So, 2017 was a mixed bag for me. Appropriately, I spent the last month of it hiding away in the shadows. My situation was dire. I mean, when I cried ordering a coffee from my barista at 5 am for the third day in a row, I acknowledged that there was considerable room for improvement in ‘dealing’ and that a ban was forthcoming if I didn’t stop making coffee super weird. Yeah, I have been a bit of an undisciplined dumpster fire of emotions lately. And the lit celebration this holiday season only seemed to amplify the palpable ache in my heart – one unyielding even to the strongest of wills – and it sunk me to familiar depths and rendered me defenseless to unrelenting despair.
I have never felt like I belong, or that I am where I am meant to be. Never. When I was a kid, I often sat contemplating, dreaming and imagining what existed beyond the desolate fields of the prairie town in which I lived. Beyond captured my imagination and grabbed hold of my soul, and as though it knew what I needed, it was always whispering, calling. In stillness and chaos, I could hear it. Silently I carried those whispers like fuel and found solace in the step I knew I would one day take. Even then, I understood that I was destined to harbour an ache and long for the unknown, but for reasons, I couldn’t quite understand. I just knew that Beyond offered something necessary and that listening was vital to my well-being – it was what would save me.
The other day, I was alone with a man in a laundry room, and exuberantly I said to him, ‘I have a really nice rack!’ Well shit, not that kind of rack. ‘MY EYES ARE UP HERE, PAL!’
A couple of months ago I said to a male colleague, ‘If you add an avocado to your smoothie, it will make it creamy like a dream.’ WHO IN THE ACTUAL HELL SAYS THAT…EVER…TO ANYONE? Dear Lord, please make it stop.
Hi, guys. I wrote a new blog post. Thought maybe you might want to read it. But don’t feel like you have to, I mean unless you really want to? I don’t know if you do or don’t, but if you don’t, it’s so not a big deal. If you do read it, not assuming you will in any way, I do hope you like it. If you don’t like it, totally cool with that too, I don’t really expect anyone to like it. So, no worries at all!! And, of course, that’s assuming you want to read it and do. Like I said, no biggie either way. Anyway, I am really sorry for bothering you.
So, I am sitting in a coffee shop in Greenwich Village, New York, and I don’t know for sure what I want to write, so I am just going to start spewing out some words and hope that, in the end, they make sense. If they don’t, well, I am sitting in a coffee shop in New York City, writing, and I consider that in itself enough.
Unquestionably, this city takes up the vast majority of my heart, for reasons even I don’t understand – so don’t bother asking me why I love it so much, I just do. Pretty sure, though, that I was born with NYC blood pumping through my veins. I am adopted, so it is completely reasonable to think that my birth mother shagged some guy named Bobby from FDNY Ladder 69 – nobody really knows the story of my conception, so who’s to say it’s not true.
Last Thanksgiving, when I found myself crying and apologizing to a dead turkey as I rammed dry bread and spices up its ass in preparation for its ultimate sacrifice into my oven, I declared on the spot that I would never eat an animal again. And I haven’t. Admittedly though, I am struggling giving up sushi. It’s not that I don’t think fish have feelings, they must, they do, but they are aloof and would probably be wholly pissed if I went in for a cuddle. Like what am I supposed to do with that? I’m working on it. Fish matter. I KNOW.
**WARNING ** This post has the potential to offend absolutely everyone.
My name is Tanya. It has been 17 fucking seconds since I last uttered a swear word.
The other night I was out with my friend, and we were sitting on a patio tucked in amongst other patrons and beautifully arranged hanging baskets, and were talking and drinking as the hot summer sun went down. It was all very picturesque. We ordered another (totally unnecessary) round of drinks, and I have no doubt (so. much. doubt.) that by this point I was talking about something very profound and being exceedingly clever (I so wasn’t). But as I was sharing my wisdom with her, I suddenly became acutely aware of all the fucks that were rolling off my tongue, and stopped mid-sentence, looked at her and said, ‘I swear a lot.’ She looked at me with a look of duh-you-totally-do-dummy, and said, ‘Yeah, you do!’ But then just as quickly, looking utterly perplexed she said, ‘Why the fuck wouldn’t you swear? It’s super fun.’ For so many reasons we are friends, but right then, at that moment, I knew exactly why we are. She not only helped me feel better about my untamed potty mouth, but she made me laugh.
So, yesterday I had a follow-up appointment with my surgeon, and I am pretty sure he thinks I’m a whore. I know. I’m as baffled as you are. I mean I couldn’t whore my way out of a paper bag. No seriously, I would fucking die in that bag.
While laying on my back with my feet securely placed in the stirrups, I told him how fabulous I feel compared to two months ago and was thanking him endlessly for giving me my life back. We were just chatting like a couple of old pals while he was doing his thing down there, and nothing was weird or awkward about it at all. But then I told him about the two issues I am having, and shit got real weird.
He said that he could see that one of my internal incisions is not healing as well as it should be, so that is why I am experiencing pain. Then without warning, he stopped what he was doing, looked me square in the eyes and said all mad, ‘You are NOT ready for intercourse.’
Last Thursday, I woke up in a notable funk. As soon as I opened my eyes and took my first conscious breath, it was evident it was going to be ‘one of those days.’ There was no explanation for feeling the way I did, so I just rolled with it, thinking that the next day would be a better one. Well, Friday morning brought more of the same, and it was the beginning of my slide to hell in a handbasket. (Does it sound more dramatic if I went in an actual basket?) The person looking back at me in the mirror flipped me the bird, and I was like, ‘WHAT ARE YOU GETTING PISSY WITH ME FOR?’ There was no way for me to shake it, so I accepted my fate and the fact that I was going to have to feel things I really didn’t want to.
On Sunday, I began a pet-sitting gig. I know, I know! But, before you start sending me ‘WHAT IN THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?’ messages, please know I have already been adequately lectured and understand the poor judgment I exercised when making this decision a couple of months ago. When I found out the date of my surgery, I canceled all my pet sit jobs, for obvious reasons, but this one I kept, because my only requirement was to take care of two delightful, low maintenance cats, and this place, in all honesty, is a little slice of heaven. It is nestled in the forest and is very tranquil, and I felt it was a perfect place to spend some time during my recovery. Luckily, the world has mostly stopped spinning, and my antibiotics have worked well enough to allow me to keep up my end of the bargain. In hindsight, and based on the pure shit luck I possess, I should have known better than agree to be somewhere so soon after surgery – sometimes, though, I simply forget who I am. I would have looked like a real jack if I had to cancel just days before their vacation, but thankfully, here I am.