Guest Blogging at Champagne Books

I guest blogged today (Thursday, February 3rd) at Champagne Books Blog. I talk a little bit about the process of writing my new mystery, coming out on Monday. Check it out. If you leave a comment, you'll be entered a drawing to win a free download of "Pepper Wellington and the Case of the Missing Sausage". I don't expect a lot of comments, so it's a super easy way to win something free.

And free is so very nice.

Check the blog all month to win more FREE stuff from Champagne Books' writers.

Click below for the link:

I want to visit Tanya's Guest Blog!

And here's a random picture, to remind you that it won't be winter forever.

Conversation with My Son, "Come on Eileen", and Embarrassment

Louis, my son, is six and quite the individual already. He’s way into the Clone Wars…so much so that when we went sledding, he would scream “INCOMING!” all the way down the hill. He also organizes his action figures all over the house. I find clone troopers peeking out from under the sofa, peering down from the coffee table with guns poised. Then I started to find action figure body parts all over: teeny tiny hands, arms, occasional heads. “Louis? Why are you taking your action figures apart?”

“Duh, Ma. They’ve been in a war. They’re the casualties.” Oh. It’s a little creepy, but I keep telling myself it’s a phase and if anyone saw what I used to do with my Barbie dolls, well, let’s just say I could’ve rewritten the Kama Sutra at age ten. With naked dolls.

Louis also likes facts. He’s not into fiction too much. He prefers science. So when we go to the library and Simone picks out Barney and Wiggles and Strawberry Shortcake, Louis likes to get documentaries.

He’s been watching this one called The Human Machine and is learning about the body. Stuff that freaks me out, fascinates him. On the way to school today (after dropping off his sister at daycare) Louis said, “Hey, ma, did you know that when you feel embarrassment it causes your body to blush? Man, I don’t ever want to feel embarrassment. It sounds like it hurts.”

I then explained that blushing didn’t hurt and feeling embarrassment (while awkward) won’t kill you. (I did not say unless you are sixteen and wearing a white t-shirt at creative writing camp and go canoeing and fall into the river in front of twenty teenager boys and emerge from the water as naked looking as when you take a shower…then you might feel like dying. But I digress.)

Then I turned on the radio to listen to constant updates about the Storm of Death approaching. Instead, Come on Eileen was playing. “Oh, Louis! I love this song!” I immediately started singing. And then I started seat-dancing. And then, well, really I was performing.

Louis said “Man, I do NOT like it when my mom is attracted to a song.”

“Why?” I asked then sang the chorus. “This is where it gets really good, Louis. Come on…turh lura yay…turah lura turah yay!”

“I don’t like it because it’s making you crazy.”

I said, “But you wear overalls and stomp around when you sing this song. It’s awesome.”

“Why would you do that?” asked Louis.

Since I didn’t know the answer, I just sang louder and then heard… “Mom? Mom. Mom! I think I’m feeling that embarrassment thing.”

I paused for a moment, and then I turned up the music and sang a little bit louder. It’s probably good that Louis get used to me embarrassing him. It’s only going to get worse.

I dropped him off at school. He kissed me. “Love you, Mom.”

“Love you too, baby,” I said.

It was a good morning.

A Typical Conversation b/w Me and Kealoha

SETTING: My green couch (fka as Arnie’s green couch) at 6AM. Kealoha hands me a coffee. I take a sip.

ME: You put cream in my coffee.

K: Yeah.

ME: But you didn’t put any sugar in it.

K: Uh…yeah. You never have sugar in your coffee.

ME: That’s what I’m saying. You made me coffee the way I like it. I didn’t have to tell you.

K: Uhm. Yep.

(We drink our coffee. I’m thinking “it’s a miracle!”. Kealoha is probably thinking “She’s a little weird in the morning.”)

Kealoha points to my new pajama pants. They’re red and covered with teeny tiny hearts, like a million of them.

K: I like your new pants.

ME: They’re awful, aren’t they? I’m afraid I’ve become one of THOSE women. You know, the women who wear ridiculously tacky things. In public. And don’t care at all.

(Pause)

K: You’re talking to a man who’s wearing a jackalope t-shirt. Anyone who has any doubt that we’re made for each other should just take a look at us right now.

Guest Blog: Pepper Wellington Tells Us How To Make Life Not Suck.

Tanya Eby, the quirky and eccentric writer, asked me to write a blog for her. Actually, I wrote to her and told her I needed to write a blog for her because I’m just so annoyed with all these magazines and online sources talking about how you can have a better life. Having a better life is easy! Why do people make it so complicated? My daughter Sausage took years complicating her life, but thankfully she finally figured it out. (If she’d only listened to me earlier…)

Just today I found this article. It gives you ten steps on becoming a better person. The first one says incorporate the 3 I’s which are integrity and independence and then, I don’t know, Innuit living. That’s three things right there in the first step! That's completely complicated. And I don’t even know how to live like an Innuit! How do the Innuit live?

I have 10 Easy Steps to Improve your Life and Be a Better Person.  I have authority to talk about this because I’ve lived an adventurous life. In the 60s I loved freely and frequently. Now I’m in my 60s and it’s pretty much the same thing.

At any rate, here is my list:

Pepper Wellington’s 10 Easy Steps To Having Your Life Not Suck:

1) Eat more lentils. They have a lot of fiber in them. You can’t be an uptight person if you’re fully cleansed.

2) Stop being an asshole. The lentil thing will help here, but, you know, stop being cruel. It’s pretty easy.

3) Fall in love over and over again, even if it’s with the same person. People in love are nicer.

4) Make love over and over again. It’s good exercise, and an orgasm will make you relax and not be an asshole or uptight. It’s almost better than lentil soup.

5) Try something new. When Mrs. Welch asked me to get on the Harley with her, I hesitated for a moment. Now we’re members of the Hot Retired Mamas. We wear leather chaps. It’s as hot as it sounds.

6) Get a backrub.

7) Drink wine.

8 ) Don’t kill anybody. (I’ve been around a lot of murder sites. I’m not sure why. I just happen to stumble upon them. I’ve actually gotten quite good at uncovering guilty parties, but I’d rather not.)

9) Get along with your family. Stop being stupid. Family is important. Even if you hate them.

10) Have a spontaneous make-out session. I like to make out while wearing nothing but a see through nightie. You can also make out in a turtleneck and flannel pants. It doesn’t matter. Just find someone to kiss and do it.

Forget incorporating the three I’s and that bullshit. If you want a better life, then go out and make it better. In fact, throw this ridiculous list out and just live a little more fully.

I’d say more on the subject, but Mrs. Welch and I have been invited to a curry dinner with some nefarious characters. I hope no one ends up dead. When my daughter was getting married, there was a string of murders. Thankfully, I’d had lentil soup just that morning, so I was very relaxed to handle the stress.

NOTE FROM TANYA EBY: Thank you, Pepper, for your insight. I'll make lentil burgers tonight. And maybe even make out with Kealoha, though that's probably too much information for the readers. If the readers would like to hear more from/about you, there's a book coming out February 7th called "Pepper Wellington and the Case of the Missing Sausage". Look for that soon.

What I Did On Vacation OR Bring On The Gladiators!

Ahhh….vacation! What have I done with my vacation from social networking and endless/obsessive tweeting and status updating? I’ve been watching “Spartacus” with Kealoha. Man, it’s a good program. It’s brutal and colorful with great music and complex characters. There are also lots and lots of naked gladiator men. I’m talking full-frontal here. Full-frontal, people. And the men glisten…not like sparkly vampires, but they glisten like hot, sweaty, manly men. Sure, the ladies are naked too. In fact, pretty much everyone is naked, even the animals. It is ancient Rome after all.

What else have I been up to? I’ve had some good quality time with the kiddos. And since I haven’t been obsessively online, I’ve had time to cook. I made homemade pasta one night (fettuccini) and then a three course Indian dinner with chickpea curry, spicy potatoes, and chicken in a lemon yogurt sauce. I also worked out. I had a friend over for dinner and gossip, and I met my writing partner J. for coffee and a game of Quiddler. (He won, but I’ve clobbered him on the last three games, so no hard feelings.) I also read and wrote a bit. I took a shower. (This is a major achievement.) I made brownies from scratch. Good God! Why would I ever return to social networking again? I’ve had so much time on my hands!  If this continues, I may learn French or how to scuba dive, or I don’t know, solve global warming!

Okay. Probably not. I have three more episodes of Spartacus to go.

The point is, it’s been awfully nice backing off on the whole “Must Promote Writing” thing. I think I just went overboard. Now, I’m trying to be kinder and gentler about it. Hopefully people are reading my work and interested. If not, meh.

I think maybe I’m starting to relax a little (and without Valium!). I think my new life has finally settled and I can stop being so manic, or at least put my energy into more writing, cooking, time with the kiddos and Kealoha.

I’ll need the time too, especially since Kealoha is officially moving in! Wohoo! Yes. It’s true. Like they did in Happy Days, Kealoha gave me his cardigan sweater, sang me a song, and asked to pin me.

Actually, he just pinned me.

Uh….

The point is, he’s moving in. We’re taking this to the next level, which means, combined households, two toothbrushes (or four if you count the kids’) and endless nights of whatever series I’m (we’re) currently obsessed with. (Right now it’s Spartacus, but Battlestar Gallactica is next followed by Firefly.)

I could get used to this more relaxed life, one filled with less social-networking and more real-life living.

Vacation is good. It’s really, really good.

So is Spartacus. Seriously. Mmmmm. Naked glistening torsos and serious action sequences. Spartacus! Spartacus! Spartacus!

I should probably stop now. Really. I’m starting to hyperventilate.

My Mini-Social-Media Vacation

A few days ago Kealoha came over and I was telling him about my day. “So I had my students peel oranges…” Then I realized that he already knew what I was going to say because I had Tweeted about the writing exercise I gave my students. And I had posted a Facebook message about my newsletter. And I had tweeted about my general anxiety, and the funny ideas I’d had throughout the day and…I realized that I had no more secrets left to share. Anything that I’d say really wouldn’t be a surprise.

That’s when I realized I have a problem. I think I slipped over from softly promoting my work to obsessively promoting it. MUST POST THIS ONLINE is sort of how my brain has been working. I think my brain is actually starting to work in 140 characters. My days are reduced to snippets of “I want to eat a burrito the size of my head” to “I saw a woman walking around with a dog on her head and got closer and realized it was her hair and not a dog. #ShouldWearMyGlasses.”

Of course, there is the legitimate promotional side to all this. I’m trying to gently connect with readers, tell them about my work, encourage them to read it, hope that I can begin some kind of snowballing effect where suddenly there’s a whole giant ball of people reading my stuff. (Huh. Not really a pleasant image actually.) I don’t know if it’s working. I do know that I’m just a little worn out trying to come up with clever things to post.

I’ve talked about losing my writing/funny mojo. I don’t think I’ve lost it exactly, but I do think I’m tired. I’ve been constantly writing, narrating, teaching, promoting for the last two years now. I did have a vacation in the summer when I went to New York with my niece, but I was in so much pain with needing a root canal that I can’t say I relaxed all that much.

I just need a vacation.

Of course, I can’t really go on vacation right now, so I’m taking a mini-one from social media. Why, then, am I blogging? Well, it’s not a total vacation. I mean, I’m not obsessed with this idea unplugging totally, I’m just backing off on the constant updates of posting pointless ridiculous things about my day, although I must say I do enjoy sharing those updates. I thought for a few days I’d maybe, I don’t know, put that energy into writing either my blog or working on “Tunnel Vision” and Book #4.

So check back for blogs. I just simply won’t promote them on Facebook or Twitter for a little while. My goal is a ten-day vacation but Kealoha said gently that “maybe you should just try for five days first and see how you feel, otherwise you might make yourself crazy”. I love that he understands me so well. And I guess I do have one little secret: that I really am already a little bit crazy. Just hopefully in a cute, endearing artistic way and not, say, a way where I run naked through the streets calling out for Free Cheese.

If I ever do that, I won’t post it on Twitter or Facebook. No. I’ll make a video and put it on Youtube instead.

Ridiculous Educational Videos from the 40s and 50s

In my gender class, we're looking at stereotypes. Men, of course, are Manly Men, and women are Girly Girls. I love talking about extremes because it's so ridiculous, like in these two pictures:

I also wanted to show some old educational videos. Here are a few. They're hilarious. Of course, they're also a good reminder of how women were treated and 'educated' fifty years ago. It's kind of shocking.

I love this one. It tells you how to have good grooming. Check out the instructions for the woman and how she needs to take care of her stubby hands.

Here's one that warns against being the girl 'who parks with boys at night'.

And this one is a modern take off of the videos, but it makes me laugh:

Meet Artist/Actor Victoria Mullen

I realized that I have a lot of cool friends and know a lot of interesting people, so I thought I'd introduce you to some of them. I'm gearing up to promote "Pepper Wellington and the Case of the Missing Sausage" coming in February (with free contest giveways like books and chocolates) but until then...I have a little down time. What better time to share with you some of the wonderfully talented people I know. First up, artist and actor Victoria Mullen.

TANYA:

Victoria, you're a working artist. When did you know that you were an artist?

VICTORIA:

Ha! Trick question. I've always been creative. Or insane. That much I knew from a very early age. My mom gave me this fox tail when I was around 4 or 5, and from then on until I lost it (the fox tail, that is), I wore it everywhere, tucked into the waistband of my pants. Well, OK. Just around the house. My mom refused to go anywhere with me wearing the tail, most probably because I crawled around on all fours 'being a fox.' But when I meowed at a librarian, my mom knew she had a mental case on her hands. Takes one to know one, I always say. My mom was very creative as well.

For a long time, I wanted to be a veterinarian. I LOVE animals. I used to cut up my stuffed animals, sew them back together, and then bandage them. I had this down to a science. Then I'd force my younger brother to visit my 'clinic' to see how his 'pet' was doing. I also tried to 'sell' the family cat, Cleo at my 'pet store,' which happened to be my brother's closet. Cleo put an end to that by trying to scratch out my eye. Well, who can blame her? But soon thereafter, she went on 'vacation' and I never saw her again. Years later, the truth came out: because of my irresponsibility, my parents had given her away. Talk about feeling guilty.

As for bona fide art, over the years, I expressed myself through various mediums: piano and violin in the 1960s; stained glass, writing, and photography in the 1970s and ‘80s; painting and collage since the mid-1990s. I came late to drawing and painting because I believed that using an eraser constituted cheating. Because it was impossible to create anything that was perfect, it was safer to do nothing at all. But I'm all better now. I have no qualms about using an eraser. At. All.

Another form of expression reared its head two years ago when I discovered acting. I can't remember the impetus to take an acting class at GRCC, but I auditioned for and got a role in Summer and Smoke, directed by Paul Dreher. It was the first time I had ever auditioned for a role. I was hooked and began acting in student and indie films. In one of my first film roles, I acted opposite Mark Boone Junior, a character actor who has been in countless films, including Batman Begins and Memento. It was a fluke, but it showed me that anything is possible. Right now, I'm training with Kurt Dreyer, and I am learning many, many good things about the craft. I highly recommend his class.

TANYA: What kind of work do you create?

VICTORIA:

My paintings are constructed of acrylic and mixed media, including paper, gemstones, and other random gewgaws that happen along the way. Because I live with two, very furry cats, there is a very good chance that there some cat hair in my art as well. I'm still not sure how to classify my work. It's very bright, that much I can safely say. I like to make fun pieces. Most feature cats for some reason.

TANYA:

What is important to you in your work and life?

VICTORIA:

Freedom of expression. My cats, Bobby and Frankie. Financial security (which I don't have right now). Continuous learning. A fresh supply of paints. Privacy (I'm a hermit). Acting. Dear friends. Food is kind of important. So, too, is the ability to dream lucidly. If only I wrote them down.

TANYA: Anything you'd like to share about your bio?

VICTORIA: From 2003-2008, I put my art on hold because I was in law school. I'm an attorney licensed to practice in the state of Michigan. I'm interested in medical malpractice, entertainment law, and animal rights law.

TANYA:

Is your work available for purchase, and if so, where?

VICTORIA:

Yes, absolutely, it's available for purchase. Many of my pieces may be seen at MP Talent Agency at MoBevy, 40 Monroe Center NW, Second Floor. I also do commissions.

Huge thanks to Malinda Petersen, my agent, for believing in me. She is awesome.

TANYA:

Anything else you want to share?

VICTORIA:

Someday, I'd like to create a children's book. I would also like to act with Viggo Mortensen in an indie film. Plus, I really wish that Michael Hutchence wasn't dead. I am on the lookout for a man in my age group who looks like Michael Hutchence, is gifted, sensitive, nice, funny, able to leap tall buildings in a single bound, and who is also very stable. He must be willing to do all the cooking. I've been told that finding such a creature is an impossibility, but I still hold out a shred of hope.

Also, in my next life, I would like to be a singer and dancer. I believe that music is the highest form of expression.

Oh, and one more thing: people can view my work--art, acting, and writing--on my website at www.victoriamullen.com.

Okay. Now what?

I may have quite possibly sincerely almost very truly lost some of my writing power, at least my funny mojo. I blame the shifting of the earth's axis hence changing my astrological sign from Cancer to Gemini. Seriously, for a few weeks now I've been struggling with topics to write about, and my little joke bombs are fizzling. I feel like Martha Stewart trying to do stand-up. What's happened? I think there must be some kind of creative-brain-sucking-vortex thing happening. It's either that...or I'm happy.

Damnation! I'm happy! Now how do I blog and vent when everything is going pretty great? Gone are the endless blogs about friction and trouble and angst. In its place are stories about a great meal I had at Olives and how when Kealoha comes over, he immediately shovels WITHOUT MY ASKING.

I fear, dear Gods, that I have become boring. Even now, I'm wearing Mom Jeans. You know the ones hiked up past your stomach because it's just more comfortable.

What am I going to do?

How do I find my creative mojo again?  What does a neurotic writer write about when she's content?

Free Rubs From My Mom To You

So yesterday I was all  'meh'. Today, all is well. Of course, I cleaned the house from top to bottom, finally did the To Do List that's been freaking me out, and ate a gigantic sandwich followed by a cupcake thus rushing my body with food-endorphins. Ahhhh.

While cleaning, I found this rat. My mom picks up stuff like this randomly. I act cool like I'm still 16 and too awesome to care, but honestly, every time she presses this rat's belly I laugh. And miraculously, I feel like someone likes me. So, from my mom to you, free rubs. As in free compliments, not actual rubs, although she is single and looking to date a good man. Just FYI.

Why Am I So Meh?

I’m in a writing funk. And not ‘funk’ like bad 1970s disco music and an afro (which would look really bad on me).

I mean a good old-fashioned “I don’t want to write” funk. In fact, there’s not a whole lot I want to do. I don’t want to exercise. I don’t want to eat healthy. I don’t want to think hard. I don’t want to debate. I don’t want to stress. Basically, all I pretty much want to do is wear yoga pants all day, watch my On Demand shows, and eat Cheetos and pizza while drinking wine. I’m not even joking. That sounds soooo good to me.

I think I really should’ve had a bit more of a vacation. But I worked all vacation, and I was sick and wah wah wah. I don’t really have any reason to complain either. It was great to work. I’m so excited to get a check for it next month. In terms of acting out an audiobook, I think I did a pretty good job, so it was satisfying. (I did this cool gravelly voice with a thick Spanish accent. He was called "The Deathless") And I’ve been getting great press on my writing. And now I’m back to teaching, which I love. And Kealoha and I are great. Kids are too. Then why am I so….meh?

I blame…

The moon. Hormones. The weather. Grey skies. The media (for making me feel guilty for laying around eating Cheetos and pizza and drinking wine). I blame Geraldo.

He hasn’t been blamed for anything recently, so why not. Unless…geez…he’s not dead is he? Geraldo is still around, isn’t he? I take that back. I don’t blame Geraldo. I blame Justin Bieber. There. That felt good. That felt real good. It’s all his fault.

I’ve got a To Do list with about a hundred things on it: write, edit, teach, parent, prep, plan, read, clean, exercise, work on a CV, promote, fix….Arrrrhhh!

I’m not doing any of it. Not a thing. Except, I am writing. I am blogging. It’s probably good for me, even though I’m not saying anything worthwhile here. I’m sure you understand. Tell me it’s not just me and that the feeling of “Meh” is an epidemic. That’d actually be a really comforting thought.

Where’s my wine? That’s one thing on my To Do list I can manage tonight.

In closing, I leave you with this. Why? Because, well, at least I’m not blind and I don’t look like the bust she creates of Lionel Richie.  That’s something, isn’t it?

Kealoha's 40 Minutes With The Darkside: My Kids

This story happened a couple of weeks ago, but it’s certainly worth repeating.

I was booked for the biggest recording I’ve ever done: 5 books right in a row. Good news was, it happened over my break from teaching. Bad news: it meant leaving the house a little after 7AM and not getting home until 5:30 or 6. For three weeks. During the holidays. It would be hard on me, exhausting, and hard on my kids. But, the tradeoff was that I’d make a nice chunk of change to save in case Kendall doesn’t rehire me. There’s no way I could say no.

I am a single mom, but it’s not like it was last year. I’m not entirely alone now. I have my mom to help, and I also have Kealoha. One morning, I asked Kealoha if he could drop the kids off at school and daycare. This way I wouldn’t have to be late for the recording. But I was also thinking that 1) it felt nice to be able to rely on him and 2) it would give him a little time with the kids on his own. Kealoha and I are tentatively, gingerly talking about What Could Happen Next. We’re talking big future stuff here, so I thought that, well, he’d have about forty minutes with the kids, take them to school and it would be just a little practice.

Forty minutes. Just forty minutes with my kids. What could go wrong?

I kissed the kids and Kealoha goodbye and drove to Grand Haven.

Pretty much as soon as I was gone, Kealoha was sitting at the table with the kids. Louis said,“Man, I love this smell.”

“What smell?” Kealoha asked.

Louis looked at him. “Cinnamon. It smells so good.”

“I don’t smell any cinnamon.”

Louis smiled. “Well, yeah. Nana had some cinnamon sticks for crafts and I stuck one up my nose.”

At this point, Kealoha freaked. “Get it out! Blow your nose!” He grabbed a tissue and had Louis blow and a big chunk of cinnamon came out.

Kealoha breathed easy.

Meanwhile, I was whistling away while driving. About twenty minutes after I left, I got a phone call on my cell. From Kealoha. “What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Simone misses you,” Kealoha sounded stressed. Sure, why not? I could hear Simone screaming and crying in the background.

“Put her on the phone.” Then I talked to Simone.

“Mommy, I miss you!”

“I miss you too, baby. But you know, I’ve only been gone for twenty minutes.” She cried and cried and I tried to calm her down. Then I heard something in the background. It was Louis saying “Ow! Ow!” And then Kealoha got back on the phone, flustered.

“Louis has his peter out.”

“His what?”

“His peter! His penis! He’s…Louis, don’t pull on that. Put it back in your pants! No! Don’t tug on it! Not over your pants, it’ll hurt that way! Just….Gotta go.”

He hung up.

There wasn’t anything I could do. At this point I was in Spring Lake. Simone was having a meltdown, Louis was whipping his penis out, and Kealoha was having some sort of panic attack.

Kealoha managed to get Simone’s socks on while she screamed and cried. He got Louis’s penis back into his pants unscathed. Then the kids fought about who got dropped off first. Kealoha took Louis and Louis immediately jumped out of the car as soon as it was stopped and started running for a door. Kealoha wasn’t sure what was happening but then saw the teacher let Louis in the building.

Then he took Simone to daycare. Simone cried the whole time. An older caretaker at daycare, one with a deep smokers voice, said to him “Yeah, this happens with kids. Separation anxiety. Just sign her in and take off.” Kealoha did.

I recorded all day, started to lose my voice, came home. Got the kids dinner, put them to bed and then Kealoha came over. “You want a mai tai?” I asked. He nodded, his eyes wide. Then he hugged me. He clung to me. “So, are you going to break up with me?” I asked.

He thought about it. “I might break up with Simone.”

I poured him a drink. He downed it. I poured him another. “I’d tell you that this is as bad as it gets, but it gets worse. This is sort of my reality,” I said. “The kids are great but they throw fits, they scream, they fight. They’re also funny and loving. Can you handle this?”

Kealoha kissed me. He didn’t need to say anything.

And you know, he’s still here. And we’re still inching ever closer to What Could Come Next, whatever that is, with my two crazy kiddos along for the ride.

My vacation: it involves a lot of coughing

It’s always funny to me the way you imagine something going and then how reality happens. For instance, I’d imagined a holiday vacation from teaching in which I’d hang out with the kids, we’d do art projects, and then when they were with their dad, I’d read and write and, you know, frolic.

Then I got booked to narrate five audio books and I adjusted my vacation fantasy. I’d narrate for three weeks in between the holiday celebration and then have a week to play, read, write, and frolic. I could still have my picture-perfect vacation, I’d just have to speed it up.

Then, I got sick. Like, really sick. Like….I lost my voice for two full days sick. I ended up laying on the couch whispering and pantomiming things to the kids. The kids got a little cranky about this and then became like primal beasts because I couldn’t talk to them and tell them things like “stop touching each other” and “get that out of your nose”. No. They basically had a weekend of running wild with face paint and sticks.

The narration was pushed back so I lost my final week of vacation. Now, I’m almost recovered, but in the morning I still sound like a very old, pissed off Jewish man, hacking and coughing. And my voice is all husky. Not a bad thing for the character I’m playing, but still, a little uncomfortable.

I’d also imagined a romantic blissful holiday with Kealoha. I’m not sure what I was really thinking, except in my mind everything sparkled and had that weird hazy quality they do in films when there’s a musical montage and it shows two people falling in love. They laugh and feed each other pancakes, and hold hands, and walk through a flower market, and then make love in soft lighting and the woman character never has any stretch marks. I won’t say I was imagining exactly that, but I did think, I don’t know, soft lighting maybe and a date night and I do like pancakes.

Well, Kealoha caught my cold so the reality was both of us lying on the couch, slightly sweaty with itchy eyes. Actually, I was lying on the couch, and Kealoha was sitting up so his nasal passages can drain. We coughed and blew noses and compared illnesses like we were both old, grumpy men. I tried to flirt with Kealoha a couple of times but he just blew his nose. Loudly. It’s hard to be sexy when you can’t breathe.

Now I’m heading back into the studio for another eight hours of narration. I do love narrating, but it’s hard not moving for eight hours and I feel puffy. I have to eat big breakfasts and lunches to keep my stomach from growling, pop decongestants, not move, and I just feel like a sick, bloated, stretch-marked, hacking, worn-out, thirty-seven-year old instead of the sleek movie star I’d envisioned being over the holiday.

Oh well. This will pass. We’ll get better. And, I guess, there’s always spring break to look forward to.

In case you're curious, my fantasy vacation included cheesy scenes like this:

A Goal, a Wish, and a Gish for 2011

So, the holidays are over. Or at least Christmas is over. (I’ll write a blog later about my holidays. It involves stress, humor, and a turducken.) Now the focus turns to the New Year and what are your resolutions. I'm not big on resolutions. It's a scary word, like it should be accompanied by a guillotine or something, or at least a scary voice proclaiming WHAT ARE YOUR RESOLUTIONS with a freaky reverb on the word ‘resolutions’. I do like making lists, though, I just like to tweak it a bit.

I have my New Years' Goals....but then I also have a separate list for Wishes. Goals are something I can attain if I work really hard. Wishes are something that need a little bit of magic. Last year, I had a goal to finish another book. I did that in November. But I also wished to find love in my life. It took almost a year, but the wish was granted. Maybe because I was really, really specific.

It's that whole Law of Attraction thing. I had an idea of the perfect partner for me so I wrote him a letter. Last January I read the letter every night. (If I can find it I’ll post it.) It was cheesy and said things like “I know you’re out there for me. You are kind and funny and warm and love me just as I am.” That sort of thing. I tried to believe in the letter, but around February I gave up. The letter was with me though, in the deepest recesses of my heart…so when I dated Biff, I knew in my heart that the letter wasn’t to him. I tried to be okay with that. As time passed, I realized I wasn’t okay with that.

Now, almost a year after I wrote the cheesy letter, I know the man I wrote it for: Kealoha. Funny thing is, I’ve known him for years…but it honestly took the right timing for me to see him in a new way. So, my wish was granted. I now have love in my life, besides the love of my kids.

So…what are your goals and wishes for the New Year? I have a goal, a gish, and a wish. My goal is to walk a mile a day (that’s 365 miles in a year). I can totally do that. That’s manageable if I’m focused enough.

My gish (goal/wish) is that I can find an agent for “Foodies Rush In”. I love the publisher I’m with now, but I want something bigger. I want wider distribution and my books in stores. It’s a gish because part of it will involve magic, and the other part will involve my hard work and perseverance. I’ll need to send out query letters, brave rejection, and maybe even attend a conference in New York to meet some agents, but I’ll do it. And my wish? Honestly, I’m very happy right now.

I guess my wish is that Kealoha and I stay together and I take good care of my kids and keep them happy and that I have a good job for the rest of 2011. These are things that are possible, but not entirely in my control. I believe that wishes can be granted though.

Forget resolutions, but tell me your goals and wishes or even a gish for the New Year. I think if you put it out there in writing, it makes the idea more tangible. I’ll send you wishes that you get what your heart desires. For real.

Stupid Cat Videos

Yesterday I posted a sort of serious holiday message. Today, I'm posting stupid cat videos. Why? Because...well...no reason really. It's just if you have a few minutes, maybe you want to waste it watching something that makes you laugh. Here are three of my favorite youtube videos. The kids and I have watched and rewatched these. Don't judge us. Happy holidays!

My Holiday Message

Oh, man. Christmas is almost here and I am crazy excited. Really! This week I’ve had a lot of time to think about it. I was supposed to be narrating this wicked cool audiobook about a Necromancer, but I was walloped with a cold (my kids have it too) and the cold went straight for my voice and snatched it. Saturday and Sunday I was literally unable to speak. I could barely even whisper. It made me feel a little helpless, and gave me flashbacks to last year when I really was helpless with my broken foot.

This year, though, my mom came over and so did Kealoha as well as my friend Katie. They made sure I didn’t talk (as much). Katie went so far as to make sure I mimed everything. And this year, I was able to take care of the kids unlike last.

It reminds me of how much can change in a year. The lowest point happened for me last year the day after Christmas. I couldn’t take care of the kids so they were with their dad. On Christmas, he’d had a family party with his then fiancée and I didn’t get to talk to the kids. Well, I did talk to my son, but it was after 9 and he was exhausted. It wasn’t malicious of my ex not to call, more like he didn’t know how to interrupt the family party and have the kids call me. And I’d spent the holiday in my empty apartment using crutches and crawling everywhere.

My sister came over the day after Christmas to take me out to the bar. We laughed and joked and met a few friends. When we came home, we realized that we’d locked the door and my keys were inside. It took four hours before we could get in. I stood in my driveway on my crutches, snow falling down, trying not to cry. Finally the locksmith came and opened the door. It was so slippery and the stairs were so narrow that I had to crawl up the stairs. I tried to stand in my kitchen and I slipped and fell to the ground and I just started crying. Me, in a my green cast, crutches splayed, crying.

My sister held me. I cried because of the divorce, and because I was alone. I cried because I was exhausted and terrified of not making enough money to support me and the kids. I cried because, literally, I was broken and could barely walk. I cried with loneliness and shame and despair. My sister held me. She said “Let it out, honey. Just cry.” And I did. It felt like I cried for days. “I promise you, seester, things will get better,” she said. I just stared at her and I said “I don’t believe that. Look at my life. How on earth could they possibly get better?” My sister told me she didn’t know how things could get better, but at least things probably wouldn’t get worse.

A year later, my life is drastically different. You all know where I’m at now. I still struggle with concerns about taking care of me and the kids. And I’m terrified that by losing my voice on this narration they might not hire me again. Voice-overs are my safety net in case my teaching contract isn’t renewed. Last night, Kealoha put his hand on my shoulder and said, “It’s okay. We’ll get through this.” And it was that simple use of the word ‘we’ that showed me how much can change in a year.

I have a lot of friends who are struggling right now. Holidays are great but they’re also incredibly difficult, especially if you’re alone or struggling financially. I guess the biggest thing I learned in this year was to have faith that life can get better. It really can. And even when you’re on your knees crying with a broken foot, if you don’t believe things can get better, at least try to believe that they can’t get much worse.

I think I’ve lived more fully in this last year than ever before. I’ve learned how to trust, how to love, and how to be okay with who I am. I think that was the surprising gift of last year. Honestly, though, I’m glad I won’t repeat that Christmas this year. The kids are coming over, my family will be here, Kealoha will be at my side. We’ll have Chex Mix and turducken and maybe drink a little too much. The kids will wake up here Christmas morning and we will open presents as a family.

I’m glad I listened to my sister last year. I’m glad I didn’t give up.

A New Tradition--Bad Holiday Odes

By now everyone knows I have a certain twisted affection for bad poetry. I especially like to read bad poetry aloud. I use a hushed-smarty-pants voice and I add in a lot of dramatic pauses. If someone’s watching me (an audience is one or more people) I may stare at them intently for a moment as if I have a lot of depth to me. I like it when my audience snaps. And so…a new holiday tradition. Please join me in writing your own bad holiday ode. You can submit it to me via email heyblunderwoman@gmail.com or in the comments section of this blog. I’ll copy your ode not into the comment section, oh no, but into the very body of this blog and maybe, maybe even add a picture.

So I challenge you: bring me you Christmas trees, your shopping, your stressed out holiday meal with drunk family members. Bring me your bad poetry, your overdone metaphors, your pointlessly deep ideas. And may your Christmas be merry and bright.

Here’s an ode to get us a started:

Ode to Santa Claus

by Tanya Eby

Dear Santa…

My dear, beloved, Santa,

I’ve been thinking about you

a lot.

You’re such a giver, you red-clothed devil you.

Let me be your minion.

I want to trim your tree,

Santa.

I want to decorate your

halls

of love.

Let me rub your belly as you tickle

my fancy.

Oh, Santa, I know it might not seem appropriate

but I’ve always had a thing for older men

(like Colin Firth, sure, but I also love Gregory Peck even though I’m not sure if he’s alive or dead.)

Santa, you fill me

with joy

Let me give you something back--

my back Santa.

I love you. I adore you.

It might be your beard, your rosy cheeks, whatever

I don’t care.

I just want you to know that I

can be naughty or nice

I’ll be whatever you want

because I believe in you.

Please, believe in me

and the depths of my affection

like cold bells ringing in the night.

Santa, it just isn’t Christmas

without you in

my sleigh

bed.

An Ode to Mistletoe

by Cheryl

Mistletoe, you spy, you seasonal infiltrator.

James Bond looks at you in envy.

0-Toe-7, super spy.

Deadly in the wild, choking your host,

If your berries are plucked, you poison.

But all fades in your super power -

Invisibility.

From one unsuspecting victim to another you flit,

a holiday spider, lurking above innocents,

Casting your spell,

Linking, if only for a moment,

Two in affection.

Ah, mistletoe, the power you wield!

0-Toe-7.

Super spy, lover.

Moments With My Mom

I have that wonderfully complex mother/daughter relationship with, well, uh, my mother. I love her to pieces. She’s warm and quirky and funny and full of spirit. She also drives me crazy. Now, that may sound harsh but if you’re a daughter you know what I mean. Our mothers naturally drive us crazy. The unspoken secret…we drive our mothers crazy too, so it’s a balanced relationship.

I’m thirty-seven now (Kealoha and I just figured it out. I thought I might be 38 and he said “No, you’re 37” and I said “Am I?” Apparently I am.) My mom is sixty-one. We’ve had lots of ups and downs in our relationship and have finally settled into that wonderfully adult understanding where Mom knows my neuroses and tries to navigate them and I understand hers and say things like “Now, Mom, I know you need to have a lot of stuff with you but when you bring over six garbage bags full of clothes it makes me feel anxious.” She then hides the bags so I won’t see them, does her laundry and then everyone is happy.

Mom is the inspiration for the quirky mothers in my fiction. They all have a spark of her. While she’s never done naked meditation outside (that I know of) like the mom in Blunder Woman, she does carry a parachute in her car for emergency gaming. And there have been far too many conversations where she’s asked me about my sex life and I blush and say “Mom!” and she says “Okay, you don’t have to tell me but you should know that a good sex life is really important, especially for the Knaggs family.” (My mom’s side of the family, according to my mom, has a very high libido. Something I didn’t really want to know.)

My mom is also one of the kindest people on the planet. I’m not kidding. She’d do anything for a friend in need and has. She’s done anything she could for me from staying with me in my apartment for a week in college when I was horribly sick, to helping me when I had my kids, to watching the kids and taking care of me when I had a broken foot last year and was going through a divorce. Mom has picked up people off the street (a family once) and taken them to run errands because they didn’t have any way to do it on their own. She’s worked with mentally ill, on psych wards, helping those with minds wasted by years of medication. She does crafts with them. Endlessly patient and helping them glue sea shells to picture frames. Around my mom, people just get calm…while at times she seems to be a kinetic bundle of energy.

Mom/Nana/Annie/Anne Knaggs

She’s had lots of trouble with relationships (which caused trouble for me growing up) and has admitted that for most of her life she’s looked to a man to support her. She’s currently separated and struggling with starting a new life and dealing with lonelieness. I feel for her. I wish I could make it better.

And as much as she makes me crazy (she needs to be surrounded by stuff; I need things clean) she also cracks me up. I love listening to the stories she tells my kids while they do crafts. They begin harmless enough but they take a turn somewhere.

“Oh! Hawaii!” she said when Louis asked her about it. “I went to Hawaii a couple of years ago and it’s so warm and it smells like flowers and it’s surrounded by the ocean. You have to take a plane and travel for hours and hours to get there. And when I went there it was a dream come true and I got to help my dear friend because her husband had terminal cancer and then he died and that was really tough for her. And do you know that they have something called macadamia nuts…”

Uh…Her stories are usually like this: informative, soft, and then with some mention of a terminal disease. The kids listen scientifically. This week my mom went through her ornaments with the kids. “Now, if mommy says you can put this on the tree, you can, but mommy gets really anxious if there’s too much stuff around. She has a lot of anxiety so we have to ask her if we can put up this candy garland…”

Simone was looking at the old nativity set I used to put up. My mom held it out to her. “Here’s the baby Jesus in his crib. Now, we lost the crib so your mommy made him a crib from a box of matches and folded a napkin in there for a little pillow. See the little pillow?”

Simone peered into the little box. “Where is baby Jesus’s hand? Why’s he only got one hand?”

My mom considered this. “Perhaps baby Jesus had an amputation.”

I started laughing. “It was a real Christmas Miracle,” I said.

I think her quirkiness makes me love her more...and as I get older, I have a lot of respect for her too. My mom was a single mom in the seventies and eighties. I spent a lot of time on my own while she worked. We were poor. We struggled. But I never went without food. Mom never made more than 18 thousand dollars a year and my dad didn’t pay child support. I don’t know how she did it. I’ve been a single mom for a year, and it’s been exhausting and horrible and terrifying. I’m scared to death of losing my job and not being able to pay the mortgage or feed my kids (part of why I’m so driven. I'm also driven because I want to be able to take care of my mom financially and find her a good place to live. It's a struggle).

Mom told me a story once and she told it while laughing. Like wasn’t it funny and ridiculous. “One time I was PMSing so bad and I wanted a candy bar. I didn’t have any money and I’d just fed you and Shawn the last box of macaroni and cheese and we had nothing. And I had this moment where I just was exhausted and I wanted a fucking candy bar and I remember crying my eyes out and checking all the couch cushions looking for a quarter so I could just go buy a fucking candy bar. That’s how bad the PMS was.”

She laughed and I laughed and then it dawned on me: she fed us the last box of macaroni and cheese. “Did you find a quarter, Mom? Did you get the candy bar?”

“Naw,” she said. “But I’ll never forget that wanting.”

My mom is a beautiful person. She really is…and when I look back on my life and what I’m grateful for, she’s at the top of the list, along with all her stuff.

Little (big) Rebellions

This month I indulged and ordered Showtime. Yes, it’s an extra expense. No, I don’t need it. Yes, I wanted it at first because of “Dexter”. Then a couple of days ago I wanted to fold laundry and decided to watch the first episode of “The Big C”. Now, granted, the premise of the show sounded superbly depressing: a woman finds out she has stage 4 melanoma and then…what? They’re going to make a series from that? Eeeek! First off, after working at Gilda’s Club, I’ve seen a lot of cancer. And it scares me. Deeply. And in the media and every women’s magazine they’re always talking about it. Cancer Cancer Cancer. It feels like it’s inevitable. So, I admit, I’m terrified of it.

Then why would I watch a show about it? Because it stars Laura Linney and for some strange reason I really connect with her. Maybe it’s her acting style, maybe it’s the roles she chooses. I don’t know. I just like her. So I pressed play, started folding clothes and within two minutes of watching the show…I was laughing. That’s right. I was laughing.

The show is fucking funny. It’s created and written by (at least a few of the episodes) Darlene Hunt. And I think I noticed one other writer, also a woman. Here’s the thing: the writing is fresh and funny. The characters are flawed and complex and likeable. It’s the kind of stuff I’d like to write. It’s deeply feminine and emotional and UNAPOLOGETIC. More importantly, it’s telling a story that I want to follow. Yes, it’s about cancer…but there’s another meaning to the story that I deeply connect with. Ultimately, it’s about living your authentic life.

I talk to my girlfriends about this. Even my ex-mother-in-law (who is now a friend.) I’ve talked to students and coworkers and other women about this. And there seems to be some unwritten rule that women follow, a caregiver rule, to put everyone first, everyone but themselves. I’m phrasing this awkwardly. What I mean is when you’re a mom and a wife, you put your kids and husband first. You give and give, and care, and tend to and that feels good. It feels right. At the end of the day, though, there is little energy or time left over for yourself. I know this from experience. How many times has there been something I wanted or even needed and I said “No, don’t worry about it.” How many times have I been quietly polite instead of saying what I really think? How many times have I been quietly invisible so that others are comfortable? Too many to count. But not anymore.

I connect with “The Big C” because it reminds me about living authentically. A couple of years ago when I was still married, I started doing small rebellions. I joined Facebook, and I realized that I had nothing to post about my status that didn’t involve my husband or kids. I had nothing to post about ME. So, I got a narration gig. Then I started writing again. I remember one day buying a shirt for myself because all the ones I had were stained. I bought myself flowers.

Later, these little rebellions led to big ones. I realized that in my marriage, I wasn’t an authentic person. I was playing a role.

Now, single for over a year, I feel a bit like the character Cathy in “The Big C”. She takes joy in little rebellions that aren’t really rebellions at all: she’s simply doing things she wants to do. She’s stopped apologizing for everything. And while she still cares about people, still tends to them, she’s also tending to herself.

This is why I ordered Showtime. A little gift for myself. I’m not going overboard. I don’t think I’ve been narcissistic. I’m just balancing out my life, living more deeply and fully. Last night, I ordered Indian food for myself. I ordered it because I wanted it and I love it. I could’ve made it. It would’ve taken me two hours to do, but I could’ve…but I didn’t want to. So I ordered a cauliflower curry and naan and papadams. I put on pjs and I watched TV.

Then I did something crazier. I slept in just my underwear. What an act of rebellion! What pure craziness came over me? See, I’ve always been really sensitive about my body. I’m always a little overweight. Always a little pudgy. My tummy sticks out. I have lots of moles. I never look at myself naked and I never, god forbid, sleep naked, not even with a lover. Why? I think I’m uncomfortable with myself.

Then when I look at pictures of myself from a few years ago I think “Wow, you were really pretty. Why did you hate yourself so much?”

Last night I decided it was high time to feel what it’s like to be in my own body. I took off my bra, stripped down to my panties, and checked myself out in the mirror. And you know what? I’ve got a nice rack. I do. I like my boobs. And I like the gentle curves of my body. I’m not skinny, but I think my body is a body that can be warm and comforting to my kids…and also very womanly and sexy (when I want to be). I slipped under my silky sheets, noticing how the fabric felt against my bare skin.

I like these little acts of rebellion…and I like in my life I’m finally strong enough to do them. So, “The Big C” has encouraged me to live a little more fully. I hope more women are watching or listening…or in the very least…taking a minute for themselves. We spend so much time telling ourselves we’re not worth it. Whoever started that phrase I’d like to challenge to a duel. That’s right. I’d like to smack them across the face with a glove. We are worth it. Our little wants and needs…they aren’t little. They’re important. We’re important. You’re important.

Rah rah rah.

Do something for yourself. Something huge like living on your own, or something small like ordering Indian food and checking out your boobs for the beauties they are. Why? If no one else will tell you this, I will: because you’re worth it.

Decorating the Tree: REAL vs IMAGINED

Today I’m continuing with my holiday traditions blogging. That sounds awkward. What I mean to say is that December is chock full of activities and if you like traditions (and I do) you can be buried under parties, cookie exchanges, Christmas letters, and piñatas. It’s a nice kind of burying, but still.

This weekend we decorated the tree. Last year The Time of Decorating the Tree was promptly followed by The Time I Fell Down the Stairs and Broke My Foot. This year…way better experience. Kealoha picked the tree out with me and the kiddos. In my mind, there’d be carolers and everyone smiling and high-fiving, and a magical snow would be falling. Kealoha would grab me and kiss me in the snow and say “I adore you!” And I’d say, “Really?” and the kids would laugh and giggle and have rosy cheeks.

Reality isn’t as golden, but maybe it’s more interesting. Louis ran around the tree lot possessed. Kealoha chased after him. I tried to find someone to help me with getting the tree to the car. They were sort of operating in a different time speed: everyone in slow motion. No snow fell. And as I got the tree, Simone watched Louis run around the East football field and screamed over and over “LET’S PLAAAAAAY…SOCCER!” Kealoha got her to also scream “Let’s  play rubgy” and football, and tiddly winks. We didn’t declare our love for each other but I think he winked at me…or he had something in his eye.

Then I envisioned decorating the tree. There’s the kids and me and Kealoha and my mom. We’re all wearing sweaters and listening to Bing Crosby and there’s a fire crackling. Reality? We put on this cool jazzy music. Simone and Louis stuffed ornaments down my mom’s shirt so her backside was gigantic. Like, ENORMOUS. I was freaking out because I couldn’t find the bubble lights and I was certain my mom lost them last year when she packed the ornaments. Kealoha was obsessively untangling my lights and had a monologue about the importance and effectiveness of LED lights which I listened to while slowly blinking.

We didn’t drink egg nog, though I did have two glasses of wine which helped me ignore the gigantic mess and the cats and the kids fighting and my mom trying to give me a backrub. She’s like a ninja attacker with backrubs.

I breathed. I relaxed. Kealoha told me everything was going to be okay and I believed him.

Which brings me to the ornaments. I like this part of Christmas, when you pull something from the box and it triggers a memory. Stephen Paulsen has The Starship Enterprise as an ornament…and Tim Beeler has a tree of superheroes. I have a Marilyn Monroe figurine that reminds me of when I had blond hair and fancied myself a 1950s starlet. The kids have the ornaments they made of pirates and reindeers. Kealoha brought over Elvis ornaments and a spaceship. There are birds on the tree, which comforts me. And Mom found the bubble lights (she’d wrapped them to keep them safe) which made all of us happy.

This year, I’m adding two more ornaments to memory lane. One is a morel ornament which makes me think of all the times spent mushroom hunting with my family. It’s also incredibly phallic and has glitter all over it. So, it makes me feel warm and fuzzy and then slightly uncomfortable. The perfect combo for an ornament.

And there’s the sasquatch ornament I just ordered because Big Foot makes me happy.

There’s also the ornament that Kealoha grabbed from Lowes. I’d looked at it a few weeks ago and when we went back for a strand of LED lights (compromise) he snagged the ornament. What a good boyfriend. He may not say things like “I adore you!” and I’m sort of glad he doesn’t. He does say things like “I can fix your thermostat” and I find that incredibly sexy.

Where was I?

I dunno.

But I do love the holidays, especially this one. My saddest holiday was in New York. I had no money and made a tree out of a paper bag and drew ornaments on it. It was sad. But this year…this year…well…maybe it didn’t go the way I envisioned. That’s okay. Because it was more real and more fun than the way I’d pictured it. And now I have Elvis on my tree with Marilyn. That seems to fit.

Here's how I found the two ornaments tonight. I don't know what they're doing. It looks like if either of them has a drink, then things could get racy.