I have RSSCAD. It involves American Idol, X Factor, and The Voice.

I’m not really ashamed or closeted about what I’m going to write about. Everyone who knows me, knows this about me. (And as you’ll see from this super-long blog that I’ve spent way too much time thinking about all of this.) Okay. Here goes:

I have Reality Show Singing Competition Addiction Disorder.

Phew. I said it. Okay, I wrote it, but now I’ll whisper it, and that means it’s out in the universe.

It didn’t start with American Idol, though that’s where it started for many of us with RSSCAD. (I still remember watching that first night. I had just come home from living in New York and was living with my friends B&G. B and I were like ‘huh, that looks interesting’. He was a musical performer and I sometimes pretended I sang. So when American Idol started that year, I was hooked.)

But it goes deeper than this.

When I was a kid, I watched the Lawrence Welk show.

Now, I was too young to watch the original show. When it aired originally there wasn’t much else on TV so you HAD to watch it. No. I watched it in heavy rerun rotation. On PBS. In the 80s. When I was a tormented teenager with a shaved head. At that time, there was probably a thousand other things to watch but I CHOSE Lawrence Welk. There was, I don’t know, something about the frilly costumes, the non-threatening male singers, the big band in the background. It appealed to something primal in me.

Sometimes, I still watch the show and I laugh and laugh and laugh. It’s comfort food for me. It’s my tuna noodle casserole of TV.

So. I returned to my obsession with American Idol. Then I watched Dancing With The Stars until I suffered a severe quilting accident when I was cutting material and ran right over my finger. I was distracted by the Pasa Double. Then I started watching these new shows AND I CAN’T STOP. I watched Glee, and then X Factor, and now The Voice.

Why? Why do I do this? Why does anyone? Why are these shows so freaking popular?

I have theories.

AMERICAN IDOL

American Idol is like this generation’s Laurence Welk. It’s frothy and predictable and comforting as a casserole. It’s also getting really boring, but I still watch it because I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feeling.

X FACTOR

X Factor wants to be the hottest show on the planet, but mostly it’s just overeager. I was this way sometimes with crushes. I’d have a crush so fierce that I’d start to obsess over the guy and then I’d force him to have coffee and then I’d get all over eager and desperate and slightly creepy with the energy I was expending for him to Fall In Love With Me. Yeah. I think X Factor is a little desperate. They want to be loved SO MUCH that they’re trying to arm-wrestle the audience. “These are stars!” they bellow. “Suffer!”

You know, I think real stars have talent, but they also have a sense of mystery. With X Factor’s endless harping on contestant’s backstory, I get really tired. I don’t want endless backstory. I just want people in pretty outfits singing for their life.

In fact, sometimes I think X Factor wishes they could make singers sing for their life. Literally.

I’ll probably watch the 2nd season, because I’m a addict, but I’ll do it reluctantly. I don’t feel comforted when I watch X Factor. I feel slightly violated.

THE VOICE

Okay. It seems like one show has finally got it right. These singing competitions aren’t really about finding the Next Star. They’re about ENTERTAINING the audience. So far, The Voice to me is far more entertaining than Idol or X Factor. It’s actually FUN. They way that Laurence Welk was fun, except without all the creepy hair dos.

Actually, I take that back. There are some creepy hairdos on there.

***

This is probably waaaaaaay more than you wanted to read about RSSCAD, and I guess that just proves my point. I have an issue here. I should probably invest in more quality television, but I just can’t seem to step away. If only one of the shows would call me and I could help them out with all of my opinions. I’d be a super judge.

Actually, I’d probably be terrible. I’d be too busy giggling and laughing and being generally creepy, just like I was when I was a teenager.

And now, some classic Lawrence Welk. It's called "One Toke Over The Line". I'm not kidding. It has a line "I'm one toke over the line, sweet Jesus". I mean, it's so bad that it's brilliant. How can you NOT love this?

New Cover For "Foodies Rush In"

I asked a previous student of mine to design the cover for my new book "Foodies Rush In". We had a couple of meetings, she read the book, and here's what she came up with. I just love how warm and sweet it is. Let me know what you think!  

Stupid Mother F*&@ing Gluten

I’ve experimented a couple of times with going gluten free…or wheat free. The first time was for a day and I didn’t notice any change. Course, one day isn’t long enough to detox from two glasses of wine, let alone my late night binging on breadsticks. The second time was for a week and I felt pretty good.

The last experiment was a little over two weeks. Right around week one and a half I started to feel…weird. Like, a bit euphoric. And light. And four pounds lighter. Surely it was just in my head though. I mean, eating wheat couldn’t really change your entire outlook and mood and belly size. Could it? Really?

So this weekend I did another experiment. I gave myself free reign to eat whatever I wanted. I didn’t sit down and eat an entire loaf of French bread (although trust me, I was tempted). I just returned to eating how I usually eat. I made homemade pizza on Friday. I didn’t gorge. I had two small sensible pieces. That night I felt puffy but that’s pretty normal for me.

The next morning I made cookies for the kids and had one. I felt a little nauseous.

Then I made banana bread and as soon as it was out of the oven, I cut a hefty slice, slathered that in butter and entered Carb Heaven. Almost literally. A half an hour after eating the bread, I was exhausted and took an hour-long impromptu nap.

My little experiment has resulted in a three pound weight gain, a massive headache today, tight pants, mild nausea and a general blue-feeling.

All because of wheat? Really?

In a word: fuck.

I think it’s true. I think that for whatever reason, my body has trouble with gluten. I never really realized it because I was always eating something with wheat and was just used to feeling fatigued and bloated and moody etc. But to go off it and then re-introduce it back into my diet…well…shoot. I think there might be some truth in this. I’m not saying it’s true for everyone, but it might be for me. I had diabetes when I was pregnant (both times), my grandma was diabetic, and I have sugar crashes and spikes. So maybe it’s time for me to stop grumbling and start changing my diet for good.

I’m so not happy about this.

I’m going to try and go gluten free again for two more weeks. If I hit that same svelte-euphoria feeling, then I just might be a convert to trying to live without wheat, except for special occasions. Like the Dumpling Making Party I wanted to throw. Of course, now I have to postpone that dumpling-making idea. Maybe we’ll do a tamale making party, or a paella night instead. I might be going wheat-free, but a girl still wants to live a little.

I hope I don't end up being really annoying about this. You know, sort of like this:

Conversation with my daughter. It's clear we share DNA.

Simone, my sweet girl, is 5-almost-6. Here's a short conversation we had this morning. SIMONE: Mom, can you marry a clown?

ME: What do you mean? Like in general?

SIMONE: Yeah. In general. Can you marry a clown?

ME: I guess if you found a clown you were in love with then, yes, you could marry him. I mean, it's possible. Why? Do you want to marry a clown?

SIMONE: No. I hate clowns.

Demons, Betty Crocker, and Random Suckling

Last week I was complaining a bit to Kealoha that I was super overwhelmed and busy and I needed time to catch up on everything. I’m not sure how it happened EXACTLY, but that’s when he offered to hijack my blog. We made an agreement. “Okay,” I said, “You take it over for a week and don’t let me touch it. I mean, no matter what evil thing I say, don’t let me near it. I can’t blog and narrate and teach and parent and do all of that at once. One of these plates needs to stop spinning.” Maybe I didn’t say all of that OUT LOUD, but Kealoha got my drift. I didn’t think he’d actually listen to me.

You know how when people in movies go into a scary locked room to deal with a demon and they’re all like “No matter what, don’t open that door! No matter what I say or do, do not let me out of that room!” The person agrees. The nutjob goes into the demon room, shuts the door and then immediately they start screaming “Dear god! Open that door! I’m BEING ATTACKED! HOW CAN YOU BE SO HEARTLESS??? OPEN THE DOOR!!” and then: blood curdling scream and a hand clawing at the window.

Yeah. That happened to me with the blog after being locked out for only three hours.

I have real control issues.

Kealoha said he changed my password and posted two blogs. After many password attempts, I discovered he didn’t change my password at all and was just messing with me…and following my instructions to keep me off the blog and focused on the things I needed to do this week.

Dammit all. He’s so good to me.

I guess I needed that mini-break. I needed the illusion that I couldn’t blog because suddenly I WANTED to blog again and thought of a million things to talk about. Things like, oh, when I teach and wear a low-cut shirt I also wear a camisole to cover up my cleavage because I don’t want to give the students nightmares AND I also worry that freaky little children will want to suckle me. (This is a throwback to the horrors of nursing…which I wasn’t able to do thank god for more than a couple of days until the nurses said “Oh, honey. It just isn’t going to work for you. You don’t have the right nipples.” Who knew that was even possible?)

See? That’s what I haven’t had the opportunity to share with you all.

I took my blog back. And Kealoha is back to sleeping in the bed with me instead of on the couch.*

*Actually, he slept on the couch because of a sinus infection. It had nothing to do with me, but I’m trying to create the illusion here that I’m a fierce mo-fo, even if I’m actually more like Betty Crocker.

Tanya's Week Off - Pt 2

Kealoha here. Again. After yesterday's Mai Tai rant (it needed to be said), I thought I'd keep today's faux blog entry short.

A SHORT LIST OF THE FUNNY THINGS TANYA DOES WHEN SHE GOES TO SLEEP AND IS EMBARRASSED ABOUT, BUT THEY'RE ACTUALLY QUITE ENDEARING

1. Soft snoring (very sweet 'girly' snore)

2. Loud snore, which wakes her up and then she says "Was I snoring?"

3. Soft guttural "uh" sound. (very cute, makes me smile)

4. Loud grunting noise. This definitely makes her wake up and say, "I grunted, didn't I?" It's difficult for me to respond because I'm usually laughing.

Yes, I understand there will be payback for this.

Tanya's Week Off

Kealoha here. Seriously. Tanya needs this week off. She's got narration, voice-overs, teaching, writing, editing.....  You get the idea.

So I told her not to stress about blogging. In fact, I've changed her password, so not only can't she blog, but she'll need to resort to leaving comments if she has anything to say!

I'm not taking all of her social media away. She still has Facebook and Twitter. And Pinterest, which I've still avoided.

Plus, this blog needs a few more references to tikis!

Limited Edition Tiki Bowl

That, dear readers, is not a Mai Tai.

In today's cocktail culture, the only safe place to have a Mai Tai is in a Tiki bar. And those are few and far between. (I would suggest searching Critiki to find the closest bar to your location, and make sure you thank them for keeping the spirit alive!)

If you can't make it to a Tiki Bar, here's an easy to follow recipe:

Trader Vic's Mai Tai

1 oz fresh lime juice ½ oz orange Curacao  (ORANGE! NOT BLUE!!!) ¼ oz orgeat syrup  (Orgeat is an almond syrup. Usually found with coffee syrups) ¼ oz rock candy syrup  (I've been substituting Agave Syrup, and it works great) 1 oz aged Jamaican rum (I would highly suggest Appleton Estate) 1 oz aged Martinique rum (Myers Dark rum is perfect) Shake well with plenty of crushed ice. Pour unstrained into a double old-fashioned glass. Sink your spent lime shell into drink. Garnish with a mint sprig. Original drink by Trader Vic, 1944. Adapted from Jeff Berry & Annene Kaye, Beachbum Berry’s Grog Log. (San Jose: SLG Publishing, 1998) p. 50

OK class, get shaking!

Aloha & Mahalo!

The "I Haven't Beens"

I’ve been struck with a stuffy nose and a tired body. Stupid mid-winter colds. And right before I’m due to narrate too. Grrr. To offset this yucky feeling, I pulled on my hot pink velour pants, which I recently rediscovered in the back of my closet. These are a step above the comfort of yoga pants, because these pants don’t even pretend to be active wear. No. They’re called LOUNGE PANTS. They’re whole purpose is so you can lounge around. Brilliant!  

I crawled into bed at 2PM for a nap. The Claritin D was kicking in and making me feel woozy and I thought a nice little sleep would help. As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t sleep because there was a nasty little dance going on in my head. Ugly twisted creatures called the I Haven’t Beens.

They’re insidious buggers. They’ll keep you up for days if you’re not careful. My I Haven’t Beens are as follows:

I haven’t been working on my novels

I haven’t been reading enough

I haven't been blogging enough

I haven’t been hanging out with the friends I miss

I haven’t been cleaning my house

I haven’t seen my sister or talked to her in a while

I haven’t taken my mom out to lunch

Then I got really annoyed with myself, because while I have really good intentions and I want to do everything on the planet, I’m only one person. Here’s what I Have Been doing:

I’ve been working on a short story

I’ve been eating healthy

I’ve been exercising

I’ve been devoting myself to my kids

I’ve been planning and prepping three classes

I’ve been relaxing so I don’t freak out

I’ve been tending to my relationship with Kealoha

So while there’s a ton of things I Haven’t Been doing, there’s also a ton of things I Have Been doing, and I’ve got to be happy with that.

Plus, when you’re wearing pants like these, you’re not SUPPOSED to do anything strenuous, except maybe bake brownies. Which I might do any second now.

In short, I’m still here. All is well. I’ve just been busy with living.

The Best Excuse For A Fart EVER

My daughter sometimes calls herself The Fart Machine. She’s five. Don’t tell her I told you she calls herself this. She’ll deny it. Sometimes, she’s really proud of her ability to create noise from her own body, and other days she insists that someone else did it. Like an invisible squirrel. Or Peanut (the kitty we had to find a new home for six months ago). Or Kealoha. Sometimes it IS Kealoha, but he usually owns up to it.  

Yesterday morning, Simone let out an impressive fart. It positively vibrated.

“Simone!” I said. “Did you do that?”

She shook her head. Then she moved quickly away to another area (you can figure out why). She turned around and said: “I didn’t make that fart. The Adams did.”

The Adams? “Who is Adam?” I asked. “Your cousin? He lives like a half hour from here. I’m pretty sure he didn’t do it.”

“No! Ma, the ADAMS did it.” She looked at me with that ‘how can you be so stupid’ face. “You know. ADAMS. Those tiny invisible things that have stuff swirling around them.”

“You mean atoms?”

“That’s what I said! The Atoms did it!”

“Are you telling me that you didn’t fart but atoms colliding around you made that fart?”

She looked at me like I was finally understanding something really simple. “Yes. That’s right,” she said, sounding relieved that she wouldn’t have to continue educating me. “You know, ma, your hand is made up of thousands of atoms. THOUSANDS.”

So. Okay. Wow.

Don’t tell me that kids today aren’t learning anything. I don’t know where she learned about atoms, but it wasn’t from me, and if she can take that concept and blame her farts on it, then I am in awe of her awesome power. Brain power, that is. She makes me so proud.

My Freak Out Over Facebook And Going Gluten Free

I love Facebook but every once in a while it annoys me. Mostly, when I’m already annoyed to begin with…or depressed…or whatever, I can feel my inner shark surfacing, complete with that JAWS music. When you're anxious or struggling, it's sometimes hard to hear how happy everyone else is and how great running is and how they've lost 40 pounds by drinking shakes and eating a totally organic diet. I mean, I have trouble taking a shower every day because there isn't enough TIME, let alone go for a run and make organic smoothies from my own window garden.  

Allow me to provide a specific example, but first a little backstory. Two weeks ago, I gave up wheat. It was an experiment to see how it affected my mood and energy and general sense of well-being. And…dammit…it was great. I felt great. Chipper, bright, flat tummy, etc. But by the end of the second week, munching on so much protein just made me want to take a shower. But I was determined. If I could do two weeks, then I could keep going. And then I took my son to the allergist and that went okay until she noticed from his charts that he hasn’t gained weight in A YEAR. I made an immediate plan to see his primary care physician, and my brain started spinning.

This morning, I’m a ball of nerves. I need to cry. Big time. The place I narrate for isn’t returning my emails on availability. I think a gig is in the works, but I’m terrified that something happened or someone said something and they’re not going to hire me again. That would be tragic. I’m also obsessing over my son’s health. His dad and stepmom think he might have celiacs…an allergy to gluten. (We’re going to the doctor’s on Monday.) And I realized just how fucking hard these last two week were trying not to eat wheat. I mean, gluten is in everything. It’s in CHEESE and coffee creamer. You pretty much have to shop at a health store to get food that’s entirely wheat-free. Plus, when you’re stressed out and it seems like you’re kid isn’t growing and you’re really stressed out and no one wants you to narrate for them and your students aren’t doing their homework and you don’t want to yell at them because if you do, then they put that on their reviews of you and then you don’t get hired at your job again and then you’re poor and on the street and eating gluten any chance you can get…

I sort of lost where I was going with this.

Oh. Yeah. Facebook.

So I read a post this morning that this super nice, beautiful woman had run 2 miles in 23 minutes. It made me mad. First, she's gorgeous. Second, she was out running while I'm wearing tight yoga pants where you can also see my panty line and that I'm wearing big ol' panties and not a cute little thong. Also, she could run two miles in twenty three minutes, whereas I had just eaten two cupcakes in under twenty seconds, saying Fuck You to the whole wheat-free diet., and to my general diet, and to not being hired to narrate, and to my son being sick, and to the stress of a job that has no security, and to just generally feeling not-good-enough-all-the-time.

And that’s why Facebook annoys me. Mostly, I annoy me. Not all the time, and not during the time I was stuffing my mouth with delicious cupcakes, but about five seconds after and for probably the next two weeks while I try to give up wheat AGAIN.

I do have to say those cupcakes were terrific and now I’m on a lovely gluten/sugar high. I’m going to go cry now. Then wait until Monday in hopes that all is well with my kiddo and my jobs and my life and I’m just having an understandable, normal freak out moment.

Dammit. Now I want a loaf of French bread.

Seriously. With a chaser of pancakes.

Random Notes FOUR "A Different Kind Of Weenie"

-Four- Kealoha will probably kill me for writing this (or go into the website and delete the post. I’ve given him permission to do this if I ever cross the what’s-appropriate line). But it still makes me laugh.

We were snuggling in bed and I was just about asleep. He was wrapped around me and I felt something sort of ‘lower down’ moving a little bit. I could ignore this, or I could ask him about it. So I said: “Are you fiddling down there?”

“Fiddling?” he asked, whether because he was unsure of my meaning or just needed me to say it louder.

“Yeah. You know…are you ‘fiddling’ on the sly?” I said. Louder.

Kealoha burst out laughing. “No, Maw, I ain’t fiddling. I’m a-scratchin’ my leg. The stuff you fiddle with is higher up.”

Then I realized that maybe he was laughing at my vocabulary. “What? People talk like this! People say ‘fiddlin’ on the sly’ all the time. Naturally. Don’t they?”

“In the thirties maybe. In the deep south.”

Hmmm. Just yesterday I talked about being bamboozled and something being a lot of hooey. Kealoha may have a point. This isn't a natural vocabulary. Maybe it should be.

And maybe my marathon of Boardwalk Empire has had a slight effect on me. I’m starting to think that my palpitations might be cured by a little backwoods hooch.

Hooch is alcohol, right? And not…uhm…a vajayjay?

Shoot. I better stick to modern slang.

Random Notes THREE "Crazy Books"

-Three-  

I’ve been reading great stuff as ‘research’ for my Madness and Women in Literature course. So, okay. It started out as research but now it’s just fun. I read “We Have Always Lived in the Castle” by Shirley Jackson…which is a vibrantly colorful messed-up read. Plus the cover is fantastic.

I’m currently reading Stephen King’s nonfiction “Danse Macabre” where he talks about the horror genre and Peter Straub’s “Ghost Story”.

What with Cthulhu living in my walls, all of this has inspired me to write an actual, real live ghost story. Oh, it’s so very fun. Fingers crossed, you’ll see what I’m talking about later.

Random Notes TWO "Wall Creatures"

-Two- As many of you know, the big drama in the house was the demon-noises I heard in my wall by my computer. I blame these scratching noises on my lack of enthusiasm for writing…but mostly I’ve just been lazy. I thought this was living in my wall:

But the exterminator told me it was this:

Damned field mice trying to come in from the cold. They actually gnawed a little mouse hole outside. I’m trying not to think of them as super cute little field critters who can ride bicycles and wear cute little hats and outfits and have living rooms decorated with acorns as teapots and a spool of thread as an end table, but instead menacing demons with fangs and claws and NESTS.

We have set out an obstacle course of traps. I feel guilty and proud about this. If they actually do wear little outfits and hats and ride bicycles and stuff, they should be fine. If they’re just rodents, then their days are numbered.

Random Notes ONE "Weenies"

-One- In honor of the Superbowl (which we had no interest in watching, but I felt immense pressure to cook a bunch of appetizers) I made that mini-weenies thing where you get mini sausages and then crock pot the hell out of them with a can of cranberry sauce and chili sauce. It’s not really cooking…it’s more like mixing.

I laughed more than I care to admit when I thought about how much I loved my mini-weenies. Even Kealoha loved them. He said: “I love your mini-weenies” and I said: “Aw. You say that to all the girls.”

I’m telling you, jokes about mini-weenies never get old to me. Which is probably why I wrote a book where one of the main characters is named Sausage*.

*That book is called "Pepper Wellington and the Case of the Missing Sausage" in case you're curious.

What Horton Likes To Do, According To My Son

My son is seven and has been struggling with learning to read and write. He’s a super bright kid, but honestly, I don’t think he really cared or was interested enough in writing and reading until recently. Even now he’s not all that interested, especially when at school they make him read boring books about families and apple picking. There are no explosions or blood anywhere in these stories. They’re BORING. Mostly he reads and writes now because he’s forced to. I try to breathe through it. I tell myself “One day, he will love reading. Just not yet.” Lately, though, he’s started writing little notes. If something is hard for him to say, he’ll write it down. I usually have to interpret it, but the notes include things like “I don’t know why I throw fits” and “I’m sorry, Mom” and other stuff to make me all weepy and proud like.

Recently, he played a game on the computer and wanted to show me what he’d accomplished. It’s a Dr. Seuss game and you get to write your own captions. The first picture shows the elephant from Horton Hears a Who talking to a skinny creature. Here is the story he wrote:

HORTON: I like to poop on me

SKINNY CREATURE: me to

The next picture shows the same characters looking very pleased. Here’s what he wrote:

HORTON: I like to pee on me

SKINNY CREATURE: me to

The next picture introduces a new character. Here it is:

My son showed me this looking proud and just a little bit mischievous. There was a moment where I had to make a decision. Should I punish him for the 'innappropriate' subject matter, or commend him for writing? It took me about a second to decide. See, there is a comedic narrative arc here. Horton and the Skinny Creature meet and Horton shares a secret interest. He is relieved to find that the Skinny Creature also shares that same secret interest. Then, the story amps up and they find they have even more in common! It’s so exciting! Then, the story takes a twist with a third character being introduced. Not only does this character also enjoy peeing, he enjoys peeing on basically every letter in the alphabet, and possibly every person on the planet. The end.

It’s sort of brilliant.

Okay. So maybe I’m reading into a bit much. I high-fived my son, told him to keep writing. And reminded him how to spell ‘fart’. You’ve got to engage their interests, right? I mean, he is only seven.

A Response To My Most Recent Rejection (rated R)

Muther humper. I vowed I wouldn’t write about writing-angst anymore, but I just got another bastard rejection letter. I mean, what the fuck? What on earth is going on in this hell-hole? It is a damned fine rejection letter, though. It’s really fucking nice. Like unbelievably sparkly shit nice. For real. I just don’t understand what the letter MEANS. I mean, I have no fucking clue. See for yourself: “Dear Tanya,

Thank you so much for letting me look over “Foodies Rush In”! My reader absolutely loved “Foodies Rush In”, but it contains too much cursing and she thinks if you change it up, it would affect the integrity of the story…From what she said, someone is going to snatch this one up soon anyway!”

What is that? What does she mean I fucking curse too much? I NEVER curse. I’m a fucking clean-mouthed bitch to the power of a ho. For real. I mean, my vocabulary is so fucking sparkly people think I’m a mother fucking VAMPIRE. I could teach kindergartners and those little ass munches would use language so fucking colorful that…

Uh….

Wait a second here.

Just let me re-read a little bit.

Uh huh. Okay.

Yep.

Ah.

I think I see what she’s saying.

Good to know.

Conversation I Almost Had With My Kids And Then Thought Better Of

Last night, Kealoha told me a joke at the dinner table. He spread his arms out and said he was Jesus on the cross. Then he said in a death groan “Peter! Peter come here!” The rest of the joke involved Jesus repeatedly asking Peter to come close and Peter anxiously coming closer to Jesus to hear Jesus’s last words and then finally Jesus whispers: “I can see your house. Over there.”  

It’s a ridiculous joke. Sort of wrong and funny at the same time. My son was listening and of course, he repeated the joke but amped it up. Suddenly, he was a seven-year-old Jesus on the cross with his tongue hanging out and moaning and crying about “The nails! Oh, the nails! Peter! Come here! Arrggghhh!!” The joke somehow became horrifying.

To change the subject, Kealoha and I started whistling “Always Look on the Bright Side of Life” by Monty Python in “The Life of Brian”. The kids wanted to know what the song was so Kealoha pulled it up on Youtube.

You know, you think humor is universal but then you sort of step back and see something in a new way. Like, what if I were a kid seeing this for the first time and the adults were all laughing. How would that affect me? Would this be future material in a therapy session?

The song started playing and I thought, uh, maybe shouldn’t show this to the kids. And then I had a conversation IN MY BRAIN with my son, explaining why this song is funny. ME: See, son, the men are all being crucified. They’re going to die. And it’s going to SUCK. They’re nailed to crosses and death just doesn’t get any worse than that. SON: What’s funny about that?

ME: Well, see, they’re experiencing the worst kind of pain possible and they start singing this little song and dance number about looking on the bright side of life. What’s the bright side of being crucified? Nothing! There is no bright side! And that’s the joke.

SON: That’s not very funny.

ME: It’s hysterical. In a sick, twisted sort of way.

Thankfully, I stopped myself before having this conversation with my son because I immediately realized that you just can’t explain genius like this song. You have to experience it. And we will just have to wait until my son is a little bit older to appreciate the depth of the humor.

I’m also hoping he doesn’t repeat the Jesus and Peter joke to anyone who’s super religious. They probably won’t think it’s funny.

Al Gore, Perry Mason, and Halley's Comet

I woke up last night to the sound of thunder. Thunder. And rain. IN JANUARY.  

What is going on? What distorted parallel universe did I wake up in? This is not natural. I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again: Al Gore was right about EVERYTHING. Somebody should give him a medal…or at least a free cookie or something.

I want me some snow. I want me some epic snow. I want snow like from my childhood. I grew up in Traverse City and one of the houses (where I lived from 10-13) was on top of a hill by a lake. Clouds would sweep over that lake, get fat with moisture, and then dump all of that new snow on our driveway. I’d wake up to snowdrifts that were seven feet tall. The snow would cover our car in the driveway, leaving only a frayed tennis ball that we’d stuck on the antenna for just such an event. Seriously.

School closings were as reliable as Wednesday. They happened every week. I’m not exaggerating.

It reminds me that once while Mom and my stepdad Jay were trying to get the cars out, Mom told me to go outside and play. I turned off the Perry Mason rerun on TBS (I was a weird kid. At 12, I was obsessed with old crime shows), crawled into my mom’s 1970s brown snowsuit and went outside. I wasn’t quite sure how to ‘play’. I’d read that other kids played, but I wasn’t sure what that meant exactly.

I’d heard on the news that Halley’s Comet might be visible soon, so I decided to go outside and look for it. I crawled through the back yard, over a snowdrift as big as a sand dune, plopped myself in the snow and waited. With all my snow gear on, it was peculiarly warm. The only thing that was cold was my face as the snow blew over it. There was a terrific silence, a faint crackling of ice and snow shifting. The snow fell in a whisper all around me. In the distance I could hear snow blowers.

I lay there for hours. It felt like hours anyway, and I thought maybe just maybe I saw the comet, streaking across the sky in a blur of white. I probably made a wish.

When I got too cold I waded back inside, peeled off the snowsuit by the front door. Perry Mason was still on. I made a twice-baked potato in the microwave.

In reality I’d been outside for a total of three minutes, and Halley’s Comet wouldn’t arrive until a year later (1986) and you could only see it in Australia.

I want another snow like THAT. Please tell Al Gore to get me one. I hear he can do almost anything. Except, you know, become president. (Booooo)

Cheesecake & Chet Baker

Saturday morning. I’ve got some soft jazz playing on Pandora (currently it’s Chet Baker). I’ve just made a cheesecake and it’s cooling on the countertop. Kealoha is outside snow blowing away. The kids are at their dad’s house and I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours picking up Squinkies and Lego pieces from my floor. I’ve unlocked three levels of Mario Kart for when the kids are home, and already I’m counting the days until they come back.  

Today Kealoha and I will get groceries and check out Costco. I’m wearing my favorite yoga pants and a pullover. Dinner is homemade picadillo, corn pudding, and rice and beans. I will drink wine and listen to more jazz. Maybe Kealoha and I will watch a movie or “Homeland” or something. Maybe I’ll fall asleep on the couch while I pretend not to.

I might read today. Finish up with “The Haunting of Hill House” and make some discussion notes to go over with my students.

Outside the sun is shining on the snow. It’s one of those bright, cold, crisp January days.

Sitting here, I’m having one of those moments where everything is pretty clear: I have everything I need. There might be things I want still (you’ve got to have wants) but the truth is, I have everything I need.

It’s not a splashy day. Not an especially exciting day. But sometimes, a good day is more than enough.

Mini-Epiphany #9,238,002 (approx.)

This weekend I posted another whiney woe-is-me writer blog. It needed to be done. I’ve been struggling with it. Then after doing some research for pictures I’ve used on this blog, I found a very similar whiney woe-is-me writer blog  FROM TWO YEARS AGO. Have I really been bitching for two years about this? Uhm. Yes.

So.

Enough.

This weekend I went on a quick walk with my friend L. She’s so great to walk with. We’re both the same kind of neurotic personalities and our ups and downs seem to happen at different times. That’s great because when one of us needs to vent, the other can listen and be supportive-pseudo-therapist. A week later, the roles switch.

I was venting about Kealoha being sick and how it affects his personality, and the struggles with the kids and making sure they’re happy, and the stress of writing and working and cooking etc. and then I realized that there was a big stress I was no longer worrying over: my teaching. I’ve sort of just let go of the control I have, because I don’t really have any. They’ll either renew my contract for another year or two, or not. At the end of two years, if they continue to renew me, they’ll either have to hire me full time or my contract maxes out and I won’t be able to teach for them anymore. I’ll be able to adjunct, but not full-time. I can stress about it and try to find another job (even though I love what I’m doing). But no matter how much I stress or fuss, really, there’s nothing I can do about it. I don’t have any power over this. They’ll either hire me or they won’t.

I’ve decided to just enjoy this time in my life where I get to be a professor. I love every minute of it, so instead of wasting all my energy obsessing over whether or not my contract renews, I’m just enjoying my time.

I didn’t decide to do this. It honestly just happened.

It’s sort of freeing, the way I imagine it will feel to go braless in public if, you know, your boobs weren’t so heavy and pendulous that random children would run to you requesting a feeding. Not that I speak from experience, mind you. Nope. Not me.

I’ve been annoying myself for months.

It’s time to stop.

I just need to get back to work, which is exactly what I’m doing. My books will either sell or they won’t. People will like my work or they won’t. I’ll either lose weight or I won’t. My kids will fuss over dinner or they won’t. Somehow, I’ll be okay.

Or, I guess, I won’t… but I’m trying not to think about that too much right now.