned—a foot of watermelon red with an inch of white roots.

I shrug my shoulders and stop looking at her. “College?” I offer as if this explains it. She picks at a cuticle. She doesn’t ask why I’ve come here, or acknowledge that we haven’t spoken in two years. She just cocks her head and I see her mouthing something weird, until I figure out it’s the lyrics to the music playing dimly in the background. Then I can’t take it anymore. I have so many things to ask her. Most of the questions begin with ‘why’. Why hasn’t she loved anyone since my dad? Why doesn’t she return my phone calls? Why won’t she come and see me in my new house, with Mike, with our dog, Annabelle? I can’t ask these things though and so I say, “What I want to know, Mom, is just something about you. Just…anything.” It’s like pulling a plum out of my throat.

She picks something from her teeth, studies it and then looks at me. She answers quickly, as if she’d been just about to tell me this spontaneously on her own. “Your dad had the sexiest knees.” She laughs, a short laugh, but deep, and something rattles in her chest. It’s another sign she’s dying. No doubt she’d say I need to get over myself and stop obsessing. “That was just like your dad,” she continues, smiling to herself. “Taking something funky like knees and turning them into something else entirely.”

I try to smile, but it just a thin line across my face. I’ve asked her one simple thing, to hear something about her, to know something concrete, and what does she do? She tells me about my dad. Over the years I figured out that the man she’s talking about, the one she calls my dad, was lying in a closed coffin the night I was conceived. The guy in the parking lot, the one who really gave me his DNA, was just his stand-in. She doesn’t talk about this either. The things she doesn’t talk about, the silence between us (as they say) could fill books. I can’t even fill a story with what I know is true about her.

Mom reaches for the bowl of nuts. “Want some?” she asks, and because I don’t know what else to do, I take one. Just one.

* * *

I know my mom is not dying from lung cancer or late nights; she’s doing the slow disappearance of the broken hearted. It’s taken her over thirty years to reach this point and I figure any day now she’ll be as good as invisible. I can guess that she hasn’t had a lover since 1994, and my mom is the type of person that needs loving. She wilts without attention. She’s wilting right now, right in front of me.

“You want to know Some Thing?” she asks and leans forward. She pronounces it just like that too: Some. Thing. And I nod.

Already my mind has spun on without her and this next part happens in no-time, meaning it happens not at all and only in my head: I say “Yes. Anything. Tell me just Any Thing.”

“I was a single mom, and I loved you.” This part I already know. The next part I’m surprised by. She continues: “That’s what you’re really looking for, isn’t it? Not something about me, but something about you. So there you go, there it is. You’re all right kiddo. Go on and be happy. You had a mom and she loved you and you still have a mom and maybe you’re not friends but you can’t have everything, can you?”

But that isn’t what I want to know at all, not at all. I want something true. And because this isn’t real, because in my head she tells me everything, all the details that will somehow fix me, she says, “Something concrete then. In 1976, you were three, and I worked at the co-op down the street from the Stone Shop, you remember, the place you’d go where the man, Arnold, would polish the Petoskey stones you found on the beach. He’d come over to the co-op, I’d put you in your crib, turn the closed sign and we’d go at it, in the back, standing between a tub of natural peanut butter and a garbage bag of carob chips. I never even liked that man, but he made me a nice necklace so I figured, oh, why not?”

In my mind, this is what my mother says, but today, in Little Bo’s Bar, when I grab a nut to eat, she tells me something different.

“I used to love zucchini. You can do a million things with it. Shred it, add some flour, it becomes a crust for pizza. Pour in a vat of sugar and you’ve got zucchini bread. Dip it in parmesan and fry it and you’ve got heaven. After your dad died,” she lifts her hands and opens them and it’s as if I can see a small, dark ghost the size of an apple floating away from her. “I haven’t touched the stuff. Makes me gag.”

I nod. I nod because this is what I want to know about my mother. I want to know that my mom loved zucchini once upon a time. I want to know who my mom was before Zaagman’s funeral home, and I want to know about my dad who was not-my-dad, and who was she before she decided that there was no difference between love and grief. It is my idea that there really is a difference between love and grief, there’s got to be, and it’s something fundamental, but I can’t tell her what that difference is. Love is a good thing, isn’t it? Love feels good. Right now, looking at her, not looking at her, I love her so much it’s painful. So much it hurts. She doesn’t seem to love me back. Instead of saying anything I just nod.

“You doing okay?” She works on her broken cuticle again.

I could tell her a million of my own things now. In my mind we’ve already had this talk a seventeen times. I could say; “Mike runs marathons and I’ve started running too, early in the morning, just him and me and our dog around the lake. It’s so quiet that the only sound is our feet hitting the pavement at the same time, to the same beat, and our breathing, perfectly the same.”

I could tell her what I really want her to know about me: Mike and I are talking of our future, of having a family, we’ve secretly already been trying to for a year, but nothing’s happened. Not yet, but I’m sure soon. It’s got to be soon, doesn’t it, because right now the only thing growing in me is a sort of ache, an emptiness that not even my love for Mike can seem to fill. I could laugh here. I could shrug my shoulders and say, hey, it’s no Zaagman’s funeral home parking lot, but maybe soon I’ll have my own conception story to tell. I could tell her I miss her and that maybe we’re not friends, but we’re something. Mother, daughter, that’s got to mean something doesn’t it. I say: “I’m doing fine.”

“Well, then, that’s good. Isn’t it. Doing okay. Doing fine. That should be enough.”

We sit. She finishes her beer. Reaches into her pants pocket, pulls out a five dollar bill, and leaves it on the table without saying goodbye.

* * *

I go back on my own.

Ten years, twenty, past the shoulder pads and hair teased into a tidal wave she wore in 1984, past the loom she warped in 1973 and never got around to weaving, past her blue party dress in 1961, the shiny one, the one she lost her virginity in. I pass my mother crying in the elementary school playground because her best friend told her she hated her, past her skinned knees and a broken tooth of her first really good fall on wobbly legs. I slink up the steps of the Ohio farmhouse to the place of mystery, where my mom’s mom rocks back and forth on the old iron bed thinking maybe this time she’d get pregnant, it is bound to happen soon. That’s the point where my mom starts. She starts with a wish that is both hope and fear, love and grief, whatever you call it. She starts with a yearning. An ache. This is the one thing I share with her. It’s the only thing I know for sure.

It’s my first week of the new semester, and once again, I’m energized by my classes. Yes, I’m the professor, but I swear I get a lot from the students like energy, ideas, thoughts. I’m teaching a new class this term, one that dear Ruth O’Keefe (who passed away last semester) was going to teach. It’s called “Gender Leadership”. It’s (honestly) an honor to teach it for her. I wasn’t given much more than a title to go on, so I’m creating the class day by day, based on what discussions are generated in class.

We’re starting with looking at the difference between the words “Sex” and “Gender”…and then charted stereotypes of the sexes. I’ve already learned (or became aware of) the spectrum of diversity in people. We are such complicated creatures. We’ll be reading “Sexing the Body: Gender Politics and the Construction of Sexuality” by Anne Fausto-Sterling. Already, it’s pretty enlightening.

The students seem particularly keen on discussing the emotional differences between men and women and why they exist. Nature? Nuture? Culture? The first topic to write about: Write About The Moment You Realized Your Sex. I was curious to see if there was a defining moment when the students realized they were a boy or girl or who they’re drawn to sexually. Most students can’t remember a time of realization; it’s just something they know. It could also lead to some interesting discussions on sexual preference. Is it something you choose or something you just know?

My first realization was in 6^th grade, during a competition with Olympics of the Mind. I was an awkward girl. Very homely. Feathered hair. Boys didn’t like me. And then at the OM Competition, a boy noticed me. We hung out. We high-fived. And at the end of the competition, he asked if he could kiss me. “Sure,” I said. We kissed. Fireworks!! (Or hormones) Then he asked my name. “It’s Tanya,” I said. He looked at me blankly. “My name is Erin,” he said. Wait a minute! She said! We both freaked. Turns out we were both homely awkward girls, and thought the other was a boy. Gender confusion indeed.

Tangent there.

Back to the class.

I’m also looking for more questions, and I’m asking you, dear reader, to submit one. What’s something you’ve always been curious about in regards to gender or the opposite sex? If you could pose a question for discussion, what would it be? I’d like to know how men think about relationships. Is it just sexual? Is there more than that? Do they think about it? I’d like to know why we seem to have a Rule Book in how men and women are supposed to act. We all know the stereotypes of Manly Men and Flowery Women, but is this TRUTH or is this suggested by our culture?

I don’t know. I may not even be qualified to teach this course. What I can do is ask questions, pose ideas, get them writing, and bring in some books in and movies.

Seriously, though, if you want to help, submit your question below. I’ll ask my class and keep you posted on our discussions.

And, yes, we’ll be moving into leadership too….but not for a few more weeks.

Last Friday I decided to attend a party thrown by my old roommate Tommy Fitzgerald. He’s a chef in Grand Rapids. Big heart. Big ideas. Occasionally, a big ego. I met him while waitressing at Sierra Room. I needed an apartment and he had a cool house with a finished attic. I moved in. I spent a few months there, and we hung out quite a bit. We also fought quite a bit. He called food “Product” and I thought food was “Passion”. Come to find out, we really think of food the same way. It’s more than food, it’s a way to connect. At any rate, I decided to move to New York, moved home after 9/11, and haven’t seen him since then. So. He decided to throw himself a huge 40^th birthday party, raise funds for Kids’ Food Basket, an organization that provides sack lunches to kids on their way home from school…and he called it the Juice Ball.

And I wanted to go. I wanted to see Tommy, I wanted to support his cause, and selfishly, I wanted to have a good time. If you’ve been reading my blog, you know that my holiday was pretty horrible. I spent most of it alone. On the couch with a broken foot.

So I rented a room at the JW, called up my sister and braved the 400+ people at the Juice Ball…all while on crutches. Did I get stares? You bet. Did I care? Not at all. I loved it.

Sis and I stood in line for the “cafeteria” food. Or rather, cafeteria reinterpreted.

Eat up, people. Eat. Up.

Gourmet gratin cauliflower, a deliscious asian salad, this succulent chicken with a tasty crispy coating, and meatloaf. Of course, I couldn’t carry my drink or my tray. Heidi held the drink just in front of me, like leading a horse with a carrot. And another lady stood in line for me and carried my tray. Then she snagged us a seat.  We sat across from, seriously, our future.

Heidi and I couldn’t believe it. Two sisters sat across from us, probably 30 years our senior. One had dyed red hair (like mine) and the other had silver hair, a lot of makeup, and jewelry so heavy she probably had neck pains. “Oh my God, Heidi,” I whispered. “That’s US in like thirty years.”

Then we listened to them talk.

Silver watched a carriage go by. “Oh,” she said, fanning herself. “Look at that. There’s a couple in that carriage. They must be in love.”

“They aren’t in love,” said Red. “The carriage costs so much they have to pretend they’re in love.” Red leaned in conspiratorially and said “My sister is a romantic. That’s because her husband is dead. I’m a realist. That’s because my husband is still alive and sitting at home. He refused to come tonight. He should’ve come.”

“He should’ve come,” Silver echoed.

Heidi and I then went to the ballroom where we promptly did a couple of shots. Nothing like getting blitzed while on crutches. It makes it so exciting!

The ballroom was huge and moody and dark and everyone around us was, well, attractive. Men wore velvet jackets and button shirts and jeans. Women wore shiny shirts with big necklaces that emphasized their boobs, and tight skinny jeans.

I’d had this sort of daydream that when the music started playing, someone would ask me to dance. It would be like in “Sixteen Candles” when the girl in headgear actually dances with someone. (Doesn’t she?) I had this image of a gentle, quirky man leading me to the dance  floor. “But I can’t dance,” I’d say, resisting.

“It’s okay. You’re on crutches.”

“Even if I weren’t on crutches, I still couldn’t dance.”

“It’s okay. I’ll carry you.” And then he wraps his arms around me, holds me against him snugly and lifts, so that my feet aren’t even touching the ground.

I’d nearly convinced myself of this image: me, dancing close with someone, floating.

Who needs two feet to dance?

Of course, it didn’t happen. Mostly, men gave me that “Aw, man, tough luck” sort of smile. But that was okay. I had a great time with my sister.

I did meet one man who said crutches were sexy. “Who paid you to say that?” I asked. It might have been his wife. Still, it was nice to hear.

There’s no moral here. No deep epiphany. It was a nice night with my sister. I got to see and hug Tommy. I did not meet the man of my dreams, nor did I dance. I sat, watching, crutches beside me, laughing until my tummy hurt. And then when my sis headed home, I went up to my giant room on the 18^th floor, turned out the lights, opened the window and looked at Grand Rapids, alight, beneath my feet. That, too, was a pretty cool feeling.

Oh yeah? And the dancing? It’s going to happen. It really is.

I have to say I’m really glad it’s a new year. When you think about it, there are several opportunities for new starts throughout the year, which is good, because most of us need them.

One of my new starts is The Return to the World of Dating. (Please reread that sentence with a booming-announcer-scary voice.) I’ve dabbled here and there since splitting with my ex: the man I wanted to love who wanted to love someone else, the zen Beautiful Man (really) who broke a date because “I’m going on a week long cleansing with my guru, but I’ll let you know when I get back”.  Hmmm. Nice.

And now, well, now I’ve decided that I’m ready to date for real. No more practice. I’m ready to date. And am just waiting for my phone to ring.

And waiting.

And waiting.

Feckers.

No ringing. Looks like I’ll have to do this on my own.

Actually, (excuse tense changes here) my sister decided to help me out. “The next guy you meet needs my approval,” she said. I laughed. “No. Seriously. I want to meet him, and if he’s not attractive and smart and funny, he’s out of there. I’m kicking him to the curb for you.” She was serious. She could do it.

On Tuesday, she came over to help me out. “We’re going to go on those dating sites, I’ll look at the pictures and tell you who you should date.”

Online DATING

“Okay,” I said.

She came over bearing wine and sausage and cheese. (You’ve got to love a sister who brings sausage. There’s just something cool about that.) I booted up my computer, logged into the site and showed her the pictures of men I’ve been emailing. First one popped up, Heidi took one look at it and said, “Hehhhhhlllll nooooooo.”

“Why? He’s nice.”

“No.”

“He’s really smart.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because his eyes are so small he could use dental floss for a blindfold.”

I looked at the guy again. My sister was right. Now, how could I go on a date with a man who I would envision wrapping in dental floss?

“Okay,” I said. “Good call. What about this one?” I showed her a picture of an attractive guy and began to read his profile out loud.

Heidi stopped me. “Whoah! Whoah!! No. Would it hurt for him to smile or something? And look, he says he’s in nursing. You know what that means?”

“What?”

“It means he’s can dismember someone no problem. He’s been trained. Next!”

I didn’t mention to Heidi that she’s in nursing and she could dismember people. We clicked on the next one. And the next.

“Why don’t you just date a woman?” she asked.

“I would. I’m open to that actually, but I can’t seem to meet anyone.”

“There’s a chick right there!!” she pointed. Actually, there was. Did the woman mean to be listed with the men? Or was she transgendered? Hmmm. I clicked on the next one.

“Stop!! Stop!! I think I have an erection,” Heidi said.

We looked. Cute, nice smile, big blue eyes. Profile was spelled correctly. “I don’t understand,” I said. “He says he’s an engineer and he manages work sites. What does that mean?”

“Oh, honey, that means he’s blue collar mixed with white collar. Blue collar men, let me tell you, HOT. It doesn’t bother me at all that he’s 42 and lives with his parents.”

“No? It bothers me a little.”

“No. He’s saving for a house. Contact him.”

“He’s already contacted me.”

“Well, let’s read it!!”

That’s how the night went. Us, laughing, drinking, picking out men. It wasn’t like ordering a pizza as I think I said in “Easy Does It”. It was more like trying on jeans. Which one is a good fit? You’ve got to see a pair that looks cute enough to try on, but every pair fits differently, until you find the one that just hugs your ass like a….Hmmm. Better stop that extended metaphor. And stop thoughts like Ass Hugging. Thoughts like that could cause me to spontaneously combust.

If you have any advice for me, let me know. If my history with blundering is any indication on how dating is going to work for me…well…let’s just say this is going to be interesting.

Here it is. The final installment of “Easy Does It”. If you’ve listened to the whole book, thank you. Let me know what you think. I did this all for free for people to enjoy…simply because I want to share my work. If you do like it and enjoyed listening, please pass this website and my work on to a friend. The whole book is available through iTunes as podcasts. So. All I ask is for comments and/or tell a friend. I’ll keep writing. Hopefully, you’ll keep reading and listening. Thanks. Really. Thanks for listening.

Best,

Tanya

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The Conclusion to Easy Does It

Almost there! The second-to-last episode of “Easy Does It”.

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Easy Does It CH 68 and 69