Jonathan Tropper: An (Apoplectic) Apology

Dear Jonathan,

May I call you Jonathan?

I am truly sorry, but I cannot continue our tweeting “relationship.”  I know this may come as an unwelcome surprise to you, especially as you are pretty much a world famous author and highly regarded screenwriter, but I can no longer, in good conscience, continue to tweet you five, six, sometimes eighteen times a night.  First of all, I have stopped (well, stopped may be an overstatement–tempered is probably more accurate) my nightly alcohol consumption, and, secondly- but no less important, I have not received a single reply from you..NOT A ONE.  I have reviewed my latest tweets to you to see if I can figure out this curious conundrum:

19 May (7 p.m.)

@Jtropper Still waiting for a reply to my 108 tweets in April…hope you are well!

19 May (7:30 p.m.)

@Jtropper Oh, and have you had a chance to check out my book yet? Here is the link (again): http://virgoebooks.com/broken-hallelujah.html

19 May (7:40 p.m.)

@Jtropper And here is the link (again) to the Romanian edition of Broken Hallelujah; you will be pleased to know it is #9 in the Romanian ebook ranking: virgoebooks.com/fructul-oprit.html …

19 May (7:42 p.m.)

 

@Jtropper Your latest book is #864 in the same Romanian ebook ranking.  But–don’t worry–I am not comparing…

19 May (8:01 p.m.)

@Jtropper I am waiting by my computer; tweet back when you get this:)

19 May (8:11 p.m.)

@Jtropper BTW–loved meeting you at your reading at the JCC in DC!

19 May (8:12 p.m.)

@Jtropper Do you remember that I had all six of your books for you to sign

19 May (8:13 p.m.)

@Jtropper and even though the line was really really long, you wrote something heartfelt

19 May (8:14 p.m.)

@Jtropper in each book (per my request)–thank you for ignoring the impatient mumblings

 19 May (8:15 p.m.)

@Jtropper from those rude people in line, especially the one who called you an “arrogant and inconsiderate groupie.”  I mean

19 May (8:16 p.m.)

@Jtropper how rude is that?  I hope you let him have it, Jonathan, when it was his turn to get his measly one book signed…

19 May (8:17 p.m.)

@Jtropper May I call you Jonathan?

So, there it is–a real mystery…If, as I strongly suspect, your continuing to NOT respond to my tweets is due to circumstances beyond your control, such as an overzealous assistant deciding that he/she is the (un)official gatekeeper of access to JT, I only hope you will be fair and take pity on him/her, remembering, perhaps, your own humble beginnings, the vagaries of your own journey–wrought with all sorts of  dips and chasms–which brought you to where you are today.  Please, Jonathan (if I may call you that), remember how it felt (feels, actually) to have a Romanian ebook ranked at #864.  And, finally, do not waste time feeling bad (or conflicted) about your radio silence–please know, really know, that I, without any feelings of ill will, accept your sincere (and heartfelt) apology………in advance.

Sincerely,

Leanne Tankel (author of Broken Hallelujah: notes from a marriage–probably yours)

Damn You, David Petraeus and Paula Broadwell…

Guilty pleasures no more…

The demise of delightful diversions…

You have ruined it for all of us.

I hope you are happy…

Did we, in Broken Hallelujah: notes from a marriage, begrudge Lauren her lascivious longings, her blatant banter, her ubiquitous not-too-subtle subtext which energized many of her otherwise innocuous conversations?  I, for one, did not.  Although she may not be (or may be) my doppelganger, Broken Hallelujah‘s protagonist recognizes (as do I) the enlivening power of human desire.  And to that end, I embrace her…unequivocally and perhaps with the same ferocity with which Mary Shelley embraced her Frankenstein…

But unlike Lauren, my own and at this point unfortunate outlet has been deemed too dangerous–its doors have been slammed shut by those who took it too far (and who, apparently, set up way too many accounts).  I am, of course, talking about the judicious use of email to a salaciously satisfying end.

Wasn’t it only like yesterday (“yesterday” being the time BEFORE David Petraeus and Paula Broadwell screwed it up for the rest of us) that this innocent e-mail exchange occurred:

He:  ”What are you wearing?”

Me:  ”Something edible”

He:  ”I haven’t had lunch yet, and my afternoon is wide open…”

Me:  ”So am I…(kidding:)”

THAT WAS THEN; THIS, SADLY, IS NOW:

Me:  What are you doing?

He:

Me:  Are you there?

He:  I read in the Wall Street Journal that consumer spending is up a quarter of a percentage point…

Really?  Who gives a shit…

Thank you, dear reader, for listening to my lament; AND DAMN YOU, David P and Paula B, for making it necessary.

And, as for “He,” whoever you are, were, or might have been:

I MISS YOU IN MY INBOX…

Priceless Progeny (On Mother’s Day)

A good morning make-your-own Bloody Mary with premium vodka–$9

Mother’s Day brunch at a favorite Mexican restaurant with my husband and three boys–$106

Receiving this Mother’s Day poem written by my 13-year-old son–PRICELESS!

 

 

MOM

 

You are unique

The perfect white dove

Words cannot describe

I am not a worthy scribe

 

Well, I guess I will try

I will describe you with two or more colors

Forest Green and Ocean Blue

Those are just two

 

You are often down to earth

Unlike a mom giving birth

Relaxed, Calm, and Passive

Like a cloud in the sky

Not a worry in your eyes

You are Forest Green

 

The woods call you

Nature does too

The pileated woodpecker

Are there ever so few

But you would find them all

More reasons why you are Forest Green

 

Other times you are wild

Crazy like a beast

Just released

Rushing around to do many tasks

But under the surface 

The real you lays

Like Ocean Blue

 

The ocean can be angry

So can you

Other times it can be calm and welcoming

The perfect color and the perfect temp.

That is you normally

An angel from above

I am not worthy of your Love

 

I guess this whole poem

Could be summed up

With a simple phrase

3 words and 8 letters

In short or in long

I Love you

And you’re a great mom

Women Are From Venus, And Men Are From A Planet Where People Are Really Really Stupid

Spencer’s inability to purchase cheese for his daughter received perhaps the most empathetic nods of any of the incidents recounted in Broken Hallelujah: notes from a marriage.  In fact, one woman even went so far as to email me that she was just about certain her twins would starve if their daily nourishment were left up to her husband.  Why is it that members of the male species are rendered inert when asked to complete the simple tasks of feeding or dressing a child, leaving a bathroom with all towels OFF the floor, or peeling their asses off the sofa long enough to check if the answering machine is blinking with a message or a child has actually gone to bed as instructed.  Beats me…but being the generous optimistic tomorrow-is-a-new-day type of gal that I am, I am forever offering my husband opportunities to prove that he is in fact NOT a clueless clod.  For example, because I get tired of sending him, month after month, with only a moment’s notice (if even that), and sometimes very early in the morning or very late at night, to purchase the Tampons I need immediately, I told him it would be fine to add them to our monthly Amazon delivery.  And add them he did…You know the sort of sweet but somewhat saccharine expression, “rich in love”…well, guess what I am rich in:

That’s right!  And these boxes are only the ones I could stack without the entire tampon tower crashing to the floor…I mean I guess his heart was in the right place, but what about his head?  Did he think he was ordering tampons for the entire red tent?  Which, as an aside, is just one of those antiquated, some would even say sexist, ideas that TOTALLY should find its place back into civilized society.  I mean, come on girls, who is with me?  When the cramps, bloating, and bad mood start to rear their bloody head, who wouldn’t want to curl up in a sacred space with the aura of estrogen working its wonders as a kind of healing energy?  Sounds like a nice antidote to our harried everyday lives as wives, mothers, chauffeurs, caretakers, cooks, and maids, doesn’t it?  Who is with me? And don’t worry I have enough tampons for all…everyone is invited…(except you, Amanda, you know why)…My friend, W, even one ups this idea by suggesting we change the designation of TENT to SPA.  Now THAT is pure genius.  But I digress…

So, as I type this–after I have emptied the dishwasher, packed school snacks, laid out clothes, taken the dogs for their final walk, written out the boys’ sports schedules for the following day, folded laundry, answered emails, etc.–I lovingly watch my flawed yet well-meaning husband as he sleeps on the sofa.  I listen to his melodic though at times off-tempo snores which both drown out and merge with the sounds of gun violence and profanity emanating from the show he had been watching on T.V.   I benevolently suppress the homicidal urge threatening my domestic calm and remind myself with something that (almost) passes as conviction, “I have tampons…lots of tampons.”

Gee, Amanda…..Why Are You Such A Bitch?

Remember, in Broken Hallelujah: notes from a marriage, how Lauren’s girlfriends seem to follow some unspoken code of girlfriendness that has them freely dispensing well-meaning, though at times idiotic, advice regarding such subjects as sex, relationships, Bruce Springsteen, and birth control?  I mean Patti’s tried and true birth control method, which resulted in the birth of her second son, was stretching the bounds of believability, but her heart was in the right place, right?  And Lauren’s sister’s example of how to handle a clueless husband through blatant and apparently unabashed profanity left us all nodding our heads knowingly while acknowledging the tacit truth of sisterhood, which most certainly exists between wives, girlfriends, and, perhaps, women everywhere.

So how is it that, on my recent visit to a sports massage specialist (as advised by a friend who is a seasoned runner), the woman who would be rubbing oil on practically every inch of my sore over-taxed body–who would ultimately be providing the relief for the muscle aches and the post forty I-can’t-possibly-run-a-half-marathon fears–could prove to be such an absolute and unadulterated Bitch (that’s right, with a capital B!)?

Amanda:  ”So, how can I help you today?”

Me:  ”Well, I am training to run my first half-marathon ever and I am over forty and I don’t know you know if I can do it I mean my hip hurts after my last three mile run and I have a nagging pain in my calf and I am just hoping that this sports massage will be the first step in healing my body so I can continue my training which might be a stupid thing for me even to attempt and I am hoping you can give me some stretching guidelines so that I can feel confident as I embark on this journey yes it really is a journey for me to overcome the physical and mental obstacles which conspire to keep me from my goals I mean…”

Amanda:  ”Your hour has already started, so why don’t you fill out this paperwork–all three double-sided sheets–so we can get started before my next client arrives.  I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Me (when she returns):  ”Here is the paperwork…”

Amanda (looking it over):  ”So, you have ‘sensitive calves;’ I guess I will just leave that area alone.”

Me:  ”No, I mean, I only do because of the running…I mean that is the part of the reason I am here so that the tension in those muscles can be worked out or at least worked on you know I really…”

Amanda (smiling tightly):  ”Let’s get started…and please relax your calf…”

Me:  ”OWWW….”

You get the idea.

Amanda, to be fair, I want you to know that your massage was effective in that it healed the hurt enough to have me continue my training.  Indeed, within two days I was once again scouring the Internet for relevant running training articles, such as How to Look Good in Race Day Photos (smiling apparently is a key component of this).

Perhaps, Amanda, I wanted more from you than you could give…

Perhaps it is not you, it’s me…always searching for that potential sister/comrade/co-conspirator…like Sadie, Broken Hallelujah’s suburban sage, who dispensed countless kernels of truth, astute directives from her repertoire of wisdom, my favorite being, “when in doubt, pee it out!”

Public Enemy/Private Provocateur

Ahhh….memories…The recent induction of Public Enemy into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame has the moments flooding back in a swirl of baton swings and siren wails.  Those were the days, my friend, as Lauren so wistfully recounts in Broken Hallelujah‘s chapter entitled, Hank:

“The beginning of the end was upon us, and we knew that our carefree, masked days of raucous protest, of listening to Public Enemy rap, ‘F*CK THE POLICE,’ while we ran to the nearest safe house, were, rather sadly, numbered.”

And they were, but what those days instilled in us could not be obliterated by what waited for us outside the hallowed halls of academia. This was for many of us the first time in our lives that we could challenge and agitate in a way that had actual implications for the society in which we lived–squatting with the homeless (until canisters of tear gas literally smoked us out…campus police really not giving a shit about student status or bourgeois   ties)…marching for the rights of university students in Central America–Public Enemy rapped about a different reality, an insidious all-encompassing omnipresent form of oppression which permeated every aspect of the daily lives and shackled souls of a certain segment of the population, but we appropriated it as our own; our language may have been different–certainly more middle class for many, Southern Cal Valley for some–but Public Enemy gave us the badass attitude we so sorely needed to begin to effect the change that we, in the microcosm that was University life, wanted to see in the world at large.  Another lesson learned on campus was that if not The Man himself then most certainly the infrastructure of think-free-and-shut-up existed only to keep order and NOT to further our cause.  One of my favorite photos of this time–in addition to the one posted (note my free-flowing eighties curls)–is during one particularly contentious stand-off.  My best friend, A, is facing the police line in staunch defiance, her middle fingers raised, her mouth and nose covered by a kerchief, “WE GOT TO FIGHT THE POWERS THAT BE,” conveyed by the look in her eyes.

So, thank you Public Enemy for the courage and conviction you unknowingly offered our fledgling university community of radical thought and well-meaning action.  Who would have known then that the prophets of the marginalized would twenty year later enter the ranks of the immortalized…the revolution changing but not fading “As Long As The People Got Somethin To Say.”

Only Connect!

E. M. Forster’s famous epigraph “Only Connect!” comes to mind as I write this blog, hoping to somehow connect the visceral relief I feel finally having our beloved pug, Pikachu, home with the final poem written for The Adulterer’s Notebook.  I guess a point of comparison between the two is the recognition of the mutability of our daily lives, and once we experience even a slight shift in the foundation, it is as if we can never return wholly, completely, to the place we inhabited prior to that shift.  The connections that Forster demanded are what allow us to make sense of, to find meaning in, the forever changing landscape of our lives, of our world–a world that we, in some ways, can no more control than we can control the changing of the seasons or the shifting of the winds.  Perhaps no greater proof of this is the immeasurable collective grief of our country caught in the aftermath of yet another unspeakable act. I have read that the 26.2 miles of the Boston Marathon were connected to the 26 lives lost at Sandy Hook Elementary School…and so a celebration connects–with an intended ameliorative effect– to a tragedy, only to have that connection metamorphose into a connection of a different sort entirely…Perhaps our truest point of connection is the commonality of our place on the precipice…our pets, our children, our spouses, our loves, our desires, and our losses are what exist, somewhat bewilderingly, over the edge…

 

Story

This is what we want, love,

For the story to be different:

For example, we wake

To an impossible grey—

What happened to the bright sun,

To summer’s insistence on quiet acquiescence—

Spruce, oak, poplar, and pine

All stayed dumb in their greenness

As light shot through their branches like a sudden

Fluorescent bulb—

By early November, the staggered

White peel

Of the birch’s bark

Drew its lines among the evergreen.

We made love every night

For a week, as if separately,

Longing…

And so our story mimics the larger world–

The slow drift of what is

Almost certainly

The final maple leaf

Takes place in the cool brown

Of our yard.  We know that what the brilliant

reds and yellows revealed

was loss:

Only death can follow.