Ridiculous Family Game Night AKA Where I Get My Funny From
It may not surprise you to learn that my family is bizarre. Yes. I know you think I probably sprouted from matching turtleneck wearing parents, a Volvo, and an extended family where reunions involve slide shows and bad Salisbury steak. Yeah. No. (except the Salisbury steak thing used to be true when we went to reunions in Ohio.) My parents divorced early on and I was raised with two very different families. My mom’s side I credit for teaching me about humor. We’re all awkward and not the best conversationalists. There’s a lot of pausing in a conversation. But once we have some food and some drinks and bust out the board games, the laughing starts.
We met up at my aunt and uncle’s in Empire. If you don’t know what Empire is, it’s been voted one of the most beautiful places in America. I’m not sure who voted. I’m pretty sure everyone in Empire did. Still, it’s gorgeous. (It’s all the setting for “Pepper Wellington and the Case of the Missing Sausage”.) There are rolling sand dunes, beautiful lakes, lush green woods, and roads so curvy they should probably film car commercials there.
Anyway. Usually we meet around Mother’s Day and go hunting for morels, but the weather was so freaky this year that we decided to meet in the summer.
I won’t go into everything we did as a family, because that’s sort of as painful as sitting through a slide show. I will say that a particular highlight happened around 10PM on Saturday, after dinner and a campfire, and after the kids were sequestered downstairs to watch “A Dolphin Tale”. Kealoha busted out the new game we bought “Cards Against Humanity”. It’s like Apples to Apples for horrible people. I think that may even be the game’s slogan. (Click on the title of the game if you want to know more about it.)
I didn’t get to play, because I was busy running downstairs checking on the kids, but I did get to observe.
Basically you draw a card, read it, and then everyone finishes the sentence using a card from their deck. Sounds nice, right? But these are HORRIBLE cards. Sexually inappropriate, politically incorrect, crass…basically a game designed for my wonderfully dysfunctional, socially awkward family.
For example here’s one card and it’s winning response:
QUESTION: Vladimir Putin likes his to eat stuffed with
WINNING CARDS: Vladimir Putin like to eat Natalie Portman stuffed with Tom Cruise.
Another of my favorites: QUESTION: What’s that sound?
POSSIBLE ANSWERS:
--Fingering
--Republicans
--A mime having a stroke
The mime won.
We were laughing so hard that I’m pretty sure a few of us peed a little bit. I know Kealoha did.
The penultimate moment was when my brother drew a card and read the following out loud:
QUESTION: There’s a new Disney Channel special where Hannah Montana struggles with .
He then struggled with reading a series of possible answers so deeply twisted and wrong that his face turned strawberry red. There’s was one card he kept looking at and shaking his head. “I can’t read that. I can’t do it,” he said. “It’s just too wrong.”
Well, of course, when something is WRONG, it’s probably really RIGHT. We made him read it.
MY BROTHER (reading in a strangled voice that got progressively higher):
“There’s a new Disney Channel special where Hannah Montana struggles with…Oh god. This is so wrong. It’s just NOT RIGHT. Okay. Okay. I’ll read this. There’s a new Disney Channel special where Hannah Montana struggles with…jerking off…(He breathes, shakes his head)…into a pool…(His voice is a squeak. He can barely speak)…filled with children’s tears.”
At that point I pretty much had a heart attack.
Is there any question why I write the kind of novels I do? Really?
I love my family.
Good But Not Quite Good Enough. Wah.
Now I try to be upbeat and funny, and most of the time I succeed. Then I have these blue times where I’m all depressed and I watch Food Network and eat ice cream and lament that all I wear is yoga pants. This is one of those times, except I’m eating cookies and it’s too hot to wear yoga pants, so I’m just schlepping around in my underwear and a tank top.
Why am I blue? I was up for a job as an Assistant Professor. Made it all the way to the final interviews, but didn’t get it. It’s a tough market. I didn’t do anything wrong. There’s nothing I could have done differently or better. Part of that is comforting, but another part just sucks, because what that means is that for some reason someone else was just BETTER. I sorta feel like I’m always second in things.
You hear about overnight successes and A list Hollywood stars. About writers who sell millions of copies through self-publishing. Of narrators who win Audies and accolades. Then there’s the rest of them--all those other people who don't make it, but are trying. I’m in that group. I write well, but not good enough for a big contract with a national publisher, and my self-published stuff probably won't sell more than 100. I’m a decent narrator, but not quite good enough for the A list titles or reviews. I’m a good professor, but not quite good enough for a full-time position.
I know I sound like I’m whining, and I am. Admittedly, I whine A LOT. But sometimes being ‘good but not quite good enough’ gets damned exhausting. When you really try at something, when you give it your all, and it’s still not quite enough, that’s when it hurts the most, I think. And that’s when the Ice Cream Siren calls. Or Cookies. Or Indian Takeout. I’ve never had Lentils call. NEVER.
Whatever.
I’ll get over it. I’m almost over it now.
I’ll just keep plugging along. I do realize that I’m lucky I get to narrate and write and teach at all. I really do. I’m just a little tired. A little discouraged.
A friend of mine wrote on my FB wall “It’s nothing a little Paris won’t fix”. She’s right. A month from now, Kealoha and I will be in Paris and I’ll be too distracted to be blue.
I should stop whining and learn that one phrase of French that I’m certain will save me from Parisian disdain: “I’m a stupid American and don’t speak French. Please help me and laugh at me later.”
That should lift my spirits for a while. That and this here oatmeal and coconut cookie.
Earth Mother I Am Not
Sometimes it’s like my life is a split personality. Part of the time I’m a career woman; part of the time I’m a stay-at-home mom. Last week I was in New York being Tanya-Goes-Nutso-In-A-Fun-Way and this week I was Tanya-Goes-Nutso-In-A-Stay-At-Home-Mom-Way. I was a stay-at-home mom for five years before I lost it and left the marriage and started over. I always thought I’d be like an Earth Mother and have twins attached to me with a complicated scarf technique where I could breastfeed them while making bread from scratch and meditating. I’d dance with the children and teach them how to read before they were two. I’d volunteer for the PTA and win awards for my awesome Momness.
Yeah. That didn’t work for me. I couldn’t breastfeed. I was exhausted. I felt empty. And the PTA creeps me out and angers me.
Now, instead of being Earth Mother, I spend my time trying to get the kids to “Leave Me Alone!” as I try to de-velcro them from my legs so I can take a poop in quiet.
I love being home with them; but I also LOVE when I get to go to work.
It’s a good balance.
This week, I’ve been home with them the whole time with no school, daycare, or work. It’s been a reminder at how much I respect stay-at-home moms and how I could never, ever not work again. At least by choice.
Take for example, the top things I say every day:
1. Who farted? Do you need to use the bathroom? If you’re farting like that, it means you need to use the bathroom. Trust me. I don’t care. GO USE THE TOILET.
2. Stop it. Stop it! Stop doing that. Stop! Stop it! Don’t. Just don’t. DO NOT. Don’t! Stop it. For all that is good and holy, stop doing that or you will send me to an asylum! Do you want Mommy in an asylum? No. There’s no ice cream there.
3. We do not hit. We do NOT hit! Because. Because it’s wrong. I don’t care who started it. We do not retaliate. You tell an adult. We don’t hit. Do you want a spanking? What? The adult can retaliate. Because that’s life.
4. Do your homework. Do it. Stop that. Do your home work. Because I don’t want you to go back to school and have forgotten how to read. No. Other kids won’t forget. Because their parents are intense and they tutor them all summer long. They also make them practice the violin. Be happy I didn’t buy you a violin.
5. Eat it. Just try it. Just take one bite. It is not disgusting. It’s healthy. No. I don’t want to eat it. Because…Okay, fine. Have some chips.
6. If you’re going to do THAT, go in your room and do it in private.
7. Pick that up. Put it in the trash. The trash is RIGHT THERE. No, I’m not going to do it. Because you can do it. Because I said so. Because that’s life.
I could go on and on. Seriously. The above pretty much encapsulates my Motherly Wisdom. In fact, you can boil it down to “Stop Touching Yourself In Public, Use The Toilet, and That’s Life.”
Earth Mother, I am not. I love my kids. I adore them. But I also like getting out of the house and escaping the crazy things I say every day as a mom.
I’m so excited I get to narrate tomorrow.
Eduardo. The Cabbie Of Love
After The Scariest Cab Ride EVER, I admit I was afraid to leave New York. But as soon as Eduardo pulled up to the Sheraton, I knew everything was going to be fine. As soon as the door closed he said: “Ah, beautiful lady, today your lucky day. I will be your cabbie. I will take care of you.” I believed him because he said I was beautiful and he had a Spanish accent.
Here then, are some of the comments Eduardo made, while weaving in and out of traffic:
EDUARDO: I believe in the positive energy, you know?
ME: Ah. Okay.
EDUARDO: You married or single?
ME: (slight awkward pause wondering why he was asking) Married. Yep. Happily married. (I was afraid he was going to try to ‘romance’ me into going somewhere with him.)
EDUARDO: What music you listen to?
ME: What do you mean?
EDUARDO: What music? You know? At the wedding?
ME: Uhhh… (How could I explain Kealoha’s music interests? Lounge music, polka, and Elvis?) I don’t remember. We had mai tais and mojitos. I think there was singing.
EDUARDO: Ha! Well? What music makes you romantic? Romantic is good, positive energy.
ME: Uh? Sinatra?
EDUARDO: Boom! Bam! Here you go!
Suddenly, Sinatra singing “My Kind Of Town” filled the cab. Eduardo giggled.
EDUARDO: Where you from, beautiful lady?
ME: Michigan.
EDUARDO: Ah! Big lake there! Big water! Not Chicago though. I don’t have a song about Michigan.
ME: It’s okay. This is good.
EDUARDO: It’s lucky day for you, lady.
We drove for a while and listened to Sinatra croon.
After that, Eduardo continued:
EDUARDO: I like everything. Everything is good. I like music. I understand. Music makes everything better so you don’t sit in cab all mad, yes? You relax. You enjoy. What song you want next? Pick anything! Anything at all! But not hip hop or rap or R&B. That not good energy.
ME: Why don’t you pick something? I’m kinda tired.
EDUARDO: I will pick something romantic for you. I will pick something for you that tells you who I am. It is beautiful. Bunky-punky-bomonkey! Here you go:
Then he played something that was very late 70s or early 80s something. Something you’d hear on EZ LITE 100 or something. I could just see the video with a guy with a mullet staring out into the darkness, his mullet ruffling in the breeze, and the camera panning to a dude in skinny suspenders playing a saxophone. I mean, it was BAD. There was one lyric I tried to remember so I could look up the song. “Another Lonely Night In New York”.
EDUARDO: You know who that is? It’s that dead guy.
ME: Oh?
EDUARDO: Yeah! Gibb! Robin Gibb! So beautiful.
This is when the cab ride became surreal. Eduardo then played for me some ‘beautiful, romantic music’ that included “The Lady In Red” and some more really lite music that had synthesizers and videos that surely had random pictures in soft focus of like a lion walking toward the viewer, or a room with a black and white checkered floor. Then we pulled up to the airport. Eduardo and I said our goodbyes. He said the plane ride might be a little choppy, but I would be fine. I believed him, because when Eduardo tells you something, you just listen.
To share his magic, here then, is Eduardo’s favorite song. Enjoy:
New York Snapshots
I forgot the cord to my camera, so most of my photos are on that. I did try to take a few pictures of what I've been up to. So, instead of a detailed, long blog, here's a much shorter one: I was in The Village (I think) and followed these two guys. It was like a Time Machine moment. Like there was the younger guy, and then his older self walking next to him. They were wearing basically the same outfit and walked with the same gait. Their arms moved exactly at the same time. It was freaky! They're either father and son so there's something genetic going on, or they're enmeshed lovers. About the only thing different was the older one wore shoes with sole support.
Here's a picture of GHOST: The Musical! It was an 'experience'. There were some supremely cheesy moments, moments so bad that all they needed was a slow motion picture of a rose blooming to signify making love...but the show still managed to be entertaining.
Here's a picture of a NY Sidewalk. If you've ever been here, then this will remind you of the grime of the city. Throw in a little hot urine, and that's pretty much New York in the summer.
I waited outside the IFC for a friend of mine last night. We went to a grungy bar for dinner and then a quirky gay bar to watch the Tony's. As I waited, this was what I saw:
I chanced upon four random street fairs, with the same vendor clones sprouting up everywhere I turned. It was like being in a spontaneously regenerating labyrinth. I started to freak out a little. Eventually, I escaped (and got some adorable earrings).
Perhaps my favorite moment was when Rae and Kim and I were strolling through Little Italy and then Chinatown. We heard this ethereal music and stumbled into this:
It was surreal and beautiful. I'll write more about that later.
And, finally, here I am drinking at the tiki club called "Otto's Shrunken Head". I pretty much had a shrunken head after that experience.
Coyote Ugly Needs More Jazz Hands
We did about a million things yesterday, and I could give you all the details, but who really wants to read someone’s travel journal? FIRST COMES THE DAY:
- Bacon waffles and mimosas for breakfast
- Walking through Central Park
- Touring the Metropolitan Museum of Art where Kim told us that the $25 admission price was only a ‘suggestion’. We watched her get in for only a dollar. I paid $7 and then apologized. Kim informed us that you can always tell someone is from the Midwest because they’re always apologizing. I promptly said, “Yeah. That’s true. I’m sorry.”
- We walked. And walked. And walked. And then Kim and Rae sent me back to the hotel for a nap while they had some random people in Chinatown rub their feet. Our plan was to go out at night and drink, and we all had to prepare.
THEN COMES THE NIGHT:
Kealoha uploaded all these things on my phone and conveniently put on the location for a tiki bar called Otto’s Shrunken Head. Our night started there, because if your plan is to go out in New York and drink until you’re stupid, it’s best to start at a tiki bar.
The drinks were so stiff that Rachel’s voice dropped two octaves and Kim grew chest hair. I was totally fine because Kealoha has put me through a rigorous training exercises with rum based drinks and hoops set on fire. I won’t go into that. Let’s just say we’re very happily married.
We decided to meet up with some old New York friends of mine. They’re not OLD, exactly, just friends from like ten years ago. I told them I’d give them Secret Identities on the blog, but I was so drunk that I can’t remember what they wanted to be known as. I think they were like super macho names or something, so let’s just call them Betty and Twinkle.
First, we had to eat. We found a nice little tapas place that looked inviting. It had dark wood paneling everywhere. It was like eating in a sauna. The Spanish waiter ignored Kim and I completely. He was smitten with Rachel. He even gave us a round of champagne FOR FREE. That has NEVER happened to me in New York. EVER. I think I want to carry Rachel around in my pocket. She’s like a superhero in hailing cabs and getting free drinks. She says it’s because of her boobs, but I think her face might also be part of the attraction.
Betty and Twinkle said they’d meet us at a bar that was close to us. They chose Coyote Ugly.
Let me say that again: COYOTE UGLY. You remember that movie? About the heart-of-gold girl who wants to Make It in the Big Apple so she takes a job at this bar where she learns to dance on the tables and sing? Yeah. THAT Coyote Ugly. Only this one was like the D List of Coyote Uglies.
We had a round of drinks, I went to the bathroom. The bathroom was straight out of Hades and I immediately threw up. Oh, the pleasure of having a weak stomach.
When I got back, the Big Bouncer dude came over to me and grabbed my hand and started pulling me to the bar. “No, no no no no!” I said. “No way am I dancing up there!”
And then I was dancing up there.
He lifted me to the bar. I guess they do this with random women. A few had gone before me. It’s actually pretty awkward and desperate to watch school teachers in their late forties dance all sexy-time. So, standing up there, I decided that what Coyote Ugly needed wasn’t another Sexy Woman Dancing. No. Coyote Ugly needed Jazz Hands. So I did what is probably the WORST DANCE EVER, and it might just show up on Youtube. Someone actually said “Oh, honey”. I bit my lip, I tapped, and I did this unique move where I pretend I’m hitchhiking.
Then I leapt into the bouncer’s arms ten seconds later and I was done.
I’m pretty sure that my dancing up there caused two, possibly three, pregnancies. It was that hot.
Rae got up next and I think she earned enough money to pay for our trip. (I’m telling you, I’m going to carry her in my pocket.)
AND THEN:
And then our New York friends with the cutest Brooklyn accents ever took us to this hipster bar. We did a round of shots and then we danced. We danced because they played the best mix of old-school Motown music. A smooth guy spun Kim around the dance floor and they did a complicated routine that just doesn’t happen spontaneously, but some how did. It was magic.
AND…
Then it starts to get a little blurry. We stopped for pizza where Kim and Rae and I pretty much told everyone how much we loved them and our Brooklyn buddies just laughed at us. There was some philosophical discussion about the importance of Fungi and then our friends looked at us and said: “You guys are done.” They hailed us a cab, and we were whisked away to our hotel, where we promptly collapsed.
THE MORNING AFTER
We have all made a solemn vow to never drink again. At least until lunch. This is what happens when you meet up with your college roommates.
Scariest Cab Ride Ever
Rae and I got gussied up for dinner. She wore a slinky sundress where men actually stopped her on the street to say: “You look FINE”. One guy ran two blocks calling after her “Summer! Summer!” I thought he was being poetic, but he actually thought she was someone named Summer. I was wearing a blue dress where women on the street stopped to ask me if I could carry large baskets propped on my hips. It just wasn’t fair.
Rae, needless to say, hailed the cabs for us. One guy saw her lifting her slinky arm and he pulled over so fast, flames erupted from the tire’s wheels. That should have been a sign.
Rae said: “We’re going to 6th Avenue and Cornelia stree…” before she even finished the sentence, the cab driver took off, pushing Rae and me back into our seat with the sheer velocity. You know those car chases in movies where a cab is weaving in and out of traffic, nearly hits people, sends fruit carts flying? Well that was us. In between trying to breathe and passing out from fear, I checked the speedometer. He was driving 70mph IN MANHATTAN RUSH HOUR.
Rachel tried to talk me through the experience, the way a dentist asks you questions you can’t really answer because there’s an enormous shot in your mouth. I started laughing uncontrollably when he nearly took out a rickshaw.
“Can’t. Breathe.” I said.
“You want to hold hands?” Rae asked.
“Okay.”
Another five minutes of our cabbie trying to outrun a demon and I’d had enough. We came to a stop and I just couldn’t contain it and said “YOU ARE SCARING THE CRAP OUT OF ME!!!” Then I started laughing. Rae started laughing. The cab driver started laughing. “I mean, I don’t want to offend you, you’re clearly a really good driver, but are you TRYING to give me a heart attack? When is this going to be over?”
The cab driver said (in an actual New York accent which I haven’t heard in forever) “I’m sorry. We’re all okay here. Everything is okay.”
“Do you play video games?” I asked, because talking made the terror easier to bear.
“Only game I ever played was Donkey Kong.”
“Ah. Okay,” I said, and then: “So it’s just a natural talent for driving like a maniac, and not created by too many hours of Grand Theft Auto.” I didn’t say that last part actually, but I wanted to.
The cabbie gently pulled over and came to a stop. He smiled and I think shot us a salute once we got out of the car, but it was hard to see because of all the flames.
Scariest experience ever.
And it was also a tiny bit thrilling.
First Day In New York And I Don't Have Any Blisters
And now, coming to you straight from the hotel lobby of the Marriott Marquis in Times Square where weird Zen music is burbling from seventy speakers…I bring you…(drumroll) My Blog!!!
I really wish you could hear this music. There are harps and water sounds, a little bass, and what sounds like auto-tuned farting. Any minute a cherub is going to float by. It just isn’t my thing.
So. Okay.
My flight left yesterday at 6AM, so poor Kealoha drove me to the airport a little after 4AM. That’s fucking early. I was nervous and anxious and then I saw the new Time Magazine cover. Now I know Time is trying to be all edgy and whatnot and get you to buy their magazine, BUT THIS IS NOT THE PICTURE YOU WANT TO SEE WHEN YOU’RE AFRAID OF FLYING AND ABOUT TO GET ON A PLANE:
Sorry for shouting. But seriously. I hate your face, Time Magazine.
I took a Valium. (Thank you unused-portion of medicine from my root canal. I love you, Root Canal. )
Took a leisurely cab ride into the city and I felt relaxed and calm. Usually when I come to New York, I’m all freaking out and “I’m in New York! Look at the building! Look at all the people! I like puppies!” This time I was laid back and real coolio-man. Just like an old-time beatnik. Of course, I was wearing all black and a beret, so that helped.
Walked around the Upper West side for a while, and found my favorite ‘secret spot’ which me and about 1.5 million other people know about it. Ate a salad. Relaxed.
My friend Rae joined me around 2 and we were off for wine, food and conversation.
There’s a lot I can and will say about this, but I don’t want this to be the longest blog ever, so I’ll write another blog later. In short, it’s good to be in the city, good to have some time here on my own, even better to have some time with my two closest, oldest friends. There’s something intensely refreshing about spending time with people who know you so well they can say: “You know Tanya is going to crash around 9, so let’s go out now before we lose her.” And there’s no judgment there.
I made it until 11:30 and then Kim and Rae tucked me in and went off to Times Square without me. They’re upstairs sleeping now.
Today, we’re off to do whatever we want. We have no plans, except to hopefully see “Ghost”.
Later I’ll blog about what happened with Rae and I last night. It involved the Scariest Cab Ride ever, and pasta so good that I actually moaned a little bit.
And I’ll post some actual pictures once I find the cord to my camera. It’s lost in the black abyss of my luggage.
F***ing Pajama Day
My kids’ school sometimes has Theme Days. You get these emails where it’s like “Today is Sports Day! Wear your sports clothes!” or “Today is School Spirit Day! Wear Blue and Gold!” There are all sorts of Days: Crazy Hat, Crazy Hair, Cowboy, Superhero, Glitter, Carnival, Jean, T-shirt, and Flesh Eating Zombie. (I might’ve made that last one up. I keep freaking out over that Miami Zombie.) So on the calendar for Tuesday was PJ Day. “Wear your favorite PJs and snuggle in for an afternoon of fun!” I put it on the calendar; got a reminder email from the school; double-checked with the kids’ biodad and stepmom. Fine. Fucking PJ Day. Okay.
Yesterday morning was nice. I didn’t even make the kids get dressed. They just stayed in their PJs. Louis wore a too-tight SpongeBob shirt exposing his round belly and super long shorts with guys on skateboards doing flips. Simone wore a cute but slightly-too-big nightgown that kept slipping off her shoulder. She also has a red little chin with four stitches. We drove to school.
As we neared the school, a wave of unease swept over me. There were all the happy kids streaming into school…wearing…sundresses and shorts and tank tops…BUT NO PAJAMAS! What? Was I seeing things! It was PJ Day! I had an email! Where were all the fucking PJs? We got closer. I tried to ignore it. Maybe kids wore full outfits to bed. Then I heard Simone’s voice, edged with fear say “Mom?” and then “MOM?” and then “MMMMOMMMMMM!!!” Panic was thick.
I couldn’t deny it. No one was wearing PJs! Not one fucking kid! I suddenly had this vision of Simone going in to Kindergarten and her teacher looking at her with the stitches on her chin and an old nightgown and saying “Just a minute, honey. I need to call Child Protective Services”.
I mean, just imagine the HORROR. You show up to school one day just randomly wearing pajamas. Your MOM makes you wear PJs! I mean, it’s awful!
Louis said, “Huh. No one’s in pajamas.”
I said, “Uhhh….” panicking on the inside.
“Okay. See ya, Ma,” Louis said and then jumped out of the car. (We were parked of course.)
I took one look at Simone, sitting terrified and shivering in her car seat and I said: “Okay. We’re out of here.” We squealed out of the parking lot, rushed home, I ran inside, grabbed a sundress, tore off the muther fucking nightgown, put her in the sundress, floored the car in reverse, dodged a baby carriage, careened over steps, throttled the car through rush hour traffic, and five minutes later, Simone stepped into her Kindergarten class as if nothing had happened.
Turns out it WAS Pajama Day, but only in Louis’s class. He said a couple kids wore PJS but mostly everyone just looked like they needed a bath.
Thank god the school year is almost over.
***
And I’ll be in New York through the 12th. Look for blogs from the Big Apple. Anything you want me to blog about, let me know.
Small, Manageable Goals
I was clobbered yesterday by the flu: aches, shakes, fever, and a general malaise. About the only thing good about it was that I was just able to use the word 'malaise'. Kealoha took care of the kids and they gave me stuffed animals to cuddle with. I woke up this morning feeling about 82% better (I like to be specific). Maybe the whole flu-thing was just another way of my body saying "Dude, slow down". (My body is a stoner and talks like a Californian.) "Take it easy, man. Reee-laaax."
Today, then, instead of being overly obsessive and over-achieving, I'm going to keep it simple. I'm going to slow down, dude. It's all about small, manageable goals. Here then is my to do list:
I'll get right on that. After I take a nap.
PS: You still have today and tomorrow to win a coffee from Starbucks from me worth five whole dollars. I know. The prize package is overwhelming. Add one of my books to your Goodreads list. Click on THIS LINE RIGHT HERE for details.
Win A Latte On Me (but not literally ON me)
Since I'm just swimming in dough... Oh, wait. That was how I'd start this blog if I wrote "Fifty Shades Of Grey". I didn't. Let me start again.
I want to have a giveaway so I went through my couch cushions and came up with a super exciting prize! Cookie crumbs, an empty Doritos bag, and a weird hairy Squinkie! YAY!!!
No. Actually. The real contest is as follows:
Add one of my books to your Goodreads queue by June 5th and I'll add you into a drawing for your very own coffee from Starbucks!
That's right! A WHOLE COFFEE! Or whatever you can get for $5.00, because that's what the gift card is for.
That's all you have to do. Goodreads. You. One of my books. The books eligible are "Blunder Woman", "Easy Does It", "Foodies Rush In" or "Pepper Wellington and the Case of the Missing Sausage". You don't actually have to BUY any of the books. Just add it to your queue. You could win a prize! A real prize! Wohoooo!
Visit me at Goodreads here: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/2926031.Tanya_Eby
Enter up to four times*. Your dream of a free coffee is within reach. Really. Wishes can come true.
But not if you wish for a unicorn. They're not real. Sorry.
*If you've already added one of my books to your queue, then you're ALREADY in the contest! High five!
Growing Older Hurts A Little, Doesn't It?
I started rereading “House of Leaves” by Danielewski. I read it when it first came out and it scared the crap out of me. I guess I want to repeat that experience again. So in the first few pages he mentions the wife of the protagonist and says that she’s nearing her forties and struggling with staying trim and aging and living a suburban life. And in another book I'm listening to ("The Bedlam Detective") there's another female character who's nearing her forties, struggling with staying trim and aging and living a provincial life.
I had to set the book aside for a few minutes after that and think for awhile.
Two totally different novels and the women characters are struggling with exactly the same things I'm struggling with! You mean I'm not unique in this? AWESOME!!!
It suddenly struck me that all my complaining and whining about my weight isn’t really about my weight at all; it’s about my AGE. I'm having growing pains again, only they're psychological pains.
I’m about seven pounds heavier than I was at my thinnest, so I’m about normal. It’s not the weight that gets to me, but a general THICKENING. Like I’m just more SOLID or something. I look in the mirror and I see pretty much what I am: A middle-aged wife and mother of two. It’s so weird! I mean, I think: Holy cow! That’s YOU in the mirror, Tanya. You with graying hair and a few wrinkles and…you’re like…A WOMAN. And a MOM. When people see you on the street they probably think "She looks like she bakes really good cookies".
I’m actually really good with that, but still some of it is hard.
I look at pictures of myself when I was in my twenties and I think: Holy crap. You were really cute! Why were you so hard on yourself?
Don’t you just sorta wish that you could go back to your younger self, but have the confidence and self-esteem of your older self? I do. And I’m sure twenty years from now I’ll look at my 38-year-old-self and see someone who is curvy and youthful and still cute.
I just wish I could see that NOW.
In Which I Add More Explosions To My Writing
My son says more people would buy my books if I wrote stuff people actually wanted to read. You know, stuff with EXPLOSIONS. So I decided to do a little experiment. What would it look like if my books had more explosions and violence and stuff in it? I mean, my little dude could be on to something. Here then is an excerpt from “Easy Does It”, the first book I wrote which is essentially a comedy about online nerdy dating. I’ve taken the text and did some Pride & Prejudice & Zombies to it. (And now when I even mention ‘zombies’ I think of that recent story about the real zombie in Miami eating a guys FACE. I’m totally traumatized.)
Here, then, I present in Technicolor “Easy Does It While Carrying A Bazooka”.
Chapter 4
She laughed. She cried. She was drunk.
That night, Julie logged onto CoupleMe.com and began typing in her personal ad. She considered it again. What exactly did she want? Posting for a mate was sort of like ordering a pizza. Did she want another vegetarian, or something with a little meat?
Meat, she thought. This time I want meat.
She typed. Took a sip of wine. Thought: Mmmmm. Merlot is yummy. Took another sip of wine.
Suddenly, there was a gigantic explosion outside! Julie ran to the window and looked out. Giant fireballs were raining from the sky! What the hell is going on? she thought.
She opened the window. There were people running around and screaming. A giant orange fireball hit Mrs. Tiber, the old crank who lived in apartment B downstairs and went through Julie’s mail. Mrs. Tiber and her walker went flying! Served her right.
Julie saw a newspaper kid running across the street. Another fireball landed just in front of him, but luckily the kid maneuvered around it. “Hey, kid!” Julie called. “What the hell is going on?”
The kid turned around and looked at her. He adjusted his ball cap and said in a tiny voice “Oh, jeez, lady! Haven’t you heard? We’re under attack from aliens from the planet Nezbar! You’ve got to take cover! They’re going to kill us! They’re going to kill us a…” Just then a tentacle reached down from the sky and impaled the kid, sending a spiky green arm straight through the top of his baseball cap.
“Thanks for the info!” Julie said, thought the poor kid was beyond hearing.
She shut the window. It was really loud out. She went back to her computer.
What was she supposed to say? The truth? I’m lonely. I’m in love with my ex-boyfriend. I’m totally dependable and predictable, which means…I’m boring. You could feel those things, but you couldn’t write them. She sipped her wine.
The house shook with another explosion! She could hear death screams outside and then a computerized announcement seemed to fill her brain. “We are from the planet Nezbar! We have come to EAT YOU!”
Julie went to her closet, took off her robe, revealing her camo shorts and tight tank top. She grabbed the bazooka she kept just in case aliens attacked Earth, and carried the gun back to her computer.
She looked at the picture of Ronny she still kept by her computer. It was her favorite shot of him on the night they met nearly five years ago. He was playing piano for his band, The Two Wets. He stood in a spotlight, head tilted up, his face pinched. It was a familiar expression to Julie since it was the same pose he struck when he had an orgasm, except without the spotlight.
Julie toasted the picture and gulped. Usually, she’d stop at one glass, because wine tended to make her loopy, but tonight was a special night. She was in search of loopy…and was possibly about to save the world. She poured another glass, stuck her tongue out at Ronny, and slammed his smug orgasm-face on the table. She couldn’t look at him any more especially since she hadn’t had an orgasm-face in months.
If she were being honest, and drinking an entire bottle of wine led her to be pretty honest, Julie admitted she felt like that miscellaneous sock at the bottom of the laundry basket, the one you keep washing in hopes that its second half would eventually show up. “Thass me,” she slurred to the computer screen. “I’m a sock. A hole filled socky-sock-sock.”
Julie tried to pick up her cell phone and call Eve but she was having trouble seeing the buttons clearly. No need. She could post this ad on her own. She didn’t need Eve to hold her hand with everything. She would post this ad!
She grabbed her personal ad and began typing. Maybe she would change her ad. Cheer it up a bit, like Eve said.
She wrote so quickly she barely knew what she was typing. Her words flew from her in a torrent. She laughed. She cried. She was drunk. She hit “submit”, and then slunk back in her chair for a very quick nap.
A tentacle smashed threw the window, nearly missing Julie. She woke up suddenly, grabbed her Bazooka and decided that while she waited for a response to her personal ad, while she kept searching for the love of her life, she could also save the world. “MUTHER FUCKERSSSSS!” she screamed and leapt out of the window, shooting that bazooka like the mofo she was. It wasn’t right that aliens wanted to take over the Earth. And it wasn’t right that she was single.
TO BE CONTINUED--BUT PROBABLY NOT
Dammit. I sorta like it. You can read the REAL novel here: CLICK ON THIS. It's free on Amazon if you have a Prime membership. There aren't any explosions in it though, and now I'm wondering if my son was right and maybe I should go back and add more KABLAM into my romantic comedies. Huh.
Conversation with Kealoha, Exploding Sausages, and 9 Other Random Things
ME: What should I blog about? (Kealoha stretches and makes an ‘errr’ sound.)
KEALOHA: Write about how awesome your husband is.
ME: Nah. No one wants to read that.
(Pause)
ME: I mean, I don’t want to make anyone JEALOUS.
***
I really am searching for blog topics, but what’s currently on my mind are things that are frequently on my mind and hence probably boring and repetitive to anyone who reads this blog even semi-frequently:
1) I’m turning 39 next month and am having a prolonged panic attack of: “I’m Middle-Aged With A 40-Year-Old Paunch, Graying Hair And I Look Matronly”.
2) The above paranoia is enhanced because I’m going to New York in less than two weeks to spend a weekend with two of my college roommates and they still look lithe and perky and, well, hot. I sorta just look sweaty. Maybe I’ll be the designated picture taker or just take pictures of my feet.
3) Because of the above two things, I’m probably going to go to Kohls for some Spanx that will hold in my 40-Year-Old stomach. When I wear Spanx, I feel like a sausage, and not breakfast links either. I feel like I'm a giant KIELBASA. I’m afraid I’ll bust out of the seams and then on the streets of New York, someone will scream “Oh my god! It’s an exploding almost-40-year-old sausage-woman!!” Then they’ll make a SyFy movie based on me.
4) “Foodies Rush In” just came out. I think some people are actually reading it. Kealoha formatted everything and he tells me not to just give it away because it has value. But I still might smuggle some books to NY and see if I can get my still-hot former roommates to hand them out to people.
5) We go to Paris in July (hence 1, 2, and 3) and I haven’t learned a single phrase of French yet. I’m considering pretending I’m deaf, but I don’t know sign language either.
6) I’ve got one more book to narrate and then no further gigs booked for the rest of the summer. Massive, massive panic attack.
7) I’m now polishing my asylum story. I love it. After this, it’s time for a literary collection of short stories tentatively called “Seven Sarahs”.
8 ) I really wish I could just be okay with who I am, how much I weigh, what I write, etc. etc. If they invent a pill for that, let me know. I’m not opposed to medication.
9) My husband really is awesome.
10 ) I don’t have a 10, but you can’t have a list of 9 things, especially if you’re OCD. So for my OCD readers, I filled in the space here so you don’t have to.
Yeah. Those are my potential blog topics. I’m not going to write about any of them.
Instead, I’m going for a walk, and then I’m going to make salmon dip.
"Foodies Rush In" is now available! Read an excerpt here:
I'm thrilled to announce that "Foodies Rush In" is now available as an ebook! The paperback version will be ready soon. Look for it on Amazon, Smashwords, and soon on Barnes & Noble. Click on links below. The price is only $2.99.
You can't even get a latte for $2.99!
Here's the first chapter of the book to get you started. It's a quick summer read featuring awkward characters, food, and some sauciness. Apparently I cuss in it a lot, but I didn't even notice that.
******
CHAPTER ONE
Even before Dana set her bags on the wooden floor of her 1950s era cookie cutter house, she could hear her kids calling her name and running over themselves to get to her.
“Mommy! Mommy!” they cried. Were there two more beautiful words in the English language? Maybe “Eat Chocolate” but “Mommy! Mommy!” came a close second.
She set her bags down, kneeled, opened her arms and was promptly tackled by her four-year-old daughter dressed in layers of pink tulle, and her six-year-old son dressed as a zombie. “I thought Halloween was over. It’s supposed to be Thanksgiving in a week!” she said amidst the kisses and elbows and general head butting that represented the love-fest greeting from her kids.
“Don’t you know?” she heard her sister Valerie say. “They’re not dressed up. This is how they are, like all the time.”
Dana peeled her daughter Ruby from her neck, and lifted her son Zach off her stomach and sat up. “Should I have warned you before I left?” she asked.
Her sister smiled. “To tell you the truth, I sorta already knew. Come on kiddos, give your mom some space to settle in before you maul her to death. You’d think she’d been gone for a year and not just five days.”
“Hey! Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom? Mom,” Ruby chanted. “Ma? Mommy. Mom. Hey. Mom.”
Dana shook her head and smiled. “What, sweetie?”
“You bring me something?” Ruby shot her that smile that melted icebergs.
Her son stared at her intently. For a brief moment Dana thought he was going to ask her for brains—it must’ve been the makeup. Instead, he said, “What I’d really like is some more Clone Troopers. They have any Clone Troopers in Vegas?”
“Not exactly. But they did have these.” Dana pulled two plastic jars of M&Ms from her bag. She’d had them printed with the kids’ names on them. She had tons of swag from the conference, but most of it related to her new canning venture and was being shipped to her. The t-shirts, mugs, necklaces, and small velvet painting of Elvis for her sister, waited in her bag.
The kids grabbed the M&Ms and scampered off to sort colors and devour the candy mercilessly.
Valerie stared at her, arms crossed over her gigantic boobs—thanks to lactating for twins. Dana gave her sister some credit. She at least waited until the kids were out of earshot before she said, “Okay, dish. Who’s the guy and are you pregnant?”
“No, I’m not pregnant! Don’t be ridiculous! We didn’t even…” Dana lowered her voice to a whisper, “sleep together.”
“You’re not supposed to sleep. That’s not how I got pregnant. I sure as heck wasn’t sleeping.”
“It was nothing,” Dana said, trying to sound as if it really was nothing. She scooped up her bag, opened it and handed her sister the 5x7 portrait of Elvis. When you put him on the wall and walked back and forth in front of him, his eyes seemed to follow you everywhere. It was creepy, yet comforting at the same time.
“Oh, no,” Valerie said. “You are not distracting me with artistic genius. I want his name, his height, his income level, and when are you seeing him again.”
“Theodore Drimmel.” Dana waited to see her sister’s reaction. It took Valerie a moment to think it over and then her nose crinkled as if she smelled something bad.
“I like the Theodore part,” she said, “but that Drimmel has got to go. Maybe he can take your name when you get married.”
“Valerie! Don’t be ridiculous. It was a fling. I’m not going to…” Suddenly, Dana saw herself standing next to a punked-out Theo and both of them giggling, right after they’d said “I do” and “Oy”.
Dana continued, “Look, do you want the vital statistics or not? I can give you age, height, and income level, but not much else. And…is there any coffee? I’m in need of a serious jolt of caffeine. I know it was only five days, but there’s a three hour time difference.”
Valerie nodded and walked into Dana’s kitchen. Dana loved her kitchen. Sure, it could be a little bigger, but it had all the earth tones she loved. Green cabinets, creamy brown counters flecked with golds and greens, easy-to-clean linoleum. It hardly sounded romantic, but when her then-husband Paul had said she could do anything she wanted to the kitchen—within a budget—she’d thought she’d won a trip to France. Of course, she realized he’d given her free reign of the kitchen around the same time he’d started seeing his new wife. Best not to think about that.
Valerie grabbed two mugs, poured equal amounts of cream into both and topped it off with hazelnut coffee. “Yes,” she said before Dana could question her. “I’m back to drinking caffeine. The twins aren’t sleeping through the night yet, so that means I’m pretty much constantly wired. His name is Theodore,” she transitioned from one thought to the next so quickly that Dana had trouble noticing they were on two different subjects.
“Yes. And he’s opening a gourmet food store somewhere in the Midwest, so he’s employed and gets some kind of paycheck. He paid for things for me without hesitation, and I haven’t experienced that since…well, never. He’s a few inches taller than me, so I can still wear heels. He’s nice. Funny. Cute in a TV CSI scientist kind of way. What else? He’s a great kisser. But that’s all I know. Nothing else.”
“You forgot to say when you’re seeing each other again.”
“We’re not. Ever.” Dana sipped her coffee, reveling the warmth it gave her, and then became aware that the warmth was actually from the glare her sister was giving her. “Don’t give me that look, Val. It’s not a big deal. It’s a small deal. A good deal actually. It’s ridiculous to even think that I’d see him again. I’m a mom. I’m busy. I haven’t dated since The Culture Club was considered edgy. And everyone says what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.”
“Yeah…well, everyone is stupid. Are stupid. Everyone are stupid.” Valerie looked confused. “Seriously. I have baby momma brain. Don’t listen to everyone is what I’m trying to say.”
“I’m not ready to date.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not.”
Valerie set her mug down on the countertop. They listened to the kids shouting out random colors. Zach was trying to trade Ruby one blue for four purple and Ruby wasn’t allowing it. Smart girl, Dana thought.
Valerie yelled at the top of her lungs “Knock it off, kiddos, or you’ll wake the twins!” then immediately said, “Paul’s been gone a year. You’ve been divorced since June. The holidays are breathing down your neck. You. Are. Ready. To. Date.” Then she sipped her coffee in an “enough said” sort of way.
Dana felt the familiar plum rise in her throat any time she thought of her ex. It was true that she’d been devastated when he left, but honestly, she wasn’t shocked. They weren’t right for each other. They liked each other, married each other because they’d thought the other one was “good enough”. Truthfully, they’d both had biological clocks that were not only ticking, but booming. And they’d had five years together. Five years of coexisting together, but not really living. Not fully. So when he’d met and fallen in love with someone else—Dana had been devastated and hurt, but not at all surprised. And she’d never seen Paul happier.
That might’ve been what hurt the most. That and Paul seemed content to see the kids only occasionally, especially now that Alyssa was expecting.
Dana had tried to imagine herself going out on dates again. How did one do that? Dating was a horrible experience in her twenties. She couldn’t imagine doing it now in her late thirties, with two kids. And what would she do? How would she even approach the topic of who she was and what she offered now? She could just imagine walking up to an attractive man and saying, “Hey, I’m Dana! I’m a single mom with two kids. Do you want to be an instant dad? Do you want to have frenzied sex when the kids are at their dad’s and secret sex once every month while the kids are sleeping? Because that’s probably what we’ll do. Oh! And are you willing to go through a police check and probably an anal probe just to make sure you’re not hiding anything, because I’ve watched a lot of America’s Most Wanted over the years, and I am not letting any freaks near my children.”
Dana had a few issues.
“I’m not ready to date, Val,” she said, this time using her End of Discussion tone. “Besides,” she finished, “he’s already married.” She just didn’t say that technically, if you didn’t think of paperwork, he was married to her.
Meet Fandoodle The Depressed Balloon Animal Maker
Yesterday, we took the kids to Applebee’s. I’ve been cooking a lot, and had two longs days of narrating so we thought, fuck it. We’re not cooking. Convincing the kids to go was like trying to convince them to get shots. But Kealoha and I were determined that we were going to go out as a family and they were going to enjoy it dammit! I think we both had low blood sugar.
When we got there, there were all these balloons and stuff. Simone asked: “What’s this about”? The hostess said: “Oh, it’s Kids’ Night. You can get a balloon animal and your face painted.”
Louis thought about it and then nodded. “Nice work, guys,” he said to me and Kealoha.
We sat down. After a while a big guy wearing a tye-dyed shirt came over. (He had pants on too, thank god.) He looked sorta depressed, and I could see why. Making balloon animals at an Applebees probably isn’t all that exciting for a clown-wannabe. “Hi. I’m Fandoodle,” he said almost apologetically. Then he looked at the card that he was wearing as a necklace and read in a monotone: “I can make squirrels, dogs, cats, hearts, swords, flowers, dinosaurs, and apples. What would you like?” Why did he have to read off of a card what animals he could make? Maybe they just picked the guy up off the street and forced him to blow up balloons and twist them. Maybe he was supporting a coke habit or something.
Simone immediately said “Squirrel!”
“What color?” He looked at his card. “I have blue, purple, pink, yellow, red, black, white…”
“Brown!”
“What?”
Simone said again, “Brown!” (She did want a squirrel after all.) “I want a brown and light brown.”
“No, only one color.”
“Okay. Brown.”
“I don’t have brown. I have blue, purple, pink...” They settled on yellow. Then he proceeded to pop two balloons, giving me a heart attack, and then handed Simone a squirrel. It was the worst squirrel I’ve ever seen. It looked like a poodle. I wondered if all of the animals looked like poodles, but then he made a decent dinosaur for Louis.
Later, Kealoha and I did impersonations of the Depressed Balloon Maker Fandoodle. We came up with a comedy sketch that went like this.
(Read in a monotone) FRANDOODLE: Hi. I’m Fandoodle. You want a squirrel? Here. (Fandoodle hands over a straight balloon to a kid.) KID: But that’s just a plain balloon. It’s not a squirrel at all. FANDOODLE: Use your imagination, kid.
Then the kids wanted to get their faces painted. They ate fast and then I walked them to the teenager doing stick figures on kids’ faces. Kealoha sat at the booth surrounded by food happily eating away. Simone wanted a flower and I have never seen her sit so still. Then Louis hopped up. “What do you want little boy?” The teenager asked. I think she thought Louis was a puppy.
LOUIS: Hmmm. I dunno. Can you paint a murder?
TEENAGER: Huh?
LOUIS: Yeah. You know. MURDER.
(pause)
ME: He wants you to paint a murder on his face, but no. Don’t do that. That's not appropriate for school. How about a skull? Louis, a skull is like a murder only it’s after the body has decomposed for a while and then the CSI dudes investigate it.
LOUIS: Oh. Okay.
TEENAGER: I can do a skull.
According to the kids, this was the Best Night Ever.
I wonder if Fandoodle can say the same.
My Gift To You
In case you don't follow me on Facebook or Twitter, here's a little picture that I will now share with you. It began as two of my favorite things that I own: a simple stuffed buffalo and an action figure of Number One (Riker) from Star Trek. My hubby (Kealoha) combined them on my dresser for PURE MAGIC and then I took a picture and posted it to Facebook, because that's the kind of stuff we do in our modern age.
Then hubby added the rainbows and clouds because, really, Number One should be flying, and I'm sure every bison has wanted to. And then Kealoha made another wish come true and turned it into a painting. Sheer GENIUS. I now share this with you, dear reader.
May your day be filled with goodness. Make it so.
What My Moment Of Zen Ended Up Being
I had a moment this weekend where I was like “Wow. Life is really beautiful, you know?” And I wasn’t drunk. Or on valium for the dentist. No. This was au natural…except I was clothed.
I was sitting in the playroom, which is also my office. Kealoha was running errands and the kids were playing downstairs. I sat at my desk and just breathed for a while and noticed as I sat in my stillness, I could hear the most beautiful birdsong out the window. I mean, it was really melodic and it sounded like it was from a Disney movie or something. Like somewhere, somehow some ugly chick was getting a gown made of berries JUST FOR HER and I could listen to it.
I breathed. I reveled in the moment of knowing I was exactly where I should be.
Then my son came upstairs. “Hey, ma,” he said. “Can I finish my game on the computer?”
“What?” I said, still in a half-daze. “Sure. Whatever. Go ahead.”
He sat at the computer and I looked over and noticed that the beautiful birdsong I was basking in was actually from this cute-monster video game and my son’s monster was in this freakish garden where plants had eyes and stuff. The actual sounds coming from outside were a car alarm and some distant lawn mowers and somebody nearby who was, I’m pretty sure, farting the national anthem.
So. Yeah. That was my moment of beauty. If you know me at all, you know that the actual genesis of the birdsong makes so much more sense than the one I had in my head. I was still happy, though. And mildly embarrassed.
A state in which I’m very comfortable.
My Son Solves My Artistic Problems
Here is a conversation I had with my son (7 years old) last night. He was looking at the proof copy “Foodies Rush In”.
SON: Ma. Ma! So…are you famous?
ME: Famous? No. Why?
SON: But you have books, right?
ME: Yeah…
SON: Do a lot of people buy your books?
ME: Not really.
SON: How many have you sold?
ME: All together?
SON: Yeah.
ME: About 50.
SON: Wow. That’s a lot.
ME: (smiles)
SON: Why aren’t more people buying your books? ME: Well….
SON: Maybe if you wrote something that people WANT to read then they’d buy your books.
ME: (blink blink)
SON: Let me think about this. Maybe I could come up with an idea of something people would actually want to read.
ME: Okay. That would be really helpful.
A few minutes later, he told me that perhaps I should ‘write something with a lot of battles and explosions and stuff’ because that’s what he’d like to read, and he’s pretty sure there are like a million other people out there would like to read that too. And maybe then I’ll be famous.