If I Ran Like This...

I used to be able to run around Reed's Lake...4 1/2 miles. And then, this time last year, I broke my foot. I thought once the cast was off, I'd run again...but the pain in my foot was sharp, like stepping on a splinter. Finally, by August, it was more of  a dull ache. Now it's December, a year after the Broken Foot, and I'm trying to run again. It's hard. I'm out of shape. Today though I was so stressed out I thought, I have to give this a try.

I walked on the treadmill today for twenty minutes and ran for two. It still hurts. It's still hard. And it takes massive amounts of self-motivation to get my ass on the treadmill with the idea of running.

My son wanted to have a turn, so I hopped off and let him give it a go. What happened next made me rethink the way I'm running. If I could run a little bit more like Louis, maybe running would be fun again. I'm going to give it a shot. Seriously. I don't know why I haven't thought of this before. Make it ridiculous, and surely the pain will lessen. That's got to be in some handbook for living somewhere.

Wait a minute. It is! Mary Poppins sings about it.

Aw, man. I'm now trying to live my life according to Mary Poppins.

Whatever. Here's the video. I'm going to go try this now:

What I'm Working On Now

All through November, I worked on NaNoWriMo, waking up at 5 in the morning to do. And I did it. I wrote a novel in a month. So...er...now what?

I had all these holiday plans for my month-long holiday from teaching. I picked up two Aldous Huxley novels (The Island and Brave New World) and  a Philip K. Dick novel (The Crack in Space). I figured I'd run a mile a day, read vintage sci-five, rewrite the novel, see movies, hang out with the kiddos. I also planned extensive menus for the Logs, Balls, and Bad Holiday Sweater party I'm hosting with Kealoha..and our Christmas Day feast of turducken and a three-tier chocolate mousse cake from Bon Appetit.

Then...I got an email asking if I could record five novels in the next three weeks. Five novels! They're by Lilith Saintcrow and I get to play a badass Necromancer and do all these demon voices. What? Really? HELL YES! (Literally. The heroine spends a lot of time in hell.)

So all of my holiday plans have been postponed. I'm now working on this:

I have to prep all the characters, read the novels, look for words I can't pronounce, and then spend three weeks recording. It's not the Christmas I had planned, but it's going to be devilishly fun.

I'll still have time to blog. Next one I think is about Christmas ornaments and decorating the tree. We had quite the adventure here yesterday. It involved quotes like "Man, Nana's got back!" and "Catch the tree!"

A Holiday Letter From The White Family

It’s December 1^st and that means it’s time to get those Christmas cards in the mail. This brings to mind one of those curious holiday traditions that seems to still persist even though with Facebook you now know exactly what Little Timmy has been up to all year round: namely bong parties.

I’m guilty of the annual Christmas Letter too. When I was married, the letter became more of an account of the way I wanted the year to be remembered, and not 100% the way it was. (I think this might be true of a lot of people.) Last year, I didn’t send Christmas cards at all. How could I? My letter would say the following:

Dear Friends and Family,

Happy holidays, mother fuckers! You know what I’m doing, huh? I’m flat on my back on a couch ‘cause I broke my foot, and it’s Christmas, and I’m going through a divorce, and I’m bitter, man. I’m bitter. So when you open your presents, think of me: alone, wrinkly and with NO PRESENTS AT ALL.

Love,

Tanya

Hmmm. Probably good I didn’t send it. Now I’m struggling with this year’s letter and it sounds annoyingly chipper. You’ve heard all my good news already so I won’t bother repeating it, but it has a lot of exclamation points. !!!Yay!!!

As I sit here, I wonder what this lovely holiday tradition would be like if people wrote about the year as it really was and not how they wanted their year to be perceived.

Here’s an imagined holiday letter from The White Family:

Dear Friends and Family,

Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukah, and if you’re an atheist, well, happy dark days of winter! Bob and Marsha had quite the year. They’ve been fighting like crazy! Marsha put on ten pounds and wears nothing but sweatpants now. (Bob says she looks like a walking sausage.) Poor Marsha, though. Who can blame her if she takes comfort in a pint of Ben and Jerry’s? Bob hasn’t had sex with her in nearly seven months…ever since that new neighbor Jim moved in. Yes. Bob and Jim are having a secret love affair. It’s the best sex either of them has ever had! Too bad it’s a secret.

Little Timmy is having an awful time too. He’s in eleventh grade and between all the time he spends watching online porn and downloading illegal music, he hasn’t had a single second to spend on college applications. He won’t get in anyway. We all know Little Timmy is stupid.

And Emma, well, Emma spends most of her time in her room burning effigies to the spirit gods. She’s on a variety of pharmaceuticals. She’s having a great time!

That’s just a little update. There’s really so much more. The White family hopes you have a great Christmas and lots of presents, because we’re broke and miserable. But cheers anyway!

All Our Love,

Bob, Marsha, Little Timmy, and Emma

I really would like to get a letter like that. And it’d be even better if it came with a family portrait of everyone in matching sweaters looking pissed off.

Seriously, though, I am going to write a holiday letter. I can’t stop myself. It’s tradition. Only this time, my good news will be real. I’m actually very happy. Even my therapist will tell you so.

Next up on the weird holiday traditions? Hmmm. Christmas pickle ornaments? Setting up a manger when you’re not a Christian? The holiday pageant? Christmas dinner? I’m so excited to write about these things I can barely contain myself. Really. I probably will need to be locked up somewhere.

I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.

:)

Why Aren't Romance Writers Taken Seriously?

I’m baaaaccckk.

Remember that creepy girl in Poltergeist? That’s me. I’m back. And, yes, I know I was really only absent for a week, but still. A week is a long time if you’re an ant. If you’re a mayfly, well, that’s an eternity. They only live one day.

Now I’ve totally forgotten the purpose of this blog. Oh, yes. It’s a venting blog, people. A venting blog, but not like the vent Marilyn Monroe stood over.

Nope. This one is about writing, and The Industry. (insert dramatic music here.)

This has been building up in me and now it’s time to give it a voice. So, yes, I have a mild chip on my shoulder about not feeling important. It’s something left over from childhood and previous relationships, and maybe, maybe a little bit of it is also in society. Like, you know, women come second in a lot of ways. But this one is about writing.

I self-published “Easy Does It” a couple of years ago because I couldn’t get an agent to touch it. They liked it. Several agents loved it, but the publishing industry doesn’t like Romantic Comedies. Chick lit has been dead for a while. Now, if I had written a young adult novel with vampires making out, I might’ve had something. But a story about two geeks falling in love? No. So I self-published.

Thankfully, I found a publisher (Champagne Books) willing to take on “Blunder Woman” and “Pepper Wellington and the Case of the Missing Sausage” so my stuff is finally out there. Legitimately. Now I’d like The Industry to take me seriously.

Unfortunately, of all the genres you can write in, if you choose to write a romance novel and one that’s a comedy, chances are you’re not going to be taken seriously. No. Not by serious literary types. Why do I care? I mean, it is comedy, right? Sort of. But comedy is serious business, and I work hard and I’m proud of my stuff. So when my alma mater said I couldn’t give a reading there because my work isn’t serious enough or helpful to their students, I took that personally. I have two books published and a third on the way. I have two-dozen audiobooks out there that I’ve narrated. I have plays and radio plays that have been produced. I’ve dedicated my life to writing, but my work isn’t serious enough? Really?

And then I had some disappointments with the local press. Granted, I somehow convinced them to interview me, but both publications bumped me to cover other more ‘serious’ writers, and one that is a comedy writer but is already famous. So much for supporting local writers (something I also have a chip on my shoulder about).

I announce firmly that I now have a chip on my shoulder that’s more of a dent.

What other genre of writing would a college not take seriously? Sci-fi? No. They take that seriously. Mysteries? No. That’s serious stuff. So what does The Industry have against romance writers? Why are romance writers treated like the scoliosis girl in Sixteen Candles? Why doesn't anyone look at a romance writer?

I’m not the only one griping. There was a recent debate with a group of NY Times bestselling romance writers who can’t get their books reviewed in the NY Times because ‘they’re not serious’ enough. Romantic novels are consistently in the top tier of sellers in all formats from paperback to eBook.

So if million of people read these types of books, why aren’t they serious? Yes. I think part of the problem is historical. This genre is popular among women, and I’m sorry, but in literature there are a handful of women taken seriously. Especially if you’re funny.

I do grant that it’s changing. Tina Fey is getting lots of credit for being funny. I think we have further to go, and it starts with local media and colleges. Yes. My work is light-hearted…but I strive to create accessible, real characters with heart. And I try to make people laugh. A little confession: being funny is hard. Being dramatic is easy. It’s an easier choice to give a character cancer than it is to make them fall believably in love. Don’t believe me? Try writing both of those scenes and see which one is easier.

Tell me your thoughts. Do you read romantic novels? Why? How do they affect you? Are they serious literature? I’m trying not to think that this genre isn’t supported simply because it’s mostly written by and for women, but at this point, I am starting to wonder.

Again, I say, my words are important. And I don’t just mean me. Romantic writers write some of the most emotionally moving stories and if that’s not serious, really, I don’t know what is. Our relationships, loving and not, are some of the most complex feelings out there. Why can’t these stories be taken seriously, even if they make you laugh?

A Message from Me and Richard Simmons

I've been meaning to blog all week. I mean, there's so much to cover...from the crazy Thanksgiving with my family and friends and the idea that it's not really Thanksgiving until my sister says "boner"...to shopping on Black Sunday with my ex-mother-in-law who is now a good friend...to the admission that I bought sweat pants because I have finally crossed the line and have plumped up like a hot dog. (Thank you overeating, wine, and PMS.)

But I'm resisting the urge to blog. Why? Because I'm also doing National Novel Writing Month. Or NaNoWriMo. The goal was to write 1667 words a day and at the end of the month you have an entire novel. I'm on Day 27 and I'm at 45,163 words. I am THIS close to finishing! The book is called "Foodies Rush In" and it pretty much sucks. But it's a first draft and I didn't have any of it written at the beginning of this month.

For the next two days, I'm locked up in my house with nothing to eat but Chex Mix and Thanksgiving leftovers. I'm writing. I'm doing it. I am going to finish this novel and possibly have to buy a bigger pair of sweatpants. It's okay though, because I know that somewhere out there someone loves me. That's right. And his name is Richard Simmons.

Guess what? He loves you too. Here's the video to prove it.

Enjoy the rest of your weekend. I'll be back in December, which is just a few days away.

On Birthdays and What My Son Has Taught Me

My son is 6 today…and while I don’t think anyone is out there thinking ‘please write about your kid’ at the same time, his birthday brings up complex emotions and thoughts in me. Maybe you can relate.

When you’re a kid, every birthday is a big deal. You’re one year older and one year closer to doing really cool stuff. Maybe you get to stay up later, or maybe you get to finally ride a roller coaster because you’re tall enough. Birthdays are exciting. First, they’re all about you. Secondly you get cake and presents. What’s better than that?

Then you get older, and older, and older and birthdays lose a little of their shine. For me, a birthday is really important. It’s a chance for your loved ones and family to acknowledge you, to let you know that you’ve made an impact on their life. And it’s why it hurts so deeply when you’re forgotten on your birthday. It feels sort of like you’re not important or don’t matter.

I’ve had 37 birthdays and they’re still fun…but the ones I look forward to now aren’t my own, but my kids.

My kids’ birthdays are now a reminder to me of what a gift they are. It makes me think of when they were born and how.

Six years ago, Louis came into the world. Anyone who’s gone through giving birth (and this includes dads because you’re right along in the delivery room) knows that it is deeply traumatic, painful, and then hopefully filled with joy. So, I guess the whole process of entering the world is a little bit like life itself.

At age 30 (and after witnessing 9/11 and then moving home) I no longer wanted to be a writer. I mean, I wanted to write, but it seemed to me that living just for my art had cut me off from a whole range of experience. And after September 11^th, I was more certain than ever that what I wanted most out of life was not to be famous for my words: I wanted a family. I never thought it would happen for me. I’d fallen in love with men who would not or could not love me back and I thought, at 30, that I was losing out. I was certain that it was too late.

Then I met P., my now ex, and I have to say that no matter what happened later with our relationship, at the beginning, we both wanted exactly the same thing: and that was to have a family. And I am so grateful for that because now I have two wonderful children, and they have a great dad.

So I was pregnant and it was awful. I hated it. I threw up five to six times a day. I had gestational diabetes and had to check my blood sugar seven times a day. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t eat. And I wanted desperately not to be pregnant anymore. Finally, November 23, 2004 rolled around and I was in labor. It was five in the morning. I made P a pot of coffee and let him sleep in. Later, I woke him and then my mom.

P. ended up heading into work. He had a huge conference he had to take twenty students to. My mom drove me to the hospital and brought supplies. She filled a black garbage bag with rolls of paper towel, a two liter of pop, and about twenty aromatherapy oils. She threw in a CD player (but no cd’s). Then we were in the waiting room and as I tried to ride out the pain she tried to do reiki on me. “Mom! Not now!” I cried. And then “I love you , Mom , but I really can’t handle all this junk in here. Can you please take it out.”

Mom looked at the garbage bag and then we both started laughing. “I don’t know why I brought all this,” she said. “You want some paper towel?”

Later P. joined us, leaving the conference. And then it was just me and P and then the delivery room.

I won’t go into all the details here. It was intense. The baby was pressing on some nerve and I felt like my legs were literally burning. I’ve never experienced that pain before. I was certain they were encased in flames. They gave me the shot in the back, but it didn’t help. And then, I was pushing and the doctors were counting. In between contractions, P and the doctor talked about the East GR Football team. I was actually relieved because it meant I didn’t have to contribute to the conversation. (I honestly thought that. I’m always trying to be a good hostess.)

Then Louis entered the world, not with a scream, but with utter silence.

I have never known such fear as those few moments. It might have been a few seconds, but it felt like a lifetime, or worse, the end of a life.

The cord was wrapped around his neck, and tightly. He wasn’t breathing. The laid-back atmosphere quickly changed to one of urgency. I couldn’t see what they were doing, but that doctor swooped over to Louis and worked on him and then finally, finally, Louis cried. He cried! Then I cried. Then P. cried. It was beautiful.

I don’t remember much after that. I remember later when I held little Louis I thought “Oh, god. What do I do now?” I wanted him so badly and then when I held him I didn’t feel anything. I didn’t feel that mother-love they say happens. What I felt was absolutely terrified. What made me think I could be a mom? What did I have to offer?

Louis has taught me a lot of things in these six years. He’s taught me patience, he’s taught me kindness, he’s taught me to believe that good things happen. He also taught me that love isn’t something that happens instantly, even between a mother and child. It’s something that grows through experiences, through shared pain and laughter, through panic and tears. P changed Louis’s first diapers because I was terrified. But slowly, slowly, I grew to have confidence in being not just a mother, but Louis’s mother.

And later when Simone was born I realized that love wasn’t finite. That I could love infinitely. And that there are two little people in this world who can do anything and that my love for them will not break, it just gets stronger every day.

Yes, I know there’s an element of cheese to this, but if you’re a parent, you know what I mean. Shoot, if you’ve ever loved anyone, you know what I mean.

A birthday is a time when we acknowledge that love…and greater still that someone is a gift to our lives. Today, I celebrate my son, who I never believed I would be lucky enough to have and then…because maybe miracles do happen…I did.

Bumper Stickers, Amish, Bigfoot, and Finding the Funny

Usually I focus on pretty serious stuff on my blog…except for, well, the ridiculous odes and stories about my obsession with sandwiches. And I thought about writing a serious topic today tentatively called Why Romantic Comedy Writers are Like the Scoliosis Girl in Sixteen Candles. I will write that blog, but not today.

Today. Random stuff.

I’m holiday shopping and to my great joy and amazement I have discovered (thank you, Kealoha) an actual site where you can buy a Sasquatch Christmas tree ornament. I mean, this is brilliant. What says Christmas better than Big Foot? Or in Big Foot’s language “ARRRRRRRRR”. Yeah, Bigfoot sounds a little like a pirate, but that’s because there’s probably genetically some pirate in him.

Christmas makes me crazy emotional, especially now that the kids are in the whole phase where Christmas Magic is Real. And it’s a little sad because they split the holiday at their dad’s. From their dad’s house, the kids will get the religious background on Christmas and what it means to our culture and spirituality.

At my house, they’ll understand why bad holiday sweaters and fruitcake and songs about running over Grandma are important to our psyche. I truly believe that laughter is magical too.

It’s why I actually spend time brainstorming possible bumper stickers like:

Pro-Amish!

or

My God is an Alien

I like laughing. It feels good. And I like being ridiculous. And I especially like that this Christmas I don’t have to be all emo and serious all the time. I’m dating a guy who not only likes my quirky ideas for a holiday party, but actually has 3 cookbooks with 1950’s style groovy recipes and a book called Kitschmas.

About ten years ago, (wow) I lived in NYC and went through 9/11. I decided to move home. I wanted to give back to the community so took a job at Gilda’s Club Grand Rapids, a cancer support community. One of my jobs (besides fundraising and grants) was to work on a newsletter and try to find the humor in a journey with cancer. Seriously. I have to say, this job had a radical effect on my life and now my career. It made me pause and work to find the funny in even the most difficult of times.

Today I sat in the audience while Gilda’s Club GR unveiled LaughFest, a festival of laughter that will run for ten-days in March. I helped write the copy for their website and some promotional stuff. I wasn’t wearing a cape in the audience, but I did feel like I was finally using my little power, the power of words and humor, for the good.

See? Even in humor there’s something serious.

So my meandering, random blog ends with the thought of encouraging you to take a pause and find the funny in your day. And if that’s trying to find a Christmas ornament of Tom Selleck as Magnum P.I. then I’m right with you.

Seriously. I’m right with you. If there’s a Bigfoot ornament, I just gotta believe there’s one of Tom Selleck.

That’s another bumper sticker:

I Believe in The Magic of Tom Selleck.

Have a lovely day.

Holiday Recipes, Awww yeah.

Because I don't have enough going on with Twitter, Face Book, my blog, working on novels, promoting, etc., I also have a food blog.

I know. I know. Overkill? Maybe. Fun? Yes. I'm a foodie, and I like to write about it.

This week, I'm posting Holiday Cooking recipes...recipes of family recipes from people I know. Check it out here:

Good Food For Good People

And if you want to add a recipe, send me a note. I love hearing about what people are cooking.

It's Time for Some Bad Odes.

Years ago when I lived with my friend K, we were such dorks that for fun, we wrote bad odes. We’d sit on the couch and one of us would write a line for a bad ode, then pass it to the other. This is how we came up with such ideas that Santa was a crack whore, and an ode to sausage logs.

Yes. Writing bad is good. It’s so good, I ask every writing class I teach to join me. Even today when I gave a presentation at GRRWG, I asked them to play along. Why? Because we worry so much about writing well, that we forget to write fun. And it’s a fun exercise because the entire goal is to suck, and suck hard. So if you're a bad writer, you'll be great at this. You will wear a cape of Badness which in this case is good.

So now, I present my bad ode to you that I wrote in about thirty seconds. You shouldn't spend time on an ode. Time in writing is good. No. You want to suck. And what’s worse than bad love poems written really quickly? So, bring me your tired metaphors, your elated praise, your bad similies. Shower me with odes about pancakes, and beer, and holiday sweaters.

Here’s my Ode:

Ode to a Spatula

Oh, you flat bastard you

How you flip

me out.

I love your shiny-ness

Your cool shape

(unless you’re made of plastic and then

I support you but I don’t love you).

Oh, spatula

You can fry my bacon

Turn me over

And roll me in the pancake of your love.

I love you.

You complete me.

Word.

Send your bad ode to the comments below. Let’s see how wonderfully bad you can be.

Grab the tissue. I'm all nostalgic because of holidays.

We are inching ever closer to my favorite holiday of the year. Yes. Thanksgiving. Of course, that’s my favorite holiday. It’s the only holiday that’s entirely focused on FOOD. And, yeah, giving thanks. I mean, I love Christmas and all that, and Fourth of July, and Easter can have a pretty good brunch and all…but Thanksgiving? Come on. It’s brilliant.

Holidays always make me a little nostalgic too. I start to look back on my life and then I look forward and then sideways and then I get dizzy and then I get all emotional and start crying at holiday commercials and I’m all “Oh, he gave her a puppy!” It’s kind of pathetic. This year is no different. I already feel the tear ducts kicking in.

This year, though, all I have to do is look back one year ago and it’s enough to make my throat get all choked up and those tears don’t even threaten anymore, they just start flowing. Not with sadness, though. Ohhhh, no. It’s joy. Simple, uncomplicated joy.

A year ago, I was still newly separated from my husband and questioning how on earth I thought I could be a single mom. What had possessed me to break up our marriage and our family? I was at a little apartment (that cost a lot) in East Grand Rapids. I was a few months in to my contract with teaching at Kendall, and I was facing the first holiday without having my kids with me all the time. And, let’s be honest here, I was really lonely.

Last Thanksgiving my friends Brendan and George invited my mom and me and the kids over to their place. It was so nice to be included in a family. One of the things that was so hard when I separated was that fracturing of the family. My ex (a year ago) had met and was committed to the woman who is now his wife, so their holiday season was a first for him in building a new kind of family. And I couldn’t compete with that. I was barely hanging on with working full time, writing, trying to get published, and trying to keep my emotions together.

We survived Thanksgiving. It wasn’t as painful as I thought and it helped sharing it with friends. And then the rest of the holiday happened. Last December, I broke my foot, on the day we got our Christmas tree and I was so proud for hauling it in myself. Sometimes I still cry over the moment when I was on the ground and my two kids were trying to help me get up, and I had the realization that I physically couldn’t move, and I couldn’t take care of them, and I tried not to cry in front of them. That Christmas I asked my ex to take the kids, because I knew with the cast and all, that I couldn’t drive them around to look at lights. I couldn’t get presents under the tree. I couldn’t carry them to their rooms if they fell asleep. My mom was there to help me, but it was a holiday season that I spent feeling entirely alone, literally broken, and barely able to keep my head above water financially.

What a difference a year makes.

This year, I am in my new house, my dream house, with a beautiful backyard and the kids have their own rooms and we have two spirited/demonic cats. My sister and brother in law and her kids are joining us for Thanksgiving. My mom will be here, as will Kealoha, who every day I love a little bit more. He makes me feel…cherished. Cheesy, maybe, but it’s true. And it’s funny to me that I’ve known him for so long, but only now have I really been able to see him. And…I’ve got my books out there and I’m finally getting some acknowledgement for all the hard work through some interviews coming up in local papers. To top it off, Kendall is looking at possibly renewing my contract for another year.

Last year I didn’t feel like I could offer my kids anything. I questioned all my choices…and worse than feeling like a bad mom, I felt like a bad person. That’s all changed. I have a confidence I never suspected was even possible. And somehow, through sheer determination and maybe because I had no other choice, I have built a future for me and my kids. It’s more than a future, really. It’s a family. My house, both literal and metaphorical, is filled with friends and family and laughter and good food…and…yes…hope.

See? See what holidays do to me? They make me go crazy emotional. What can I say? I have a lot to be grateful for. I don’t know. This year, well, it’s enough to make a slightly dramatic, overemotional, 37-year-old writer/woman/mom believe that there really is a little bit of magic left in the world.

And if there’s magic left in the world, maybe, just maybe Bigfoot exists too, and that makes me really happy.

Leaves of DEATH--or--Fall, from a Mom's perspective

This morning while driving the kids to school, I had one of those Hello I’m A Neurotic Mom moments. Or maybe it’s just a I’m A Mom moment, the neurotic part already inferred (or is it implied? Whatever).

You must understand that last week I sat with my son through three hours of at the allergist’s. He handled the 38 pokes in the back okay but when they wanted to do twelve shots on his arm to figure out what he’s allergic to, he lost it. I mean a total freak out. And I experienced a moment when I sort of floated outside my body and envisioned punching one of the super nice nurses for even suggesting to hurt my son. I did not punch and Louis did not get the shots. We’ll have to wait until he’s older to figure this out.

When you become a parent, something weird and protective happens. If you didn’t have balls before (symbolically) you will grow them. And they’ll be big and make you limp. For example, if you see a bigger kid bullying your child, you will have no problem walking up to the parent of the bully and saying “Whoah. Wait a minute. You need to talk to your son because this is not appropriate.” And if that doesn’t work, you will have no problem challenging the parent to a rumble. And you will have a baseball bat in your trunk ‘just in case’.

I’m super protective of my kids, but there are times when this instinct gets a little out of control. Here is an example. I’m going to explain what happened in my brain here, but the actual conversation lasted all of thirty seconds.

As we were driving, the kids were in the back and I was chatting. I noticed the sun falling on the huge piles of leaves in the road, waiting for the EGR dump truck to come scoop them up. These piles are enormous. Like, kid playland. “Wow, guys, check out those piles of leaves!” I said thinking, good mom. Engage the kids in conversation.

LOUIS: “Whoah! Those are ginormous!”

ME: They are ginormous. Can you imagine if you climbed under those leaves?

SIMONE: Yeah! No one would find you!

MY BRAIN: (quietly in my head.) Good job, Tanya. Now the kids are going to play hid-n-seek in one of those leaf piles. They’re going to walk out of the house and think “Ha! We’ll hide from Mom” and then they’re going to go out in the street, which you have told them not to do, and they are going to hide in those leaves and you won’t be able to find them. Ever. Then the EGR truck is going to come scoop them up, and NO ONE WILL KNOW. And do you know what those trucks do with leaves? No? Smooshes them. Or burns them. Or god forbid, turns them into compost. Do you want your kids to be compost? This is the worst conversation ever! How could you even mention LEAVES to your children?

I scratched my nose and then said out loud…ME: Of course, you would never crawl into those leaves because they’re in the street.

SIMONE: That’s right. We could if they were in our yard.

ME: Yep. But not in the street.

MY BRAIN: Make sure they understand the dangers, Tanya!

ME: Because if you did crawl in the leaves, no one would find you and you might get scooped up by an EGR machine and smooshed and then made into compost.

The kids said nothing to that. I mean, there was pure silence in the back.

LOUIS: Yeah, Mom, we know.

ME: Okay then.

Yes. A shining moment in being a good mom. First encouraging my kids to notice the beauty around them, and then terrifying them good and plenty about it. I should have just warned them they’d poke their eye out.

Of course….there are plenty of sticks in those piles of menacing leaves….

My first mammogram! Yay! OR My boobs meet the Scone Maker

I had two very weird medical experiences this week and they both make me feel old…and oddly itchy.

Warning, the following might contain a little TMI which is really T&A. At least the T part.

I had my first mammogram and all I can say is OW! It’s routine. My doctor recommends having a ‘baseline’ between 35 and 40 and since I don’t know if I’ll have a full-time job next year or insurance, we figured 37 was a good year to start. Walking into the Lacks Cancer Center for a general mammogram must be frightening for normal women. For a woman who’s also a writer, it’s a downright House of Horror…of the things that Might Be. I sat in the waiting room and looked around and thought “Shit. One of us here probably has breast cancer. Which one of us is it? Is it me?” And then I won’t tell you all the horrible things I thought of. It’s enough to say I thought about my kids and how much I love them and I was about in tears when they called me in.

The nurse led me into a weird corridor surrounded by tiny changing rooms. “Undress everything from the waist up and put on this little shirt.” She was awfully friendly about it. So I got nekked and put the scratchy little shirt on and then went to the Top Secret Waiting Room where three women were already waiting. We were all braless and in these awful shirts and I have seen my boobs’ future. Boobs, meet my knees. Hello, knees.

There was a nurse (wearing a brown habit, and they called her Sister), a 90-something women in a walker, and a woman who looked like she probably had college kids. There was awkward conversation that I tried to not listen to. I was too busy thinking about the weight of my boobs and when would they really give up and accept gravity?

Then I got called into the little room. Another nurse was there and she positioned my body up to The Vise. I mean, the mammogram machine. She told me to undo my shirt. I looked around looking for candlelight or at least to hear a little Lionel Richie love music, but no. Nothing. Then the nurse gently lifted my right boob, placed it on a cold table and then told me not to breathe as the Mammogram Vise smooshed my beauty into more of a scone than a pancake.

Ouch. It was disturbing. The whole thing. A) That the nurse just cradled my boob B) That she could actually lift the boob and place it on a table and C) That I could actually think about scones and get hungry as my boob was being pressed into a triangle.

I tried not to look at the image as it appeared on the wall. I don’t know what a healthy mammogram looks like…and I have now spent approximately three hours of my life researching images on google and trying to remember what the Xray image of my breasts looked like compared to what the should look like. It’s worse than trying to remember the names of the people you went to high school with.

The whole squeezing boob thing happened twice on each breast. It was painful. For real. But now I feel like I have crossed the threshold into Middle Age. There’s no denying it. I’m part of the Women’s Club now. I have gone braless with three other women of varying shapes, sizes, and ages. I’ve been fondled by a nurse. And if that doesn’t get me into the Sisterhood, I don’t know what will. And honestly, I hope to not do it again for another five years.

Growing up is okay…but getting old…that bites.

The other experience was in the allergist’s office with my son. At least there my boobs were safely under wraps. Except for that one moment but, sheesh, what can you do?

That story comes later.

(And in case you’re curious, no I didn’t flash anyone. I was just making a joke.)

Meeting Kealoha's Parents

With National Novel Writing Month starting tonight at 12AM, I thought I’d better post one last blog before the chaos begins. I really wish NaNoWriMo were not in November. It’s such a crazy month with holiday prep and Thanksgiving and Christmas peeking around the corner. Add to that I’ll be recording two novels around my teaching schedule. That means running to the studio in between teaching sessions and on Fridays and taking care of the kids and planning classes…AND I’m going to try to write a novel in a month? What kind of crazy am I?

Don’t let my complaining fool you. I love it. Last year, NaNo was how I completed “Pepper Wellington and the Case of the Missing Sausage”…and that comes out in February by Champagne Books.

Anyway. Uh…awkward transition.

I was going to blog about meeting Kealoha’s parents, and I gave you the highlights in the last blog, but here’s more of the story:

On the ride over to his parents’ I was feeling fine. Louis and Simone were chatting in the back seat, Kealoha and I were chatting up front…but then as soon as I got there I felt a wave of nervous energy come over me. I was meeting Kealoha’s parents! That’s stressful enough…but this time, I was meeting parents and I had my kids along with me. I’ve dated a couple of men this last year, but my kids never met their parents. Suddenly the whole “Girlfriend Meets Boyfriend’s Parents” in my head morphed into “Single Mom With Two Kids Meets Boyfriend’s Parents and Hopes She Doesn’t Come Off As Needy Or Desperate And Hopes To God That Her Kids Don’t Break Anything.”

This was new territory for me. And while Kealoha knows that the kids and I are a package deal, that he’s dating me, yes, and I have two children and they’re a big part of my life…it suddenly dawned on me that by meeting his parents my kids would be viewed as potential grandkids. I’m not saying that K. and I are on that path yet, but come on, you can’t help thinking about that. I’m sure it was on his parents’ minds. His mom even asked him in the kitchen “So, are you ready to become an instant dad?” (He said his answer was “Sure!”)

It’s not that this stuff never occurred to me. It did. I just never had to look at it face-to-face while standing in a condo with thousands of breakable objects and Simone jumping up and down and crawling over the furniture and Louis pulling sword toothpicks from the appetizers and playing Clone Wars with them.

I was nervous. I laughed too much. I tried to ask questions. I was greatly relieved that his parents were laidback and funny, and I liked watching Kealoha interact with them. Clearly, there’s a loving relationship there.

Simone crawled in my lap. Pulled my shirt down and flashed everyone. Luckily, I like my boobs, so while I was mortified, I was also slightly proud. Louis hid in the corner for a while until K’s mom brought the appetizers out on little green swords. His dad walked around talking about the new “Damn Dog” they were going to pick up on the way to Florida. Their two parrots squawked from their room.

Then we had dinner. I was terrified that once the kids saw the Cornish hens that they’d freak out and say “Tiny birds! We’re not eating tiny birds!” They didn’t say that. Quite the opposite. They sat at the table and ate with us. I don’t know what we talked about but I couldn’t help but laugh when Louis buttered his bread with about half a cup of butter, and Simone kept crying “More chicken! More chicken!” while I tried to cut the meat from the hen. Those buggers are tiny and I was trying to be all dainty. Then I thought, fuck it, picked the hen up and just tore pieces from it.

When I noticed a little undercooked part, a little blood, I quickly covered it up, hoping K’s mom wouldn’t see it. Simone cried “Mom? MOM! Is that blood? That’s blood, isn’t it? THAT’S BLOOOOOD!” Followed by “Can I have more chicken?”

K’s mom was in the kitchen and I looked at my plate where I had three halves of Cornish hen carcasses on my plate. I barely had a few bites, but Simone’s belly was all bloated and happily full. I put a hen on her plate and Louis’s, so I’d look at least normal and like I hadn’t eaten three of the hens all by myself.

Then came dessert. Louis put M&M’s on his ice cream. Simone wanted the apple pie and ice cream. She ate like some kind of vacuum, inhaling entire pieces of food. I’d just taken a bite of my pie and I turned to look at her and her face was in her plate, smashed up against it and she was sucking. Literally. Like a vacuum cleaner!

I turned completely red. Everyone laughed. K’s mom said “So, has Simone always been a good eater?” And then I laughed too. What else can you do?

K’s dad gave the kids some seashells. Louis said in his low grown-up voice, “Huh. You guys are a lot nicer than I thought you’d be.”

We packed up. Went home. Kids passed out in the car immediately. Kealoha drove and held my hand.

I don’t know where my relationship with K is going, but I do know that I’m so grateful with how gentle he is with the kids and loving, and how he treats me. I feel safe around him. Comfortable. Supported and loved. And after meeting his parents, I can see now where he gets his sense of humor and his love of collecting things, and even his laid-back disposition.

It was a nice night. An awkward night, a horrible night, an embarrassing night…all of that. And strangely, it felt right. It felt like having dinner with a family.

Not-So-Crabby Anymore

So I had the whole day to think about my previous blog. Man, I sound crabby. But I had to get that out there. You know how it is. When you’re a creative, emotional person, you’ve got to get those thoughts out. Then you can release them. And by you, I mean me. SO….Letting go. Breathing deeply.

All the stuff with my ex and his wife will be okay. It really will. I'm just shaking it off. And shimmying while I do it just because I can.

Here’s the good stuff.

Me and the kids met Kealoha’s parents this week. It involves the following things:

1) Simone grabbing my shirt and flashing my boobs to Kealoha (possibly his dad) while Simone cried “Boobies! Boobies!”

2) Louis saying after quite some time to Kealoha’s parents “You’re a lot nicer than I thought you’d be”.

3) And me gushing obsessively over Kealoha’s mom’s pottery. I really do love pottery, but, holy cow, I sounded like a female Eddie Haskel. “Gee, Mrs. K., you sure have great plates! Geez! What I wouldn’t do to have plates like these!

All of to the music of parrots squawking.

This is a good story. I’ll tell it this weekend.

Until then, be well, be happy, and cheers.

2 Steps Forward, 2 Steps Back, Everybody Dance! UPDATED

I pulled this blog.

Why? Because it was hurtful. And that's not the person I want to be. Sure, we need to vent, but I'm still trying to figure out the line between venting as therapy and venting as attacking. Was this blog an attack? Not on purpose, but that doesn't free me from the fact that it was hurtful.

There are a lot of great things about my ex and Abby. Things I need to start focusing on. Unlike a lot of divorced families we do, for the most part, work as a team in giving our children the best, most healthy lives. My mom and stepmom never met to discuss scheduling. My dad was never around. My kids have two families that love them.

And over the last year, Abby took me to the emergency when I broke my foot and my ex watched the kids. She talks to me; acknowledges my role and importance in the kids' lives. We work on scheduling together. We're planning a birthday party for my son. We're taking care of the kids' health needs. There's a lot that we do right. And P. (as awkward as it has been) is supportive of us building a relationship for the kids. And this morning, we all met to talk about the blog I deleted and our feelings.

That's pretty extraordinary. And wonderful.

I want the kind of life for my kids where, again, they exist in a sphere of love. Abby and my ex are a part of that...and I'm working really hard to stop being so angry.

It's what I see Dr. Dave about. It's what I write about. I'm getting there, little by little, but I need to do so gently.

So. I am sorry for being and feeling angry and hateful...but maybe it was a breakthrough of sorts too. Maybe this was the moment where my ex, Abby and I finally became a unit working for the kids and not against each other.

That's pretty extraordinary too.

Not a NonBlog. A Real Blog. I'm baaaaack.

When I said I wasn’t going to blog for a whole week…I meant a business week. And I meant a business week with a bank holiday in it.

Aw, fuck it. I’m blogging. Yes. There are words here that will never go in to my novel, but let’s face it, I’m writing a gothic historical suspense messed up novel. My current words don’t belong anywhere near that. And when I don’t blog, I then have to schedule a therapy appointment and as much as I love my therapist (Dr. Dave) he costs me money.

Not that I really need to talk to him about any of this.

Random things I wanted to blog about but have not:

My mom was so excited to get “Blunder Woman” in her hands that she started crying. Seriously. She’s so cute. And she’s very proud of me. There are a lot of writers out there whose parents have never really understood their passion for writing. My mom on the other hand? Well, you know those crazy parents that support their superstar football players by wearing body paints and squishy hats and screaming “THAT’S MY BOY! KILL THEM, TIGER!!” That would be my mom. If I let her paint herself and wear a shirt that said “My Daughter Is A Writer” she’d totally do it.

My Mom. Internally.

She told me that she sold one of my books. (I’d given her two.) She said, “I told a few people at the retirement village that your book came out.”

“Oh?”

She paused for a really long time. I could see her collecting her thoughts like apple picking in her mind. “Actually,” she said and I could hear the excitement in that one word. “I’m telling everybody! I showed the woman at the gas station and I talk to people in the grocery store and I was talking to this 80-yr-old woman at the apartment and she wanted to buy your book so I sold it to her! And I told her that it was X-rated and she said that she was really looking forward to that.”

I just shook my head. And then laughed. The book isn’t x-rated. Not exactly. I mean there’s not a lot of bonking going around. There is a lot of thinking about it. And I guess there are a lot of clitorises. Or would it be clitori? Mostly, there’s some language. Fantasies. Little people. You know, every day romantic comedy stuff.

I could go on here but I have to go teach a class and now I’m terrified I might actually say the word “clitoris” to my students.

(Pause)

See why I need to blog? I can’t carry this stuff around with me. Seriously. This stuff’s got to come OUT. And there’s more, but I’ll wait until tomorrow.

Cheers,

Tanya

Nonblog #1

I really want to blog right now. Seriously. I want to blog right now so bad, I'm sweating. It's like withdrawl symptoms. This week at the doctor's, he said I should cut back on coffee because it might be contributing to my anxiety. Internally I said: "Are you serious? Anxious? WHO? ME? I'm NOT FUCKING ANXIOUS!!!"

I'm a little anxious.

Here's what I'm not blogging about: love, communication issues with my ex and his wife, the idea that even if you're moving forward your past goes right along with you, why you shouldn't overcook pork loin, what I should work on for NaNoWriMo, how I have utter political fatigue, Kealoha says he loves me, and where to put my anxiety if I can't blog or drink coffee or run.

Buh.

A Blog About Why I'm Not Blogging

I follow a few blogs online. One of my favorites is The Bloggess. She's hilarious, swears a lot, and writes dialogue so funny that I'm both entertained and envious. And she's taking a break from blogging. Why? Because she's got a novel to finish.

Damnation! So do I! I have a literary novel to work on, a memoir I've been toying with, and next week NaNoWriMo starts and I want to do that. A friend of mine, Eduardo, just sent me a notes quoting someone that said "Every word on your blog is a word not in your novel". Hmm. I don't like that, but it's sorta true. And I've got to finish this "Tunnel Vision" or they're going to have to put ME in an asylum. That would be okay but only if they serve gin&tonics and fan me a lot.

So this week I had a goal of blogging every day. Why? Because I like goals that I can attain. Makes me feel like a real superhero.

My next goal is to NOT blog everyday for at least a week. And of course, I'm starting off with a blog. How meta is that?

I'll miss you. I really will. But I'm putting on my yoga pants and Wonder Woman t-shirt, hunkering in, and writing this be-damned novel that I want to fall in love with and will, given a little more time.

Luckily, there's a writer retreat tomorrow I'm attending. I'm hoping that my fellow writers of GRRWG can help me focus. They're should be plenty of wine and food to help the brain cells and destroy my waistline.

It's all in the name of art.

See you soon.

-Tanya-

I'll Get You New Novel (& Indian Music Video)

I woke up early this morning thinking I’d be productive and get some writing done. Then I sat at the computer for an hour tweeting, stalking random people on Facebook and looking up Indian pop songs with ‘supposed’ translations.

Man. What am I doing?

I’m working on this novel called “Tunnel Vision”. You’ve probably seen posts here. It’s killing me. The novel sometimes feels like a dysfunctional relationship. Like, if the novel were a man I were dating, I’d feel like, oh, I’m not smart enough or good enough or devoted enough to understand all the mind games. It’s making me crabby. What I need is some serious one-on-one time with the novel. Like a romantic getaway in a cottage somewhere, only there won’t be any romance or love oil. Just me staring at the endless blank space that is Tunnel Vision’s future and thinking “Good god…what on earth happens next.”

I don’t have time for love affairs with new novels, healthy or unhealthy. This was my day yesterday:

4:30 AM Cats woke me up by head banging against door and then jumping on me and biting my face.

4:31 I flung cat across room and then jumped up immediately feeling horrible saying “Oh, baby, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

4:35 Fed cats wet food to assuage guilt.

4:36-8:00 Random things like packing the kids lunches, wiping noses, putting cough medicine in juice and then mixing it, fixed breakfasts, rubbed cats, worked on computer, took a shower, wiped more noses, struggled into coats, into car, then daycare and then off to work,

8:01-11:20 Graded papers, tried to look professorial, taught a writing class where the students basically just wrote and I pretended I was helpful.

11:30-12:40 Shoved a sandwich in my face. Ran to River City Studio. Recorded a webisode.

12:41-6:00 Drove an hour to Muskegon. Narrated for an audiobook for two hours where I tried to channel South Carolina accents and might’ve ended up sounding just slightly relaxed and/or drunk. Drove home.

6:00-8:30 Shoved a sandwich in my face. Went for a walk with a friend of mine and talked writing and relationships and why we do what we do, and when, like Rob Gordon in “High Fidelity” do you stop fucking around and commit?

8:31 End of day. Kicked back with Kealoha and watched Dexter AND Boardwalk Empire.

Where’s the time for Love Fest with “Tunnel Vision”. Hmm. It’s right now. And I’m blogging.

I’m going to conquer this novel. By God, if I have to dress up in a big old dress and wax all “Gone with the Wind”…this novel will not defeat me! I will go on, as god is my witness…I will go on!

But not today. Maybe…oh…I dunno…next week.

The Dilemma Of What To Blog About When You're Happy

In a serious, melodramatic voice, possible with strings in the background:

And now…Tanya Eby approaches a serious dilemma in her blog writing…how does she write when there are no huge dramas? Oh, the absence of pain! The absence of heartache! Even now she is throwing herself around the kitchen, her hand on her forehead “Oh, woe is me!” she cries and pounds the stove. “Oh, unjust world!” she sighs, and leans heavily against the refrigerator.

“Hey, mom, could you get me a Nutella sandwich and stop acting so weird?” says a little boy.

“Yeah, mom, you’re freaking us out,” says a girl in pigtails.

Tanya smoothes her apron, dries her tears, takes a deep breath and says “Two Nutella sandwiches coming up!”

End scene.

Yep. That’s sort of my life now. (You can stop the dramatic reading and violin music.) I’ve made it through a year of horrible stress, of starting over, of redefining myself as a single, independent woman and mom. I’ve dated. I’ve had disasters. I’ve been in the fetal position crying, in the bathtub crying, cooking crepes and crying.

But today I feel pretty okay.

The dilemma comes in with…well, fudge, what do I blog about now? Katie asked me that same thing on Dim Sum night. I had friends over to make assorted Chinese dumplings and play charades. That’s hard-core partying in my book. Katie said “I read your blog when you were happy and all Disney. So…what are you going to blog about now?”

I laughed, but the question has stayed with me. If I made it through this blunderful year, what do I blog about now that things are going well? And do I continue to blog? Has my blog served its usefulness? Why is it that the more times I use the word “blog” the more ridiculous it sounds? Blogblogblog.

Hmm.

I want to keep blogging. I like blogging. I like cheese logs and sausage logs and yule logs too, so it may be I’m just fond of words that have ‘log’ in them. And loaf. But mostly log.

What do I blog about? I dunno. Life?

If you have suggestions let me know. I’ll probably continue to blog awkwardly, and there are dramatic things that have happened…I just haven’t felt so angsty about them. Whatever. I’m not questioning it. Sometimes it’s nice to just take a breather.

And I could always write about my favorite things: Bigfoot, sandwiches, Tom Selleck, Matt Damon, old-fashioned words like ‘canoodle’ and ‘ferhoodled’, canning preserves.

Oh dear Buddha. On second thought…I really might need suggestions.

Cheers,

Tanya

PS If you haven't signed up for my newsletter, please do. I'm sending out one soon with "Blunder Woman" news and a recipe for veggie potstickers.