Adventures in Momming: The Beard Episode

The kids have been fighting a lot. I shouldn’t be surprised. They’re six and seven, girl and a boy, extrovert and introvert…and they’ve been stuck in the house together and with each other nearly every moment all summer long. So when Simone was crying on the swingset yesterday, I went outside to referee yet again. I was prepared with “Louis, stop touching/tasering/poking/teasing her.” I was not prepared for what I got.

Simone had big tears streaming down her face, and took deep cry-breaths. (She's very cute even crying.) She sat on the swing with her smirking brother next to her. I wanted to scoop her up and hug her, but it WAS possible that she’d kicked him first and then he called her something, so I had to investigate first, dole out some kind of punishment, and then comfort.

Me: Okay, what happened?

Simone: (cry cry choke gasp cry and then:) Louis is imagining me with a BEARD!

Simone then followed that little statement with HUGE crying while I…stood there, trying desperately not to laugh because all of a sudden I was imagining her with a beard. She’d look like a dwarf dressed up for Snow White. Her beard would be strawberry blonde and long. She’d HATE having a beard. She’d keep scratching it. Louis with a beard would probably look like Freud.

I TRIED to stop imagining it and be all Mom Dictator.

But, I mean, honestly, how are you supposed to chastise someone for 1) Using their imagination and 2) Imagining a beard on a cute 6-year-old girl? There’s a little bit of evil-brother-genius in that.

I instantly imagined me dealing with this:

ME: Louis, stop imagining your sister with a beard.

LOUIS: Fine.

SIMONE: He’s still imagining it!

LOUIS: Am not.

SIMONE: You are too!

LOUIS: So what.

ME: Louis, stop imagining a beard on your sister right now or I’ll imagine you without legs.

I mean, this could not happen.

So I did what any other parent with a strong sense of humor and appreciation for the surreal would do. I said “Stop It” and then quickly walked into the house where I told Kealoha all abut it, stopped myself from laughing, grabbed something to drink, and then glanced at the calendar. School for them starts in one week.

One more week. We can do this.

On Something New Becoming Something Wonderful And Crickets

It’s Sunday morning and my windows are open. There’s a cool breeze tickling in and the sound of crickets. I’d like to say how peaceful it is, but those crickets get a little annoying, especially if you think about just how many legs are currently rubbing together frantically to produce that sound…which of course leads me to wonder if any crickets have actually spontaneously combusted. Like, okay, I’m a cricket and goddammit I’m going to produce MUSIC and I’ll rub my legs together like there’s no tomorrow and SEE! There’s some sound…and…what’s that? A puff of smoke! And then BLAMMO! I’m a little flame. Poor cricket.

I bet that’s how most forest fires get started. Damn crickets rubbing their legs together so fast that they just combust.

Anyway. There was a point to this blog.

Ah, yes. Peaceful Sunday morning. I’m sitting in shorts and a tank top and I’m thinking about how scary New Things are. I start my new teaching gig on Monday and I have that nervous anticipation that happens with New Things. I could’ve stayed at Kendall, maybe, but I think this new adventure is a good fit. And it’s all just made me think about how New ANYTHING stretches you as a person. How it can scare the crap out of you, but whenever you’re doing something new and/or challenging, it also makes you feel more alive, and maybe it changes you and makes you a better person. And if not a better person, then hopefully at least a more interesting person.

Maybe it’s not even the NEWNESS of something that is exciting. Maybe it’s that you’re vulnerable and open and instead of staying in your little cave, you’re like, fuck it, I’m going to go out there and show the world who I am. It’s a little bit like walking around naked and not caring what people think. (Although I would NEVER do that because I care way too much about what people think, and I’m afraid to walk around naked now because what if my thighs rub together and I spontaneously combust?)

Anyway. I’m hoping this is the start to something good. I’m counting on it.

That’s about as in-depth and philosophical I can be this morning. In short: I admire people who take risks and try new and scary things in the hopes that something wonderful happens. I’m good with this New Stuff happening, especially because I have some pretty amazing people in my life that allow me to walk around naked. Metaphorically. I’m METAPHORICALLY naked. Actually, Sam the Eagle once pointed out that we’re all naked under our clothes…so I guess I am walking around naked ALL THE TIME.

This is not my best blog. I realize that. I’m giving myself credit for sitting down and doing it anyway. And now I’m going to turn on the sprinkler. This will accomplish two things: 1) quiet the crickets and 2) protect my lawn from any sudden bursts of flames.

It’s possible I think too much.

Musical Interlude: Guy On A Buffalo

This is courtesy of Kealoha (as in, he found it somewhere. It's by The Possum Posse or something). This is the kind of crap he plays for me and the kids and then we all end up around a campfire with tiki drinks and singing. It's ridiculous. And BEAUTIFUL.

Adventures in Momming #42

Last weekend the kids came over with their stepsiblings. I’d promised my daughter that she and her stepsister could have a sleepover here. (One of the things I’m trying to do is build a strong relationship with my kids’ stepfamily. My stepsister has been a huge influence on my life.) Anyway. So I decided to do tie-dye with them, and I roped Kealoha into helping. Now, I like to think of myself as a crafty person. After all, my mom taught me how to weave (not jut potholders but on a 1970s wooden LOOM), dye Ukrainian eggs, tin punch, make paper from scratch, and basically create an entire house from popsicle sticks. (I ate A LOT of popsicles growing up.) So I thought tie-dyeing would be easy. A piece of cake.

What was I thinking? My cheap little project ended up costing me almost a hundred dollars. I bought a kit to make it "easier". It came with a tube and cute little dye bottles. I thought “Great! No mixing! No children dyeing their faces purple.”

What I didn’t realize was that I had to mix the dyes before putting them in the tiny squeeze bottles, and I had to start the project 48 hours in advance and use some kind of ‘fixing solution’ which sounded mighty dangerous, and the tube just created a huge mess. Total fail. I went back to the craft store.

I bought another kit with pre-mixed dyes and no fixing solution. Kealoha and I covered our backyard porch with plastic, donned surgical gloves and tried to figure out how the hell to put rubber bands around the shirts and then do you dye them wet or dry and then how does the dye get on there without the kids turning colors. It was a mess.

I’d also bought two kits. One had army camouflage colors and since my son is into that right now, I got that for him. The other had pink, purple and light blue which I knew my daughter would love. As we were choosing colors I grabbed the army ones and my son said “What about the others?” And I said “Oh, you don’t want the pink one, do you?” I didn’t even think. I just spoke. My mind was like “Pink isn’t really good camouflage.” And you know what my 7 year old said? “Ma, yeah, I’m not really into that whole boy/girl color thing. I like pink. There’s nothing wrong with pink.” Proud mama right here.

Kealoha looked kinda shell-shocked as we ‘guided’ the kids to squirting colors on the shirts. “What made you think two geeks could conquer this?” he asked me. I think I’d been drinking wine at the time I decided this.

Still. We managed to create four shirts that looked pretty cool. And the kids only dyed their hands which, if anything, just meant they couldn’t vote in the next election or something, so I thought we were in pretty good shape.

The girls stayed over. Had a great time. I cooked them homemade crepes with fresh whipped cream and strawberries. When I dropped them back off at their dad’s house, my daughter hugged me and ran inside, her stepsister followed, then turned back and gave me a big old warm wave and smile. It was a good weekend.

I'm here! I'm here!

I swear to you, I'm here, and I'm still blogging. I've just been swept up in that tornado of back-to-school activity. First, buying stuff for the kids and trying to encourage them that "School will be great!" all the while thinking: "Yeah. School pretty much sucks until you're in college. Then it's fun." And I start my new teaching gig at a new college, which just happens to be my alma mater.

I'm seeing the ghost of my twenty-year-old self EVERYWHERE. She's breathing down my neck. She is thinner and has better skin than I do, but I dress better because she's so poor that she considers breadsticks a meal. Actually, I consider breadsticks a meal too. It’s weird, though, seeing who you were and remembering who you THOUGHT you’d be, and comparing that to who you ARE. I really thought I’d be a Famous Author. Instead, I wear mom jeans (when I wear pants at all. Not that I’m PANTLESS, but you know how I feel about dressing like I’m going to do yoga even though I never do.)

Anyway. Teaching at a new place has required me to analyze everything I do in my approach to talking about writing…and everything about who I am as a person. There are definite drawbacks to being sensitive and neurotic. Your brain and self-doubt never shut up. (My brain says: “You need to read more!” and “Seriously? You want to do THAT as an exercise?” and “Who do you think you are?”) Still, I got those mofo-ing syllabi done, and I have some new ideas…so if the students will just go along with me a bit, maybe it’ll work out.

Stress makes me ugly. Not like I’m all hunchbacky and witch-like, but I feel that way. Kealoha is doing a great job of dealing with me. I don’t even SEE him drinking a lot of mai tais to allow him to deal with me; he just naturally endures it, or gets drunk in private. We’re both hoping my mood will pass. I’m just…stressed.

So. Blugh. I’m here. I’m a little annoying right now. But pretty soon, I’ll be back with ridiculous scenes and other things. I have evil plans for the blog. Hopefully, plans that will take it in a little more of a creative direction. I still have some creative juices left flowing in me. Wait. Did I just say “creative juices flowing in me”? Ew. That sounds gross and dirty and makes me want to take a shower. I’ll go do that now.

What The World Needs Now Is Empathy, Sweet Empathy

Now that Romney has announced his VP choice, the Facebook posts have really started coming on strong. Whichever side they’re ‘for’, the posts seem to stem from the same place: a place called Anger. I think much of our politics (and policies) are housed here. And we know why.

An angry person is fueled by a burning energy that propels them into action, namely: to vote.

I think that this core starting point of Anger is the root of our problems in the States. We, as a community, are fueled by an emotion that is essentially destructive, prohibits change, fights logic, and resists compromise. Ever try to rationalize with a toddler having a tantrum? You can’t. That’s the problem. We’re a country of tantrum-throwing toddlers.

So. Okay. What if we DIDN’T try to rationalize anymore? What if we didn’t even try to ‘change the conversation’? What if, instead, everyone tried to change the starting point of the conversation?

What if politics were not based on FEAR but on EMPATHY.

Empathy is a skill that allows one person to sympathize with another, to imagine their life story for a moment and understand their choices. I call empathy a ‘skill’ and not an emotion. An emotion is something you feel in your gut. Empathy is a deeper understanding that is taught. This ability to imagine and connect with another’s experience can be explained, practiced, and encouraged to grow.

In my life, both writing and acting have enhanced my ability to empathize (one of the reasons I think it’s essential that we fund the arts. It makes us better people.). But why is empathy important?

Okay. Imagine instead of saying “Gays can’t marry because God says it’s wrong. Because of this, I hate gays”…What if a person instead could find a quiet place within themselves that resists judging and instead says “It must be hard to love someone so much that you want to marry them and you’re told you can’t. Love IS love, and it must hurt to be told it isn’t.”

Any debate can be reduced to a quiet center, a story whispered into hearts.

I’ve tried to do this with gun control. I can understand why people want to protect our right to ‘bear arms’.  When I go to my quiet center, I think “Okay. A right to bear arms is important and guaranteed by our Constitution. What is a compromise that honors this right, yet protects our people? Why can’t there be an over-the-counter gun, a gun that allows for hunting and is simple and can be licensed. One standard gun to honor the Constitution. Why can’t other guns be treated as prescription-only guns, that is, given to police officers and the military under special license only?”

I can imagine how desperate it must feel like to want to go to college and not be able to afford it. I can know that it must be hard for those who are wealthy to understand poverty, true poverty. I can feel how awful it must be to have to choose between buying insulin and paying a mortgage, when you are so sick you can’t work and your insurance is maxed out. I, myself, am a very hard worker, but I have no insurance. Not for lack of trying or wanting, but because my part-time work (though I work two jobs) won’t cover me. I can imagine being someone other than me.

If our politicians could practice real acts of empathy instead of playing to Anger and spouting attack ads and angry memes, maybe we could all feel a little more inspired to take care of each other, to build a community of support, instead of a nation of angry individuals.

We can start with ourselves. Before you post that Facebook picture, or send that forwarded email, ask yourself  "Does this come from a place of anger? Have I tried to consider how others feel about this issue? Am I responding from a place of kindness?"

I’m teaching my kids how to empathize. It begins with this: “Imagine how you would feel if…” and it grows from there.

The following account is 100% true, although enhanced 86% with false information.

I woke up and I knew I was going to save the world. Some days are like that. I was going to save the world, but first I’d have to make sure that the kids were dressed and didn’t stink. If aliens are coming to take over the world, you want to make sure you’re at least a little appealing so they don’t laser your ass right away.  

I began to prep for my mission as World Savior by reading the next book I’m going to narrate. Nothing prepares you for battle more than reading a book where nipples are randomly popping out all over the place.

Then I did a kick ass training routine where I balanced the kids on my shoulders while jumping through hoops and over barrels and around land mines in my backyard. Kealoha timed me. I ran my best yet 1:53 minutes, and I only dropped the kids once. No worries. They’ll heal. It was just a flesh wound.

After my training session, I left Kealoha in charge of the kids while I ran to the grocery story. Literally. I RAN. It’s easy. It’s only five miles away. In the busy D&W, I pushed that mofo cart as if being chased by tentacles. I took down a lithe woman in a yoga outfit with matching pink sneakers and sunglasses, and figured she was worth fifty points at least.

Got home. Gave the kids guns, ammo, and strapped sharp knives to their legs. Told them to go practice outside. We’ve got lots of squirrels and bunnies. Kealoha rode his unicycle for a while and made balloon animals. I’m pretty sure when the aliens get here, he’s going to entertain them TO DEATH.

Then I started cooking. I made some amazing jalapeño popper dip for my lonely dip blog. (Aliens are lactose intolerant.) I butchered a cow for the beef burgundy I’m going to make today. Not my favorite thing to do, but World Saviors aren’t vegetarians. I’m sorry. They’re just not.

After that I took a nap to rest up for the oncoming onslaught. Ate some Borsin cheese.

Our friend Debbie came over and she talked about military strategy and showed us her homemade laser gun. It had a lot of rubber bands and vaporized the neighbor’s cat. (Sorry about that.)

Then it was time to save the world…which I did…right after watching the first episode of “News Room” which inspired me to be honest and vulnerable and, goddammit, NOBLE.

After the kids were in bed, Kealoha and I busted out an arsenal of weapons and I put that jalapeño dip on a PLATTER. “Come to Momma,” I called to the heavens.

And then war busted out.

Had a great sleep. There’s nothing like killing alien invaders to make a woman sleep well…except maybe an orgasm and/or ice cream.

I’m Pretty Sure If I Had Balls That They’re Gone Now

Something really peculiar happened this summer. I started to relax; once I started, I just couldn’t seem to stop. I’m pretty sure I know what happened: I’ve been neutered.I don’t know who took my balls and if it involved a tribe scooping me up in the middle of the night and using two ceremonial rocks, or it was a quickie neutering by my Primary Care Physician…but something happened to me. I’m so entirely ball-less right now that I DON’T EVEN CARE that my balls are gone.

Actually, now that I think about it, I think Kealoha did it. That’s right! It’s all Kealoha’s fault. The bastard has made me so content and happy that I no longer want to prowl the neighborhood at night. No. I just want to sit home and purr and lick myself.

I may have just taken that metaphor a step too far.

WAY too far.

Ahem. Okay.

Here’s the thing: my whole life I’ve been running. Running to get out of Coopersville, running to finish college, running to figure out my identity, running to have kids before my womb dried up, running to start over, blah blah blah.

But this summer I just STOPPED. I really did. I haven’t been working as much since my teaching contract wasn’t renewed (turned out to be a mixed-blessing. I’m narrating more). I’ve slowed down. I’m not obsessively online anymore. I’m spending more time with the kids. I spend a lot of time just hanging out with Kealoha and then I think the trip to Paris was the final kicker: I have now been overseas and it was great, but it reminded me how much I love my home and my life and my PEOPLE.

So I’m like one fat, middle-aged, ball-less, contented cat…and I don’t even care anymore that I’m thicker in the middle and I need to dye my hair and I’m not writing as much as I should be because…well…life is pretty good. And sometimes you just need to acknowledge that.

I guess the price of being happy is that you become kind of boring. After a lifetime of running, Boring ends up being a pretty beautiful place. It’s got flowers and everything.

Now back to making dinner: crock pot ribs, coleslaw, and corn on the cob. God, I’m so domesticated now that—forgot the cat metaphor—I’ve turned into a dairy cow.  A ball-less, happy dairy cow. Mooooo.

Moo.

Cordarone Sinequan

The Movies And Shows That Shaped My Twisted Sense Of Self

I’m narrating all week this week and still thinking over some stuff that I might blog about later. Until then, here are movies that shaped my childhood and pretty much my entire identity. I'm posting the lesser-known movies, and there's more I could add to the list. I can see I already left out “Ladyhawke” and “War Games” and “The Last Starfighter” and pretty much a bunch of others. Shit. “Time Bandits”, Muppet movies, "Willow", etc. Why am I posting this? I don’t know. Mostly cuz I feel tired and a little lazy and I don’t feel like being all writerly this morning.

So. I present The Movies That Shaped My Twisted Sense Of Self. Thank you, Hollywood. Really.

DRAGONSLAYER: The movie that showed me that women could be pretty and virgins and sacrificed to giant beasts OR they could lower their voice, wear bad clothes and collect shells in dark caves.

ICE PIRATES--After I was done with Time Bandits, I watched Ice Pirates. I repost it here because it's a ridiculously bad movie that I still have a fondness for.

DUNE--I didn't understand this as a kid, and I probably still don't, but even now I still think about The Spice (especially when making gingerbread cookies). And I thank Dune for being the birth mother to Tremors.

KRULL--What the hell WAS this movie? I was totally obsessed with it. I had the board game and used to go on adventure walks where I basically just walked around the block and imagined I was talking to a cyclops. (I still do this. Shhh.)

And can you guess my all-time favorite movie as a kid? I still reference it on the blog all the time. It's "Clash of the Titans". OF COURSE.

COUNT ZAPPULA

Then there was the great "Count Zappula" AKA Deputy Don. This was a local TV personality in Traverse City. (We moved into his neighborhood and I was shocked to see him mowing his lawn in his boxer shorts and nothing else.) He did a bad western show for kids in the morning, and then in the afternoon would put on makeup and use a Transylvanian accent to host a show where he played horror flicks from the 50s. (Think: Fall of the House of Usher, Wax Museum, The Blob.) It's why I love  Vincent Price movies, and I give Deputy Don credit for educating me on classic horror flicks.

And I have to give a nod to a series I first discovered as books around the age of 14, when there was nothing in the house to read because I'd already read all the Stephen King books twice. (My favorites: The Talisman and The Stand.) It's "Anne of Green Gables". Mix Anne Shirley in with all the above movies and you can see why I am the way I am. It all makes sense.

What movies shaped you?

At Last! The Frenchie Food Post!

I’m sitting in a pair of rose pajama bottoms and a tank top, drinking a cup of coffee from my favorite pottery mug, listening to the terrifying sounds of Cthulhu in my walls, and I can’t tell you how good it feels to be home typing on my blog. In theory, blogging from an iPad sounded like a great idea. (We’ll have less to carry! You won’t have to be paranoid about your computer!) But in practice, it was like trying to blog on a Speak N Spell.

Anyway. We’re back. I’ve been suffering from jetlag and other issues…but I’ll cover that later. This blog is all about the food. Frenchie Food.

FRENCHIE FOOD

Now, I have to say, we never ate at one of those fancy schmancy places. We had a chance to eat at Gordon Ramsay’s restaurant at our hotel (The amazing Trianon Palace in Versailles) but we just couldn’t stomach spending $200 Euros on one meal. That’s like a MILLION dollars or something in American money. We just couldn’t do it. Plus, we were too busy.

Mostly, we stuck to finding little cafes that had both French and English printed on the menu. And there were thousands of them. Some better than others. You can tell that Paris is a home for beleaguered world travelers because there are restaurants everywhere to serve them.

TWO THINGS I LEARNED

1) Brasserie is a CAFÉ, not a bra shop. I’m relieved because a baguette simply couldn’t cover my cha chas. Two baguettes maybe could. And a croissant. But then I’d be attacked by pigeons.

2) Bathrooms in busy downtown Paris restaurants are gross.

After we figured that out, we were on our way to eating. Here are some highlights:

REAL FOOD

There’s just plain more REAL food in Paris. Like things aren’t packaged and ziplocked and flash frozen and reconstituted. They’re like REAL. Freshly squeezed orange juice for breakfast every morning was a revelation. Sandwiches made on bread they baked that morning…amazing. Eating a crepe made fresh before your eyes…awesome.

SWEET & SALTY

Sweet things are less sweet; salty things are less salty; there’s more vinegar and less sugar in mayonnaise and ketchup. I think this goes back to the food being real. If food is real and less processed it doesn’t need tons of sugar and sweetener. In fact, we’re sure they used real SUGAR and not corn syrup. One taste of a dense glace (ice cream) and you’ll be astounded that the ice cream you’ve been eating from your freezer isn’t real at all. It’s like discovering that you’ve been celebrating Christmas all wrong and it’s way more awesome!

FRENCH LIKE MEAT AND SAUCES AND FRIES

Now I don’t know if this was for tourists, and I think it probably was, but it was like every French dish (beef burgundy, baked chicken, sausages) came with fries and a salad. No salt on the fries. And there was a lot of meat, everywhere. For a girl who waxes vegetarian 70% of the time, that was a lot to stomach. Literally. And every salad had the same dressing on it—what I like to call the…

INTERNATIONAL SALAD DRESSING

(See above picture of the sandwich and salad.)

Every salad had the same dressing wherever you went, with slight variations. There were no options. The dressing basically (from what I could taste and from asking) had Dijon mustard, olive oil, lemon, salt and pepper, maybe some garlic. I’m going to whip some up soon.

BREAKFAST BUFFETS ARE GREAT

Best breakfast buffet was at the Trianon Palace of course, but all our hotels offered pastries but also cheese, vegetables, smoked fish, etc. I don’t feel as freaky anymore for eating curry for breakfast.

VARIETY

A surprising thing to me was that I started to miss the variety of food at home. Every menu we saw was pretty focused with few choices. I sorta like the menus here with cuisine from all over the world served at one restaurant. And I would’ve liked some smashed garlic potatoes or some other kind of side dishes.

GOOD, BUT I CAN’T EAT LIKE THE FRENCH FOREVER

There’s a diet book for women called something like “Eat Like The French and Lose Weight”. I can see why. With sauces that are so rich, salads topped with sliced beef, pates served at breakfast, you don’t need to eat A LOT. After a while, I just wanted some plain old rice, or a taco or something. I couldn't eat like the French, but I sure could hang out at a cafe and just watch people like they do.

THE MORAL

I’ll take some ideas home with me. I’m going to start baking bread again. Maybe buy an ice cream maker. I’m going to make crepes with eggs and ham and cheese. First cook the crepe, then cook the egg RIGHT ON TOP OF THE CREPE. Magic! Then you fold it all up. Crepes aren’t just for Nutella and strawberries and crème, apparently.

As soon as my stomach gets back to normal, I might also cook some beef burgundy or escargot. I know HOW to do it, I’m just usually too LAZY to do it.

First things first though: Kealoha is going shopping today for a bag of oranges and then we’re toasting our return home with some good, pure, REAL juice.

Bon appétit, or as we like to say in our house, eat up ya dirty bastard*.

*We only say that when my mom visits. Just cuz, ya know, humor.

Random Thoughts of Paris

SKINNY PANTSMen, women, children and dogs all wear skinny jeans/pants. Kealoha and I have decided to buy a matching pair in red so we will look like Parisians when we get home. Parisian sausages that is.

PEOPLE IN PARIS ARE IN GOOD SHAPE You don't see a lot of what I call "Starbucks Bellies" in France, though with all the Starbucks chains popping up, this might change in five years. So they can get away with skinny jeans FOR NOW.

GRAFFITI There's a ton of graffiti...huge words painted on bricks and buildings, especially evident when you're on the train. It's a little sad. I hate that people have to paint tags over beautiful structures to announce that they exist. Booooo.

NOTRE DAME It's a big dirty church and the gargoyles on the side of the building have wide, open mouths that are terrifying. They look like they're screaming. (Or that they're Death Eaters from "Harry Potter")

The church itself is worth seeing. Apparently there are gypsy pickpockets everywhere, but unless they look that Japanese tourists, I never saw one.

PARISIAN MEN LOOK A LITTLE GAY This is a compliment. Now, I could be over generalizing, but the French men I've seen regardless of age are just plain cool and I want to ask them for fashion advice. They wear loafers and sweaters wrapped around their shoulders and if they wear jeans, they have a nice buttoned shirt tucked in.

The only French man I saw wearing stripes and a beret was our friend Frog, and he did it ironically just to mess with us, though I wish he'd also carried a baguette.

BLOWJOB The French word for blowjob is (I have to write this phonetically) is Le Peep. When I heard this, I said "That's cute but it sounds so small." I wasn't making an assumption, merely stating that the word itself was adorable.

BATHROOMS ARE RARE It's hard to find bathrooms here. So I've stopped drinking water and am mostly dehydrated. In this way, Paris reminds me of New York.

LIFE IS SLOWER It seems like things are more relaxed here. People don't seem to rush. Everyone sort of looks like they're strolling. It's lovely. I'm trying to slow down too, but it's hard.

BRING SNACKS If you have low blood sugar, bring snacks. You won't find snack stands and convenience stores every two feet. There are lots of crepe stands and they're very cool. There are no refreshment stands in the courtyard waiting to get into Versailles. We waited for an hour and fifteen minutes in the sun and I got sunburnt, had a blood sugar crash and needed to pee so bad that I tackled an elderly woman to make it to the bathrooms in time. The elderly woman said something lovely to me, but it was in French which just sounds lovely so she might actually have been swearing at me.

VERSAILLES I need a whole blog about this. The palace is packed with tourists to the point that if you're claustrophobic you'll have a major panic attack.
Was the house worth it? I think so. But I have to say, walking from the palace to the gardens outside, seeing the fountains and hearing the classical music....I can't express how beautiful this was. Have you ever seen something so beautiful that your heart hurts a little just at the sight? It was THAT beautiful. Besides when my kids were born and when Kealoha and I got married, I can't remember a more beautiful moment than seeing the grandeur of the Versailles gardens for the first time.

It has maybe convinced me that there is a little magic left in the world.

Blame It On The Beaver

Let me just say that last night ended in a spectacular evening with new friends over wine and then Kealoha and I emerging from the subway to find the Eiffel Tower in lights behind us. I'm saying that straight up here so that you know this blog has a happy ending.

It had a miserable beginning though.

I like to take things personally, mostly because I'm extremely self-centered. So I've taken these random Paris train changes as an attack against me SPECIFICALLY. (I've never claimed to be rational.)

I think I'm having so much trouble with getting around here because I feel like there's this intricate rule book that I can't figure out, nor do they want me to. For example, Kealoha and I went back into Paris to meet friends for drinks. We were going to have a light dinner first so we left around 4:30. It's a short 20 minute train ride to the center or Paris from our hotel in Versailles. OR SO THE GUIDEBOOKS SAY. You know what? GUIDEBOOKS LIE.

First we had to walk 20 minutes to the station, which took a half hour. Then we waited in this massive line for a half hour to buy tickets. Then we waited on the train for another 20 minutes or so until it left. So maybe we wouldn't have a LEISURELY dinner, but that was okay. The train stopped at every stop and waited for about five minutes, so while the actual time to Paris was 20 minutes, it took about an hour. THEN the train stopped. We waited along with two other couples. A pubescent conductor came upstairs and said "this is the last stop. Time to get off."

"But we still have three stops til Norte Dame!" Kealoha said in disbelief.

"It is because of The Beaver. Just follow the bananas." The conductor pointed to yellow footprints on the ground. WTF? I felt like I suddenly stepped into a Eugene Ionesco play. Someone was about to fill the station with chairs and not tell me what the fuck was going on.

We followed the bananas, got on a random bus, waited and then finally the bus took off and drove for a while then dropped us off somewhere. Our twenty minute trip took two and a half hours. Then we couldn't find the place where we were meeting our friends.

We stood in this touristy area surrounded by neon lights and gigantic pictures of clams with people all around us and I just started crying. Kealoha, I have to say, took care of us. He found us a place to eat, listened to me bitch, got more directions from our friends and a half hour later, we met four wonderful people that we've chatted with online and through blogs and tweets. (To give you an idea of these people, their screen names were: Frog, The Muffin Man, and Cutest Midget--even though she's not a midget at all. She's totally my height.)

We told them our tale of woe and they nodded and Katia (who runs a cool food blog and had a podcast for 6 years) said "Ohhhh...it's because of The Beaver."

I blinked, wondering if I was to blame for this. "What KIND of Beaver, exactly?" I didn't want to point to, you know, my own, ehm, beaver...but I was really confused.

Then she explained about the tunnel under Paris and they need to repair it or it could bust wide open and they call it The Beaver construction or something because beavers build dams. I thought BEAVERS were hairy with big teeth and ate things. (I'm talking REAL beavers here, people.)

After that, it was all glossy streets and twinkling lights and wine and comments like "You do yoga, don't you, Tanya?" to which I responded: "No. I just wear yoga PANTS."

Our friends walked us to the right station and we made it back to our hotel after walking down cobbled Parisian streets and being serenaded by happy drunks.

A strange night. A beautiful night. Fucking beavers.

The City of Love and Heartburn

For the first time since arriving in Paris, Kealoha and I are properly relaxing. We're sitting outside at our hotel in Versailles listening to funky jazz and waiting for our drinks. Kealoha has ordered a Mai Tai with real Cuban rum and he's so excited he actually giggled.

So far the trip has been a combination of emotions: stressful, exciting, exhausting, confusing, infuriating, and it's all left me with a mild sense of heartburn. I am not the refined world traveler I thought I'd be. Okay. I didn't think I'd be a great world traveler but I didn't know quite the extent of how LOST I'd feel at times. Not just physically lost, but just out of sorts.

We've done a lot of walking so far and trying to figure out the train system and the RER was a little humbling. The train makes random stops and we still don't know how or why. But we managed to find our way to Norte Dame and the Louvre.

There's so much to write and say but I'll have to save most of it for later posts or use in a story. A couple of things I've noticed. Traveling to famous places is interesting because you sorta expect a place to make you feel a certain way...like I thought when I walked down the Seine I'd feel like I was in Woody Allen's "Everyone Says I Love You" where the sidewalk is wet and glossy looking and the lights are flickering like Christmas trees and music swells in the background. In reality, I didn't realize I was walking along the Seine until I checked a map later. I thought it was just a random river.

What I'm saying here sounds depressing but I don't mean it that way. See, a place is just a place unless you fill it with your own story. Paris is just Paris until Kealoha and I have an experience that becomes a story. When we went to "Shakespeare and Company", Hemingway wasn't there but Dom the Cellist was expected.

There was one place where a story spoke to me. It was a bridge covered with locks. People who are in love take a lock and write their name with their loved ones and then lock it onto the bridge. Seeing all those locks brought me into the love story of Paris. But really you can make any place a love story, even your hometown.

I am having a terrific time and today in Versailles has been relaxing and beautiful. Tonight we're meeting friends for drinks and then more exploring to come. Every moment here, I feel a little more connected, a little bit less of an outsider. Of course this mojito I'm drinking helps.

More blogs to come. I've got to talk about the food too. And I'm still trying to figure out why our cabbie was listening to Tom Jones and Barry Manilow. I'm starting to think that all cabbies are quirky like that, universally.

My Inner Neurotic Surfaces AKA Release The Kraken!!!

I know many of you will be totally surprised by this, but I am a slightly, wee-bit of an anxious person. Shocking, right? Yeah. Okay. Not at all shocking.

Usually, I keep my anxiety in check by making complicated To Do Lists, blogging, and every once in a while standing in front of the refrigerator and gnawing on frozen cookie dough like it’s an ear of corn.

But when I travel…yeah…that Beast pretty much breaks free of its chains and goes all “Roooaaaar” and then stomps on miniature cities. (I think I might be mixing metaphors here, like splicing Godzilla and the Kraken, but that’s what my Anxiety is: a mutherfucking MONSTER.) Actually, here's a scene from the classic film SINBAD that captures how I'm feeling. (I'm the Cyclops.)

We leave tomorrow and I’m so anxious right now that I’m THRUMMING. And not in a Fifty Shades of Grey way. No.

It’s like I have not just PMS but Super PMS, like my bitch-factor is wearing boots, a cape, and carrying a trident. (I’ve always wanted to carry a trident.)

I’ve tried to gently warn Kealoha. In my mind I said: “My love, I’m feeling a little bit anxious about the flight and travel and being surrounded by French people and possibly eating offal without my knowledge. Please just help me through this and let’s find me some anxiety meds.”

What I said in actuality, out loud in a snarky voice “You know they drink wine in France.”

“Uh, yeah.”

“So just, you know, don’t order a rum based drink like you do without the banana flavors or blue color or whatever. Please, for god’s sake, just order WINE.”

Kealoha: blink blink blink.

I need to chill out. I already finished off the wine in the fridge yesterday. I may have to have Kealoha take me out for mojitos on an empty stomach.

He says he still loves me. Let’s hope that’s true after the honeymoon.

I can do this. I can totally do this.

Breathe breathe (choke on a gnat, spit it out, do shot of a tequila and) BREATHE.

Dreams Do Come True, It Just Takes A REALLY Long Time

If there’s anything that life has taught me I guess it would be that dreams do come true; just keep in mind that it can take a really, really, really long time. I’ve had a List of Dreams my whole life (2^nd grade is my earliest memory of my List of Dreams. I wanted to be a writer and announced it to the class), and so far, I keep plugging away at them. It’s like my Spiritual To Do list. Now, these are dreams that are—in theory—attainable.

Keep in mind that I grew up with a split family. My mom was a single mom for a long time and there were a lot of money struggles. Then I moved to my dad’s and with my stepmom’s kids, there was a total of 5 of us. Money was tight but more than that, my stepmom had a lot of psychological issues that affected the whole family. It deeply affected my sister and I and how our high school years happened. It’s a miracle I did as well as I did at school. It also meant that from age 18, I was pretty much on my own and kicked out of the house to figure it all out. If I didn’t have money, I went hungry. If I didn’t have a place to live…I’d have to find one. If I needed help emotionally, I had to figure it out. There wasn’t a support system, though my mom did try. My dad and stepmom…well, that’s a whole book there.

This isn’t a sob story. It really isn’t. The benefit of being on your own is that you get really strong and tenacious, and maybe it’s that background that’s made me indefatigable with these Life Dreams.  I don't think my List of Dreams are that big of a deal...but when you start from nothing, every little dream can be a very big deal and can feel almost impossible.

I dreamed of college. At the time, I was the only one of the 5 kids who did it. (My siblings have since gone back.) I paid for everything myself, with occasional $50 gifts from my Aunt. From 18-23, I worked as a waitress until 3 in the morning and went to class. I worked in the library. I took out student loans. And I got my BA in English.

I wanted to be a professor. I put myself through grad school while pregnant and then with a newborn.

I wanted children, and thankfully, I have them.

I wanted to write a book; I’ve written four.

They’ve all taken time and tears and moments where I’ve nearly given up, but time and again, I’ve gotten there.

Now, in a few days, Kealoha and I are heading to Paris. For our wedding, instead of gifts, our wonderful friends and family 'donated' money to a fund so that we could make this trip. It humbles me and makes me all weepy every time I think about it.

I’ve always wanted to go overseas, but this has been my first real chance. I couldn’t afford it in college and would watch other family members go on long vacations overseas. I never felt jealous. Mostly, I just felt hurt. It hurts to watch others get the things you dream of. But it just wasn’t in the cards for me. After college, I was too busy working and never had money. Then when I had enough saved to go, I didn’t have anyone to go with. Now, now…it’s me and my perfect partner, my Kealoha, off together.

I sorta can’t believe it’s finally here. But I guess like the other things I’ve wanted, it has eventually happened.

What else do I want? (Never fear. There’s more on the list. There’s always more.) I want to be published by a ‘big’ publisher. I want an advance for something I’ve written. I’d like to be a voice on a cartoon or video game. I’d like to own or rent a cottage where I can walk to the beach and hear the waves at night. And I like to go to England, and Ireland, and Italy. And I’d like to take a cooking class in one of those places.

I’m not wishing for world peace or to be rich and famous (although all those things would be nice.)

I guess I’m saying that there have been some pretty dark times in my life…times of deep struggle and times when I’ve been very, very alone without anyone to fall back on. But things change. THINGS CHANGE.

And they usually change for the better, if you can just wait long enough.

If This Dreams Represents My True Self Then I'm In Real Trouble

I worry about what my subconscious would say about me if it could talk to people. Consider my dream last night.

THE SETTING: A Burlington Coat Factory where I am putting coats on racks and then taking them off and then putting them on and then taking them off. (In Dreamworld, this could go on FOREVER.)

A WOMAN approaches me. She’s very hoity-toity. I mean, she just drips condescension. (Pause. Wait. I just reread that sentence. It sounds gross.) She just drips with a condescending tone. She is thin and has one of those plastically remade faces and could be anywhere from 35-85.

Here then is the dialogue from my dream.

WOMAN: Excuse me. Excuse me! Excuse me! Uh…HELLO!!!

ME: What.

WOMAN: Excuse me, do you have any scarves?

ME: I’m pretty sure we do. This is a coat factory. I’m sure there are scarves.

WOMAN: Right, but WHERE? I mean, WHERE are the scarves?

ME: What do you need a scarf for? It’s like 130 degrees.

WOMAN: I don’t want a WINTER scarf—I want a scarf to ACCESSORIZE.

ME: Why do you need that? I mean, look at your neck. You have all that extra skin there. Use that.

WOMAN: What?

ME: I mean, it’s like you’re carrying around your own natural scarf. Use THAT.

WOMAN: Are you saying my neck skin is loose enough that I could use it as a scarf?

ME: Yep.

End Dream

I woke up with a gasp.

I have no idea what that dream symbolizes, but I’m pretty sure that it means that deep within my subconscious, I’m a Super Bitch.

Okay. Maybe not even ‘deep’ within, maybe just waiting beneath the surface. Maybe not even beneath the SURFACE. Maybe I’m just, you know, naturally EVIL.

Man, that was harsh. That was really mean. And I woke up with a gasp and then started laughing. I’m a terrible person. And I’m still laughing. Ugh.

A Conversation In The Fifth Circle Of Hell AKA The MVP Sportsplex Center

Since I started this blog, I have tried very hard to use it for the Power Of Good. Words are powerful, and I like to think that my willingness to be awkwardly honest about my life and struggles does something GOOD. You know, maybe someone connects or laughs or feels a little less alone. Every once in a while, though, a girl has got to bitch. And that’s this blog.

Now, I’ve had many uncomfortable run-ins with the management at MVP Sporting Center. The last was the supremely condescending and offensive manager who was so rude to me that I almost cried. (He has tight curly hair and wears khaki pants that look like he's picked them off his floor for the sixth time.) Then there was the last four times I’ve gone in. They’ve stopped me at the door with a ‘problem’ with my account. It’s a little embarrassing to get stopped at the door. It’s sorta like you’re being accused of stealing. What was the problem with my account? They showed it wasn’t up to date, but it was up to date since I updated it with my credit card, only no one seemed to believe me, even when they looked at the updated credit card number in their system.

Today was the worst when the petite blonde manager on duty looked for me and approached me WHILE I WAS WORKING OUT. She wanted my phone number and my account and I said “I (huff) will (puff) talk to (gasp) you later.”

Here then is our conversation. I will call the lovely flower Britani, because she looked like a Britani. The setting of our conversation? HELL. Or, okay, a tiny office at the MVP.

BRITANI: Well the problem is that you don’t have an account here.

ME: Yes I do. I’ve been coming here for a year.

BRITANI: But you’re not in the system. Where did you sign up?

ME: At your downtown location. I paid a year in advance, and then gave you my credit card to charge me monthly.

BRITANI: Oh, you can’t come here if you registered at the downtown location.

ME: Yes I can. In fact, I’ve been coming here for a year.

BRITANI: Yeah, but then we’d have to charge you more.

ME: You did. And I paid it. FOR A YEAR.

BRITANI: But you’re not in the system.

ME: You guys gave me a card three weeks ago. And took my picture. And I’VE BEEN COMING HERE FOR A YEAR.

(I show her my card. She pulls up my account.)

BRITANI: Oh. I guess you have an account. But it says here that your account isn’t active.

ME: Yes, because I paid a year in advance. When the year was up, I gave you my credit card to charge me monthly like everyone else. See that number there that you have saved in your system? In the account that you don’t have? There’s my number. Three managers in a row told me that they’d update the account and that’s it not a problem.

BRITANI: Who did you talk to?

ME: What do you mean? I don’t know. I talked to three really unhelpful managers who clearly didn’t fix the problem.

BRITANI: Yeah, but did you talk to BRIAN?

ME: Who is BRIAN?

BRITANI: See, you probably talked to one of us young ones. You know, we’re the managers who are just out of college and we can’t do this stuff or fix it and we probably just forgot to update your account or forgot to tell someone. It happens A LOT. Now if you’d talked to BRIAN…

ME: You’re a manager and you can’t help with this?

BRITANI: I’m not authorized.

(Here I had to do some deep breathing while I tried to understand just WHAT she could authorize as a MANAGER. And if a MANAGER can't do this, who can? God? And I also wanted to say, “So because you’re young and just out of college, it means you can’t handle this job but it’s okay? WHERE DID YOU GO TO SCHOOL? WHO TAUGHT YOU?”)

ME: Honestly, right now, I don’t want to talk to BRIAN. I’m sick of being stopped every time I come in here and accused of not having a membership when I have a membership and have paid for everything AND given you my credit card.

BRITANI: But you’re not AUTHORIZED. You haven’t PAID.

ME: I haven’t PAID because you guys haven’t UPDATED my ACCOUNT. In fact, erase my credit card. I’m done here. There are lots of other options. I’ll go somewhere else. You don’t seem to want my business.

BRITANI: No, we want you. I’ll just ask BRIAN and he’ll update it or something. And like charge you for all the time you haven’t been charged.

ME: No. Erase my card.

BRITANI: I’m sorry. I can’t do that. But we won’t charge you until I talk to…

ME: BRIAN? Yes. I get it. No. Don’t charge me. I. Am. Done. Here. In fact, I’m going to cancel my credit card.

BRITANI: Why would you do that?

ME: Because I don’t trust you.

BRITANI: Now that’s just being hurtful.

(I laughed a little here. It was a funny line. I couldn’t help it.)

ME: Yeah. Well. I don’t trust you. I’ve trusted you—and I’m using the general ‘you’ here, not the specific ‘you’—I’ve trusted you the last four times I’ve come in to update my account and you haven’t. You’ve accused me of lying and manipulating THE SYSTEM. You’ve told me I don’t exist in your system. I don’t mean to hurt your feelings SPECIFICALLY, but clearly, you don’t want my business. I’ll cancel the card. My account doesn’t exist anyway as your four managers have told me over and over again. And I know this doesn’t matter to you, that you don’t care personally, but you guys have a really shitty way of treating your customers. Your MEMBERS. Please make a note for BRIAN.

And thus, I have now shared with you the infuriating experience at the MVP on Burton in Grand Rapids, Michigan. Actually, this is for the Power of Good. Maybe some of you will reconsider joining there. The customer service MANAGERS are all twenty-something college graduates with no skill sets at all except looking lithe and pert—and they’re okay with that. I’m not.

I’m becoming a bitter old man. It’s okay. I’ll just walk around the block and get my exercise the old-fashioned way.

Becoming Jabba and Other Thoughts on the Heat Wave

Okay. So, picture Jabba the Hut in your mind. There he is, just sitting there, talking in some kind of language that sounds like he’s had a stroke. He’s got weird creatures chained to him and he kind of orders people around.  

That’s been me this week.

I’m always amazed that you can have in your head all these plans and then they just don’t happen. The kids have been in Canada for a week so I was going to walk around Reed’s Lake every day and cook stuff only purchased at the Farmer’s Market, and Kealoha and I were going to ride our bikes while whistling Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head, and I’d finish “Tunnel Vision” in a flurry of intense creative activity, and I’d also read a classic novel or two.

Yeah. Then the mofo heat wave started and even though we have air conditioning….I just…Became Jabba. I had a couple of narration gigs so I’d go to the studio, sit still and read all day, then come home exhausted, talk like I had a stroke, watch Breaking Bad, read “The Walking Dead”, and eat dinner with Kealoha in the basement while watching MasterChef. All I needed was some creatures chained to me.

Exercise? Go for bike rides? Whistle? Are you KIDDING me? It’s been an effort not to fan myself continuously while speaking in a bad Tennessee Williams type accent saying “My, it is hot out there. My my my. So hot that you could fry butter on the sidewalk. Bring me a biscuit, Matthew. And sop up that butter with it and feed it to my soul. My aching soul.”

Actually, I’d much rather be a Tennessee Williams character than Jabba the Hut. For one thing, Jabba is all big and naked and green. Maggie in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof gets to walk around in a sexy slip.

I’ve totally lost my focus here.

I’m going to go put a slip on and watch Nigella Lawson reruns on the Cooking Channel. That way I’ll feel like I’m accomplishing something by LEARNING and will improve my body image by looking at a curvy cook while feeling delicious in my slip.

This heat wave needs to stop. NOW. I can’t take it.

And now I want a biscuit. For my soul. Goddammit.

Me, Kealoha, And Our Heated Conversation Over Master Chef

Yesterday, Kealoha and I celebrated my birthday with serious drama and intensity. We went to the Farmer’s Market, had BLTs for lunch, took naps, and then got gussied up for a planned bacchanal. We had San Chez for dinner and that was just the start of the insanity. We ate at 5PM, were home by 7, in pajamas by 7:05, and watching Master Chef by 7:10. It was so INTENSE. Sometimes, the writer in me sits back and listens to Kealoha and I talk. There’s so much excitement and intricate plotting going on. I mean, you could write an entire suspense-novel based on the conversations we have. Consider last night’s discussion while watching MasterChef.

KEALOHA: Oh man. They’re going to make tiramisu and strawberry shortcake.

ME: That’s nothing. I’d be worried about making a trifle.

KEALOHA: You make a great trifle.

ME: I have NEVER made a trifle. I refuse to make trifle. It has like JELLO in it.

Pause while we watch the contestants make various desserts and then bring them to the judges for tasting.

ME: Oh my god! No! NoooOOOOOO! She didn’t!! She put macadamia nuts in a tiramisu? Is she crazy? I mean, that’s like Hawaiian. And crunchy. In a tiramisu!!

KEALOHA: (getting angry) She can’t do that! What is she THINKING? You aren't supposed to be clever with an elimination round. It's about TECHNIQUE.

ME: And look at it! It looks like a brain. A tiramisu is not supposed to be crunchy. She’s going home. She’s totally going home. You don’t do that. Nuts in a tiramisu. I mean, COME ON. Oh, but she's crying. She's really cute when she cries.

 Pause while we watch some more. The trifle watching is VERY exciting. No one seems to have gotten it right.

ME: Anise in a trifle? Seriously? What is going on? Someone stop the insanity!!!

At this point, there is so much drama that I have to take a break and run upstairs and wash my face. I meditate a bit upstairs to control my growing anger. Then I run back downstairs and finish the show. I assume while I'm gone that Kealoha is reminding himself not to take MasterChef personally. It's not about HIM. 

KEALOHA: I’m not surprised he got booted off.

ME: I know. Right? You want to watch Mad Men now?

KEALOHA: Okay.

END SCENE

And that, my friends, is just ONE of our deeply heated, energized conversations. I’m thinking of writing an entire novel based on us watching TV. It’s going to sell MILLIONS, I just know it.

Nuts in a tiramisu. Really.

If Little Changes Equal A Big Reward Then Where's My Money?

I’m almost 40. 40!!!! Well, in another year. Actually, I’m almost 39. The Bday is pending. With it, comes major self-analyzing and general fatigue. With this next year, I’m hoping to make some little changes that will have big rewards, especially when it comes to my weight gain over the last two years.

I’ve developed some bad food habits, though they’re wonderfully comforting.

Here’s what I’m going to change:

GONE is my daily Starbucks run for a latte. It’s expensive and I’m starting to look like I have udders.

GONE is my nightly scoop of ice cream (see below).

GONE is my over-indulgence at restaurants. It’s time to buck up and take my lunch to work, even when I’m narrating.

RETURNING is my commitment to walk 15 miles a week. That’s like 3 miles five days a week with two days off. I can do that.

RETURNING (I hope) is a little bit less stress. It’s been a rough year career-wise.

Okay. So that’s my commitment. I’m really trying here, especially after seeing pictures of me from my family reunion. I just don’t look like ME anymore.

Here’s hoping I can lose a little of the puffiness in my face before we go to Paris, otherwise, I’m taking a lot of pictures of my feet. That’s scary, because have you seen my second toe? It’s freakishly long. I mean, FREAKISHLY, and who wants a photo album or tumbler blog of THAT?

Wish me luck. Change is hard. Even little changes. (Except if it was a little change to eat a chocolate truffle every day, then that change wouldn’t hurt at all.)