Blogging topics are always tough, unless you want to talk about politics or abortion or Justin Biener. Beiber. Weiner. Whatever. It’s a good thing I’m so self-focused I just talk about myself.

Speaking of myself…

Oh. Bad transition.

So..what’s been happening here as I begin the new novel in my life…anxiety. Yep that about covers it. ANXIETY. I probably should take Valium, or at least give up coffee. Giving up coffee would be a good start, but I have this sneaky suspicion that if I give up caffeine, I may spontaneously combust and/or take uncontrollable naps. Narcolepsy, people. That’s what I mean.

Why the anxiety? I’m moving to my new home. I honestly thought this would be a smooth, delightful transition but it’s stressful. I’m floating in some nether world of no-home-ness. I have all my cooking supplies at the new house, and all my food at the old. My computer is at the old, my internet access is at the new. My furniture is at the old, my specter self is at the new. On top of that I’m teaching, taking care of kiddos, practicing yoga (not really), obsessing, not dating (but dreaming of dating), and trying to rewatch all of Battlestar Galactica by Friday.

Why? Why do I give myself impossible deadlines? Because I’m a freak of nature. And it keeps me sane.

I did have a curious thing occur while walking around on my own in my empty house. I saw the ghost of the person I thought I’d be. She was choosing paint with her husband, and then they were in the master bedroom, and she was wearing a bandana and coveralls…because when you paint, aren’t you supposed to wear that kind of outfit? And they were laughing. And then he came over and he kissed her and she told him to get back work. And then they did. And I imagine they made love in every empty room of the house.

My Ghost Self and Ghost Hubby. Aren't we cute?

Of course, my reality was a bit different. I turned on the 80’s Weekend music, tried to get the paint can open. It was stuck. Cursed having to do it on my own, then got it open. Then I started painting. By myself. Quietly. It was sad and not-sad. And I was wearing a blue t-shirt and jeans. I admit, I wanted to cry a little. I always thought that I’d share my dream home with someone I loved, who loved me, but real-life novels are not like books: they are rarely predictable.

Later, my sister came over. We sang to the radio, we chatted, we high-fived (just once) and then spent waaaaay too long eating at a Mexican restaurant while drinking a gigantic Margarita for Two. It was not the life or the moment I envisioned, but you know, this real life, although way different from my ghost life, has its beauty too.

And my room? It’s earthy awesome. Perfect for me to cocoon up in…and eventually….cocoon up with someone else too. Just, you know, not my sister.

Okay. I should’ve done this Friday on my Week O’ Blogs, but I was moving, and I tried to clone myself and have one self move while the other self wrote, but it just didn’t work out.

So, Friday’s question came from another great artist (I’m so lucky to have such talented friends). In fact, I should post some of her stuff here and some of my other friends’ stuff and then you could buy their art. Tangent.

Jane VanderLaan asks: “If you could decide what your kids will do or who they will be when they’ve grown up, what would it be?”

Now, of course, a mom’s instinct is to say “I will support anything my kids want to do. I will love them for who they are and not try to force them into who I want them to be.” That’s the secret Mom’s Hippocratic Oath.  But…that’s not the question Jane asked. She asked IF I could choose, what would I decide.

Hmmmm. A tough one. Well, if I had my choice, they’d both get a good, solid education and get into college and then enroll themselves right away in a program that takes them overseas. I want my kids to travel, to open their minds to the world, and to have a bigger, better life than I’ve had. I have a passport that every ten years I update. My first passport I got at twenty, then  updated it when I got married, and will need to update it again now that I’m single…and that passport? Not a single stamp on it. So. First thing is I’d want them to travel.

Travel, kiddos. Travel.

Louis seems to be interested in science and history. I’d love for him to be a professor or to work in research. Whatever he does, I hope he’ll use his knowledge for the power of good. For real.

Simone seems to like drawing and dance and unicorns and Barbies. It’s still a little early to see where her interests go, but if I had my choice, she’d be a writer or performer. Maybe write and illustrate children’s books.

In all honesty, I don’t care what they do. (There’s that oath again.) My greatest hope for my kids is that the are emotionally strong, that they can be empathetic for others, that they learn how to love and to know that they are beautiful people worthy of love themselves. And I hope they make enough money to have a comfortable life, one that is not weighted with worrying over bills and food and healthcare. Of course, a little struggle when they’re in college and just starting out is good for the spirit.

I just want…I want my kids to be good people, kind, loving, and confident in who they are. I don’t want them to settle in life, but a little compromise is good. I want them to know that I love them just as they are and I am so proud of who they are becoming.

And if they want to take me on one of their world travels, that would be okay with me too. Just saying.

Today’s question comes from a great graphic designer on Twitter. Check out @magicray . AND he makes amazing balloon animals and creations. I’m not kidding. He made me one for my birthday last year. What’s his question? Ray asks:

“What advice do you have for aspiring superheroes?”

This is a really great question, and at an important time…because right now, I think the world really needs more superheroes. I’m not joking. I mean with a bad economy and general depression feelings and broken hearts and gas pains from too much fast food, we could all use a little rescuing. Here are some bullet points in case you’re thinking of becoming a superhero. (Except I couldn’t figure out how to do bullets so I numbered it instead.)

HOW TO BE AN AVERAGE SUPERHERO

1) Choose a name. Let’s face it: most of the cool superhero names are taken. Don’t despair!! Those superheroes are from other planets or have been transformed by radioactive materials. You don’t want to be Superman or Spiderman anyway. Who wants that much baggage? No, it’s far better to be an average superhero. How do you do it? Simple. You find one thing you’re really good at and then you add Man or Woman to it. See, me, I’m brilliant at mistakes…hence, Blunder Woman. Maybe you make an amazing cookie. Then you could be Cookie Man, or better yet, The Amazing Cookie Man. Or maybe you can do fart noises with your armpit. Armpit Music Woman has a certain ring to it. Just choose the one thing you’re great at and keep it simple.

2) Make an outfit. All superhero outfits require a cape and a mask. Most outfits, especially if you’re a guy require either a unitard or tights. I like men in unitards. They look very awkward and it leaves little to the imagination. Ehm…now I’m distracted. Oh. Right. Just get a cape, a mask and maybe sew on a letter, and you are good to go.

Consider a unitard for your superoutfit.

3)         Determine your Secret Identity. Your Secret Identity is your day job. Maybe you work at an office, you teach, you cook. It doesn’t matter. Just make sure you wear glasses. When you put on glasses NO ONE KNOWS YOU’RE ACTUALLY A SUPERHERO. That’s cool. Plus, I think glasses are hot. Just in general. Nothing is sexier than someone who’s smart. Unless it’s someone who’s smart, likes to give back rubs, and likes sci-fi shows. That’s on fire.

4)         Practice general acts of kindness. Everyone should do this actually. It’s just good people skills. And karma.

That’s really all the advice I have. Being a superhero is hard work, but it’s also rewarding. See, now when I totally embarrass myself I feel good because I know my superpowers are working and the world is in order…and it’s so much cheaper than therapy.

Cheers,

Blunder Woman

Tim Beeler, an awesome artist (seriously. check out his creepy fun stuff at timbeeler.com) posted today’s question. He writes:

“An old grey wizard, a flamboyant golden robot and his best friend, or a man living in a blue box show up on your doorstep to tell you there’s a great adventure waiting for you and you have to leave right now. Do you go?”

Okay. So this is a question that goes straight to my GeekHeart. Do I go? I am out the door!!! Okay. Wait. I’ve got to breathe. Let me think this through. If they all showed up at once, I’d have a heart attack, so let me imagine different scenarios.

Scenario One:

Blunder Woman Meets Gandalf

There is a knock at the door. Blunder Woman doesn’t answer. She’s too busy eating ice cream and watching Battlestar Galactica. The knock is more insistent. A WIZARD, GANDALF, barges into her living room.

Certain adventure awaits!!

GANDALF: There’s no time to lose, no time! Get up, young whippersnapper.

BLUNDER WOMAN: Did you call me young?

GANDALF: I did indeed.

BLUNDER WOMAN: I love you.

GANDALF: There is no time for love. Right now you must save the world from certain destruction! No time to think! You must come now!!

BLUNDER WOMAN: Okay. Just let me update Facebook, Twitter, get a sitter for the kids, call my mom, paint my toes, put on a push-up bra and grab a clean cape and I’ll be right with ya.

END SCENE

SCENARIO #2

BLUNDER WOMAN MEETS C3P0 and MIDGET ROBOT

BLUNDER WOMAN is doing sit ups while watching a BBC romance. There is a strange beeping coming from the front of her apartment. The door swings open to reveal a shining robot and his wee friend.

C3PO: Oh, R2, I am quite sure you did not need to use your photokinetic blastermatron.

R2D2: bebebebebbeeep

C3PO: We haven’t time! We have a message for someone! For…Why, hello there.

BLUNDER WOMAN gets up from her crunches.

BLUNDER WOMAN: Yo.

C3PO: We have an urgent message sent from a galaxy far, far away…

BLUNDER WOMAN: Is Han Solo there?

C3PO: Why, I can’t be sure. R2?

BLUNDER WOMAN: If he’s there, then I’m in, no questions asked. If it has to do with Luke or any of the prequels, sorry. I’m working out.

END SCENE

TANYA MEETS THE DOCTOR

Oh, Doctor!!

TANYA is in her living room wearing a silky negligee since she’s tired of being Blunder Woman. Her hair is perfect and she’s practically glistening with sex appeal. Hmm. That sounds gross. Let’s just say she sparkles like a VAMPIRE. She opens the door to reveal a strange man wearing a trenchcoat, standing in front of a blue phone box.

TANYA: Helllooooo…..Doctor.

DOCTOR: I’m sorry?

TANYA: I’ve been waiting for you.

DOCTOR: What’s this?

TANYA: Oh, let me just take you by the coat lapels like this and then run my hand…

CENSORED BY INTERNET COMMUNITY FOR INNAPPROPIRATE LANGUAGE.

Ahem.

Sorry about that last scene. I was, er, uhm, a little distracted.

In all honestly, if any of these people came to my door, I probably wouldn’t open the door. I hate it when people want to sell me something and I have to hurt their feelings and say no. Better to pretend you’re not actually at home watching Firefly than risk opening the door.

—–

Got more questions? Please ask. I’m answering serious and/or ludicrous questions alllll week.

This question comes from Laura Michels. She is a fantastic actress newly returned to Grand Rapids and performed in the piece I wrote for the GRAM as well as ‘twelve scenes about loving’. She asks: “What has the last year taught you about marriage and love?”

I had to think about this for a while. I’m still not sure that things happen for a reason, though I do believe that we can get meaning from even the most horrible experiences. So what is the meaning of this year for me? What have I learned?  I learned to find my voice again. I’ve learned what marriage is not, what it shouldn’t be. I’ve learned that I still believe in love, but I’m still struggling with the fear that it might never happen for me, at least the good kind of love. The kind of love that is balanced and, well, kind.

In my marriage, I thought that to keep P. married to me, to keep the family happy, I had to give up on my self.  I mean that. I mean, I gave up on My Self. I gave up on things that made me happy as an individual. I thought being married was sacrificing everything in order to make your family happy. By doing that, I disappeared. I became mute. I was a living ghost. By leaving, I rediscovered that self and now know that though I am flawed, maybe even tragically, or at least melodramatically, I am, essentially human. I’ve learned that everyone is at some point a fuck up. And it’s these flaws that are endearing. Achilles without the flaw in his heel is just another God. With that flaw, he’s vulnerable. He has a heart. He can be loved.

I’ve learned that I have a big heart. I’ve learned that I now know what love is and how to recognize it. It isn’t giving up your self. It’s finding someone who loves and supports you not in spite of your flaws…but because of them.

I’ve learned that marriage should be a partnership. There should be passion, and fights, and times of quiet. There should be support. I’ve learned that a woman has value. She is more than a collection of roles like mother, wife, cook. She is a full person. A person to be treasured. I should have been in my marriage. I was not. I take partial blame because I allowed it to happen.

What I’m still learning is how to be kind to myself. To look at the wrinkles, the silly mistakes, the wonderful blunders I’ve made and to laugh. And there have been nights, alone, in my apartment, where I have turned up the music and I have danced. I have very little rhythm and my body rarely moves the way I want it to, but I have danced. A year ago, I was too afraid to do this.

So. What have I learned? What has this year taught me? That being alone is okay. Loving who I am is okay. Hoping to find a relationship built on trust and compassion and passion is possible. I just have to be a little more patient. I’m working on it. I really am.

—————-

Got another question for me? It can be about anything: serious or ridiculous. I’m blogging all week…if there’s an interest. Simply comment here, tweet me, or leave a message on FB. And I’ll answer you. I really will.

This week I’m answering ridiculous and/or serious questions about life, dating and cheese sandwiches. In essence, anything you want to ask, I’ll answer. I may even offer advice. What gives me the right to do this? My gigantic pair of cajones. A warning, please don’t actually take any of the advice I may give. I’m a 36-year-old divorced single mom struggling to make it as a writer. I have issues.

Blunder Woman's Outfit

Our first question comes from RPFangirl_ on Twitter. She asks:

Do you have different capes for each day of the week or moods?

Blunder Woman’s Response:

Hey, RPFangirl, thanks for your insightful question. Here’s the thing. I would love to wear a different cape for every mood I have because I have a lot of them. Moods that is. But, sadly, according to The National Handbook and Rule Book for Ordinary Superheroes (or the NHRBOS) “An Ordinary Superhero is allowed only one costume. 1) Because they’re probably poor and 2) Because it’s their brand and people must be able to recognize their superhero by clothing alone”. I understand because Super Man in a shiny green leotard with fringe would really be a freak of nature. Or starring in some interpretive dance.

I have a red cape and a red mask. That’s my costume. Here’s how I accentuate…sometimes under the cape I wear a nice black dress and heels. Sometimes a t-shirt, running shorts, knee socks and my favorite brown 1970’d style tennis shoes. Sometimes, ahem, nothing at all. Today, it’s a black t-shirt, jeans and boots. I’m trying to say “Rockstar”, though I probably shouldn’t use jazz hands when I say that.

I don’t really need to change my cape except for washing it. I think anyone paying attention to my face can get my mood just by my facial expression, with the exception of my ex. He couldn’t read me at all and didn’t know that when I said “Everything is fine” I was really saying “I’m entirely miserable and we need to fix this ASAP”. Uh…where was I?

Oh yeah. My cape.

Cheers,

Blunder Woman

I was thinking, again, how Beth W. said that often my life reads like a novel. This, as you know, is an idea I keep returning to. And I thought, yes, it has the drama and the pain of a novel, but unlike a novel, it just keeps going. Loose ends are never tied, things are never resolved, and complications just keep complicating. Then, on my walk today, I returned to this idea and thought, “You know, we’re all walking novels.” And that sounds melodramatic, but what I mean by that is this: there are events in our lives, transformative events that like a novel, have a beginning, a middle, and an end. So in this way, my life this past year is very much a novel. Now, looking back, I feel that I’ve come to the close of this transformative experience. That doesn’t mean that my life stops; it doesn’t. It means that I’m now entering a new novel, a new time, filled with new characters. But this year, this particular year, I’ll remember for a lifetime.

It began in taking a step that was ferociously brave: to correct the mistakes I’d made by starting my life again. Now, it ends with something quiet, something sweet.

When I look back, I have to shake my head at this year. From running into my husband (just two weeks after I’d left him) on his first date with the woman he would later propose to while they were pushing my kids in the stroller….to the hopeless Christmas I spent entirely alone with a broken foot…to trying desperately to get a house and being told I could not have it. And there was the day when The Friend of the Court told me I would only have $100 a month in support and I left sobbing, thinking I was destined for poverty, only to have a message on my phone from Ruth O’Keefe (now passed away) offering me a full-time position at Kendall. I walked across the street, literally, cleaned myself up in the bathroom and then signed the paperwork accepting the job. And then there was the first man I dated, the mad I treated coldly and unfairly to see if I was still capable of feeling anything. He was followed by a man I could-have-loved, but now I see as only a false kind of love. And there have been times when I cried in my empty apartment because I did not think I mattered, or I was strong enough, or I was smart enough.

Now, though, things are different, and I find that I’m not apologizing anymore for being an emotional person. I look at my kids and they are happy. I have students and a vibrant work life. I am writing and producing my work. And I have friends, real friends that I can talk to and laugh with and share food with. And that house? I signed on that house. It’s now mine.

So. If this year were a novel in my life, here is the ending I would write:

Where One Novel Ends, and Another Begins

She walks into the empty house that has all the things she ever dreamed of: a warm kitchen, a sunroom, nice bedrooms for her kids, and a back yard where she can have a garden and toys and people over.

The house is empty but she can see the things that will be: she can see the Christmas tree in the corner, the turkey on the table. She can hear laughter and hushed voices talking. She can see all the things that will be brought into her house to transform it into a home and, after a long time of searching, she feels, finally that she can rest.

She does not know what will happen in her life in the coming days. She does not know what kind of love and happiness and sorrow waits for her, though she does know there will be all of these things somehow. She doesn’t know anything other than (at this moment, standing in her empty house that will one day be her home) what she has right now is enough. Her life is enough. It’s enough. And in that small word ‘enough’ there is a quiet beauty. So, for now, she simply sits on the bare floor, and breathes, and waits for what will happen next.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the inequality of dating. Yeah. That’s right. You heard me. INEQUALITY. And it’s not like I’m going to wave a flag or burn my bra (my boobs are too big to go carefree), I just mean there’s some gender differences in regards to dating that really piss me off.

Now, tell me if I’m right here or just being neurotic, BUT it seems like guys my age (late 30’s almost 40) are looking to date hot, beautiful twenty-somethings. Guys in their 50’s are looking to date women my age. So that pisses me off a bit. Not that I wouldn’t want an older guy, but I sort of want to share a life with someone who’s the same age as me, so that when I make pop culture references to The Brady Bunch or The Electric Company of the 70’s that we both get it and feel connected. So that’s my first gripe.

My second gripe is that I feel this intense pressure to be hot. And not like pre-menopausal hot, I mean, I feel like to date anyone at all, it doesn’t matter if I’m smart or interesting or quirky. On the online websites, it’s all about appearance. The question men think when they look lat my picture is: Does she look like hot enough that she could be one of the gaggle of women on The Bachelor? And I wonder: Is my hair long and straight, nose thin, boobs enhanced and firm, skin pulled, teeth whitened. Am I a Mom Someone Would Like to (ahem)? I am not. I’m short. My hair gets frizzy. I have a big jaw and a defined nose. Big boobs, but they’re all natural, and even my son says he can see my wrinkles. But I am also very bright, dare I say witty, and a mean cook. And I’m not kidding when I say I can cook. I really mean it. But these qualities, they don’t matter.

Here’s the cold, mean truth: I’m not hot enough to get the attention of professional, successful guys. I AM hot enough to get the attention of high school educated, salt of the earth guys.

Not that there’s anything wrong with them…it’s just…I’m not the girl for a man who smokes, hunts, and swears and works in a factory. That sounds horrible, I know, and I don’t mean it to, it’s just I need someone who’s educated and likes different food and travel and reading and music and art. I’m generalizing here, but I think you get what I mean.

It seems like guys don’t have the pressure to be hot if they’re successful and have a job: they have the power in the dating realm to choose whomever they want. And whomever they want happens to be girls named Sera or Denver or Amber and are 22. Girls who are tall and thin and well endowed. Girls that when the men think about them, it’s not their brains they’re dreaming of.

Selfishly, I want a guy I’m attracted to too. Not just mentally, but physically. I feel horrible for saying that, but it’s the truth. So maybe my griping about all these men my age looking for plastic women is really envy. Not that I want a plastic man, I just want a man that I feel electricity with, and I want that to be accepted. All the men who seem to be interested in me sort of look like my dad.

Then again, maybe that’s the reality of dating men in their 40’s and 50’s. They all start to look like your dad. A little disturbing to get hot and bothered over that.

Usually when I sit down to write a blog, I have some idea of where it’s going to go. Maybe I want to talk about words that make me giggle like an adolescent boy: cheese log, muffin, and, of course, beaver.

You know what this is? A LARGE BEAVER. (insert giggle here.)

But today, I’m just sort of sitting down and writing. My fingers are flying and my mind isn’t quite there yet. There’s been so much going on I haven’t had time to breathe or relax…which is why my body has decided to pummel me with a cold. Seems the only thing  that will slow me down is when I have a broken foot or a chest cold. This cold’s only minor. My voice actually sounds sexy, instead of freakish.

See? Wandering.

What’s been going on? I’ve been on a  few more dates, though I said I was giving up on that. Went to a great wine tasting with quirky characters from Italy. One was wearing a shirt a few sizes too small and had one of those bellies that stick out like a happy toddler’s. He was also wearing enormous glasses. The other Italian sat at my table and entertained us with stories on how carefully he must pronounce the word “Cork” because he has a tendency to leave out the ‘r’, and when he told a woman that he had a ‘cork’ (sans r) in his hand, she looked absolutely pale. That was a good time. Not the, ahem, co*k in his hand, but the wine tasting. Just the right amount of awkwardness. And my escort did a fine job.

I’m still not sure I’m cut out for dating. The problem is that whole loneliness thing. And I really wish I could just fast-forward through the dating process and just be comfortable with someone. I’m so tired of asking men about their childhood, their job, their goals, their travel. It’s driving me bonkers. I just want to sit quietly with someone and be quiet, take their hand, lean against them. Not to mention other things I’d like to do…but….yeah…you sort of have to date before you get to that point.

And the other drama going on has been this house ordeal. I think I’ve come to terms with it. And now, it might actually still happen. I’m whispering quietly for luck. Then there’s taxes, trying to work on my book, putting up a show at Dog Story, trying to juggle time with the kids and a social life and returning to reading. I’m so busy I’ve thrown out commas entirely.

As I was walking to school today, I had a peculiar awareness dawn. I’m actually happy. I am. It’s almost been a year now since I left Pierre, and it has been beyond difficult. I left with nothing, started with nothing, broke my foot, had several major disappointments, stressed about money and work and the kids, felt my heart break over Pierre’s choice to remarry so quickly, felt it break again when I started to fall for the wrong person and then stopped myself, felt intense loneliness, even, at times, utter despair.

But the flip side? The flip side is, I’m finishing up a year as a professor of writing. My book is being published in July. My kids are happy. I’ve reconnected with wonderful friends and made new friends. I’ve laughed more this year than in the past five. I’ve cried more too, but they’ve been good tears…and I find, suddenly, that I’ve done it. I’ve succeeded. Maybe I’m not rich or famous or Hollywood beautiful, but I am living the life I want. The life I deserve.

Hmmm. This is what happens when you free write. Sometimes you realize that that thing you’ve been searching for, that happiness…well, you’ve had it all along.