For Once I'm Not Depressed -- Just Busy

Soooo, I’ve been woefully neglectful of my blog. Don’t worry. It doesn’t signify that I’m depressed or giving up on writing or any of that nonsense. I’ve just been incredibly busy. Insanely busy. Busy as in I’m-lucky-if-I-take-a-shower busy.  

But it’s all going to calm down in another month.

See, I’m transitioning from teaching and narrating to just narrating. But that means that for the past month and for one more month to come, I’m doing both jobs, so I’m caught in a whirlwind of activity. When I have time to rest, I cuddle the kiddos and Kealoha, usually while prepping the next class or audiobook.

To top it off, I got sick last week. Of course. My body has a way of slowing me down by getting sick when I’ve taken on too much. It started with a voice-crack here and there and then that congestion and the sultry voice that started to change into a smoker’s hack. (Even though I don’t smoke.) So I went the weekend without speaking, had to postpone a recording, had to readjust my schedule, cancel a class, and try not to lose my mind.

Two days of pretty much sleeping followed, and now, I’ve got my voice back and one more month of frenetic activity before teaching is done and…I…can…breathe again.

Breathing is nice. I’m really looking forward to it.

So, in short. I’m here. I haven’t disappeared. And as soon as I have some Tanya-time again, I’ll start posting blogs more frequently. And maybe finally get “Tunnel Vision” out there, and work on my food blog, and all the other things I’ve been neglecting for so long.

I’m hoping I’ll have time for a pedicure and to visit that mean Russian lady who insisted I take better care of myself. I sorta wish I could carry her in my pocket to remind me to slow down every now and then.

In a month. One more month. One more month and then I’m just a simple narrator. Ahhhhh. I can totally do this.

Open Mic Night at La Cantina Pt 5

(If you've missed the earlier sections in this blog/story, please click on the "Open Mic Night" tab at the bottom of this post.)  

MELODY tries to stand up in the little adobe, but hits her head on the ceiling.

MELODY

It’s like being trapped in a Mexican womb.

CONNIE Now, Melody…

MELODY I’m just saying.

Melody sits down at the table.

MELODY Okay. I didn’t want to write a poem because I’m sixteen and Grandma C over there thinks I haven’t had sex yet and I don’t want to give her a heart attack because she feeds me and shit and all of your poems were like, hello, sex in words.

CONNIE

Uhm….Thank you.

MELODY

So here’s a short story.

Melody clear her throat and begins to read, loudly, so that everyone in the restaurant can hear her, even over the sound of crunching tortilla chips.

MELODY

I’ve made an intricate plan to kill my grandmother. She takes care of me because my mom is all hopped up on meth and is now residing in the local penitentiary where she gets free dental care.

CRICKET Excuse me? I thought this was supposed to be a story.

MELODY

It is.

CONNIE (growing nervous.) Of course it’s a story. Rule #1 is that we must assume it’s made up. Melody has a very active imagination.

MELODY So anyway. Killing my grandma, whose name is Constance Carol Calhoun…

Cricket turns to Connie.

CRICKET: But isn’t that your name?

MELODY …involves a lot of deception and intrigue. First, I had to research poisons online. I found you could grow certain plants and then put them in tea. I’ve been poisoning my grandma for three weeks now, and tonight I gave her the final dose in a margarita. In about half an hour, she’ll start sweating and will die, probably face first into a gigantic burrito. I ordered one to cushion her fall. When she bites it, literally, I’ll inherit everything and I can throw porn parties and move to Alaska if I want to. But first I’ll sell off her Hummel figurine collection. The End.

MABEL I like Hummel figurines. They’re so cute. Sorta liked they dipped a bunch of miniature children in wax.

 

CARL You okay, Connie?

CONNIE I’m fine. Just…fine.

CARL You look like you’re sweating. And your face is all red. How long ago did you drink that margarita?

CONNIE Now, don’t be ridiculous. Clearly, Melody is using real details from her life, but enhancing them. All writers do this. In fact, I think it’s a strength of the piece. What else is working in it?

MELODY That you die in it.

CONNIE You’re not supposed to comment on your own work. We’re supposed to give you feedback and you just sit there and listen.

The Waiter appears.

THE WAITER: Okay, four combos and a gigantic burrito. Who gets the burrito?

MELODY She does.

CONNIE No, no. Really. I’m fine.

CARL: Well, I liked the piece but I think you’re one twisted little punk. You need therapy. Or a good ass-kicking.

CRICKET There isn’t anything about God or Jesus in it. I think that would help. Maybe God and/or Jesus could talk to you and encourage you to kill your grandmother.

CONNIE Now, I’m not sure that’s a good idea. Maybe the ‘character’ shouldn’t kill the grandmother because the grandmother clearly adores the granddaughter and has given up everything to take care of the ungrateful child, even the hot house yoga, and swing night with the over sixties club, and dating on Sexy Seniors. So maybe the protagonist should try to back off a little bit and recognize the grandmother is pretty much a saint.

MABEL The grandmother sounds annoying. Now, when I killed my grandmother, I just got a sharp knife from the kitchen drawer and I went in when she was sleeping and…

CONNIE Bean dip! Who needs bean dip!

They all raise their hands.

CONNIE Good. I’ll go get some. When I get back, why don’t I read a poem to you? Let’s just focus on our meals for now.

Connie gets up and exits.

MABEL

I’m just saying that I liked your story and I know lots about killing so just come to me with any questions.

Open Mic Night at La Cantina Pt. 4

La Cantina is a Mexican restaurant off of 28^th street. It smells of deep fat fryer, salsa, and bean dip. The walls are decorated with assorted paraphernalia like Sombreros and pictures with glitter. No one thinks this place is authentic Mexico, but it is authentic, cheap Mexican food.

In the back of the restaurant is a table tucked into a fake adobe house. The house is curved and rounded like a giant single breast. A place that Georgia O’Keef might like.

Connie, dressed in a long Spanish-looking frock and with her hennaed hair held up with a Spanish comb, addresses the table. On Connie, this outfit definitely suggests dime-store costume.

CONNIE:

Well, I’d like to begin by welcoming you here. I thought we were going to have an Open Mic night, but it looks like they weren’t able to set up a PA system without interrupting the mariachi singers. It’s a shame that iHop asked us to relocate. But, when life hands you lemons, make a margarita!

MABEL VANDERSTEEN: You use limes for margaritas. I say if someone gives you lemons, punch them in the face.

CONNIE:

Okay. Anyway. So since there’s no microphone and there are only a few of us here tonight, I thought perhaps we’d turn this into a workshop. You know, go over your pieces and we can all offer suggestions on how you can improve your work. Sound good?

CONNIE looks around the table. Mabel, in her wheelchair, has already slugged back one giant margarita. CARL is wearing a tshirt with an American flag, an eagle, and a wolf. He adjusts his red suspenders and then begins biting at a cuticle. CRICKET is saying a prayer. MELODY, Connie’s goth-grandaughter, sticks a chip in the bean dip and probes at it, as if she’s about to conduct an autopsy.

CONNIE:

Okay! Great! I’m glad you’re all excited. Let’s begin by reviewing the ground rules. 1^st, we assume everything the writer writes is fiction. 2^nd….anyone?

Cricket raises her hand.

CONNIE:

You don’t have to raise your hand, Cricket. Just talk.

CRICKET:

We don’t judge. We leave judgment to those who know best. Like God. And the Republican party.

CONNIE:

Great. And the third rule?

CARL:

We don’t talk about Fight Club.

MELODY:

(laughs). That’s the first rule.

CONNIE:

No. We’re not fighting, here. We’re supporting and loving. The 3^rd rule is to use I statements, like we’re all in therapy together. Melody, why don’t you begin.

MELODY:

No.

CONNIE:

Now, Melody, you promised that you’d…

A waiter appears to take their order. He is tall and thin and speckled with acne.

WAITER:

Hey! I’m Billy! I’m your waiter! You know what you want, tell me and I’ll make it happen.

MELODY:

I want a burrito the size of his head.

She points to Carl.

WAITER:

Why his head? The menu says the burrito is the size of your head.

MELODY:

I have an unusually petite head. Carl, on the other hand, has a big head. I want a burrito that’s huge.

WAITER:

Okay. Gotcha.

CONNIE:

Why don’t you just bring all of us Combo #4 and I’ll pick up the tab.

MELODY:

Except something on my plate better be the size of a noggin, or I’ll stab you with this fork.

WAITER:

Okay! Cool! Thanks.

CONNIE:

Melody, please?

MELODY:

Whatever. I’ll read.

Melody clears her throat and begins to read.

TO BE CONTINUED

Goodbye Classroom

I made a big decision this week: I won’t be teaching next semester. I love teaching. I LOVE it…but I’m learning that sometimes even if you love something, it may not be meant to be. I lost my full-time teaching contract at the art college, and then my alma mater picked me up as an adjunct for three classes. Even though I was just an adjunct, in my MIND I was still full-time. So when they offered me just one class in the winter, I was sort of shocked. To teach there, I’d already taken a pay cut of about 2/3 what I was making with a full-time contract, but I wanted to do it because, again, I love teaching and there was a slight possibility that it could turn into a full-time gig.  

But.

But. With only one class, it was certainly not enough to live on, even at the poverty level, and it would cut my narration availability by half. So…what could I do? Take the one class and hold on for dear life hoping that maybe I might be able to get a full-time teaching contract if and when it happens…or take a leap and decide to narrate full time?

Enter leap-taking.

I have a mix of emotions about this. I think I’m a good professor. I try to engage and inspire my students, and for the most part, I think I’m successful. But, honestly, I don’t fit with academia. I’m too creative for it. And to offset the cut in pay, I've been narrating around teaching and my stress level is atmospheric. But to just narrate? Narrating full-time is terrifying. What if I stop getting gigs? What if my voice gives out? What if no one wants audiobooks anymore? What if they stop hiring ‘regular’ talent and continue with the trend of hiring Hollywood stars?

Well, sometimes you just have to leap.

So. Goodbye classroom. Hello studio.

I don’t know if this is the right decision, but it feels right, especially financially. It does make me sad, though.

Funny thing…I wrote a letter to the department head. Sort of an emotional letter saying things like I’m so disappointed I can’t take on the class, and please keep me in mind for future classes, and I hope a full-time position will become available. Basically, I put my heart in an emo email. His response: You’re on our list!

Then I realized, yeah. I forgot. I’m just an adjunct here. I’m not a ‘real’ professor at all. And I’m easily replaced. It’s a little bit embarrassing.

Boo.

This is okay though. Things are going to be okay. I’m going to narrate and hopefully have a little more time to write and read and exercise and…you know…live a little bit better, a little less rushed. But hopefully still make a decent living.

Who Needs White Water Rafting When You Can Take The Kids To Applebees?

Last week, the kids were supposed to go to their dad’s on Wednesday, but his house was attacked by the dreaded Stomach Flu, so we got to keep the kids for an extra couple of days. Since the kids are growing and may secretly be Gremlins, they’ve been eating NONSTOP. Dinner on Wednesday night was either stale crackers and Twizzlers or Applebees.  

We chose Applebees.

Tuesday Night is Family Night there. We’d already experienced the depressed Balloon-Animal Maker. Thankfully, he wasn’t there when we showed up since it was Wednesday and not Tuesday, but there was an assortment of slowly shrinking balloons at the front where the kids were told they could take one. These, I guess, were the rejected balloons from the night before. I’m pretty certain there’s nothing worse than rejected animal balloons.

My son took one that looked like this (except without the stickers):

I said.... “Uh”….and our waiter quickly said: “Uhm. That’s a Poodle that got untwisted. See? It’s half a poodle. It’s a poodle. I swear to god.”

“But it looks like a…”

Then my son started shooting with it. “Look, Ma!” he said happily. “A bazooka!”

Thank you, Applebees.

We then sat down. The kids crawled all over us like puppies. I’d once told them this and said “I’m really glad you’re not puppies.” They asked me why. “Because puppies eat their own poop, and I just can’t handle that.”

Anyway.

The waiter came and took our drink orders. I’d had a particularly stressful day of dealing with students who couldn’t write papers because of panic disorders, third-degree burns, and video game carpal tunnel, followed by narrating at a studio where I read a sex scene and the engineer was all “You sound so sexy” and I was all “Uhhh…I’m just reading what’s on the page”… and so the kids got Sprite and Lemonade and Kealoha got a diet Coke and I said “Mommy wants a gin and tonic. A big one.”

I’m pretty sure the bartender saw my son shooting a gigantic dick-bazooka and my frazzled expression and hair and decided to skip the tonic. It was a blessing from the gods. Thank you, Applebees.

I don’t know what happened next. I do remember that my son tried to shoot at me and I told him, “Do not shoot at your mother!” I paused, took a sip of my drink, then said, “Shoot at your sister.”

Then I PROMPTLY apologized and explained to the waiter that I didn’t mean any of that, it was just an irresistible joke-plum, and when they dangle on the tree in front of you, you just have to go for it.

The kids ate fish-n-chips and Kealoha and I devoured some kind of appetizer platter with forty different things on it and then I ate a Cowboy Burger where, I’ll note, I did NOT say “Yippe-ki-yay, mutherfucker” in a nod to Bruce Willis.

I thought it though.

The kids were charming and entertaining. Kealoha was sweet and supportive. Our waiter was cracking up over what a nutball I was, and when the meal was over and I unbuttoned the top of my jeans, we all drove home together (except the waiter stayed at Applebees) in a cloud of happy post-meal endorphins.

And when my son was asleep, I let the air out of the dick-bazooka. No one should get shot with that thing. I mean, NO ONE.

Parenting Fail 1,345,723

I was trying to get my daughter ready for school. She’s six and was playing on the iPad. I was running late for work and she refused to get dressed with something about hating school and wanting to stay home all day and she shouldn’t have to go to school and why was I sending her and why did I have to work. I tried to pull on her pants when suddenly, she went boneless. It was like trying to dress a fish in leggings. Then she started doing this moaning thing. “Eeerhhhhh” “Errrrhhhh”. “Oh, come on! Get dressed. You’re not retarded!” I said. And then my brain started firing in my head: Tanya, you can’t say that! We don’t call people retarded anymore. That’s something you used to hear when you were a kid and it’s just WRONG. Or, technically, it’s right, but it’s the wrong word.

So I listened to my brain and then fixed the problem by saying: “I mean, come on! Get dressed. It’s not like you’re Special.”

My daughter said: “I’m not special?”

Then my brain said: Shit! You just told her she’s not Special. She thinks you mean that she’s ordinary instead of referring to someone who is disabled. Not disabled. They’re not call disabled. What the fuck are they called? Challenged. No, not CHALLENGED. Handi-able. Whatever. FIX THIS!

“No! You’re special. You’re just not special.  You’re not all eeerrggg,-I-don’t-have-any-legs and…”

My brain couldn’t even process that line fast enough.

I recovered by saying: “Just. Stand. Up. Get your pants on. And pretend this conversation never happened.”

Then I added 25 dollars into her savings account for when she goes to college and needs therapy.

In Which I Admit To Being A Hobbit

  This happened Sunday.

ME: Soooo…dinner’s ready.

KEALOHA: It’s 4 o’clock.

ME: I know. I’m just saying. It’s ready. For…you know…whenever we want to eat. Like later. Or now. If we’re hungry we could just eat…now.

KEALOHA: Okay.

ME: Can we really eat now because I’m starving.

KEALOHA: Sure.

We sit down to the chicken tikka masala even though it’s only 4PM and not even grandmothers and churchgoers eat at 4PM. They wait until at least 5.

ME: You’re aware that we’ll be eating again in three hours.

KEALOHA: I’m okay with that.

ME: Check Hobbits online. They eat, like, all day long.

Kealhoa talks to Suri.

KEALOHA: How many times do Hobbits eat?

SURI: Let me find out for you How Many Times Do Hobbits Eat.

We wait and then find a webpage.

KEALOHA: Hobbits eat seven times a day. Breakfast, Second Breakfast, Elevensees, Lunch, Afternoon Tea, Supper, Dinner.

ME: That explains it. This is Supper. Dinner is later. I always knew I was a Hobbit.

KEALOHA: You’re not a Hobbit.

ME: I’m short. I eat all day long. And I have hairy feet.

KEALOHA: I’ve seen your feet. Your feet are fine. There’s not one single hair on your feet.

ME: That’s because I shave them.

Pause. Pause. Pause. Sound of awkward eating.

KEALOHA: I wish I didn’t know that.

ME: Well, now you do. And you married me so you’re stuck with a Hobbit wife. Happy anniversary.

Open Mic Night At The iHop On East Beltline: Cricket PT 3

If you missed the 1st two installments, you can read them here: #1 Open Mic Night 

#2 Open Mic NIght: Carl

-----

CONNIE: Thank you, Carl. That was…inspiring? Now, if we could quickly move on and…I have to ask…is there anyone who’s brought something that isn’t, uhm, of a…

She leans in and whispers

CONNIE: “sexual” nature? You know, something that’s a little more suited to this fine family establishment?

Silence

CONNIE: Surely there’s someone who has a poem that isn’t…licentious? Cricket, do you have something you’d like to share?

CRICKET: Me? Well, golly beans. Okay.

Cricket slowly makes her way to the stage. She is carrying a journal with a bedazzled cross on it. She is very petite, fragile almost, and wearing a sack. On closer inspection one can see that it isn’t a sack at all, but a homemade dress, one probably sewn without a pattern.

CRICKET: First of all, I’d like to thank all of you wonderful people out there and all the support you’ve given me over the years. You’re like my second church. And secondly, I’d like to thank my personal savior, Jesus Christ, and the love he shows me every single day.

She pulls a handerkerchief from a voluminous pocket and dabs at her eyes.

 

CRICKET: You know sometimes I think, God…why do you have to put me, your faithful servant through so much? I mean, there have been times where I have wondered. I have wondered! I’ve thought, oh, yoooouuu!

She shakes her fist.

CRICKET: But then I pray about it and I realize that God has chosen to make me incredibly lonely and poor and plain because that is part of His plan and I will find glory soon. Hopefully before I’m dead. But God is good! God is great! And so I’d like to share my poem with you about the love of my life. Not Jesus. Though he is the LOVE of my life. No. This is a poem about my cat. Actually this whole book is filled with poems about my cat and I’m just going to let God’s hand guide me and choose one randomly.

She closes her eyes and flips through the pages.

CRICKET: Here we go.

She looks for Connie who is sitting in the back with her disgruntled granddaughter.

CRICKET: It’s family friendly, I assure you!

CONNIE: That’s great, Cricket. You just go ahead.

Cricket leans in super close to the mic, as if she’s eating it, and her voice deepens and resonates in the iHop.

CRICKET: My poem. To My Pussy.

My Pussy is always with me.

Wherever I go, there she is.

She keeps loneliness and sorrow at bay

Away.

Away!

When she is hungry, I feed her.

I feed her with love.

My Pussy is covered in silky dark

Fur

And I stroke her up and down

And sometimes in circles

Because God is infinite,

God is good.

My Pussy has teeth and sometimes

If you make her angry

She will bite! But that’s okay, because I forgive her.

And to forgive is divine.

My Pussy and I share

Everything

But especially the love of God

Because what is more divine

Than a creature who only

Needs to be stroked and loved

To love you back?

My Pussy. I love you.

MELODY, the goth-like teenager in the back row giggles and says “Amen!”

CRICKET: That’s it. Can I go now?

Connie covers her face with her hands 

Bud, the manager of iHop, quickly steps in front of the mic, allowing Cricket to slip away silently in the shadows.

BUD: Now, that’s enough folks! That’s all the Open Mic we can handle. Do you people want to get me fired? Do you? We’re ending this session, now, and I want you all to think long and hard about your poetry. It’s just not decent. Where’s the decent poetry? Huh? What happened to poetry about good, fine things like our country, and the flag, and pancakes? Jesus Crimminy, where are the poems about pancakes?

CARL: I have a haiku about pancakes!

BUD: No. You don’t. We’re done here tonight. Eat your bacon and your Senior Specials and then get out. Just…get out. But come back and buy food, but just come back separately. And don’t write anymore. Just stop it.

He pulls the cord on the mic and turns the house lights back onto full. “Bridge Over Troubled Water” plays over the sound system.

MELODY: Grandma, that was awesome. You’re right. Poetry readings are so much better than drugs.

***

Will there be more "Open Mic Night" or is this the end of the world for the Women's Writing Group? I don't know. I do know some regular blogs are coming...but I think it's highly likely Open Mic night will be back.

Open Mic Night At iHop On East Beltline: Carl PT 2

BUD: Well, okay. Welcome back to our 2^nd Open Mic and All You Can Eat Waffle Night hosted by us, your iHop, and the Women’s Writing Group. Sorry about the abrupt end to the poetry reading last week, but things were getting hot. In the kitchen that is.  Before we start, just a reminder to keep it clean, folks. We’re a family establishment. And tip your servers! Polite applause.

Connie takes over the mic. She’s in her late sixties and is wearing a long velvet dress, Renaissance Fair style. Her long, clearly hennaed hair falls down her back. She wears a crown of plastic flowers.

CONNIE: Welcome back everyone! Tonight we have an assortment of interesting people to read. I’m pleased to say my granddaughter Melody is going to read some of her poems.

MELODY: Fuck you, grandma!

CONNIE: (Pause.) My sweet  granddaughter is staying with me for a while while her mother finishes up her sent...her vacation...and Melody will read some of her work once she gets some food in her system and spikes her blood sugar a bit. Until then we have Carmen…

She looks at her sheet again.

CONNIE: Excuse me. We have Carl who wants to share something he’s written.

Connie exits the stage as CARL approaches. Carl is huge. He’s wearing big boots, big jeans, a t-shirt with wolves howling at the moon, and red suspenders. He has a big beard and a bald head. His voice is deep and sounds like he either drinks a lot of whiskey or swallowed a porcupine. Maybe both.

CARL: Hey. I’m Carl.

AUDIENCE: Hi, Carl!

CARL: I’m a trucker. That big rig out there in the parking lot, she’s mine. And we’ve seen some long roads, let me tell you. I’ve been all over this country and, sheesh, I’ve seen things that should be in books or movies or something, but then maybe not because you’d want to poke your eyes out. Yeah. Anywho. I’ve seen the love days of the sixties, the sexual freedom of the seventies, and I was fiscally irresponsible in the eighties. I repented in the nineties. And now I’m nearing retirement, but I’ve still got a few thousand miles of hard road before me.

Life is hard on the road, and it gets mighty lonely. So some days after I’ve listened to some audiobooks where people get murdered and such, well, I turn off my iPod and I like to write poems. Mostly I write them in my head, because if I wrote them down in a book while I’m driving, I’d probably jackknife or something. Or run over things like squirrels. Deer. Moose. Hitchhikers. What have you. At any rate, I forgot most of my poems on account of all the uppers I take to stay awake. It can make you sorta hazy like, but this poem I’ve got for you is real special. It’s part of a series. It’ll make you think. It might even change your life. And I guess maybe I’ve said enough about it. Now I’ll read to you. This is my poem. It’s one of them haiku things. I call it “Springtime”.

Carl clears his throat.

CARL:

Springtime. A Haiku.

You sit on my face.

I ponder hummingbird wings

And flutter my tongue.

Silence. Carl nods his head and then sits down.

Silence.

Somebody coughs.

Mabel VanderSteen, in her wheelchair, claps.

WAITRESS: Anybody here order the Senior Sampler?

MABEL: I’d rather sample some of that.

***

Stay tuned for more scenes from Open Mic Night. And some 'real' blogs too.

Open Mic Night at the IHOP on East Beltline Pt. 1

BUD:

Is this on? Is it? Anyone? Okay. Great. Welcome to our first Open Mic and All You Can Eat Waffle Night hosted by us, your IHOP. But before that I need to remind you that in honor of this new endeavor, you can get our Poet Stack of Pancakes. That’s four pancakes and you dress it the way you like it—or heck. Leave ‘em naked. Anywho. Welcome to our first Open Mic Night. The Senior Women’s Writing Group that meets here asked if we’d set up a mic and such and we agreed. So, you’ve got half an hour or so here to be all poetical, and then we’ve got to shut it down to get ready for the bar rush. Allrighty then. Remember to tip your servers!

(Bud turns the mic over to Connie, a four-foot tall woman in her late sixties wearing a tie-dyed shirt and a long flowing skirt. It is not evident if she’s wearing shoes, or even has any feet, as the skirt glides over the carpet.)

CONNIE:

Thank you, Bud. Our first reader tonight is Mable VanderSteen. She’s seventy-five, has four grandchildren…what’s that? Okay…five grandchildren and believes that through writing world peace is possible.

(Long transition as Mable is wheeled up to the microphone and the microphone is adjusted.)

MABLE:

My poem. It’s an Ode.

Ode To The O

by Mabel VanderSteen. That's me. Okay then.

(MABEL raises her hand dramatically and makes her voice sound all poet-like)

MABEL:

I thought I knew what you were, oh mighty O.

I’d read about you

and in the 60s I told everyone I knew

how to find you

but I lied.

I lied like the demon spawn I am.

(Demon Spawn--

a shadow shivering behind the outhouse.)

I lied because fear clutched my heart,

but it never clutched my clitoris.

Now I’m seventy-five and I found you,

my love,

and I thank those late night TV commercials

and their sweet spring promise

of a package sent in plain paper

so that the eyes at Whispering Pines wouldn’t know.

But now, now, Oh, sweet music,

sweet dancer on a silvery lake of passion,

I know you, Orgasm. You shiver my soul.

And now I can read my erotica fiction

and I can understand

truly understand

what it means

to be complete.

The end.

Thank you.

That’s the end of my ode. If anyone wants a coupon for the Mighty Tingler, I have…

(Sound of applause and then strangely, the fire alarm is set and the IHOP on East Beltline erupts in chaos.)

Stay tuned for more scenes from "Open Mic Night at the iHop on East Beltline".

It's Not A Tumor. It's Just A Panic Attack.

A month ago, I found a large bump on my clavicle. Did it freak me out? Yes. Did I immediately begin searching the Internet for everything I could find? Yes. Did the Internet help alleviate any anxiety? NO. I was convinced I had bone cancer. (I don’t. I’m fine.)Did I call my doctor and schedule an appointment? No.

Why?

Because I don’t have insurance. I teach three classes at the college level and narrate audio books. On a good week, I work about 50 hours. On a bad week, it’s closer to 60 hours. When I’m home, I’m grading papers, prepping for the next class, and reading the next manuscript. But I’m not insured because I’m not considered full-time at the university (a common problem for adjuncts) and I’m a freelance narrator.

So it’s kinda funny that the doctor felt my clavicles and then had me feel HIS clavicles and said: “Welcome to your body. You’re fine. You’re just asymmetrical.” (I know I have a blog about being off-center and something else weird with me. I just can’t remember what.)

Then he asked me if I was stressed and I started crying.

Stressed. ME? WHAT? YES I’M FUCKING STRESSED!!! I said quietly, “Maybe a little.”

So I was having a prolonged panic attack. I’ve had them before, but this one felt like my throat was closing off, my chest hurt and I was convinced cancer cells were streaming through my body. (I’m actually still feeling like this, except without the cancer cells. I feel like I can’t breathe and my whole body is thrumming. Not in a good way.)

But what if something HAD been wrong? I waited a whole month to call the doctor. I’ve had a month of constant anxiety and stress because I didn’t want to spend the money to go to the doctor. Either it’d be nothing, and I’d waste a couple hundred dollars; or I’d have cancer and I wouldn’t be able to pay for treatment and it’d send us directly into poverty. If’ I had insurance, I’d have called right away, alleviated my worry OR if I needed treatment for something, I’d get treatment instead of waiting and making the problem worse.

It’s a ridiculous system. I’m glad, of course, it turned out to be nothing, but now I have that constant anxiety of what if I do get sick? Like, when I broke my foot, if I didn’t have insurance, I’d have spent $5K. It’s just another thing to worry about along with work stresses and weight stresses and writing stresses and just plain LIFE stresses.

The doctors’ appointment wasn’t a total loss. I now have a prescription for an anti-anxiety medication so I can stop eating ice cream. He said I could do a few things to rush my body with endorphins to counterattack the high level of cortisol surging through me. I could take a pill, or run until I pass out, or get in a fight. I said, “Hmmm. Maybe I’ll take the Ativan.” (He didn’t mention ice cream.)

The doctors’ visit cost me $190, and the prescription will probably cost a hundred dollars, which will stress me out more, but hey. At least it’s not a tumor. I’m just asymmetrical. Literally. And apparently, spiritually too.

As Soon As My Son Can Fully Read And Use The Internet, He’ll Kill Me For This

My son—who shall remain nameless—is almost eight, and he has a wicked sense of humor. I mean ‘wicked’ both ways, as in ‘terrific’ and ‘slightly evil’. He just makes me laugh. Last night, I about lost it. My mom had come over for dinner. She started updating us on everything and my son ran from the table. I thought, huh, guess he doesn’t want to listen to Nana. Then I heard “Oh, man, oh, MAN!” coming from the bathroom.

When you hear that, it’s never good. Apparently, women say that when they have a baby in the bathroom and didn’t know they were pregnant. (Though, thankfully, I knew this would not be the case with my son.)

I knocked on the door.

SON: (frantic whisper) Get in here, ma.

I entered, and quickly shut the door behind me to find my son sitting on the toilet, looking depressed. Sort of like that thinker on the stone sculpture.

ME: Are you okay?

SON: Yeah. I’m fine. I mean, all things considering, yeah but…oh, man…ma…I…I did a poop fart.

ME: (pause) Huh?

SON: A. Poop. Fart. I thought I had to fart so I did, but it wasn’t a fart. Man, it wasn’t a fart AT ALL. I did a poop fart! A POOP FART!

ME: Well, sheesh, relax. It’s fine. I mean it’s hard to tell the difference sometimes.

SON: Have YOU ever done a poop fart?

ME: (silence)

SON: Mom?

ME: Okay. Let’s get you cleaned up. Take everything off, I’ll run a bath. This will be fine.

Meanwhile, my mom was still talking at the dinner table. I ran the bath, my son sprinted naked through the house saying: “Oh man, oh man”, and then I washed him down.

Then I went back to eating dinner while my mom still chatted on. When you’re a parent, you develop an iron stomach, so I was able to go back and eat crab legs as if nothing had ever happened. I ate those crab legs up even after my daughter said: “You’re breaking its bones!!”

Kealoha said: “It’s an exoskeleton, sweetie.” And then dipped his crab in butter.

Another Conversation with Kealoha

Okay. I’ve been a little bit stressed out. Like, CONTINUOUSLY.  

So here’s a conversation with Kealoha that I had last night after pacing around and hovering by him while he tried to fix things on my computer so I could work on some recording stuff. At one point, I was like a big buffalo, right behind him, breathing hotly. Not sexy breathing, just MOIST breathing. I was trying to ‘encourage’ him to fix the problem faster. I could just FEEL myself being annoying, but I couldn’t stop it.

Later, when he fixed the computer issues, I apologized for being so impatient. I mean, you can’t make a computer work faster. It works at its own pace.

ME: I’m sorry I’ve been acting crazy.

KEALOHA: Well, it’s an endearing crazy, and not full-blown crazy.

ME: Yeah. It’s a temporary crazy. And at least I’m AWARE that I’m being ridiculous. I’m sorry I annoyed you.

KEALOHA: It’s okay.

ME: I was annoying myself. I even tried to get away from myself but everywhere I walked, there I was, right with me.

KEALOHA: Maybe you should start to actually DO yoga instead of just wear the pants.

ME: Don’t be ridiculous.

Well, I might’ve just thought that last line.

I’m starting to think that being stressed out might not be temporary. Maybe it’s my default. Maybe it’s where I start from.

Sheesh. Breathe in. Breathe out. Downward dog pose. Lift leg. Whatever.

I’m actually starting to consider giving up coffee or doing yoga. Surely there’s a better way to handle stress then doing either of those things! I mean, I don’t want to be so deeply drastic about it, I just want to relax a little and stop freaking out all the time.

I know the answer is probably anti-anxiety medication, but right now, I’d take a cake pop over that. It’ll taste great with coffee.

It's Been One Of Those Weeks

So last week, my website was hacked. Don’t worry. It didn’t do anything totally evil, just mildly evil. Like, chafing-ly evil. When I’d try to promote the blog on Facebook, instead of quoting from the blog I wrote, there’d be random quotes about Viagra. Not even with a link or anything, just random words. Why would someone do that? What’s the point? Because of that, I haven’t been blogging. I didn’t want someone to ‘like’ a post and then have my blog look like it was some Erectile Dysfunction hotspot. (Although maybe my blog would get a lot more action then. Har har.) But I’ve missed blogging. Really.

And then I was teaching and narrating this week. It was, as expected, exhausting. Thursday I left the house at 7:15 AM and after driving, narrating all day, and then teaching a night class, I didn’t get home until 9:30 PM. I guess I know how lawyers feel now.

Then I had classes where the students seemed not only not interested and invested in the class, but as if they were mildly stoned. Actually, that would’ve been better, because then they would ‘ve at least been laughing. There’s nothing worse then presenting material to a class, trying to engage them in discussion, and hearing pure silence coming back to you—though actually, it wasn’t PURE silence. I might’ve heard them blinking. It was awful.

Then I spiraled into the whole “Oh, why am I even teaching?” As an adjunct, I’m making a third of what I made before…and I’m spending so much time and energy trying to ‘inspire’ and ‘educate’ that I don’t have time to ‘inspire’ and ‘educate’ myself.

That sorta sounds like a euphemism for masturbation. It’s not. Though I don’t even have the energy for THAT. It’s too much of a commitment.

What I mean is, I’m spending so much time reading, prepping, driving, trying to entertain/educate/inspire my students, that I don’t have any Writing Juju left.

I wanted to be working on my literary novel now. I wanted to work on some short stories and get those submitted. But…

…But….

I sit down at the computer and all I want to do is nap, then cry, then eat, then try to do all three at once. There’s no creativity flowing in me right now. No inspiration.

There’s just a general sense of unease. Maybe even gas.

Add to that some family stresses…and…you can see why I’m gorging on X Factor, The Voice, and American Horror Story re-runs. That’s been my week. The last three weeks actually.

Here’s hoping I can find some kind of routine in all of this chaos. I love teaching; I do. It’s just starting to feel like I’m trying to connect with ghosts, and I am no Medium.

I’m not even feeling much like a Writer right now.

I sorta just feel like a middle-aged mom/wife sitting in a pink bathrobe drinking coffee…and who wants to read about that?

Boo.

Nothing to see here. Just another cat watching me work

We seem to be collecting cats...

This is not an actual post. It's a picture of a cat looking at you.

We've been tweaking some internal stuff with the website, so this isn't an ACTUAL post. It's a temporary post. A trial post if you will. While I test this out, here is a picture of a cat looking at you. Feel free to stare at each other until you feel that this not-actual-post has given you what you'd hoped to get from an actual-post. Thank you.

-The Blunder Team-

It Was All Just A Misunderstanding

Here is a transcript between me and my 6-year-old daughter. It was recorded by secret devices I have planted around the house. (Actually, it was recorded by my brain.)  

Simone: Mom, I really want a toy hearse to play with. I'll have a special box with it and I'll play with it and all my animals and I'll move it around and stuff.

(slight pause while I process that my daughter wants a toy hearse.)

Me: Okay. I guess. Sure! Why not. We could paint a Barbie car black and put little ribbons on it and you can have funerals and stuff.

Simone: What?

Me: You know. For your dead animals. The other animals can mourn them and you can put them in the hearse and move it around. We could even build you a burial site out of felt and playdough or something.

Simone: Mom! What are you TALKING about? I want a HEARSE not a HEARSE.

(Pause. Pause. Pause.)

Me: Oh! You want a HORSE. A toy HORSE.

Simone: That’s what I said. A hearse.

Me: Okay. Then just forget everything I just said.

-End Scene-

Meet My Nephew The Evil Comedic Genius (I'm Pretty Sure)

If I had my way, I’d blog about everyone in my life and post entire transcripts of our conversations BUT apparently sometimes people get uppity if you post their private lives publicly. Huh. Weird. Which is why before I blogged about my nephew (who is 20 and sometimes wears ironic t-shirts un-ironically), I asked him for his permission. Consider the following:

 

See? You can get a sense of this dude’s wicked sense of humor. It’s dry. Real dry. Like martini dry. And just about as cool. Unless he's actually concerned that people get attacked on my blog. Anyway. If you listen to him, you’ll realize the dude is fucking FUNNY. Kealoha pretty much hangs on his every word. I think it’s a man-crush for sure.

So when I went up to my brother and sister-in-law’s cabin last weekend, I took a few notes. Here, then, are actual lines of dialogue that I captured in the wild, in my nephew’s (Nick) natural habitat. Consider, it’s 80 degrees, we’re all in the back of the cabin surrounded by woods like this:

We’re having a conversation, my brother, sister-in-law, me and Kealoha. I think it’s about the camera my brother got and how it miraculaously caught deer humping in the woods. And I’m pretty sure we’re drinking mai tais at this point. Nick is kinda lurking in the background. Finally my sister-in-law says “Nick, why are you being all creepy?”

Nick: “I just like to see how long it takes people to notice.” See? SEE? That’s humor right there. Or a psychological disorder. Maybe both.

Then Nick says to my niece: “Hey. You wanna whack the old shuttlecock around?” He was talking in code, really, and wanted to know if she wanted to play badminton. Shuttlecock. SHUTTLECOCK! I love that word. We should use it every day. We should go all namby-pamby using the word shuttlecock. (Or something. I don't even know what that means.) 

Nick has that quiet kind of humor. The kind of person who kicks back, listens, nods and then zings you with a joke that’s hilarious and possibly mildly disturbing.

I think humor must run in our family. Or it’s not humor but a weird form of rash that displays itself verbally. I don’t know.

At any rate, I think he should be on Twitter. And t-shirts. And coffee mugs. In fact he WAS, when he was a baby. Here’s a picture of him:

We’ll see how long he lets me keep this blog up before he hacks into it and changes everything around. I’m pretty sure he’s also some kind of twisted computer genius. I’d bet a dollar. That’s right. A DOLLAR.

Dealing with Heart Hurt. You just...do it.

My heart hurts. Not in the way that you call the ER or anything. I mean, I don’t have ANGINA (nod to my nephew who seems fascinated by this word). I mean…well…it hurts.

There are things in my life that I try to deal with and I’ve refrained from blogging about. I keep thinking about what my brother said on the phone this weekend to my nephew (he blew out his tire and was waiting for someone to come and help him on the side of the road): “Well, you deal with what you’ve got. There’s nothing we can do to make this part go faster. You just get through it.”

I feel that way about the tender parts in life. The parts that maybe I’m not proud of or saddened by or embarrassed by. I mean, what can you do? You deal with what you’ve got.

I deal with being a part-time mom, not because it’s what I want, but because I love my kids enough that I thought they should have half their time with their dad. I don’t like being a part-time mom. It feels like a copout. But if I’d had more time with my dad, maybe I’d have some kind of connection/relationship with him.

But actually, that’s probably just a fantasy too, because there are truths about my dad that also make my heart hurt. Big truths about choices and being a parent, even if you don’t want to be.

There are things about my mom that make my heart hurt. Ways that she’s changed. The way I have to talk to her to be ‘heard’. The way our relationship has changed.

My heart hurts for my friends and family who are struggling with financial issues, and health, and money problems. I wish I could rescue them all, but I can’t, and that hurts too.

I used to take walks with my friend L before she moved to a new place for a fantastic job, and we’d often comment that life is rarely all good. At the same time, it’s rarely all awful. You deal with what you’ve got. Some days are easier than others. (But some days are, admittedly, pretty terrific too.)

At the grocery store, my sister called and we chatted for a few minutes while I looked at the fruit on sale and decided it all looked too plastic. “You know,” she said, “I think you should write a memoir. You’re so fucking funny that you could tell our story and make people get it.”

It’s been one of the things I haven’t been able to write about. When you try to be funny-- especially when you try to be funny--it’s really hard to write about those things that make your heart hurt: loss, poverty, neglect, sadness, mistakes, etc.

Every day I try really, really hard to be kind and open. To laugh. To be a good mom and partner. To be a good daughter and sister. But there are days, like today, when dealing with what you’ve got seems to be a heavy burden, and one you can’t seem to lift. Where’s the funny in that? I’m not sure.

I miss the kids. It’s sunny out and I just saw pictures of them at the beach and they look so happy. These pictures are both wonderful and hard for me to see because I’m not in them. I want the kids with me and Kealoha all the time, and not just part of the time. I want my kids to have a better start in life than I did, and some days I worry that I’ve failed them.

Heart. Hurt. Heavy.

These “h” words seems to be weighted with sadness.

You can see why I try to resist writing these kind of blogs, and why I think writing a memoir would be really difficult.

I think I need a good cry, a back rub, and a couple of pretty pots of mums for the front of my house. Little things help sometimes in dealing with ‘what you’ve got’.

My Dear John Letter To Summer

Dear Summer, I’m writing to tell you that I’m breaking up with you. I’m serious. We’re done. And I know I’ve told you that before, but you never seem to listen, so maybe you will when you have these concrete words in front of you. I don’t love you. Maybe I never have.

I don’t mean to be cruel, but you’re not LISTENING to me. You keep coming back around with your 90-degree hotness and humid breath. We are not an item. WE ARE NOT. Do you get that? There’s a reason why I hide from you in my house with the AC cranked. You make me uncomfortable. You make me sweat. We’re done. D-O-N-E.

You’re not a bad person, exactly. I mean, I know you’re right for SOMEONE. Go hang out in the jungle or in Miami beach…you know, places where people like to wear bikinis or banana leaves and stuff. If I wore a bikini, the brightness of my skin would cause planes to crash and upset the migratory patterns of Canada geese, and I hate those fuckers with their man-sized droppings.

I need more from a relationship. I need warmth in the form of clothing I pick out for myself and wear in LAYERS. I don’t need warmth automatically provided for me. I do not want your Hothouse of Love. I want legwarmers. There. I said it. Now you know. I. Want. Legwarmers.

You and I both know who I’m talking about. I’m talking about Autumn. God, I can’t get enough of her. She’s so brightly colored in hues I find pleasing and calming. Sometimes she cries buckets of rain, and I’m good with that. I understand MOODS. I understand DARKNESS. I want to cook Autumn a pot roast and season it with bacon. You, Summer, you’re all “Oh, I’m a Farmer’s Market. Look at my bounty! I’m a vegan!” Well, Autumn’s got bounty too. PLENTY of it. She’s stacked. Apples, squash, potatoes…and then later….TURKEY.

You can’t compete with turkey. And, you know, I’ve heard there are turkeys who eat VEGANS. (Just sayin’.)

I know this is harsh. I know that and I apologize, but you just don’t seem to hear me. I need you to go away.

That means NOW. Right now. Go away. For a while. A long while. We need some space. Autumn is going to be here any moment and it’s going to be awkward for all of us if you’re still, you know, hanging around, fluttering around the backyard and shining on stuff. Just, stop it. Stop.

We can still be friends. I mean, you’re a perfectly nice person and all. It’s just like in that Gotye song “Somebody That I Used To Know”. Now you’re just a somebody to me because Autumn—man, AUTUMN—she’s got me hooked. I’m counting the days until she gets here. I’m sorry, but that’s the truth.

Go make someone else happy with your splendor. Someone who lives really far away, like in the South…or Australia. Yeah. Go to Australia. There are hobbits there who need you.

Sincerely,

Your friend,

Tanya