You know, I’m tired of being angst-ridden and depressed about how life is going. It actually takes a lot of energy to maintain sadness. I wish it burned calories, but I’m afraid the reverse is true. Or, ehm, I’ve had too many nights of strawberry cheesecake ice cream topped with crumbled potato chips. (Have I really done that? No. But it sounds good. I eat a handful of chips, then the a scoop of ice cream.)

So I’ve decided that while I can’t really escape my life and go on vacation to England (which is something I’d really like to do), I can take a little break mentally and go…oh…anywhere I want. I could take myself on a saucy escapade where I’m wearing nothing but a little apron and heels and a hunky guy (a nice ctranger) comes into my kitchen and wants to know what I’m cooking. “Who?” I ask, raising my fingertip to my red, red lip. “Me? Why I’m just cooking a little melted chocolate.” I dip my finger in the chocolate and offer it to him. He’s so hot in the kitchen he has to take his shirt off and….

That was supposed to be a short example of what I’m NOT going to write about. Ahem. Let me take a moment. I’ll be right back….

(Ten minutes later.)

Okay. Phew. Just had to run and eat some potato chip topped ice cream.

What was I saying?

Ah yes. I was talking about summer. Well, not really, but I meant to. Here’s what I love about summer: I love visiting my friends Brendan and George, something I haven’t done enough of in the last years, but I love seeing their cottage and walking on the beach where the waves are sometimes so loud that it drowns out the sound of your thoughts. I love getting sand in my hair and between my toes and in the cuffs of my rolled up jeans.

The Lake -- Up by Empire

I love making fresh bruschetta from my garden. I pick the basil and a sun-warmed tomato, chop it fine and add lots of garlic, a little olive oil, pinch of salt, and then pile some homemade bread tall with the stuff. I can eat vats of it. Vats. All while sitting in the sun and listening to some jazz while drinking a nice crisp glass of pinot grigio. I actually couldn’t do that while married because my ex only wanted to listen to NPR…but now…now I can listen to music and close my eyes, imagining the notes dancing across my skin.

I like going for walks around Reed’s Lake. I might not be able to run this summer, but I’ll walk, and maybe there will be someone with me this time, someone more interested in just spending time with me then actually exercising. And maybe, maybe, I’ll stop in the shade, tell him to wait up, and then I’ll kiss him. I’d like that I think.

I like ice cream in the summer, and the sound of kids playing in the neighborhood. I like cars going by playing music that I would never listen to, but for a moment, I do. Sometimes it’s so loud I feel it in my heart.

I like having the windows open and on windy days when I hear the leaves rustle I feel like I’m underwater and that those trees are giant stalks of seaweed. I can imagine being a fish.

I like sleeping with the windows open and hearing crickets and bugs…its own peculiar music. And I like waking up impossibly early because the sun is so bright.

In the summer, my kids play outside. We go on adventure walks and toss sticks into the lake. We look for frogs. I scream. They laugh at me. We go home, exhausted, and fall asleep before it’s even dark.

And this summer, this summer, I’m going to sit on my deck, the deck of the house I will have, and I will put out Christmas lights so that the backyard sparkles like its own universe. I will play music and serve so many appetizers that my friends will wonder if I’ve finally gone over the Edge of Crazy. We will laugh. We will toast to the night and hot breezes. And when they’re gone, well, maybe then I’ll put that apron on…only it won’t be a stranger in my kitchen, but someone I’ve grown to know and love. And we won’t even need melted chocolate to get…

Okay. Someone needs to read a romance novel. And that someone is me. A perfect night to do it…it’s not summer yet, after all, but still frozen winter. But trust me…my life is about to heat up. I’m certain of it.

I know I need to write about this because it’s keeping me up at night, but I’m not sure how to begin. I’ve had a very hard week with some difficult news. (I’ll get to that in a moment.) But what happened when I heard the news was that I felt something inside me crack, the way I imagine my foot originally broke, or ice breaks when there is too much weight on it. First a thin line appeared, and then the sound of things breaking apart. Emotionally, that’s how I felt.

What happened is this: I have been trying to get a house. I did everything the way you’re supposed to: I was preapproved for a mortgage because I didn’t want to get my heart set on something and then be told it wasn’t possible. So I got preapproved. Gold star approved. Then I found the house.  A perfect house in the perfect location, a place I could call home and provide some stability for me and my kids. I’ve been looking for a place to rest my entire life it seems. And not rest as in die, I mean, a place where I feel safe. A place to call my own. A place that’s also a respite from the outside world. The house inspection went great. The owners accepted my offer. We set a closing date.

Then two days ago I received a call from the mortgage company: “See, Tanya, the underwriter is having a problem with the word Temporary. It says you’re a Temporary Full-Time Professor, and that makes them nervous.”

Only Kendall can’t call me anything else, because to call me full-time means that they’d actually have to get approved to create a position first and then follow all the university’s rules in filling that position. “What does this mean?” I asked the guy.

“Well, we need to see your W2’s from 2008. They want to make sure you can afford the payments.”

Should be easy, yes? Only I was a stay-at-home mom in 2008 and had no income. Of course, I had income, I had my husband’s income. We shared everything. But mortgage companies don’t look at it like that. What they see is that I was unemployed for 5 ½ years, not that I was taking care of my children. They won’t count my husband’s income as mine because it was his. You see? That’s when I cracked.

To leave a bad marriage, one in which I was pretty much invisible as a person, I had to leave every comfort and security. I’d chosen to be a stay-at-home mom for the interest of our kids and because of finances. But when I left the marriage, I left with nothing. NOTHING. I’m not exaggerating. Pierre ‘let’ me take about $500 from our joint account. Everything else was up to me. I had no home. No furniture except for a couple of pieces I asked him for. I had no full-time job. Now that the divorce is final, I also have no health insurance, no dental insurance, no retirement. I have a car in which I now take over the insurance payments for. And then, on top of it, I can’t get a house because I’m a security risk.

And my ex? He has insurance, he has 5 ½ years of employment, he is searching for a house with his fiancée and will have no trouble, he has ten plus years of retirement saved up. He has a new car. He’s moved seamlessly from being married to me into a new relationship with a new woman who will be his new wife and he will have his new home.

I’m not mad at him specifically. I’m mad at the system. I’m mad that a woman (or man) who chooses to stay with their children then has no security, no credit, and is viewed as someone untrustworthy. I’m mad that everything I’ve provided for my kids has been from sheer tenacity. I’m mad that I have no guarantees. No insurance. No one to help me bear the weight of it. And I’m mad that the perfect house I found may not be mine after all, and I will have to explain to them why Daddy is getting a new house but Mommy can’t, after all.

I’ve often wondered how women stay in bad relationships where they’re abused or misused or mistreated or simply unhappy. Now I know. You stay because you have to. You stay because what is in front of you is poverty if you are not lucky enough to get a job. You stay because you may not be not lucky enough to find a landlord who will trust you enough to rent to you. You stay because you are terrified of getting injured or sick or hurt and you won’t have the insurance or the money to help yourself. You stay in a marriage because even though you are strong and independent, you know you cannot fight the system on your own.

Yesterday I really felt “What is the point?” What is the point of my trying to get ahead, of trying to produce creative work, of trying to get a house for the kids. But deeper than that I felt “What is the point of me?” “Why do I matter?” No one else seems to think I do, most of all the system.

So I put a call out on Facebook of all things asking for support. And all day my phone chimed with friends telling me they care about me, they’re thinking of me, and I felt…I don’t know…loved.

What I’ve done is hard and lonely and terrible at times, and there are so many obstacles in my way, and so many people saying “No”.

But there are also a few whispering words of strength from my friends and family, words of encouragement, of support…so even though I feel so alone in this System, I know, essentially, that I’m not actually bearing this weight on my own. And for that small thing, I am intensely grateful.

And now…the final radio play….Boy Models: I Want My Dream!! written by Keeley Geary & Tanya Eby.

STARRING

Stephen Grey, Ralph Lister, Greg Rogers, Rob Karel, Dave Lyzenga, Jason Masters, Keeley Geary, Joyce Bean, Tanya Eby, and Laural Merlington.

A Boy Model, taking CARE and acting SWELL.

Thank you to everyone who participated and helped produce these six radio plays, with a special thanks to Stuart Poltrock and the crew at Sound Post in Grand Rapids, Michigan. I’m sad this expereince is over, but it’s possible we’ll do more if there’s a strong enough interest, or we find a place to actually play these. Until then…please enjoy this presentation. It’s sexist in the happy way that Mad Men is sexist, only it’s sexist towards men. In a totally fun way.

Enjoy. Let me know what you think. I’ll pass your comments along to the cast. Find the other plays by clicking on RADIO PLAYS link. You can also read bios and see actual pictures of people in the producion. Well, not everyone, because not everyone has gotten back to me yet.

Love and kisses,

Tanya

Boy Models: I Want My Dream!!

In case you missed the Grand Rapids Art Musuem Friday night of one-acts, here’s the play that I wrote. It was directed by Lisa Nowak and performed beautifully by Laura Michels and Matt Jansen. A big thank you to Austin Bunn for creating the event and Kerri Vander Hoff for letting us explore the GRAM in a new way. Here’s the scene:

A Moment at the Susten Pass

a one-act play based on the painting by Durand

written by Tanya Eby

See this painting in person at the Grand Rapids Art Museum

JUSTIN is a GRAM guard, standing in front of the Durand piece. He is wearing an earpiece, which he occasionally seems to listen to. He can be standing ‘guard’ even while people come into the room.

LYNNE enters. She hangs out with the crowd for a moment, checks her program. She moves a step forward, and seems very touched by the painting.

LYNNE: It’s beautiful, isn’t it?

JUSTIN does not look at the painting. He nods.

LYNNE: It’s funny…it reminds me…the way the clouds reach to the sky, the mountains…I…

LYNNE is struggling with some emotion. JUSTIN seems concerned.

JUSTIN: Are you all right? Do you want me to call someone?

LYNNE: No! No. It’s fine. I just…the picture reminds me of my dad. Isn’t that funny? It reminds me of a story he used to tell me when I was a girl. I haven’t thought about that in, oh, forever. Well, halfway to forever maybe. Oh, my dad….

LYNNE starts to cry a little, but tries to stop.

JUSTIN: Maam…miss? Do you…should I…you want a Kleenex. I’ve got one in my pocket but it might be…yeah. You probably don’t want that. You okay? You want to sit? You can you know. Take all the time you need.

LYNNE sits, fumbles in her purse, pulls out a handkerchief.

LYNNE: I am so sorry! I feel absolutely ridiculous. I don’t know where all this emotion is coming from. Is there a full moon or something?  (she laughs) Oh, man. It just…it’s silly…it just makes me think of my dad.

JUSTIN: Is your dad…I mean…has he…he passed away?

LYNNE: What? Oh, no. No! He’s in Albequrque. He lives there. I just saw him last weekend.

JUSTIN: Oh. Okay. Good.

LYNNE: I must look like such a freak. Crying about a painting! And I am not an emotional person. I’m really not.

JUSTIN: Don’t worry. It has that effect on a lot of people.

LYNNE: Really? People come in here, remember a story their father told them when they were a girl, and then they break down?

JUSTIN: Every time. (pause). No. No, everyone is different. Some people don’t even notice it. A lot of people like the more modern stuff, you know, bright colors, abstract emotion or no emotion, but something like this…something like this is quiet. Unassuming.

LYNNE: You make it sound like a girl at a party. The one that people don’t notice.

JUSTIN: (laughs). Yeah. Well. Or a guy. The one, you know, that people don’t notice.  The one that is sort of in the background but has stories to tell if someone would only…

LYNNE: Listen.

There is a beat when they look at each other, some kind of human connection.

LYNNE (brightly): The story my dad used to tell me was about the Land of Elnono.

JUSTIN: El…?

LYNNE: El. No. No. I had a stuffed animal, a grey elephant that I called Elnono, and I carried him with me everywhere, and at night my dad would tell me about a magical land where Elnono lived. In my mind, it looked just like that painting.

JUSTIN: Your elephant lived on a mountain? I hate to tell you this, but it sounds like your dad didn’t know much about elephants.

LYNNE: No. No, he didn’t. What he did know about, though, was magic. Creating something magical. Even in the darkest of times.  Like when my mom…Well. In the Land of Elnono, everything was perfect. Golden light, lush grass for Elnono to eat, a river for him to play in. Elnono had friends and laughter and everything he wanted.

JUSTIN: Sounds nice.

LYNNE: Yes. And then on one of our moves, I lost Elnono.

JUSTIN: One of your…

LYNNE: One of our moves. Yes. We didn’t stay in one place for long. My mom wasn’t in the picture, and we had to travel a lot for my dad’s work. And, well, that’s another story. But…I lost Elnono. Couldn’t find him anywhere and I went berserk. I must’ve been like five and I think it was the first time I really realized that things you love, people you love, they can leave you and never come back. Something about mortality. And I was just crying and crying, I was hysterical and that’s when my dad told me about the great mountain that reached to the sky. He pulled me on his lap and I remember he smelled like coconut lotion. Sunscreen or something. He pulled me on his lap and I snuggled into him, putting my face against the crook of his neck, you know what I mean, and he told me about what happened to Elnono.

LYNNE pauses, or grabs something from her purse or something.

JUSTIN: Well? What happened? Was he okay?

LYNNE: Yeah. He was okay. See, Elnono climbed that mountain. I swear, it’s that mountain right there. He worked really hard and he made it to the top and on some days, when the light is just right, you can see him, dancing in the clouds with his friends. That’s what my dad told me, and I believed him. And when I look at this painting, I can see him.

LYNNE motions to the painting.

LYNNE: Can you see him?

JUSTIN looks. Really looks.

JUSTIN: Elnono or your dad?

LYNNE smiles.

JUSTIN: I almost think I can.  Right…there.

LYNNE: Yeah. Exactly. (pause) So. (LYNNE leans in and reads his nametag) Justin, what do you see?
JUSTIN: What do I see?

LYNNE: Yes. Exactly. What do you see? Doesn’t anyone ever ask you that?
JUSTIN: Uhm. No. I’m just a guard.

LYNNE: And are you the guy at the party that no one notices?
JUSTIN: I’m pretty quiet, yeah.

LYNNE: There’s no…

JUSTIN: Girlfriend? No. Noooo. Not yet. Maybe. I mean, I don’t have a ton of…I don’t…

LYNNE: One is all you need.

JUSTIN: Yeah. One is sort of…uhm…all I want. I just. Yeah.

pause

LYNNE: I do want to know, though. What you see.

JUSTIN: No. You really don’t. I don’t know anything about art.

LYNNE: Even better. I don’t want to know what the experts see. I just want to know what you see. Unless you don’t…

JUSTIN: Oh, no. No! It’s totally okay. I’m just not used to, talking. Here. Where I work. Mostly I just try to be invisible.

LYNNE: You’ll have to try harder, I’m afraid, because I see you.

JUSTIN: You do, huh?

LYNNE: Yes. I do.

JUSTIN: Ha! Well…When I look at this painting? I see…well….you know…. Asher Durand, founder of the national Academy of Design, began painting about 1830. In 1836 he went on an expedition with painter Thomas Cole into the Adirondacks.

LYNNE: You don’t see that!

JUSTIN: No?

LYNNE: No! You memorized it. It’s on the placard right there.

JUSTIN: I have a lot of time on my hands. (he laughs) I don’t really see anything. I mean I see things, yeah. I see this god of a mountain and how fierce it is, but peaceful too, and if I really look, I see people, some shepherds or something, but they’re so insignificant. They’re just going about their lives, almost a part of the landscape itself, while in the distance, rolling hills, just…you know…the expanse of it. And the blue sky, and those clouds, man, those clouds that are either a storm or the passing of a storm. So I see all of that, but mostly, mostly I just feel…Oh, this might sound weird, I feel…peaceful. I feel like I’m almost standing where those people are, like all the problems in my life are so small, so insignificant that I can just look out at the world around me and feel like everything is going to be okay. I look at this painting and I just…I just breathe.

LYNNE: It’s a painting that reminds you to breathe?

JUSTIN: Yeah. I guess. The closer thing would be…not that it reminds me to breathe, but that the painting itself is somehow like a breath. Quiet. A swift intake of breath. A moment of stillness. And, I guess, a release.

LYNNE: Yeah. It’s like a breath. Or a secret.

JUSTIN: Or a story a father tells his daughter, a long time ago.

There is a moment.

LYNNE walks up to JUSTIN and holds out her hand.

LYNNE: Justin, I’m Lynne. It’s a pleasure to meet you.

They shake hands. They shake hands for a while.

JUSTIN: Yeah, yeah. It really is. A pleasure, I mean. Meeting you. At the Sustan Pass.

LYNNE: I like that. That’s what we’ll tell people.

JUSTIN: We’ll tell people?

LYNNE: When they ask where we met. We’ll say we met at the Sustan Pass. And then we’ll both take a deep breath. (pause) Which you should really do now. Are you breathing? Are you okay?

JUSTIN: Yeah. I’m breathing. I’m completely breathing.

LYNNE: Good.

They turn and look at the painting. LYNNE moves close enough so that their arms touch.

JUSTIN: It’s beautiful.

JUSTIN is looking at the painting, and LYNNE turns to look at JUSTIN.

LYNNE: Yeah. It is.

LIGHTS

After returning to the world of dating mainly by using online dating services, I’ve decided to pull all my info off the sites and go at this alone. After meeting really nice, great men, I’ve realized that the process isn’t streamlined enough. So here is my idea. I will post an application to date….me. Yes! That’s right! Interested parties may fill out this application and send it in. In no way does this mean Tanya is bitter (although she might be), mostly she’s just exhausted, so she’s going to stop actively looking. She’s going to focus on writing and getting her house and finding a permanent teaching position, and finishing her 3rd novel…which she’d like to make into a series. That doesn’t mean she doesn’t want to date; she does. She just wants all applicants screened first. Here it is:

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.

For those of you who read my blog, you know that for the last eight weeks, I’ve had serious ups and downs (mostly downs) while recovering from my broken foot. It’s been an experience in humility, that’s for sure, on multiple levels…and has now become a story I tell strangers in waiting rooms. “You will not believe this when I tell you…” my story begins.

On Monday I saw the surgeon again. He showed the pretty naked-foot, my bones illuminated before me, and I could still see that slight line that looked a little unfocused. “How do you feel?” he asked me.

“I feel great! Super! Just terrific!” I did talk with exclamation points. I’m not sure if I was trying to convince him or me. Then he pointed out that little chip at the edge of my foot. I didn’t need to see it. I already knew it was there.

“You see, this is the part that’s concerning,” he said. “In this type of fracture, in this bone, sometimes the healing just…stops.”

A Jones Fracture AKA My Little Fracture

I probably could’ve told him that too. Over the last year, I’ve done a lot of healing, but part of me has just stopped. I feel stuck. I feel…still…sad, even when I’m using exclamation points. And I don’t want to go on and on about love or the absence of love, but come one, it’s Valentine’s Day almost. Through this year, I left my husband, developed a relationship with a man-I-could-have-loved, said goodbye to him when he committed to someone else, put myself back in the dating scene where it seems that though men have been interested, no one has taken that extra step in getting to know me beyond the surface. My mom says I’m just too beautiful and talented. Man, I love her for that.

Mostly, I worry that there’s something broken in me. Something you need an X-ray to see. A little chip near a healed fracture. A part that won’t heal.

The surgeon gave me some good news. “I’m hopeful,” he said. “You’re healthy. You’re in shape. You exercise. Your attitude about this is good. You can go without the boot, but I want to see you in a couple of weeks.”

And then it’s more X-rays. And maybe it’s surgery. I’m to the point now that if that’s what I need to do, I’ll do it. Anything to be able to walk and run and wear heels again.

I wish the answer was as simple for my heart.

Before I begin my rant, please note, that of course I understand that not all moms who live in East are psychos. No. There are some perfectly well-adjusted, normal, kind moms (like myself. Ha!) who do not fit this description. What I’m ranting about is that peculiar monster, the East Mom who is augmented, enhanced, and breathes invisible fire of disapproval if you were not born, bred, and then reproduced in the 49506 zip code. They eat little, shop a lot, and talk almost nonstop. On phones at least.

I’m talking about that monster as terrifying as any Sasquatch: The East Psycho Mom or EPM.

An EPM, on vacation from her stressful life.

I moved to East after leaving my husband because I wanted to ensure my kids got into a good school. We had Louis enrolled in Grand Rapids Montessori, but with funding cuts, we weren’t sure the program was going to continue. And by my moving into East, I’d essentially not have any argument from my (at the time) husband. It’s a safe area, close, clean and would ensure that he could still walk to see them when he wanted. It would keep our kids in the same neighborhood and not disrupt their life. So we enrolled Louis into the Young 5’s at East.

I had sensed shadows of the EPM at D&W or while running around Reed’s Lake. These were moments where I felt I was being watched, judged, perhaps about to be pounced on and devoured. East Moms are very good at hiding, but if you have keen eyes (mine are very keen after years of training hunting morels) you will see them. When they exercise, they wear running gear that is color coordinated. And makeup. And their hair in a perfect ponytail. And the DON’T SWEAT. At the local grocery store, they look at labels and tend to buy something that’s more expensive because it must be better quality. They like packaged goods and organic vegetables (that they don’t cook). And if they should happen to bump into you, they smile a wicked smile that says “Get out of my way, bitch” and then prance on their way while talking on their cell phone and following their child (who is dressed entirely in Gap or JCrew or something like that). They shoot lasers at you if they can smell you’re not from the area.

I don’t pass often for an EPM. I’m too voluptuous. I don’t wear things that match. My hair is often on the frazzled side. My kids run around pretending they’re aliens and/or murderers. When we go to D&W, we have conversations about what kind of bugs eat bodies as they decompose. Sometimes, though, if I’m coming from work and am in professional mode, one of the EPM mistakes me for One of Them.

This happened once at Louis’s school. Only once. A mom approached me to chat while we waited for our kids. She was so exhausted because her husband (a doctor) was working all the time and they were trying to get ready for their trip to Colorado to go skiing. They’d be there for two weeks. And the kids were so excited that they were driving her mad. It was a good thing she was bringing their nanny with them. Then she paused and asked me what my husband did.

“Oh, I’m divorced.” I said. She blinked as if she didn’t understand. Her whitened teeth flashed. “Yep. I’m a single mom,” I continued. I wanted to tell her that my ex was already secretly engaged though we’d only been separated for two months, but I refrained. Didn’t want to cause a heart attack.

“Oh? Really?” She looked around frantically until she caught another EPM’s gaze and she released me.

I’ve got to learn how to get along. I’m going to have to deal with these people for the next 12 years. Somehow, I know I’ll never measure up. Nor will my kids. We’re going to have fight the disapproval, be gutsy, and keep on our path of reckless creativity and individuality.

I guess you can say I’m being judgmental too. That I’m jealous of their perfect pert bodies and long straight hair. That their kids seem perfectly behaved. That they have perfect homes and marriages where they’re perfectly content, sometimes even passionate. I guess I am. Maybe. But sometimes, when I talk to an EPM, I see beneath her plastic gaze. And there’s something under the surface, some kind of deep sorrow, that is quickly covered by a smile. I was almost an EPM, you see, where my whole identity was tied to my husband and kids. But I escaped. Now I’m that colorful, rare creature in East: The Single Kooky Mom (or SKM). I get to be the balance to their obsessive-compulsive behavior. I get to be the mom that is flighty, and witty, and creative, and always has her roots showing. And my kids, they’ll be a bit of a reflection of me.

And I am perfectly okay with that.

This kind of snowfall

There’s a phrase that I’ve used over and over in my writing, probably ad nauseum, and it’s “a soft sort of sadness”. I like the sibilance of it (especially when I say it out loud. I’m a bit of a lisper with S.) The phrase to me sounds like the feeling, as if sadness is that type of snow that falls in heavy flakes and in pure silence. It’s a sadness that is not all consuming, but comforting somehow, in an artistic-I’m-alone sort of way.

I feel this soft sort of sadness today and most days when I think, really think, about dating. And it isn’t dating necessarily that I mean. I mean when I think about the kind of relationship I want…and that soft sort of sadness? It’s a longing. An ache. An awareness that I do not have the love in my life that I so richly want…and I feel…I deserve.

What I want is simple. I want someone to look at me and love me for who I am. I want them to light up when they see me. I want conversations, and silence, and passion, and above all, I want trust. I want love in the little things. I want to make him breakfast sometimes. I want him to play with my hair, especially when I’m stressed. I want text messages just because he’s thinking about me. And I want those kisses, those kind of kisses that start small and end with an ache so palpable you feel it in the entirety of your body. I want real, honest, true 100% love.

I don’t think I’ve ever had it.

I think I’ve felt it, once. Nearly felt it twice. I think someone has felt it for me. But it’s never been at the same time. And I seem to attract men in my life who feel all these things, but they feel them for someone else, and ultimately, I become someone they can talk to, share with, but it never progresses beyond that.

I had a conversation with someone on the phone last night, someone I would very much like to know, but I’m afraid it’s another soft sort of sadness. One should not read Pablo Neruda poems alone or they will quote things like “Tonight I can write the saddest lines” or “Another’s. He will be another’s.” See? I’m quoting right now.

I don’t have a great epiphany right now except to say that I am finally buying a house (this will connect. Just go with me on this). My whole life, I have drifted from place to place, experience to experience, and what I’ve secretly yearned for was a home. I will have that physical place soon, that place that is undeniably mine. I guess I’m looking for another home too, and forgive me in being corny, but it’s the kind of home you find with another person. That kind of comfort where you feel loved and honored, and you can sit on the couch together, nestled next to each other, so comfortable you don’t really know where one stops and the other begins. That kind of home where you just feel that anything that happens in your life, you will be okay because there is someone there with you, watching out for you.

Yep. That’s what I want. I think it’s pretty simple, and at the same time, it seems to me to be absolutely impossible.

That sadness? Still here. Soft and cool…but maybe like the snow, it’s not permanent.

I have now fully recovered from the emotional influence of the moon. It’s a good thing too, because I was driving myself crazy. I’m also really stressed out. I need a vacation. A backrub. To get drunk in front of a roaring fire. And to run naked through the streets screaming “I LOVE CHEESE LOGS!!!”

Ahem. Maybe I don’t need ALL of those things.

What I do need: more dating advice. I love this pamphlet put out in the 1950’s (I think) by the Kotex Corporation. It’s called “Are you in the Know” and features dating, grooming, and manners advice (all a ploy to get a young girl to buy the right maxi pad). The dating advice is hysterical, and I’ve been quoting from it.

I even threatened to take some of the advice and bring prompter cards with me on a date in case I need to ‘stimulate the conversation”. I so deeply wanted to go on a date, wear white gloves, and then as my date was ordering for me (apparently they’re supposed to) I would dip my dainty hand into my beaded purse and pull out a series of questions. I even asked readers for some questions to ask my date. And you know what happened? I haven’t had a date! No dating! Not for lack of desire, I’ve just been too damned busy.

So we must imagine. Me, in white gloves, a pretty dress, and an enormous air cast, reaching into my purse.

The many expressions I'll use on my date, accented by gloves.

IMAGINED SCENE:

“Why, Tanya, what’s that you’re pulling out of your evening bag?” My date Hank asks. (His name has got to be Hank, doesn’t it?)

“Oh, this? Why I’ve brought some prompter cards!”

“You are a clever girl.”

I smile. “Why, yes, I am. Okay, are you ready?”

Hank winks.

“All right then, first question. What are your thoughts on the Kama Sutra?”

Hank blushes. Adjusts his bow tie. “Uh, not sure I’m following you.”

“Oh, It’s like the Joy Of Sex, only ancient. For that matter, do you like the Joy of Sex and are you willing to caress and fondle any part on me that brings me pleasure?” I bat my eyelashes. Hank doesn’t answer. Next prompter card. “Hank, do you like children?”

“Why yes…”

“Because I’ve got TWO!”

“Oh…”

Next card. “Hank, do you have super hero powers, because I do, I’m Blunder Woman after all and I’ve heard that when super heroes breed, they produce freaks of nature. And would you like to test that out later? You know, after I get stinking drunk?”

Hank raises his finger. “Waiter! Check!”

(Thank you Shawna for the great questions.)

END SCENE

You know, as I read this dialogue, it’s probably good I haven’t had a date. I need to just relax and breathe. It’ll happen. For now, I’m pretty busy purchasing a house, writing my books, teaching, being a mom, helping my mom, working at the theater, performing, narrating, and trying to remain flexible so that when that Kama Sutra opportunity comes up, I’ll be ready. Until then, I’ll also keep reading this pamphlet.

I’ll leave you with this gem. I’m quoting here, and have no idea what “sling a sharp line” means:

“How to rate on a first date—A) Sling a sharp line B) Be a listening post or C) Learn his interests. People love to talk about themselves…and a girl who’s a good audience is a good date. Learn his interests. Talk them over…and he’ll soon be interested in you. It’s all about forgetting yourself.”

Wait a minute!! What!! WHAT? Just who do you think you are Kotex people? What kind of malarkey were you teaching my mom’s generation?

On second thought, I’m leaving the pamphlet, the gloves, and the prompter cards at home and when that date does happen, I’m just going to be me. Plain old blunderful…me. I’ll let you know how it works out.