What Happens When I Start A Shake Diet AKA How I Ended Up Dancing Naked In My Backyard

Blah blah blah I’m trying to lose weight blah blah blah. I’ve been trying to lose weight for about two years. It’s stupid. It’s my own fault, but I can say that being extremely busy—it’s just hard to focus on exercising and eating healthy when everything else takes priority. I’d grab a lunch at work. I’d snack when I could. I’d de-stress with chocolate. Whatever. It’s been awful.

So now that I’m not teaching and have some time off, I decided it’s the prime time to be good to myself. So every day I try to exercise, eat well, write, and read. It hasn’t been even a week yet but so far so good.

I also decided I’d kick start my diet with a little help from a gigantic pyramid that’s sweeping the nation. I will keep it Unamed because I’m not promoting it.

First off, I should say that I’m super sensitive to drugs. Like, I can get all “I am the walrus!” on just a single cough drop. It’s just how I’m wired. I remember when they gave me Valium for my tooth (see previous blog post) and my sister asked the dosage and she said “Do they even KNOW you? That’s fucking insane! You’ll be so high you’ll float away.”

Keep that in the back of your mind. Add this to it: I also have a dastardly, sometimes uncontrollable imagination.

I am ashamed to say I spent over $200 on a “Core Kit” that promised if I followed the regime for 30 days, I could lose 5 pounds. I’m desperate right now. I want those 5 pounds GONE so when I go to NYC and Paris that people don’t look at me and say “Oh, she looks like she has a nice personality”.  This Core Kit comes with two bags of shake mix, drink mix, and two bottles of pills that don’t really say what they are, but they promise I’ll have more Omega and less, I don’t know, Alpha.

Day 1

I popped the 2 pills and unzipped the bag of shake mix and I knew I was in trouble. Immediately, my throat felt…HAIRY. I kid you not. And my heart started beating really fast. Then I looked at the drink powder and my devil brain kicked into overdrive: DEVIL BRAIN: That powder looks like baby formula. You’re going to drink BABY FORMULA.

ANGEL BRAIN: Shut up. It looks like balanced Omegas and Fat Burning Power to make me lose weight.

DEVIL BRAIN: You’re going to lose weight because you’ll be drinking lactating boob milk. That shake is BOOB MILK. Warm boob milk.

ANGEL BRAIN: Shut the fuck up! This is good for me! It's a milkshake! A DELIGHTFUL, CREAMY MILKSHAKE!!!

DEVIL BRAIN: Whatev. It’s a chemical maelstrom.

I immediately shook the shake, dissolving the powder and then put the nice warm, nipple to my mouth.

Wait! Not a nipple! I was not drinking boob milk! This was not formula! This was HEALTHY.

Then I threw up.

And my heart started to gallop like mad.

DAY 2

I passed on the boob milk. I can’t drink it. It’s baby formula and every time I bring it to my mouth I think of an areole with a little ring of hair around it. Just to be sure, I took the two pills to jumpstart my metabolism.

I then saw dancing teddy bears and had a twenty-four hour black out in which I emerged wearing nothing but a bandana and a sandal. IN the middle of the desert.

DAY 3

To be triple sure, I took the pills again. I had a panic attack.

DAY 4

TANYA: Fuck you, Devil Brain.

DEVIL BRAIN: I love you, Tatiana.

****

The Core Kit is now sitting under my desk, in its nice little box. It’s a reminder that I guess I have to do this the old fashioned way: with a lot of sweat and plenty of swearing.

Muther fucker. I’m off for my walk.

My Conversation With The Bad Ass Russian Pedicurist

I am trying to look at my next couple of months without work not as a time of unemployment, but as an ‘opportunity to focus on my health and my writing’. It’s the Zen way to keep myself from freaking out and screaming Why can’t I get more narrating gigs? Why didn’t I teach summer classes? When will Tim Burton and Johnny Depp break up? So. Ahhhh. Back to my meditative state.

To stay sane, I need a schedule, so my basic schedule is (after I’ve taken the kids to school when I have them): work out, write, read. Those are the three things I need to accomplish every day. Today I added one more: Get Pedicure. It’s not wholly self-indulgent. Last week my son pointed at my feet and said “Your feet look really weird, Mom.” And I realized, yeah, my soles needed some buffing because they were sorta looking like I had some weird creature that was going to hatch from my heel. Ew.

I decided not to go to the cheap Korean pedicure place because I always get this one guy and he’s really rough. Plus I feel a little creeped out with a dude manipulating my toes. It just doesn’t seem NATURAL.

So I went to a bonafide salon. Instead of a Korean working on me, this time I got someone from what used to be called Russia (and I just don’t know what it’s called anymore, maybe it's Republic of Fear or something.)

She was nice, but very…strict. It began like this (and you should read her with a thick Slavic accent.)

LADY WITH SLAVIC ACCENT PUTTING OUT ASSORTMENT OF TOWELS AND GYNECOLOGICAL-LOOKING INSTRUMENTS: I see your name. Tanya. What is that?

ME: What do you mean? It’s my name.

LADY SCRUBBING MY FEET: Yes. I know. But what are you? You Greek? I know a lot of Greek Tanyas.

ME: Really? I’ve never met a Greek Tanya. I don’t think I’ve actually met a Greek anyone. Some people think I’m Russian.

LADY USING SHARP TINY TONGS ON MY CUTICLES: If you were Russian, your name would be Tatiana. But it’s not. What? Your mom just like the name?

ME: Yep. I think she was obsessed with Dr. Zhivago or something.

LADY RUBBING MY LEGS LIKE TRYING TO ERASE BLOOD STAINS: My name is Isabella. Not a Russian name. Everyone call me Bella. My mom, she just like the name, so. Here I am.

ME: Oh? You’re Russian? Cool.

We then had a few minutes of awkward silence and as she aggressively worked on my feet I started to sweat a little. I sat a little straighter in my chair. I mean, she was RUSSIAN and they have like gulags there. Then I started thinking about goulash and I wondered if they were related semantically, and then I just wanted to go to Coney Island and have chili fries. That’s how my mind works.

BELLA: Pick a color.

ME: Oh? Okay. From here?

BELLA: Yeah. Just tell me the number. I don’t need the color. Just the number.

ME: Oh. Okay? Uhm….how about…I dunno…9? She looked at me and I felt a bead of sweat dribble between my boobs. I HATE when that happens.

BELLA: You sure? She stared at me. Holy shit? WAS I sure? Did I pick the wrong number? Would she break my toes because I didn’t choose 11? I mean, 9 was pink and I’m not really a pink person, but I wanted something cute and feminine…and shit….I should have gone with 17. BLACK!

ME: Sure? I mean, yeah? 9?

Suddenly, I was that annoying person that speaks only in question marks.

Bella didn’t say anything, just nodded curtly as if to say: dah.

BELLA: You come here before?

ME: No. I usually go to a cheap place…but…I uh…live close to here…

BELLA: You live close and you no come here? You come here from now on.

It wasn’t a question.

ME: Okay.

She then worked on my feet and I tried to behave and read my book quietly. She did a mint rub on my toes and wrapped them in towels. When she was finished, I sorta felt like I’d been dipped in Christmas I was so minty.

She smiled kindly and helped me waddle to the dryer for my toes.

Then she disappeared. I don’t think she defected or anything. I mean, she’s probably got family here and stuff.

I dried my toes. I breathed a sigh of relief.

And now I’m writing this with deliciously girly-cute pink toes, and I feel like I have a new friend. Next time I’ll try to ask her for emotional advice because I’m pretty sure Bella is pragmatic as hell and she’ll tell me to stop being such a pussy and man up. I like that in a person. It’s something I’ve been yearning for. I’m pretty sure that if you’re raised in Russia, you learn how to bite nails and stuff when you’re a toddler.

That’s what I like to think anyway.

And I’m now contemplating changing my name to Tatiana. It’s just damned sexy and tough sounding, especially when I say it with a bad Russian accent.

The Kids Are Probably Not Ready For Comedy Central Yet

Last week we were sitting at the table with the kids. I’m pretty sure we eating as it seems to be the only time we can get the kids to sit with us, and then only for a few minutes. So, there’s Kealoha and me and our 6 and 7 year-olds. I don’t know how it happened, but I’m pretty sure Simone started it.

She’s 6 and is pretty feisty. She'll randomly start singing songs and cluck her tongue and then pretend like nothing happened. She just does that. She’s also just learned a bunch of knock-knock jokes at school and she’s starting to understand puns.

Simone asked Kealoha if he knew any knock-knock jokes, and then it started.

KEALOHA: Knock knock.

SIMONE: Who’s there?

KEALOHA: Cash.

SIMONE: Cash who?

KEALOHA: No, I don’t like cashews but I’ll take a peanut.

SIMONE: (Pause. pause) Oh! I get it. CashEW. Hahahaaha!

Now, I don’t know how it started exactly, but I knew that once they started telling Why Did The Chicken Cross The Road jokes, that the Bob jokes were next. Kealoha looked at me and I saw that evil sparkle in his eyes. I just shook my head in the way that acknowledged this was inevitable so please just get it over with.

KEALOHA: So what do you call a guy with no arms and no legs in a swimming pool?

SIMONE: Why hasn’t he got any arms or legs?

KEALOHA: That’s not the point. What do you call him?

KIDS: (silence)

KEALOHA: Bob!

I grimaced here because it’s a stupid joke and it always makes me laugh and then I feel guilty about laughing because there are people out there who don’t have any arms or legs and some of them are veterans and they probably wouldn’t bob in a pool of water but sink straight down, and some of them might even be glad about it. That’s what I was thinking. But back to the conversation.

SIMONE: Oh! I get it! Ha!

KEALOHA: What do you call a guy with no arms and no legs lying outside your door?

KIDS: What?

KEALOHA: Matt.

This went on and on and I did struggle with the whole “is this appropriate” and then I thought, “fuck it”. Then Kealoha started making up his own jokes and I even joined in. You could see the kids thinking about them and trying to get why they were funny. Sometimes they’d laugh; sometimes not. Simone got really excited. She made up one of her own “Bob” jokes.

SIMONE: Okay! Okay! So, uhm, what do you call a man with no arms and no legs standing…

KEALOHA: He can’t stand. He doesn’t have any legs.

SIMONE: (blink blink) Okay. So. What do you call a man with no arms and no legs standing on broken glass? Kealoha’s eyes got really big here and I sort of gasped.

SIMONE: Mirror!

There was silence in the room for a good ten seconds and then I started laughing uncontrollably. It was so completely surreal, so NOT funny, that every time I think about it (even now), I just lose it.

Kealoha cleared the tears from his eyes, and I tried to gently explain why an armless and legless man standing on broken glass isn’t funny, but an armless and legless man lying in front of your door IS. The kids didn’t get it.

Kealoha then started to tell a leper joke, but even I have limits. I changed the subject to “What kind of ice cream do you want for dessert?”

I do believe there’s a time and a place to teach children about the intricacies of humor, and I’m thinking that maybe the time isn’t quite right yet.

And I’m still thinking about the poor guy named Mirror sitting out in the cold on a pile of broken glass. Dude. That’s not funny.

Except it sort of is. So maybe Simone is a surrealist comic genius or something. Or she needs therapy already. We're still trying to figure that out.

Summer Reading ORGY! Okay. I said that to get your attention.

I decided not to teach this summer, so I could narrate full time. And…uh…well…it looks like I’ll have some extra time to write and read. Yay! (Fingers crossed that I get some more narration gigs soon.) So I’m kicking off my Slow Down And Read summer campaign. This is year two. YEAR TWO! I can’t believe a year has passed. Crazy. Anyway. I have a stack of books I’ve been meaning to read. Okay. Probably closer to three stacks if you add all the titles I have on my Kindle. But here’s the physical stack:

So? What’s on my Summer Reading List? Here it is in no particular order because that requires effort. Oh. And I'll put links up if you want to read more about the books:

“Kushiel’s Dart” by Jacqueline Carey

I picked this one up at my writing group’s conference. I don’t really know much about it except it’s fantasy, and the lady on the cover isn’t wearing a shirt, so she’s either a sorceress or a temptress or maybe both.

“The Princess Bride” by William Goldman

I’ve seen the movie a hundred times. In fact, the first time I saw it I went with a group of friends when I was in high school. I didn’t get to do a lot of social things when I was a teenager, and this has always been a highlight. I’ve seen the movie so much, I didn’t really feel the need to read the book. A shocker, I know. But Kealoha swears it’s wonderful and I’m betting it probably is.

“The Table Comes First—Family, France, and the Meaning of Food” by Adam Gopnik

Kealoha got this for me for Christmas. Since we’re going to Paris in July, I should probably crack this puppy open and get reading.

“Bossypants” by Tina Fey

My mother-in-law loaned this to me, so I’ll try to read this first. Sometimes, I think Tina Fey has the life I’d have had if I made two or three significantly different choices in my life like, I dunno, stay in New York and perform more. Not that I’d be famous or anything. Whatever. Tina Fey, she funny. I like funny.

“Catch Me” by Lisa Gardner

I actually got this book by mistake. I THOUGHT I was grabbing a book by Lisa Unger, a suspense writer whose work I really dig. I guess I blanked on her name. So I’ll give this one a try.

“Aegean Intrigue” by Patricia Kiyono

This is written by a woman in my writer’s group. I’m really curious to check out her work. It sounds like a lot of fun.

“The Marriage Plot” by Jeffrey Eugenides.

I pre-ordered this when it first came out and am ashamed I still haven’t read it. Eugenides is a master and I’m curious about this plot of marriage and English majors.

“Checker and the Derailleurs” by Lionel Shriver

I’ve read two books by Shriver and they both destroyed me. You know, destroyed me in a good way. She’s emotionally complex and an intense storyteller. I got to narrate one of her books, and read “We Should Talk About Kevin” last year. I’ve vowed to read everything she’s written. I know nothing about this book, but I’m excited to read it.

“Let’s Pretend This Never Happened” by Jenny Lawson

If you don’t read The Bloggess’s blog, you should. She’s quirky, twisted, dark, swears all the time, and comes up with tshirts that are so wrong, they seem perfect. AND I give her the award for best cover.

Finally, I asked for some suggestions, and this is what people wrote in on my FB page:

“The Dovekeepers” by Alice Hoffman (I love Hoffman. Good pick) “The Flight of Gemma Hardy” by Margot Livesey “King Solomon’s Mines” by H. Rider Haggard “Trajectories” by Tess Grant “The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks” by Rebecca Skloot “Trouble in Mudbug” by Jana DeLeon

I’ll choose one more from the suggestions above, or comments posted, and I probably need to read a classic. Feel free to join me in my summer reading bacchanal. Actually, that’s probably a better name for my campaign: Slow Down And Read is now my Book Bacchanal. Because books are better with wine. Oh! And I'm on Goodreads too, and will occasionally post reviews.

What are you reading?

What a difference a week (and a bottle of wine) makes

You may have noticed that I took a few days off from the blog. If you follow me on Facebook you’ll know that after the horrendous conference experience where I felt whipped and pummeled (but not in an erotic SM way---not that I’m into that anyway), I went straight to narrating for two days, then came home to a letter from my college talking about how to sign up for COBRA. (COBRA is overpriced insurance you can pay for on your own for a while when your employer fires you and you’ve lost your benefits.) My heart sank. Cancelled insurance is NOT a good sign. Then I checked my email and found out it was confirmed: my teaching contract wasn’t being renewed. What a shitty way to find out though. Through the mail. In a not-nice letter.  

There are lots of reasons for my job being cut, and I justified everything. It’s university-wide; it’s not just me so it’s not personal; the contract could still be renewed in July when the new president takes over. And I thought I was doing really okay with it. Kealoha and I were going to go out to a pizza dinner and I’d be fine…I just wouldn’t be employed.

As soon as Kealoha walked in the door, he immediately hugged me, opened a bottle of wine, and then rushed out to pick up some takeout. I started crying and didn’t stop for about sixteen hours, or until I passed out from too much wine and swollen eyelids.

I kept thinking of a couple of things: 1) This sucks and 2) I don’t want to stop teaching.

Anyway. This is a long and slightly depressing story, but the point is, after the writing conference and finding out I lost my teaching job, I started to feel…I don’t know…free somehow. That now I could do anything (except move--I’ve got my kiddos here and a home).

I had a dream where Kealoha wanted to become a drag queen and sell Tupperware in New York and I was really supportive of that. (I didn’t have the heart to tell him someone already does that. See the bottom of this post for proof.) In that same dream, Kealoha asked me what I wanted to do and I said I want to teach and narrate and write. Which is what I WAS doing. And I want to KEEP doing it. That’s what I took from the dream. Well, that, and Kealoha would make a really unattractive woman, especially when he wears fake pearls.

So I think I’ve figured out a way to keep doing what I love. It means a big change, a new school, a leap into the unknown…but all of this could be really great. I’ll still be doing what I love, just in a different way.

Maybe that’s what I needed anyway. I’m ready to try some new writing; I have some sci-fi and scary stories I’ve been working on. So. After a horrible week, getting really drunk over that COBRA letter, feeling crushed and beaten, I have to say…I’m coming through this okay.

Now I can get back to the important stuff on my blog, like discussing random conversations where people tell me I look deformed, and posting thoughtful reveries on the importance of appetizers. This is my WORK, people. This is what I DO. And all is well.

And now...as promised...Aunt Barbara:

Well. That Sucked.

I had high hopes for the Spring Fling Conference, but it was also a last ditch effort. I’m sure this attitude played into the Perfect Maelstrom that Saturday became.  

I was tired to begin with. It was a long semester and I still haven’t had my teaching contract renewed. I’m narrating, but I never know if they’re going to call again. And you all know how hard I’ve been trying to promote my work. So I think coming in to the conference, I had a little bit of that Desperation Sheen, which doesn’t make me shine so much as make me seem oily. I don’t know what’s happening in my career right now. Not at all. And everywhere I turn it feels like I’m just not quite good enough. It’s a really heavy weight to carry around.

The workshops offered little new information to me. I’ve heard it all before. Some of it I’ve even taught. And somehow people were coming to me and asking for advice: “How do I pitch?”, “What if I say…”, “How do I finish my book”... and then after finding out I narrate “Oh! I’d be a great narrator! How do I get into that?” Sigh. (One woman even wanted the company's name and contact information and I just said "Good luck to you".)

I got crabby. It’s true. I got really crabby and I got tired of talking about writing and craft and how to get published because I DON’T KNOW. They say write what you love, don’t write to industry trends, but when I take in my work, they say it sounds great, you have a great voice, but this doesn’t really fit our market right now.

Whatever.

After crying in my pitch session…

Wait. Let me backup.

I pitched to Harlequin because it’s a big house and Foodies would fit as a soft romance (I thought). So I pitched to an editor there and knew almost as soon as I started reading, that she wasn’t clicking. Then she said: “I mean, it sounds like something I would read personally. It sounds very indie. It’s not a fit for us but…have you considered an online publisher?” The castle within me closed shut fast, but not before the tears started flowing. She tried to give me her card saying “If you have anything else…” but she was being nice, and the point is THIS IS IT. “Foodies” is it. There are no more romcoms after this one. This pitch was THE LAST PITCH. I’m not doing this again.

So. After crying in my pitch session, I rushed off to the author book signing while doing one of those things where you try to force the tears back in your head with the palms of your hands. I was late because my pitch was at the same time as the signing. By this time, all my free swag was gone, so I just sat down at my table with my three titles. I was sharing a table with a woman who wrote a cute looking book (big publisher and shiny) called something like “The Real Mr. Darcy” and how can “Pepper Wellington and The Case of the Missing Sausage” compete with that?

What was humiliating was that she had a line of people to buy her book, in fact, she was about to sell out. And I was sitting there with nothing and no one. The final straw for me was when a woman I talked to quite a bit about my work and she’d said “Oh, I can’t wait to buy your book! I’ll see you at the signing!” bought the Darcy woman’s and not mine. And then she gave me one of those soft, sad smiles.

Okay. I’m probably projecting. Anyaway. I can’t really blame anyone, except maybe myself. My book covers aren’t the quality I’d like. Or maybe it’s the titles themselves. Or maybe it’s just my writing. And maybe it’s that the books LOOK like what they are: self-published or from a small online press. Choosing between that and a slick shirtless Darcy? I’d pick Darcy every time too.

After the woman left with her stack of books, I just thought “I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to do this anymore.” So I left. I left my books there, I got out of the conference, packed my bags and I left the hotel. By 8:30 I was home. By 9, having a drink with Kealoha and friends. By 10, I was snuggled in Kealoha’s arms and felt safe again.

The experts can say write what you love, but if no one wants to read what you love to write, and your goal is also to actually BE read…then it doesn’t make much sense. And I'm just plain tired of fighting to get noticed. I'm not cut out for it.

I’m not throwing a tantrum here. I’m really not. Yesterday was just a turning point in my career. Or my hobby. Whatever. Something snapped. Right now it feels broken, but this could be a good thing. Because I learned a few things:

1) I don’t write romance. I thought I wrote romance but my books don’t follow the formula. I hate those plots with the two characters separated by insurmountable odds (they hate each other; she’s a virgin and he’s a player; she’s a pregnant widow and he’s a lawmaker who signed an order to start the war). Those plots drive me INSANE. So I don’t use them.

2) I don’t read romance. I narrate romance, but when I read what I want to read, it’s usually literary fiction or book-club type stuff. I also read mysteries. But I don’t read romances.

3) My characters are aging with me. In romance, they’re all in their twenties and early thirties FOREVER. Every character. And they’re all beautiful. My characters are awkward, broken, and sometimes not even attractive.

4) I want to branch out. Everything you write is a BRAND they say, and I tried that route. Now, fuck it. I’ll write what I want when I want.

I still want to be published by a big publisher, but it’s possible that I’m like a million hopefuls out there who want the same thing. So I’ll just keep wanting.

“Foodies Rush In” is still going to be published, but we’ll probably do it ourselves. I’ll get it out there and offer it for as little as I can (or free if possible) just to get it out there. I loved writing it and while it’s not a typical romance, it was a story that made me feel good to write…because the main characters aren’t perfect and the only real conflict they have in finding a good partner is the truest conflict I know: they don’t believe in themselves.

It’s something I’ve struggled with much of my life, and this whole road to being published has pushed on that tender spot of “Am I Good Enough” a little too hard and too long. It’s pretty much a deep bruise.

I do believe in myself, but I just don’t have the energy anymore to try to push my work on people. You’ll either come to it, or you won’t. It will be published, or it won’t.

I’ll keep on writing. I always do.

So. Sucky experience but big epiphanies, and I’m home now. That’s a good thing.

Today, Kealoha and I will go out for breakfast. We’ll see a movie. Maybe the kids will come over. I’ll prep the next audiobook. I’ll cook. It will be a nice day.

On the Spring Fling Conference, Erotica, and Being Awkward

First off I should say that I love conferences. I love conferences the way that I love gift baskets. You get all these little surprises and trinkets. Except a conference isn’t wrapped in cellophane….although….after attending a workshop called Erotica For Beginners, I’m pretty sure several of the ladies here have cellophane wrap in their rooms. And giant plastic arms for ‘fisting’.  

God, I hope my mom and mother-in-law don’t read this.

Not that there’s anything wrong with fisting, if that’s your thing.

Oh god! Someone stop me from talking about fisting! I can’t handle it! I can’t handle even IMAGINING it! It makes me do this:

Ahem.

Where was I?

Ah, yes. Fisting. I mean CONFERENCES! Conferences. I love conferences. I’m also supremely bad at them. I like to think of myself as a well-adjusted, likeable person. I can walk in to a room of strangers and give a lecture or a collaborative exercise to write bad poetry. I can read to a room filled with hungry zombies about brain recipes or something, and I’m fine.

But stick me in a room with 200 other women writers and I suddenly freeze. Pure panic.

Suddenly, I was thrust head-first into all my phobias about making friends and not being cool enough for the cool clique and all those unnavigable (is that a word?) rules for making friends: don’t seem desperate, ask questions, if you’re shy they’ll think you’re a bitch, look busy but open…blah blah blah. The truth is, I don’t know how to talk to women. Actually, I’m pretty awful talking to anyone. I’m just plain AWKWARD. I wish I could wear a tshirt that says “Don’t take anything I say personally. I’m just awkward.”

Still….I’m managing to do it, and the women here are really nice and everyone’s trying to figure out the same thing: how to get their work out there.

It amazes me how many writers there are. Some women here haven’t finished a book yet, and they’re here and I just think “Wow. How cool is that? They’re so brave!” Others are relaxed and open. Others are just as awkward as me.

At dinner last night I told the table that yes, I’m published, but it’s just romantic comedies and one is self-published and the other two are put out by just a small press. One of the women looked at me wide-eyed and said “But you’re published?”

“Yeah, I guess.” I said.

“You have books and stuff?”

“Yeah. They’re here. I’ll be at the signing.”

“Then why are you apologizing? This is GREAT! You are published! You should be telling us to get our asses to the signing and buy your books!”

That made me cry a little bit, and it made me like her instantly. I’ve felt a little pummeled lately with writing. I feel like I have to qualify it wherever I go. It still hurts that my writing isn’t really taken seriously (nod to my alma mater who told me I couldn’t give a reading there because my type of writing doesn’t offer anything to their students). And I feel like I’m constantly having to convince people that “Yes. I’m a real writer, even though it’s not literary fiction. It’s quirky fiction. That doesn’t mean shit fiction.”

So I guess what I’m taking from this so far is a bag full of swag, talking awkwardly with some really wonderful and brave writers who are just like me (working moms trying to balance everything), the idea that I should be proud of my work…and some really fascinating information I learned in the Erotica for Beginners presentation. Tiffany Reisz did scare me a little bit, but also convinced me that I could read her book on my Kindle AND NO ONE WOULD KNOW. It could be our little secret.

I may never, ever write erotica, but I could certainly read up on it. You know, for research. Yep. Research.*

*Except that fisting thing. I’m still terrified about that. There are some things I’m just better off NOT knowing. That’s one of them.

So I decided to see what I look like upside down...

I’m not exactly sure WHY it occurred to me that I should see what I looked like upside down. I was taking a shower and I sorta just wondered I wonder what I’d look like upside down. Maybe because on The Voice they had freaky aerialists or something. Or maybe because of all the random bungee jumping I do. Whatever. I wanted to know, and so when I was done with my shower, I decided to find out. I went to the mirror.

(Just so this visual isn’t particularly horrendous, you need to know I WAS NOT NAKED while attempting this. No. I had on my yoga pants and a t-shirt. Just so we’re CLEAR.)

Anyway. I turned around, bent over, and sure enough, there’s what I would look like upside down. This is really the first and only time I've done yoga. I sorta did this, only without the good balance and firm tummy:

I gasped. And then I started choking a little bit because it turns out when you’re upside down, it’s easy to choke ESPECIALLY if you gasp.

I looked, how do I put this? HORRIBLE. I mean, like a bloated sea creature. It was like the extra weight around my belly and even my ankles crept up into my cheeks. My face sort of slid and my cheeks looked huge and puffy and then I started turning all RED (of course I was sort of choking at the time).

Anyone who tells you that gravity isn’t your friend is a LIAR. Gravity is a beautiful thing. It keeps your face in place. Put that on a t-shirt.

In closing, I don’t recommend doing this.

On second thought, if you look even half as bad as I did upside down, you will feel absolutely GORGEOUS when right side up. It actually was an exercise that did wonders for my self-esteem.  It’s probably good for your safety too, because there is no way in hell I will now ever be an aerialist, a bungee jumper, or install one of those weird swings in my bedroom (sorry Kealoha).

From here on out, everything is looking up. Exactly where it should be.

Kealoha's Magic Worcestershire Sauce

Now, I promised all of you that I would enumerate on all the ways I was Super Bitch last week, but I’m sorta bored with that idea. It involves being in the studio and fighting with the director over the subtleties on where to put an accent on Helene: He thought I was saying ELLen and I assured him I was saying elLEN. It was annoying.Anyway.

I’ve decided to change the topic and instead talk about my wonderful, quirky, expiration-date-mindless husband: Kealoha.

When Kealoha moved in here, I was really excited. Excited to have him here, yes, but also excited because we could COMBINE CUPBOARDS. I could benefit from all his trips to Costco and all the strange tiki inspired recipes he collects. He had all these sauces and marinades that were particularly exciting. And then I started checking expiration dates. Most of them expired AROUND THE TURN OF THE CENTURY. I’m not kidding. So I quietly put them into the trash.

A couple must have made it past me. I wanted to marinate some chicken and Kealoha said “Oh! I have this great marinade. It’s like an island marinade. Use that.” Sounded good. I grabbed it, opened it and just before I poured it I realized that it expired in 2009. * sigh *

But the worst is The Worcestershire Sauce. Now, I’ve seen Kealoha use this a hundred times in burgers he cooks. I’ve used it in the Chex Mix I make only once a year, because I eat so much of it I make myself sick. I used it last week when I was making Crabbie Patties for the kids. (Mini hamburgers.) I don’t know what possessed me but I decided to check the expiration date. This is what I saw:

Yes. It expired in 2007. 2007! In 2007, Bush was still president, there was no Facebook, and the iPad was something in science fiction films.

As soon as Kealoha came home I was like “Dude! Look at this!!” I shoved the sauce in his face. “This expired 5 years ago! Simone was one year old! That sauce could KILL US.”

He said, “Now, relax. Breathe. Expiration dates are just a SUGGESTION. It says it’s BEST by that date. It doesn’t say it will kill you.”

When he went to work the next day, I quietly threw the bottle out and replaced it with a new bottle that gives us two years of relative safety.

Although, I will  admit, Kealoha makes really good burgers. I just hope his secret ingredient wasn’t mold. I’m trying not to think about it.

Give Me A Cape. I Am Super Bitch.

When I’m really stressed out you can tell in a couple of ways: 1) I lose my sense of humor. 2) My face gets all constipated looking. 3) I start storming around shouting out commands and 4) I randomly shout out “I AM SO STRESSED”!  

That was pretty much my week. Now, granted, I did it to myself. I waaaaay overscheduled things, but sometimes you just can’t say no. Seriously. It’s like imagine you love bacon, I mean you LOVE it, and you haven’t had bacon in ten months and the thing you dream about more than anything is a slice of bacon, but you’ve randomly told yourself “I’m not going to have bacon for a year”, and then some bastard sets a whole plate of FREE BACON in front of you and tells you this could be the last of All The Bacon In The World and if you don’t take your bacon now you may NEVER EVER HAVE BACON AGAIN. EVER. Not ever. (ever)

Would you have a slice of bacon?

Not if you’re a vegetarian.

But if you’re a NORMAL person? Would you? (Not the VegHeads aren’t normal. This is just an elaborate extended metaphor.)

You’d have the fucking bacon. And you wouldn’t stop at one slice. You’d eat the whole plate of bacon just because it might be the last bit of bacon you’ll ever see, and then you’d moan and regret and complain because you feel sick over all that bacon and you’d say that you hate bacon and bacon makes you bloated and…

What the hell am I writing about? I’ve totally forgotten my whole story.

Oh. Right. Stress.

So this month I’ve been narrating a whole lot, putting up a mini-recording studio in my basement, running to teach blah blah blah. It’s the same story. But these last two weeks I sort of had a collision of stress so intense it actually turned me into an awkward super hero: Super Bitch. I even wore boots. I’m not kidding.

As I see I’ve taken up this entire blog with a pointless metaphor of eating bacon, I’ve now run out of space. I’ll continue this in another blog and tell you just how I have exhibited my supreme Bitch Powers this week. It’s not pretty, but at the same time I feel sort of proud about it.

I don’t know. I’m pretty sure I have issues. And now, dammit, I want bacon.

According To The Passport Office, I Look Deformed

I made a little trip to the post office today to update my passport and return to my maiden name, which even though I’m remarried is still my maiden name: Eby. Stupid name change. Why do they make it so complicated?  

You can’t just drop in at the post office anymore for your passport. You have to schedule an appointment. Last week I called three times and was trapped in a phone-circle-of-hell for a good half hour. I needed a drink after that. Finally, I found the right number to call, left a message, and (miracle of miracles!) they called me back.

I got there early and was the first one in line. At 8:02, a postal worker schlepped to unlock the door. It was Monday morning, and he already looked fatigued. I got in line and said I needed a passport. One of the workers said “Sheesh. Already? Okay…” Stepped up to the counter, and told the woman that I needed pictures. She shrugged, and then took me over to this area to take pictures. Here’s our conversation:

ME: So are you glad that people have to make appointments now? Does it make it easier?

(She unlocked one of two gates and lets me in to the Picture Taking Area)

HER: No. We lost a ton of income. People say they can’t get ahold of us and we can’t tell them they’re lying. They’re probably not. They probably can’t.

ME: Yeah. It took me a while to figure out. I called three times. And I speak English. Think of the people who don’t.

HER: It’s ridiculous. Okay. Now smile.

ME: I can smile? I thought I couldn’t smile. I thought that was like illegal.

HER: No. That’s old school. You can smile. Are you smiling? Is that your smile? (I smiled at her and tried not to blink. I grunted an affirmative that yes, this is my smile. She clicked the picture.)

HER: You look crooked.

ME: What do you mean I look crooked?

HER: See?

(She held the digital camera out to me and I did look crooked. One shoulder was up and the other was significantly lower.)

ME: Huh. Maybe I have one leg that’s shorter than the other.

(She looked me up and down.)

HER: No. Your legs look all right. You just look WEIRD.

ME: Ah. Okay. Thanks.

(Then she handed me a bunch of paper I had to re-fill out because I used blue ink instead of black and I scribbled out my mom as an emergency contact and wrote my brother in instead. No offense to my mom, but if something happened, my bro would be better at handling it. Apparently, there is no scribbling allowed on applications.)

I then took twenty minutes trying to figure out all the things I was supposed to do and what forms to attach and how much money and who to address the fucking thing to. Then she called me back to the counter.

SHE: Well, you still look weird but my coworker says it’s okay because they’ll chop your picture off at your neck so they won’t see your crooked shoulders.

ME: Ah.

I was thinking, well, leave it to the post office to crop out people’s deformities. Thank you, Uncle Sam.

SHE: You didn’t sign this or date it.

I did as I was told.

I left the Post Office feeling overjoyed that my delayed honeymoon with Kealoha to Paris is one step closer…and I’m also wondering if I need an orthopedic lift in my shoe.

My Son And Circle Theatre

My son is 7 with this astounding vocabulary and sense of humor. He’s mentioned lately that at his dad’s house he gets a lot of pressure to play sports and do things that “just aren’t my thing”. Kealoha and I have tried to tell him that he doesn’t have to be a sports person; that there are (indeed) a lot of other options. (This could lead me down a dark blog road of the differences in our house vs. his dad’s house, but I won’t go there. Some things I can’t write about.) Anyway. So last night Kealoha and I decided to take Louis to Circle Theatre’s Woodstock Concert. Kealoha did the video for the program and we wanted Louis to see it, and to see another world beyond sports. One of the things I love about theater is that it’s all-inclusive. No matter what age or shape or background, you can find a home in theatre, and not just in performing but in any area from creating a set, to running the show, to designing how the show looks. Slight side-track.

Anyway. When we got there he immediately asked “Why is everyone here so old?” We told him that a lot of them probably were at Woodstock and remembered it. “Or maybe they don’t remember it,” I said, but kept this comment to myself “They were probably stoned.”

Louis was super excited, and tired, and just on the border of misbehaving. He was laughing in this old man voice, a 1930s type hard-nosed character he does, but if you don’t know that he’s doing this, you’d think that maybe he had a speech impediment. Kealoha went up to the booth and Louis and I sat down to watch the show. It started with a rocking guitar solo of the national anthem. Louis immediately started playing air guitar and he was pretty good.

The 1st song was a little loud for him and I asked him if he wanted to leave. He pulled me to him and screamed in my ear: “No! I’m being good!” and he was. He made me laugh through the performance. 7 year olds are not very good at hiding their thoughts on songs. He liked the rock-out songs, but struggled with the slow songs. I saw him making this weird hand motion during the song “You Make Me So Very Happy” and then I realized he was miming pulling out a pin on a grenade and tossing it at the stage. I promptly grabbed his hands and threatened him with mom-type-punishments.

On “Bad Moon Rising” he loved the song, but was really confused by the lyrics. “Is this song about a bad moon or the weather?” he hollered. “It’s a metaphor!” I said. “WHAT?” he screamed. “A METAPHOR!” Then I realized he was 7. “It’s just a song about telling people to be careful.” He still didn’t get it. “It’s a song about the WEATHER.”

Then the Janis Joplin music came on. He did good with half of the first song, but then he pulled out an imaginary machine gun. If we were watching like a Hunger Games American Idol type competition, that singer would have been permanently OUT.

The next Joplin song went over better with him. He was dancing in his seat. He sang a little bit with the band and audience on one song but got confused by some long solos. He liked the drum solo and then as it went on, he sort of rolled around in his seat as if someone were burning him. “That was awkward,” he said, after the drum solo ended. I said, “Babe, all drum solos are awkward.” And they are. Even when they’re good.

Then came “We Shall Overcome” and I got a little emotional. It’s the song, yes, but the singers too. Louis said “Why is everything so serious right now?” And I tried to say because it was a song about hope for things to change, but that change can take a long time. And I knew a lot of the performers on stage and could tell how time has changed them and then I just got all weepy.

Then it was intermission and it was too late for Louis to stay up for the second act. I took him home. (Side track again: the show is filled with toe-tapping numbers and that kind of joy that happens when a group of people get together and perform. Go see it tonight if you can.)

He said he liked the backstage tour and the music and wanted to know if one day he could be onstage or work backstage like Kealoha, and if he did do that, could he get a cupcake like the performers had in the Green Room. I said yes, he could.

I tried to make it a teachable moment. “You know, there are so many things you can do once you figure out what you’re interested in or talented in.”

“But I don’t know my talent, Ma.”

I said, “Honey. You’re only seven. You’ll figure it out. If it’s sports, great. If it’s performing, great. If it’s something else, that’s great too. We’ll figure it out.”

Then he farted and said: “When you gotta go…you gotta go.”

I just hope that whatever his talent IS, it’s not farting. But if it IS, then we’ll figure out a way to help him explore that. Ugh.

Momzilla

Last night, Louis watched “Godzilla” the 1998 film with Matthew Broderick. I’ve always had a thing for Broderick, but even I have to admit pairing him with the mother of all lizards was a little more than awkward. While I got Louis settled in with his movie, I ran upstairs and tucked my daughter in. Kealoha was working late at the theater so I was a single mom for a night. (I don’t miss being a single mom again AT ALL.) By 9:30 PM and after about 100 times running up and down the stairs, I was exhausted. I started getting really crabby. Then I started growling. Then I went all Momzilla on the toys the kids abandoned. With my little lizard hands I pounded my chest and screamed. I stepped on Squinkies, not even caring to blink. If the Lego characters were trying to take me down, they’d need more power than just their piddly plastic weapons. I went BALLISTIC on those toys. I didn’t destroy them though. I just put them in a huge pile. In fact, here's a video of me freaking out over the toys:

On the way to the grocery store, I asked Louis what he thought of the film. He said it was “pretty great. It was real actiony and I just know there’s going to be another one.” I didn’t have the heart to tell him that the film was made in 1998, and while it was set up for a sequel, it bombed so colossally that they never made it. (Though it looks like another Godzilla film is slated for this year. Who knew?)

Louis then explained to his sister that one of the Godzillas was a Mommy Godzilla and she was all mean because she was protecting her babies. I told Louis this “I’d totally turn into Godzilla if anyone tried to hurt you guys. I’d be all ROOOAAAARRR!!”

Louis said: “Ma, you’re not an amphibian.”

I said: “How do you know?”

Louis rolled his eyes. I was driving so I don’t know for SURE that he did, but he sounded like he did. “You’re NOT an amphibian!”

“I don’t know…” I said. “I’m awfully cold in the winter. You should feel my feet.”

Louis said no.

All day I’ve been a bit of a Momzilla but I’m not protecting the kids or anything. I’m just crabby. I didn’t get much sleep last night and I’m stressed out with Kealoha working at the theater and all the recording I have to do in the next week.

It’ll pass though. I mean, hey, Easter’s coming and that will be a riot! I love holidays! And nothing says par-tay like the resurrection of…

Uh…

I just need a nap. A really big, giant-lizard sized NAP. That should make me turn back into the slightly-well-adjusted-mother-wife-and-artist that I usually am. Maybe.

Inspiration. A Kiss From The Gods.

I’ve been waiting for Blog Inspiration to strike, and the only thing that’s striking is lightning. Thankfully it’s not striking me. It’s outside, where it belongs. Now that I think about it, I’ve been waiting for inspiration to strike in a number of places. I need inspiration to transform “Tunnel Vision” from a wimpy novella to a kick ass novel. I need inspiration to figure out what project to work on next. I need inspiration to figure out what I’m going to cook for dinner. I need inspiration to get me to exercise and stick to eating healthier even though it’s such a pain sometimes. I need inspiration to clean my house.

I remember learning in college what ‘inspiration’ actually means, or at least the etymology of it. The dictionary says it’s the quality of  “being so stimulated that one chooses to create” etc. etc. I can’t read much further than that because the teenager that resides in my brain says “Hehehe. Stimulated. Like stimulated A LOT. I could go for some serious STIMULATION right now.” Then I just get sidetracked.

Anyway. We all know what inspiration means.

The word originally was Latin. Of course. Inspirare. “To breathe into”. The idea was that a God would breathe into a person, thus granting them with some kind of divine idea. Sort of a mouth to mouth resuscitation for the creatively dead.

That’s what I need right now. I need some hardcore godly resuscitation. Preferably with tongue.

You can’t rely on inspiration though. You can’t DEMAND it. If you demand to be filled up with the breath of god, you sort of open your mouth, tilt your head back and….well…open yourself up to all sort of things. I mean, birds fly overhead, man, and that could be dangerous.

I prefer to plow forward and hope that if a god is going to kiss me, they’ll take me unawares, and do so tenderly, when I least expect it and need it the most. Maybe that’s what you need to do to attract inspiration. What god would want to inspire someone with their head tilted back and mouth open? No. Certainly a god would go for someone who’s motivated and seems confident. Just like in dating.

So. Onward I go. Mouth closed, but ready for that soft kiss of air and divine ideas.

Breathe in. Breathe in.

What If vs. What Is

Our cars were broken into last night. On the surface, it’s not really a big deal. Kealoha lost his iPod and some spare change. The thief (or thieves) didn’t break anything or damage anything. Ten years ago, I had my car broken into at work in the middle of the day. They smashed the window with a brick, grabbed my CD player and CDs and no one notice. I felt angry and violated then. I don’t feel angry now. I feel sad.

Maybe it’s the writer in me. Maybe it’s the mom in me. I don’t know. But I can’t stop thinking about WHO would do this, and more importantly WHY?

Here are the scenarios my brain comes up with:

THEY’RE JUST KIDS

Maybe it’s a couple of teenagers who go from car to car and collect stuff because there’s a rush to stealing. Okay. Fine. But then my mind goes further. What kind of family do they have when they can be out in the middle of the night? Why do they want this rush?  Why don’t they have other things that can fill their time? Do they have anyone who cares about them? Why is this act even an option for them? It makes me sad.

THEY’RE ADDICTS IN NEED OF MONEY

Maybe it’s someone who’s some kind of addict and needs money so desperately that they’re grabbing stuff they can exchange so they can get what they REALLY want. Again, this makes me sad. I’ve seen how addiction changes people. I’ve had friends when I was in my twenties who drank a lot, maybe did some “soft” drugs to party, but flash forward a decade and their bodies are worn, their spirits are broken, and getting high becomes THE most important thing. Again, it makes me sad. To have a need so deep that you take from others.

THEY’RE POOR

Maybe it’s someone who just doesn’t have any money. Maybe they’re poor. Maybe they can’t get a good job. Maybe they’re hungry. Maybe they have kids who want gadgets and there’s no way they can afford it. Maybe they ARE kids and they’re mad at everyone else who has MORE. This makes me saddest of all. I remember being poor. Really poor. Poor enough that we lived in unsafe neighborhoods (where, again, a lot of people got high). Poor enough that I know what real hunger is, and fear, and a deeper fear of not being safe. I’ve pulled myself out of that, but it’s been through sheer force of will and heavy helping of luck. Sometimes, you can’t pull yourself out of poverty no matter how hard you try.

THEY’RE ME

What I’m thinking more about is what would it take for ME to steal? Would I ever do it?

Well, the truth is, I HAVE done it. Once I took $20 from a roommate because I had no money and I was hungry. I later told her and returned the money, but something broke in our friendship. And it broke something in me. I could justify it: I was hungry; She had stacks of money. It didn’t seem fair. So I took it from her.

I guess I can understand and empathize with people who steal. I should’ve just waited another day or so until I was paid instead of taking my roommate’s money. I could have asked her for a loan. I could’ve waited. I was HUNGRY but not STARVING. I was too embarrassed to ask for a loan. I took the $20 bill, and I still feel bad about it.

A decade later, haven’t I changed? Sure. $20 isn’t a ton of money to me anymore. If I’m hungry, I eat. In fact, I eat so much I’m now trying to lose weight. Would I steal again? NEVER!

But wait…

Would I steal if there wasn’t enough food in our house? I’d try not to. I’d try anything I could until there was no other choice, but then, yes I would. Would I steal if my kids were hungry and by taking $5 off of a waitress’s table, I could get my kids a meal? Yes.

Would I steal if I couldn’t pay the mortgage and I knew that if I only had $100 it would mean the difference between shelter for my family and being homeless? Some people have to make that choice. What if the difference between being moral and trustworthy was just $100? What if on one side of that $100 you go homeless; on the other side, you have one more month of security. One more month to get your life together. Would I steal? In my mind, I’m already opening the car door and slipping my hands inside.

I know I’m being overdramatic. They’re probably just kids goofing off. But it’s the What If questions that haunt me. What If someone broke into our house? What If we lost our jobs? What If circumstances change, and my kids are forced to have the kind of childhood I had? What would I do?

My answer kind of scares me: I’d do anything to protect my family and make sure they have enough to eat. Anything. If pushed hard enough, I’d probably even kill.

This is why I’m sad about whoever broke into our cars. It’s not about the theft, but whatever place of desperation it comes from to cross the line from What If to What Is.

I hope I never have to make that choice in the real world.

My Son Finally Asked Me The TWO DREADED QUESTIONS

Well. It finally happened. The conversation I’ve been dreading having with my son. Actually, TWO conversations. I’ve worried and obsessed about if this would ever happen, and then it did. I was giving Louis (7) a bath and changed into my pjs: a tank top and a pair of shorts. While he splashed around, I washed my face, he studied my profile for a bit…and then he asked one of the dreaded questions:

LOUIS:

Mom, are you pregnant?

ME:

What? No! Why? Do I look pregnant?

(LOUIS pointed at me and seemed regretful)

LOUIS:

Well, your belly is pretty big. Like, I was sort of wondering if you guys were going to try to sneak in a baby on me on the sly.

ME:

On the sly? Ha! No. No! I’m not pregnant. If we were pregnant, we’d tell you. We’re not planning on any more babies. You kiddos are enough. So. Nope. Not pregnant. I’m just, you know, trying to lose weight.

LOUIS:

Well, you gotta get serious about it. You look like a fatty.

ME:

Louis! That’s not nice! Don’t say that.

LOUIS

I didn’t mean it that way! I mean, Mom, you sort of don’t look like Mom anymore.

I got him out of the water and started to dry him off. Then he asked the second dreaded question.

LOUIS:

So how DO you get pregnant anyway? Does it just happen, like, randomly?

ME:

 No. What do you mean? Do you randomly get pregnant?

LOUIS:

Yeah. How does it happen? Is it random?

ME:

No, you sort of have to mean for it to happen. Or actually, you know, do stuff that would cause it to happened. I mean, you have to WISH for it to happen. Then again, some people wish and it doesn’t, and some people don’t wish and it still happens and…

LOUIS:

But how does the baby get IN there?

ME:

Uh…You know…the dad PUTS it in there.

LOUIS:

How?

I paused awkwardly. This was the second dreaded question, and I was really not ready for it. Plus, I was upset that he thought I looked pregnant. I thought for a second. Then it came to me: Planet Earth!!!

ME:

You know those documentaries you watch?

LOUIS:

No.

ME:

Yeah! Like the documentaries with like the animals and stuff and one animal starts attacking the other and gets on top of the other one and…and then…no…scratch that. A mom and a dad, well at the time they might not be a mon and a dad, they might just be dating, well, they make love. Actually, they don’t even have to be in love to…uh…Look. I’ll order a book. And I’m not pregnant. I just am having trouble losing weight.

Louis then pulled up my shirt and looked at my tummy.

LOUIS:

Mom, come on. You can do this.

He jiggled my tummy fat. I don’t know. I started freaking out. I felt like I needed to defend myself and I now had an image of angry lions fucking in my head.

So I said:

ME:

Look. I gained weight after breaking my foot and I couldn’t run. If I could run again I could maybe lose it. I’m really trying. I’m eating better and exercising and…oh…do you…just…oh…there’s an episode of Star Wars left. You want to watch that?

Luckily he did. And I’m now in the fetal position trying not to cry, even though it’s also sort of funny.

Bushy Squirrels and Wooddicks OR Springtime Conversation With Kealoha

Kealoha and I went for a lovely springtime walk after dinner. (I’m trying to get an hour’s worth of exercise a day. It’s part of my new ‘healthy diet and blah blah blah’ regimen.) If you’re not in Michigan, then I need to explain what’s going on with the weather. It’s like the poles have shifted, or maybe we switched places with Australia or something. A week ago it was freezing. There was an ice storm. Yesterday, people were barbequeing on the street and walking around in bikinis.

Actually, I didn’t see anyone in a bikini. In my MIND I was in a bikini and I looked AMAZING. In reality, I was wearing tight khaki pants with a high-waist. MOM pants. To hold in my puffy tummy.

Back to the story.

Kealoha and I went for a lovely springtime walk after dinner. The sun was shining (even at 6 at night) and we could hear squirrels scampering. It was pretty much a Disney movie, without the secret penises drawn in the sky.

We saw some squirrels scampering and I said: “Squirrels are so cute. I know that without their tails they’d look like rats, but WITH their tails, they’re super cute.” Kealoha agreed. In my MIND I thought: “Squirrels are cute because of their BUSH. It’s all because of the bush.” Then I thought “Good God, Tanya. You are so dirty.”

We walked. There was a curious knocking. Loud. Repetitive. Hollow. Echoing through the neighborhood.

“That’s a woodpecker,” I said, and pointed to an enormous tree. I don’t know why I felt like educating Kealoha. Maybe I was just making conversation.

Kealoha looked like he didn’t believe me. I said: “No. Seriously. THAT’S a woodpecker.”

Kealoha said: “It’s so loud.” He paused. “That’s not just a pecker, that’s a DICK.”

Yes. The sounds of spring: bushy squirrels and wooddicks.

It’s like both of us are teenagers. I guess this is what spring can do to you. Or maybe, maybe Kealoha and I just shouldn’t be let outside. It’s probably better for everyone if we just stay in the basement.

What Happens When You Narrate A Story Like Beaches While PMSing

 

I narrated two really fun (and very different) books this week. The first was an emotional story about mothers and daughters and sisters, and the second was an action story about a contaminated quarantined slightly futuristic society.

But let me talk about the first one.

I was PMSing. I know this FOR A FACT because I have an app that warns me when I’m PMSing. I find it helps me when I’m like “Why am I crying all the time?” or “Why did I just eat a bag of potato chips with a chaser of chocolate covered raisins?” or “Why does nobody love me?”. I check my app, and it reassures me that what I’m feeling isn’t necessarily REAL emotion but a surge of hormones.

Anyway. So I was seriously PMSing. SUPER emotional. And I’m narrating this book that’s about a woman who wants to have a baby but can’t. (I at one time really wanted to have a baby!) She has a complicated but loving relationship with her sister. (I do too!) She’s estranged from her father. (Check mark!) Her mother died from cancer when she was twelve. (Okay. My mom is alive and well, but we have a complicated and often exasperating relationship.) The main character is a pastry chef and is always talking about bread. (I’m a foodie who recently gave up bread so I could feel better. NO BREAD! NO SCONES! Jesus, I’m crying already.)

Well. The woman adopts a daughter from China, reconnects with her father, then finds out her SISTER has cancer and that sister DIES. NoooooOOOooo!

I lost it. I just started crying. I mean, tears were just flooding down my cheeks. Here’s what I was thinking: Oh my God. I love my kids so much but what if something happened to me, what if I DIED, then they’d just live with their dad and wouldn’t be able to see Kealoha again and they’d be so mad at me for leaving them and Kealoha would be entirely ALONE….maybe Kealoha and I should have a baby…I’d love a baby…but how on earth could we afford it and he doesn’t want to change diapers and I’m too old for that now anyway and we don’t’ have the space and how could I have two jobs AND a baby…and I need to call my sister…and my mom is making me crazy…and you can WANT to reconnect with an estranged father but he’ll never be your DAD, not the one in your fairytale imagination…and I miss having close girlfriends and it sucks that one of them is moving away…and I just want women I can hang out with and talk to and connect with but I don’t even have time because I’m working ALL THE TIME and when can I stop working two full-time jobs but I don’t want to give up teaching OR narrating…and maybe I should try to reconnect with friends I had in high school….but…back to the novel…okay…oh my god her sister just died and she is staying in the room with her, holding her hand and watching HER LAST BREATH FLOAT AWAY.

At this point I was just a basket case. My voice was cracking while reading and had that tight “I am holding back tears” sound to it.

I apologized to the director and the engineered for sobbing. I tried to explain to them that it was like narrating “Beaches”, and that’s just about impossible.

Funny thing was, they were crying too. And they were DUDES.

I really do need more girlfriends. Some bread would be nice too.

Brief Conversation With My Friend Lisa

A friend of mine, Lisa, and I have been walking around Reed's Lake every week-ish for over a year. It started out as exercise but has quickly become mutual therapy. We listen to each other vent, give each other advice, solve each other's problems. It's terrific. And somehow we've managed to have our many freak-outs on separate walks, so that when she's freaking out, I can therapist her. When I'm freaking out, she therapists me. Yeah. I just made 'therapist' into a verb.

Here's a sample of our conversation from this morning.

LISA: I don't know. I've just become so judgmental and angry lately that I really I think I should wear a tshirt that says "I'm God!"

ME: It's okay, Lisa. I don't think you're God.

LISA: But I do! That's just it!

Ahhhh. Then I told her that I should wear a t-shirt that says "I'm A Bitch" especially when I'm trying to 'set boundaries'. I waited for Lisa to say "I don't think you're a bitch"...which she DID...but after a very, very long pause.

Gosh, I love our walks. Really.

What Happened When I Found A Dead Woman In Panera's Parking Lot

On my way to the studio, I like to grab a coffee right before I start work. Narrating starts at 8:30AM so that’s pretty early, and the warm coffee and caffeine jolt helps me. So today, I swung by Panera for my $1.75 cuppa jo. The parking lot was pretty full, but I found a spot. As I got out of my car, I noticed there was a woman in the parking lot sitting in her car. Then I realized that she wasn’t really sitting, she was slouching. And her car was running. And she was slouching back with her mouth wide open. Like, WIDE open, like zombie open…and I thought…holy shit. That woman is dead. She is dead in the parking lot of Panera Bread and what am I supposed to do?

I briefly thought of moving my car to another spot, and getting my coffee, and pretending I hadn’t witnessed her there like that, but I just couldn’t do it. What if she wasn’t totally dead, but NEARLY dead? I’d be responsible if I didn’t do something.

But first I needed to find out if she was totally dead, nearly dead, or just taking a nap. I mean, she could be taking a nap. So I did the only thing I could think of at the time. I stared at her. I stared and stared and stared at her, just willing her to breathe. If I saw she was breathing then I’d be fine and get my coffee and no one would know. If she wasn’t breathing then I’d…I don’t know…run into Panera and scream “THERE’S A DEAD WOMAN IN YOUR PARKING LOT AND CAN I HAVE A TALL HAZLENUT TO GO?”

I stared at her. For a long time. Like a really long time. I couldn’t tell if she was breathing or not. She was wearing a big red sweater and I couldn’t see her stomach moving. It slowly dawned on me. She was NOT breathing. I just found a dead woman in Panera’s parking lot and I was somehow responsible for her passing and what was I supposed to do and what about…SUDDENLY the woman jerked awake, saw me staring at her and SCREAMED.

I mean, if she wasn’t dead at the beginning, I probably gave her a heart attack. Imagine, there you are taking a quick little nap, you wake up, and immediately notice there’s a crazy chick with her face pressed up against your window STARING at you.

It was horrible. What could I do? How could I explain to her that I was only trying to save her life or make sure her loved ones knew she’d expired? I was being a good Samaritan, and not a Peeping Tom. You can’t explain that to a perfect stranger, so I just immediately turned and ran into Panera for my coffee.

I’m still embarrassed. I might just give up drinking coffee because I don’t EVER want to repeat that experience again. EVER.