One of my earliest bad poems

You all know I'm a fan of bad poetry. It's just so luscious. So satisfying. And if you can't write good poems (which I can't) you ought to enjoy being bad at it. I enjoy it all the time. On Facebook yesterday, my childhood friend Melissa posted this poem. Apparently she found it in a box of stuff. I even signed the poem, probably thinking one day I'd be famous. I must've convinced her because she's kept it for twenty years.

I must've been ten or eleven when I wrote this. Maybe a bit older.

Melissa and my mom were great friends, then we became friends first because of pressure, and then because of choice. She was older and wiser and more sophisticated than me. We lived across the street from each other for a time. She lived in a cute Victorian house. I remember there were completed puzzles all over the walls. And she had a collection of 45 records. Is that what they're called? She introduced me to the song "I'm Your Venus" by the classic band Bananarama. I was shocked when I heard it. I thought it said "I'm your penis".

I was a homely little girl. I was, as some of you know, often mistaken for a boy. Getting my hair cut at the barber's didn't help. Melissa, though, was glamorous. She wore makeup and had curly hair and knew stuff. One day she even did a makeover on me. A real 1980s Bad Movie kind of makeover with huge hair and full makeup. I remember going to school and reading to my little 1st grader buddy and my buddy saying "You look different today. You look so pretty."

I don't remember writing this poem, but I do remember one line. I'm sure it was inspired by our frequent games of Monopoly in which Melissa often beat me. I found my revenge though...through words.

Even as a preteen, I was pretty good at bad poetry. Here it is:

Monopoly by Tanya Eby

As we sat face to face I saw the joy come over her. She smiled I frowned she laughed I cried, somehow. She took my house she took my land she took my money too. She laughed I cried I shot her she died. So, now I sit here with nothing to do 'cause I just went bankrupt, somehow Oh, all this happened in just one day over a simple game of Monopoly...

You can tell a lot about a person by looking at their iTunes list.

The wedding is in five days! FIVE DAYS! Needless to say, I can’t seem to think about anything else but that. Not ArtPrize. Not writing. Not the size of my backside. Nope. Just the wedding. In my mind, when I think of the wedding, I don’t think of it like: “This is going to be MY day and I’m going to look so great”. I think: “This is going to be so much fun. I can’t wait to marry that man and have all our friends and family there to cheer us on, and possibly make fun of us.”

I’ve been picking music for the reception. On my iTunes list is your standard current Top 40 stuff. When I’m in the car with the kiddos, I turn on the radio and the kids tell me songs they want at the wedding. They include songs by Katy Perry, Bruno Mars, Lady Gaga, etc. And, yes, my kids are 5 and 6.

Then there’s the music I have in my personal library. A LOT of jazz standards sung by Sinatra, Dean Martin, Ella Fitzgerald, Diana Krall, and even Michael Buble. Then there’s my collection of singer/songwriter music. You know, moody intellectual music set to guitar. (I won’t be playing a lot of that, but I do like to write and cook and be moderately depressed to it.)

With a few 80s songs thrown in and a little 60s soul, I have about two hours of pure danceable music. I then went to Kealoha’s music library to see what he had.

5 hours later….

The man has like 140 artists and 140,000 songs, and I’m probably underestimating. He has over a dozen albums of ukulele music, dozens of polka albums, and a collection of Weird Al Yankovick. And that’s not even the kitschy stuff.

I think my favorite albums are by people who shouldn’t record music: Leonard Nimoy, William Shatner, Bruce Willis, and even a song by Bruce Campbell (of Evil Dead fame).

I’ve pulled the Campbell song to play during dinner. There are a few people coming who will deeply, deeply appreciate this homage.

Then there’s the lounge music, the marimba concertos, and the songs from Hawaii. And like two hundred songs by Elvis. I had no idea the man sang so much.

There are compilations that promise Sexy Bachelor Pad moments, and Swing Time for Singles. Most of that is music from 1960s elevators. I guess in the Mad Men era, people really did get it on, especially to organ music. Organ. Music. Get it?

I grabbed some world music tracks, some Otis Redding, U2. Kealoha grabbed a few more. I’m pretty confident that we’ll have a musical playlist that will inspire people to dance and laugh, because, really, when Leonard Nimoy is singing to you, what else can you do?

And it occurs to me that you can tell a lot about someone's personality by what they listen to. For example, Kealoha's dad likes cowboy music. Real cowboy music. He's shown me the record. My son seems to like Talking Heads and electric stuff. My daughter likes anything she can sing to.

What I’m hoping is when Saturday rolls around, I won’t stress about what I look like, or the flowers, or if people are entertained. I hope I can just sit back and enjoy the food and laughter and celebrating with the people I love. And I’ll laugh when Kealoha sings the lyrics to any Weird Al Yankovick song. He’s a fan.

I leave you with this. Let's see if you can take it.

Eating Dinner IN THE DARK--Blindfolded at San Chez

Kealoha and I decided to have one final date night as singles before the big wedding day…and what better way to celebrate than eating a ten-course dinner entirely in the dark? I mean, this was an obvious choice. So when San Chez sent an email saying they were having a Dinner In The Dark where guests were blindfolded and the menu was secret, Kealoha signed us up. (He’s no longer concussed so he was thinking fully when he agreed to it.)

What’s it like eating in the dark? Awkward at first, and then strangely sensual.

We sat down in the café part of San Chez and waited for the guests to arrive. What kind of people would subject themselves to eating blind? First, you have to have a pretty hefty amount of trust…and you also have to be okay with possibly looking ridiculous. About twenty or so others joined us with people from their late twenties to those daredevil baby boomers.

After waiting for some late customers (annoying. be on time.) the blindfolds came down.

You really couldn’t see. Suddenly the world became sounds and smells and touch. I told Kealoha if he wasn’t talking I wouldn’t know he was there. He put his hand on my knee. At least I think it was him.

The first course came. Every course was paired with an alcoholic beverage…and by the time we started eating we really, really wanted a drink. The server set the dish in front of us. “Okay,” she said, “it’s directly in front of you. There’s a little dish and a sauce. Enjoy.” That was all the instruction.

I gently used my fingertips to find the plate, lifted it to my lips and…then what? How did I eat it? I couldn’t see. I probed it with my fingertips and touched something silky and wet, and then some soft and cool pillow of sauce at the bottom of the dish. I wrapped my fingers around the item and put it tenderly in my mouth. (I could be writing an erotica novel right now.) It was delicious. Slightly sweet with a salty and nutty sauce. I had no idea what I was eating, but I liked it. I could tell by Kealoha’s grunts that he liked it too. Or he was doing push ups. Not sure about that.

Apparently, we were eating a Nori Salad Bouquet with Warm Soy Dressing. Lovely.

Next came bitter beer (not a fan) with a crispy bruschetta toast. The server said “It’s in front of you and is rectangular in shape. The topping is balanced on it.” Again, my fingers probed gently, I brought the bread up to my mouth and bit in. Chewy. Crunchy. Smooth. Buttery. Oh, bruschetta smeared with a warm butter. Really good butter too. Luscious. And then the acidic sweet taste of what I thought was marinated cherries. I crushed them with my tongue on the roof of my mouth. A blend and balance of sweet, salty, savory, cream. Mmm. What was it? Bone Marrow On Foccacia With Hawaiian Black Salt and Sherried Grapes.

Yes. Bone marrow. And it was good. I now understand why cave men sucked on bones and why we have the phrase “suck the marrow” of life. It’s pure decadent living…and makes a girl who sometimes swings vegetarian feel a smidge guilty.

The night wore on. It was a long time of sitting in the dark. Kealoha and I chatted about the upcoming wedding, memories, everyday stresses. A table of four women got drunk and took off their blindfolds, but everyone else stayed in the game. There were highlights of the night, and a few that weren’t as successful. One dish was cold, another warm. Some played with modern gastronomy techniques. You never knew what was coming.

The Cuban Deconstruct: Swiss Tuille, Gherkin, Pork Powder, Pickled Mustard Seeds And Atomized Mojo was a revelation. Seriously, it was like a perfect morsel of food. At once exciting, titillating, and harmonious. I’m not talking about music or sex, but I could be. Good food is like that.

And another favorite was the Sizzling Scallops. The restaurant sizzled and it sounded like rain. We caught a waft of smoke and the sea and then were presented with something balanced on a fork. I couldn’t take it in one bite, so I had to touch it. Soft, squishy, something fluffy on top. It was a perfectly cooked scallop (it dissolved in your mouth) with what tasted like caramelized brown sugar. In fact, the scalllop was topped with squid ink cotton candy. I really would’ve liked to have seen that one.

Less successful dishes included a Deep Fried Egg Yolk with Asparagus Foam and Lemon Zest. While the crunch and foaminess were texturally appealing, the dish lacked salt and flavor. The Foiley Pop was an exciting dish, but as a sometime vegetarian, it was a bit much for me. It arrived in a Ziploc bag. I fumbled with the bag to open it, revealing a puff of woodsmoke. I found the stick, and put the item in my mouth and immediately my tongue danced and popped. The gelatinous center though scared me. I imagined eating an eyeball lollipop or something, and I had to take a big drink of water. It was foi gras on a stick with sour berry pop rocks and cherry wood smoke. The people on Chopped would’ve been impressed; it just wasn’t my thing.

The evening ended around 11 and Kealoha and I were exhausted. The chefs toyed with our senses, the servers spritzed us with scents and surprised us with sounds, and Kealoha and I stumbled awkwardly through it, side by side.

Sort of a metaphor for marriage, I suppose.

Would I do this again? You bet. The evening pushed me out of my comfort zone with food and it made me aware that food is, at its best, a sensual experience. It was an adventurous night, and all we had to do was go downtown and put a blindfold on. And we got to keep our blindfolds…you know…in case we need them…for…uhm…another adventure.

Living the Life with Pulled Pork and Jonathan Coulton

This weekend Kealoha took me to see the Jonathan Coulton/They Might Be Giants concert at the Intersection.

At first I didn’t really want to go. It was on Sunday night and the idea of going out on a Sunday with school and kids on Monday was just a little overwhelming. Then I told myself to stop being so old and crotchety. He wanted to see a concert…and a really great concert at that. The last concert I saw was my son’s Kindergarten class singing a medley of non-religious generic holiday music…most of which was off key and included snowflake references.

So we went. First we went to a bar/restaurant on Division and I actually said “As long as you believe it’s safe, then I’ll go.” I almost laughed at myself. Next I’d be talking about roaming hobos. (What has happened to me? When did I become so suburban?)

Dinner consisted of wine and a fancy pulled pork sandwich on a pretzel bun and some of the best fries ever. Then we drove to The Intersection. I started having flashbacks to my twenties; of course then The Intersection was grungy and in Eastown and I was dating a musician who sometimes played there. I got to be on the Get In Free list, and I must admit it felt pretty cool to be a groupie. No list this time though. Kealoha and I stood in a long line that stretched under the bridge. Everyone in line looked the same; it’s like we called each other with the outfit choices.

Kealoha and I wore jeans, t-shirts, and sweatshirt hoodies. Others wore Converse shoes, skinny jeans, and t-shirts with their favorite unknown band logo displayed proudly for people to look up on their iPhones while waiting for the doors to open.

We finally got inside, paid our $43 for a pair of tickets and were swept into the open black hole that is The Intersection. Not a bad little space; it has black walls and dark floors. I imagine if you were tripping on something you’d feel like you were an astronaut floating in space. There were pretty mood-lights to make it all feel concert-y. And there weren’t enough chairs. We all stood around awkwardly, like an unsuccessful party with not enough people, food, or drinks.

Most of the people were in their thirties and forties. A few brought their kids along. The crazy thing is, if you spun the word backwards and slipped back fifteen years or so, we’d all still look exactly the same, wearing the same clothes, still bobbing along awkwardly to the music. It was one of those “Eek! I’m revisiting my twenties!” kind of moments. Only at this age, everyone just seemed a little plumper. And we talked about our kids and stuff like having bunions removed.

Still, Kealoha and I reveled in our hour of living The Life. We smiled and bobbed our heads slightly in time to the music. We were there mostly to see Jonathan Coulton (who Kealoha introduced me to. Not literally. Just his music.) After a half hour of songs about getting an artificial heart and monkey love or something, Coulton’s set was done and Kealoha and I were on our way home. I have to admit, my feet sort of hurt from standing on the concrete.

It was nice to revisit my twenties, but I’ve got to admit, I wouldn’t want to live there again. I’m strangely content with being in my yoga pant pajamas by 8:30 PM, snuggling next to Kealoha and watching the foreign version of "The Girl Who Played With Fire" while trying desperately not to fall asleep.

I’m not a hipster. I’m not even cool. I actually don’t even know what the cool word for cool is anymore.

I am sooooo okay with that.

Please enjoy this song by Jonathan Coulton, presented in "Zombie Sign Language". Hope you find it uplifting.

Let the general angst RETURN!!!

It’s Sunday afternoon, a lovely fall day. I just spent the morning walking four miles or so with my friend L. then swimming and whirlpool with my friend K. I must say I’m feeling very relaxed. The chocolate Moosetracks ice cream doesn’t hurt either. I’m feeling very pensive also. Two weeks from yesterday is the Big Day! Kealoha and I are getting hitched! It’s so close now. I’m actually really excited. I’ve let go of the whole “I need to lose twenty pounds thing”. I’m pretty much the same weight I’ve been for two years now. Nothing has changed. I’m just two years older, but thanks to all the working out, I’m a little firmer. I’ve got to be good with that.

I’m all moody and pensive about other things. Like writing. Lots of people in my writing groups are selling loads of books and getting awards and getting publishing contracts, and I’m sort of just sitting on the sidelines saying “Here I am! Don’t forget about me! I’m right here!” It’s that general angst thing on struggling to get my stuff out there and feeling like no one really cares. Bah.

And then…

This week my ex’s wife sent me pictures from their vacation. Great pictures of the kiddos. I’m tempted to put the pictures on our wall because they’re terrific shots of the kids. One is of Simone in her swimsuit playing in the water. The other is of Louis sitting on a rock looking right at the camera. I can’t put them on my wall though. As beautiful as the kids look, the pictures make me sad.

I don’t recognize the suit Simone is wearing and I don’t know where they’re at in the pictures. The hardest thing with my kids is half of their lives is a mystery to me. I have pictures now of their summer vacation, but it’s not my vacation. It’s not our family…it’s their family with their dad. As much as I like having some personal time to myself, at the same time, I still mourn that I don’t get to be with the kids all the time. When they’re at their dad’s for five days, they come to me sometimes with new haircuts or looking slightly taller and I can’t help but cry that I don’t get to share every moment of their childhood with them.

Part of me wishes I could have a second chance. Not with their dad, but just being their mom. I wish I’d asked for full custody. Wish I’d fought for it. I wish I could have a baby again and do everything right this time. But you can’t go back in time. You don’t get do- overs.

So. The wedding is coming and Kealoha is going to be a great stepdad. He already is; it’s just not official. And I can be grateful that when I am lucky enough to have my kids with me, I am there with them emotionally and physically 100% (which wasn’t true in the past). I may not have done everything right in the past, and I’ll probably still screw up with them in the future, but I’m really trying to be the best mom and strong role model for them that I can.

I can’t have the memories of them at the beach, but I can have my own…like taking them to Chicago with Kealoha and Louis eating an entire pizza and walking the streets with them and taking Simone to the American Girl store. And then there’s all the things we’re going to do with them, all the dinners and Halloween and new plans for Chicago.

I guess I can’t have every beautiful moment framed on our wall…but who can, really?

Ugh. I’m totally crying. I have the whole “I swallowed a plum and it’s lodged in my throat feeling”. I blame the wedding. I’m so emotional I start crying when I see two squirrels chasing each other or what’s worse, when I heard George Michael singing “Careless Whisper” on the radio. It’s ridiculous. I need to watch an action film or something. Or maybe some pro wrestling. Pro wrestling would be good, followed by, I don’t know, football or something. Sheesh.

I leave you with this. If you’re as emo as me right now, grab some Kleenex. For the overly dramatic, ridiculous tears.

Three Scenes With Simone

SCENE 1 My mom and I were hanging out. Actually, we don't really hang out. I was driving us somewhere and my 5-year-old was in the back seat. I told my mom I had to get some new yoga pants, as my other five pair just weren't looking so good anymore, and I needed my yoga pants.

"Ma! Mom!" cried Simone. "But you don't DO yoga. Why do you need yoga pants?"

“The point of wearing yoga pants is to make people think I’m doing yoga, when really I’m just being comfortable.”

I could see Simone in the rearview mirror. She looked at me. Blinked her big blue eyes. “Mom. That doesn’t make any sense.”

She really is a clever girl.

SCENE 2

“Mom. Ma! Mom. Come here! I need to talk to you.”

I can’t tell you how many conversations with Simone begin like this. When she needs to ‘talk to you’ she needs to do it IMMEDIATELY and it is EXTREMELY IMPORTANT. And it will take her five or so minutes to get to the point. It’s endearing and aggravating at the same time. Endearing most of the time, aggravating when she wants to talk to me about something and I have to go to the bathroom or go to work.

Here is a sample monologue. Please envision a 5-year-old girl with blond hair and blue, blue eyes saying this with a sort of 1930s movie star voice. We don’t know why she talks like this or says “sure” (rhymes with fur) like “shore” (two syllables). I think it’s a sign she’s going to be an artist of some sort.

SIMONE:

Mom. Ma! Mom. Come here! I need to talk to you. Okay. So. FIRST of all. First of all. Mom. Ma. Sit down. I need to talk to you. Right now! Now. Okay. Uhm. So. Okay. Ma. FIRST of all. Why don’t we ever go on PillowPets dot com when I telled you I want to go on Pillowpets dot com. Mom. Okay. I know. But you telled me. Okay. Shoor. You told me. Told. And SECOND of all. SECOND of all I want one of those things that helps you look at the stars. Yeah. A telescope. When we going to get one of THOSE? But Christmas is forever away. And mom. Ma. SECOND of all. Okay. THIRD of all. I’m thirsty. I want some juice. I don’t WANT milk. Not milk. NOOoooOO! I could eat some ice cream though.

SCENE THREE

On Saturday, Simone woke up at 5:30 AM. It was black out still. When she woke up we went to her window to look for the stars, but it was too cloudy. I noticed a patch of clear black sky just beyond her field of vision. “Come on, sweetheart, let’s go outside.”

“What? Now?”

“Yep. Now. Let’s just give it a try.”

So we walked out into the sleeping, dark morning in our bare feet and pajamas. The deck was cool and wet with dew. I pointed. “Look up!” I said.

“Where?” she said. “I don’t see anything. It’s too many clouds.”

I moved her head.

She gasped. She really did. “Mom!” she breathed. “I can see the stars! They were there all the time and we just weren’t looking in the right place!”

I have to admit I got a little teary eyed then. It made me think how many times in life are we looking for the stars but angry when we can’t see them. If we’d just look in a different direction, we’d see the stars have been there all along.

Not only is my daughter creative and smart and wonderful, she’s also very wise.

Engagement Photos (aka THE HORROR!)

Kealoha and I were having a lovely time during our engagement photo session with Josh Martin of Verve Imagery when a very strange thing happened. Sometimes, words just can't explain. You have to see it for yourself.

Yes. It's going to be that kind of marriage. It's okay though. We'll have each other through good times, through bad, and through attack of zombies and/or Japanese Horror film ghosts. Rock on.

*High five!*

------------------

Special thanks: To Josh Martin of Verve Imagery for his pictures.

To Kalie Hoodhood for her zombie-ness. She's also an artist. Check her stuff out at the Eastown Artfair, coming soon.

And to Kealoha, for spending time on the pictures by 'enhancing their magic'.

I just can't write about 911

I've been trying to write this memoir thing I was tentatively calling "Tumbling"...but I just can't do it. I end up obsessing over how to tell the story without sensationalizing anything and how do I put my memories in order and how exactly do I tell the story. The truth is, I don't really want to tell the story. I was there on that day, yes, but so were millions of others. Maybe one day I'll tell the story, or I'll keep plugging along at it for my eyes only. There were a few things that were cool. Like how I got hired at Carnegie Hall. What it felt like walking into that building terrified, and walking out with a full-time position. With insurance. There was the gala I helped organize for Carnegie's annual fundraiser and walking out of The Astoria in my formal gown and feeling like I was a girl from Coopersville and I could conquer anything. There was the man I dated, the man I fell in love with,  and our Christmas Eve walking through Central Park. There was the Christmas tree I cut out of a paper bag and colored and put on the wall because I couldn't afford a real one. There were no presents under the tree.

There were drug addicts I'd pass on my way walking to work. The doorman at the apartment I rented. He was Russian and I was always aware that he was an observer, like me.  There was the Irish man I met and became friends with and then crashed at his place in Brooklyn before I gave up on New York and moved home. There were my friends at work: a singer and seamstress, an artist.

There was a constant awareness that every month that passed, I was a little more in debt. There were times I'd eat once a day because that was all I could afford. I took $20 from my roommate to buy a burrito, and when she got home I cried and told her. I paid her back, but I've always felt ashamed about that. There were stories that I wrote. Ideas I had. There were awkward men I met through online dating (that I later wrote about in "Easy Does It".) And one little song I wrote was put into a small production somewhere in NYC, but I couldn't attend because I didn't have money for a ticket and was too embarrassed to ask if my ticket would be comped.

There was the man breaking up with me and me crying and feeling foolish and utterly alone. There was losing hope at writing and losing hope of ever finding someone who would love me back. There was poverty and despair. There were drunken nights and cuban restaurants and Irish pubs where people spoke with real accents.

And there was 9/11. It became part of my experience. It was, in essence, why I came home. It isn't all of the story though, although at the time it felt like it. 9/11 was like that for a lot of us. It was an earth shattering moment that changed the course of millions of lives. It changed mine. I don't know who I would've been if it hadn't happened. Can any of us answer that question?

I remember the streets (after the event) plastered with LOST signs. Memos from loved ones searching...layered one after another. There were tanks in downtown NY. There were bomb threats and fear and security clampdowns. At Carnegie, we were afraid we'd be hit because we were a cultural icon. But the music kept playing.

I still remember riding in a car over the bridge and looking at the night skyline of New York. It was beautiful. That place is filled with such contradictions, often within the same day, usually within the same person. For me it was an experience like a great Dickens novel: filled with the best of times and worst of times. Colorful characters. Poverty. Shame. Despair. Hope. Laughter. Sorrow. Deep sorrow. Loss. And then...hope again.

I changed because of New York, and in part because of 9/11. I am better for the experience...the reminder, I guess, that what life comes down to is not if you publish a book or you're famous or if you accomplish all your goals. It comes down to loving the people in your life. Sitting in a pub with them and sharing food and drinks and laughter. It's waking up next to the person who loves you entirely for who you are, even when you annoy them.

I can't write directly about all the details. All I can say is what a year I had.

Who wasn't changed by that year? Who didn't realize that the most important thing in life is...well...life itself.

In case you're worried about Kealoha's BRAIN...

So, according to the doctor and the CT scan, Kealoha's brain is perfectly normal. That's right. NORMAL. We're shocked too. His brain isn't eccentric, creative, or morally skewed? Really? It's NORMAL?

Okay then. I don't know what to do now that I know Kealoha is normal. I thought he was quirky what with the Hawaiian shirts, the Elvis trivia knowledge, and the 200 or so tiki mugs that grace us with their presence.

I guess I can live with NORMAL. Normal is good, and oh so much better than the swelling coma-brain I was imagining.

Random Blog of Randomness #5 (the final one)

Random Item #5  

This spring while mushroom hunting with my family up in Empire (where the Sand Dunes are located), Simone got to look through a telescope for the first time. My uncle talked to her about the stars. It was too bright to see the stars, because the sunset was getting later and later (and past Simone’s bedtime.) Since then, she’s been asking for her own telescope. “Mom, when can we look at the stars?” she asks. Kealoha told her that as fall and winter comes, it will get darker earlier so she’ll be able to stay up long enough to see them.

This morning she woke up at 6AM. It was still dark out. She ran to her window and looked up into the sky. “Mom! I can see the stars!” she said. “Can I do this every morning? Can I check the stars?”

Simone reminds me that no matter how crazy and stressful and wonderfully chaotic life gets…there are always things to be in awe of.

Random Blog of Randomness #3

Random Item #3 School has started back up so I’m shifting back to teaching full-time, taking the kids to school and daycare, figuring out how to cook meals and keep everyone fed all while trying to keep a clean house and plan for the wedding. And did I mention Kealoha has a concussion? This means I also need to learn how to mow the lawn. I’m thinking of going back to my 1950s style push mower. As soon as I have an extra hour to spare...which will probably be in December.

Random Blog of Randomness #2

Random Item #2 I have not finished the fourth draft of “Foodies Rush In”. It was part of my summer goal to not only finish that but start on the next book. I’m all depressed about it. I still haven’t heard from the two editors at Penguin, which I’m thinking probably isn’t all that promising

I’m reminded of when college started and I tried being all grunge. I bought old cardigan sweaters and listened to Pear Jam, Nirvana, and Smashing Pumpkins. I talked about “The enormity of pain”.

I sorta feel like that. Maybe I should go buy a cardigan, but only when I’m talking about writing.

Random Blog Of Randomness #1.5

This is what Kealoha hit his head on. This is what it looks like as you walk down the stairs. I'm short, so I go right under the overhang. Kealoha smacked right into it.

Random Blog of Randomness #1

I’m having one of those “Man, I really want to blog but have no idea what to blog about” moments. Time for Random Blog of Randomness!!! I’ll post random things throughout the day today. Things like this:

Random Item #1

I took the kids with me to see my sister and her boys. Kealoha stayed home with what we thought was a migraine headache, and has turned out to be a mild concussion from hitting his head two weeks ago when walking downstairs. (Damned overhang!) Anyway. Louis was playing this game and said to his action figures “I’ll do whatever you want. You’re my master.”

I said, “Louis, I thought I was your master.”

He stopped playing, looked up at me and said “Yeah. Duh. I mean you gave me life.”

Smart boy.

Slow Down and Read becomes Get Busy and Work (or what I read this summer)

At the end of May, I decided to have a summer committed to reading. I called it my Slow Down and Read campaign, member: one. I've been so busy with life, kids, wedding details, promoting, and writing, that I sort of lost track of my love of reading. This summer I committed myself to reading. I had a goal of five books. How did I do?

Here's what I read from May 28th to August 29th. (I'm including titles I narrated, because I still had to read them. I actually had to read them twice, some of them three times if I did the abridged version.)

1.  "Split Second" by Alex Kava (narrated)

2. "The Silent Girl" by Tess Geritsen (narrated)

3. "Sucker for a Hot Rod" by Joselyn Vaughn

4. "Only Mine" by Susan Mallery (narrated)

5. "We Need to Talk about Kevin" by Lionel Shriver

6. "Only Yours" by Susan Mallery

7. "The Tiger's Wife" by Tea Obreht (listened to the audio version)

8. "Matched" by Allie Condie

9. "Carry Yourself Back to Me" by Deborah Reed (narrated)

10. "Only His" by Susan Mallery (narrated)

11. "A Visit from the Goon Squad" by Jennifer Eagan

12. "Robopocalpsye: A Novel" by Daniel H. Wilson (listend to the audio version)

13. "Christmas at Timberwoods" by Fern Michaels (narrated)

14. "Before I Go To Sleep" by S. J. Watson (listened to the audio version)

15. "Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children" by Ransom Riggs

16. "Lotte's Country Kitchen" by Lotte Duncan

17. "The Fiction Class" by Susan Breen

I also read 358 pages of "Sarum: The Novel of England" but that mofo is 900+ pages long and I just can't finish it.

All in all, this summer was a huge success and reconnected me to storytelling and words. My favorite books this summer were "We Need To Talk About Kevin" #1 and then "A Visit From The Goon Squad" #2. I also really enjoyed the YA book "Matched". "The Fiction Class" was a sleeper hit for me and I really connected to the simple yet elegant story.

Reading isn't over for me, but I'm thirty days from a wedding, two chapters from finishing book #4, starting teaching again, and in general Back To Crazy. But, oh, what a summer.

What did you read? Or what's on your list? I'm going to start reading up on women and madness in literature, just in case I get to teach the class I'm hoping to next semester. And who doesn't appreciate a good crazy woman, especially in a fine novel?

Puffy, Streaky, and Awkwardly Happy. (Misadventures in getting hitched)

When this wedding is over I am soooooo going to Paris. Actually, that’s not true. We can’t do the honeymoon yet (we need to save for it and I don’t have a break from teaching until next summer) but I’m starting to see the point of a vacation after the chaos of the wedding. Most of the wedding planning has been an exercise in communication AKA walking through a mine field. I’m trying to include the Moms in decisions, and sorta made a big error there this week. Trying to make sure Kealoha has a wedding that represents him and me and our values and our sense of humor and is respectful and….Aw, man. It’s exhausting.

This week, though, was actually fun, even though Kealoha is battling a migraine that makes him all squinty-eyed and a little morose. Still, he plowed through it.

On Wednesday afternoon, I got my hair done. I asked for highlights and requested that they not look steaky. I said I was getting engagement pictures, and I wanted to look all auburn sexy. When she was done with my hair, it basically looked exactly as it had when I came in…only STREAKY. Dammit. It was too late for me to do anything.

I ran home. Got dressed. Kealoha was in the basement with a slight fever and his shirt off, panting or something. (Migraine, I’m telling you.) So I got things ready for the engagement photos. We planned it outdoors and it was a beautiful day until the photographer got here and it started pouring. And I never did lose the weight I wanted to. I pretty much look puffy.

We did the awkward poses while Kealoha tried to keep his eyes open (hard to do with a migraine) and I tried to suck in my gut while looking deep into his eyes and smiling. I’ll tell you more about this experience, but I’ll wait til I can show the pictures. In short, I’m bloated-looking, streaky, and awkwardly happy. Just perfect for a picture above our fireplace. That will be there FOREVER. * sigh *

 THE TASTING

Then, oh THEN, we had our tasting at the JW. They’ve never done an hor d’oeurvres wedding before, so the staff seemed excited. They led us into the belly of the JW, through back hallways. I was wearing really tall sandals and I was hoping I didn’t fall and break my foot. Again. Then they led us into the kitchen and into the chefs’ office, where a table was set up just for us. There was some general awkward conversation with the JW event “Dream Maker” and the woman in charge of the running of the wedding. Then they brought out the food.

I have to say, I’m damned excited. It’s soooo good. The foodie in me was delighted. The mushroom soup is creamy and umami is probably lurking there (but I still don’t understand what that is). I ate everything in front of us, and some of Kealoha’s. It’s probably why I’m all puffy still. He tried the mai tai, made some educated corrections, and the second mai tai was perfect. They also mixed us a mojito. So divine. Our dessert is a mini dessert buffet. We nixed the flourless chocolate cake and replaced it with a cupcake. It’s okay. The truffle is pure decadence…and I actually licked my crème brulee bowl.

I don’t care what I looked like, licking the bowl with my florid face and streaky hair. Kealoha could barely see me with his eyes pinched closed, and his opinion is the only one I care about anyway.

So. Next week. Back to teaching, narrating (abridged book) and more wedding details. The Moms are working on cocktail tables and centerpieces and I’m trying to stick to a no wheat, veggie loaded diet. Muther humper. But in a little over thirty days, Kealoha and I will be hitched, and all of this stress will be far away. We won’t be in Paris, but we’ll be one step closer.

And I have all those appetizers to look forward to.

I Feel Dirty -- OR-- How I Was Just Emasculated By The Florist

You know the term ‘penis envy’? What’s the female equivalent of that? Whatever it is, I feel like I just experienced it.  And it happened at the florist’s. I was totally just emasculated, and felt a deep feeling of Penis Envy, although not for a bigger penis (or any penis at all for that matter). No. What I felt was like a total loser for not having a bigger budget and getting bigger flowers. Or at least more expensive ones. Rat bastards.

Kealhoa and I want to have a good party, but we’re putting most of the budget into the food and alcohol and the really great location (The JW Marriott). I really didn’t want to spend a fortune on flowers. As pretty as they are, they’re a suck of money. They look pretty but you can’t eat or drink them and they die in a few days. I want people happily full, drinking till they’re dancing and stupid, and celebrating in a great place. So I decided to cut back on the flower budget. Surely I should be able to get a decent bouquet for my sister and me for a couple of hundred dollars…and buy some flowers to put in the centerpieces. It’ll all be classy and sophisticated and save money for the more important things (like flourless chocolate cake).

Today I walked into the “Appointment Only” florist and should’ve known by that sign alone that I was out of my league.

I entered a brick building/warehouse and opened the door to a plushly decorated waiting room. I immediately encountered a Future Bride and her Floral Consultant. The Future Bride was about 22 with tiny perky breasts (from what I could see), wearing a silky skirt and shirt, hair in a happy-horse-like ponytail, and perfectly arched eyebrows and makeup. I was wearing old jeans, a gray t-shirt, and I haven’t washed my hair because it still has yesterday’s style and looks 60% decent. The Floral Consultant was in gray wool pants and a bright green cardigan. I have a feeling it was cashmere.

She was talking to the Future Bride about the furniture they could bring to the event and how she can have a buffet of pies and smores and her fresh apple cider…and I thought “Man, I want a buffet of pies”. Then they started to talk about all the flowers and decorations and I experienced a deep pang of what can only be Penis Envy only I was envying the Future Bride’s youth, dress size, and bottomless checkbook.

I met my consultant and told her that I was looking for two bouquets and maybe some flowers for the centerpieces. Then I told her my budget. There was a slight pause, an inhalation of breath and then she turned and looked longingly at the other Future Bride as if to say “I so wish we were besties”. She controlled herself then said “Well, what about boutonnieres?”

“Yeah,” I said, feeling like I was developing a slight rash or something. “The guys really don’t want those.”

Her face contracted as if she’d just swallowed a piece of glass. “Ah. Really. Well, I've never heard of that.”

"Yep. Well. Golly. Uh..." I responded.

The whole meeting took ten minutes and I left with her promise that they would get back to me with an estimate (in about a week). As I left, another Future Bride came in with her Even Planner. They were actually in matching outfits.

Somehow I crossed over into some freaky alternate universe and/or a Twilight Zone episode. That is sooooo not where I belong.

Thank god we’re tasting mai tais today. That’s something I can handle, without feeling like a Flower Loser.

If I'm not Blunder Woman anymore...then WTF?

On Twitter yesterday I found out that @WanderingWilbo had posted a tweet about me. He said he was having an existential crisis about my upcoming nuptials. Ha! Turns out he wrote a whole blog about it. Read it HERE. His existential crisis is only echoing my own. I think I’ve been struggling with this all summer long. I mean, who am I anymore? Do I need to hold a skull and just get this monologue out of my system?

Apparently so.

I took great comfort in being Blunder Woman for a time. I liked being her. She was fun; and she was me. Truly me. I was single again, out of the closet with my romantic writing, and totally embraced my awkwardness, even when I fell and broke my foot, even when I had bad dates followed by even worse relationship(s). (Two dates is a relationship, right?)

But I’m not single anymore. Nope. Me and Kealoha are walking down the aisle. (He’ll walk; I’ll shimmy.) So, who the hell am I if I’m not desperate and nerdy? If I'm not Blunder Woman, then am I no longer funny or relatable, or god help me, quirky?Something very strange has been happening to me, and I hesitate to even say the words. Over these last two years…I’ve grown up. Really. Damnation! But it's true.

It started innocently enough. First, I had to get tough enough to believe I could make it on my own and raise my two kids with kindness and love. Then I had to suck it up and work really hard at earning an income through teaching and narrating. Then I had to pump iron and be all Rocky Balboa when it came to my writing and not give up. And every time I fell over or broke a bone or cried on my kitchen floor while my sister said she didn’t know how things could get any better, but maybe they couldn’t get worse…all through that, I’d do what the song says. I’d pick myself up, brush myself off, and start all over again.

At nearly forty, I’m starting all over again with Kealoha by my side. Gone are my thoroughly awkward days. I have confidence now. I believe in my writing and in myself. And I have the comfort of loving someone who loves me for my quirks and not in spite of them.

But if I’m not writing about my anxiety and heartbreak, what do I write about?

I’ll tell you what…and it’s taken me all summer to figure this out…I may not BE Blunder Woman anymore, but I can still channel her. And I may be getting married, but I can still remember every painful moment of being alone. And I may be happy, but inside, there are characters who still want their story told. (And Kealoha assures me I'm still quirky. I think my friends would agree.)

Honestly, I didn’t even think anyone was following my story. I’d sort of given up on the whole quirky writer thing. Then something else strange started happening. In the last couple of months, I’ve heard from several readers and many friends who’ve told me they are reading my stuff. They read my work and laugh or just remember it, and I can’t tell you what that means to me. I thought I was writing to an empty auditorium and every day it’s like I get to see someone else’s face who’s been sitting in the seats listening to me go on and on. I just can't get over that. I'm not talking to an empty void. There are people out there! PEOPLE!!! (Yay.)

I don’t know what stories I’m going to tell or what happens in my future, but I can tell you that I’m still, at heart, awkward and nerdy, even if it’s covered with a sheen of confidence.

I may not know exactly who this new woman is that I’m becoming, but maybe there’s something wonderful in that. I guess I’ll just have to turn the page to find out.

Hokey. But true.

In short, this summer I almost gave up (for the hundredth time), but I’m back. I’m writing again. I can figure out how to be happy and still be a writer. And I hope you’ll continue to read my work and see how it’s all evolving.

Imaginary Conversation About the FUTURE

Here is an imagined conversation between Kealoha and me. Imagined, you ask? Yes. Sometimes I have conversations in my head. And they start with oh, wouldn’t it be funny if I asked Kealoha…. And you have to cut me some slack. I can't have a real blog because I've been in the studio all week and then taking care of kids, so there hasn't been time for real conversations. Only invented ones.  Here’s the transcript from one of those conversations. It’s probably a sign that I’m not quite done with comedy yet.

Imagined Conversation

The Choices of the Future

by Tanya Eby

Last week, Kealoha and I were at Russo’s. I can’t even explain to you why were there, but I wanted some wasabi peas and I was like “You know who has wasabi peas? I bet that uppity Russo’s market has them and they’re like twenty bucks” and Kealhoa said: “Let’s go”.

So we went there and I’m not even going to go into that experience except that I was walking the aisles of  heaven looking at all the weird food that I’ll probably never eat but it looked so sophisticated because it was in foreign packaging.  It was here that we had the following conversation:

me: Okay. We’re in the future and you have to choose between losing your head, all your limbs, or your torso, what do you choose?

Kealoha: Why do I have to lose something? Isn’t the future supposed to be like all futuristic and they can replace things like that? Don’t they have futuristic limbs and stuff?

me: This is my future, Kealoha. And in my future, we’re fucked. So. What do you give up?

Kealoha: (after a moment). I can give up my torso but keep my head and limbs? How does that work? Are the limbs then attached to my head? Or are they separate? Like am I then a head, two arms and two legs, all independently, or are they fused together like that creepy Toy Story doll.

me: I don’t know. That’s not the point. You have to give something up. The limbs are probably fused. It wouldn’t make sense to have them all separate.

Kealoha: Okay then. I give up my limbs.

me: You want to be just a head and a torso? You want to be a nugget in the future? Kealoha: No. I do not want to be a nugget in the future, but I don’t want to be a creepy head with limbs either.

me: Bad choice. I’d totally give up my head. In the future, they have like these microchips and you don’t even need a head anymore. It can replace your real head with like a fake head and NO ONE WILL KNOW THE DIFFERENCE.

Kealoha: So what are you saying? They can replace your head but not your limbs or torso in the future?

me: That’s what I’m saying. I’m also saying I win.

We found the peas but by then I didn’t want them. I did want some ice cream nuggets though. Don’t know why.

More sexy veggies. Er...plants. Whatev.

I want to blog, but I'm too busy with kids and narrating this week. Instead, please sit back and contemplate the following two pictures sent in by reader Jim Bradshaw. The two pictures will make you ponder the wonder of nature. Ponder in a way your inner sexed up teenager ponders things. I mean, really.

And my favorite, because it's subtle for about two seconds...

Enjoy these meditative pictures.

I'll return to my normal blogging schedule soon.