Overexposed

Every time I come out with a new piece of writing or an audiobook, I feel pressure to promote it. It all makes me feel dirty.  

I know. I know. You’ve heard it before, but if you’re a self-published author, or you have books with a small house, you do have to put yourself out there.

But every time I write a tweet or a status update where I’m like “Hey! Buy my book!” I sorta feel like I’m saying “Hey! Look at my nipple!”

I’m reading this book called “Quiet” where it talks about characteristics of an introvert and it’s sorta like reading my own sequencing of DNA. I might come off pushy and gutsy, but inside, I’m pretty much a shriveled raisin.

The truth is, I don’t want ANYONE to look at my nipples, let alone pay me to look. Ew. But I would like them to read my words, like them, comment on them, tell other people about them…but. It’s exhausting. And that’s a lot to expect from other people.

I went to do my newsletter and the stats were depressing. I had about a dozen notices that said “Aw! You lost a subscriber. Someone doesn’t like you.” I’m pretty sure that’s a quote. It’s Mailchimp’s way of being kooky, but for a super-sensitive person, like myself, it’s just confirming my worst fears.

So. Instead of constantly promoting, my wonderful Kealoha put a nifty tab on my blog that we’ll continue to update where if you want something of mine, you can click on the link and it will take you to it. BOOKS TAB HERE.

And if you have time and energy to write a review, that’d be great, or suggest me to someone, that’d be great too.

But as for now, I’m done with showing my nipples.

At least figuratively. I’ll still show my nipples to my hubby if he asks very very nicely. That’s probably more than you need to know.

You Can't Be Martha Stewart Unless You're An Alien Or On Drugs

I started recording the second book in this fun cozy mystery series by Jill Marie Landis. (Find Book One HERE. Some doofus gave it a low review, but I think the book is charming.) Anyway. The book is set in Hawaii and the protagonist runs a Tiki Bar with her Uncle Louie and murders and mayhem happens. Fun, fun, stuff. Plus she’s always mentioning these Hawaiian drinks and pupu platter stuff and trade winds and I just thought “I NEED TO THROW A LUAU LIKE IN THE BOOK”. Except without the poison.  

Here then is the evolution of the party planning and convincing my husband that we needed to do this.

ME:

I want to throw an indoor Hawaiian Luau Open Hose in February except without the roasted pig in a fire pit and no bare bellies.

KEALOHA:

Okay.

Two hours later.

ME:

What about a date? Can we pick a date? How about a date? Let’s pick a date. Like NOW.

Two hours later.

ME:

Can you do a Facebook invite?

KEALOHA:

Sure.

ME:

Like now? I know the party’s not for another month, but people are really busy. They need to plan. Can you do it now? NOW?

One hour later.

KEALOHA:

Okay. It’s up.

ME:

I know. I already invited people.

KEALOHA:

How many?

ME:

I don’t know? Fifty? Eighty?

KEALOHA:

But we also told people they could bring kids and family. That’s like two hundred people!

ME:

No one ever responds to Facebook invitations anymore. We’ll be lucky to get ten people.

KEALOHA: Then why did you have me do a Facebook invitation?

ME: I don’t know. It’s just what one does.

Ten minutes later.

ME:

Ohmygod! We only have two people confirmed! No one’s coming! We aren’t popular! What if we have an empty house and no one comes and there’s Hawaiian music and you and I are drunk and the kids are depressed in the corner rocking themselves because no one likes us. NO ONE LIKES US.

Okay. I may have just thought the above. This is why I’d make a terrible Martha Stewart. You can’t be Martha Stewart unless you’re an alien or on drugs, preferably ecstasy.

We are throwing the party. I’ve already started planning the menu, and if people don’t show up, I’ll document and post it all right here. You can witness my shame. And possibly come over and pick up leftovers.

What Every Divorced Parent Dreads Hearing "Well, at my DAD'S house..."

I had the kind of day yesterday where a big cry probably would’ve helped, but I just couldn’t seem to do it. I was too tired, too worn down, and I didn’t want the kids to see me cry. Not because I hide being sad from them; I don’t. I just didn’t want to manipulate them. My son, Franz, was pretty much a beast yesterday. And I keep seeing this stupid Facebook post:

First of all, it’s not funny. Secondly, most people who are posting this either don’t have kids, or had kids a long time ago. Parenting has changed. The world has changed. And it angers me that when someone sees a child misbehaving, they automatically blame the parent for everything. What makes you assume that the parent isn’t doing everything they can to raise a kind child? What makes you have the authority to be so judgmental?

I’ve been thinking about this a lot.

Why are my kids so bratty so much? Is it me? Am I not strict enough? Is it the world? I was well behaved when I was a kid, but we were poor and I was afraid most of the time of being hurt by a parent. Is that what a modern parent should do? Raise their kids in fear?

I have structure in my house and rules. There are consequences to bad behavior. The kids are never afraid of me. But…I don’t know. They still throw fits and act out and are mean.

Yesterday, my son was throwing a fit, even though he’s too old for that. I did what you’re supposed to do. I got down to his level, in his face, lowered my voice and said strongly “This behavior is not appropriate”. He then pointed his finger in my face, screamed at the top of his lungs that I was a terrible mother and he hated me. I dragged him into the Time Out spot.

He recovered. We made up. He apologized. But it was awful and embarrassing.

Later Franz couldn’t sleep and kept getting up. We took away the iPod. Spoke firmly. It did nothing. Then I said, very calmly, “Franz, you don’t behave this way at your dad’s. Why is it appropriate for you to behave this way here or treat me the way you do?”

His answer: “At my dad’s, there are people to PLAY with. You don’t have anyone here for me. I play all day at my dad’s, but there’s NO ONE here.”

And that’s when I lost it. I was sooooo soooo close to saying things I’ve wanted to say for a long time. I did not say them. I WANTED to say, your dad got in a serious relationship two weeks after we split up. He was engaged four months after we split up. He was irresponsible. I waited. I tried to take time! I tried to find the right partner that I was sure would love me and love you and we'd be safe with. I’m sorry that I don’t have kids here for you, but I wanted to avoid forcing other kids into your life. I wanted to keep you safe. I didn’t want to give you step-siblings that might or might not like you. I’m sorry your dad does everything better. But while you’re playing at your dad’s and having fun, where is he? Is he there? I’m here with you. I’m HERE. I talk to you. I give you attention and feedback and love. Why isn’t that enough?

Instead I took a breath, left the room, went downstairs into the bathroom and just…shook. My body just shook on tears I couldn’t shed. On words I couldn’t say.

I don’t have a bunch of playmates here for the kids. We can’t have pets because the kids are allergic. I try to discipline and be firm, but I still can’t get them to behave. I’m afraid of taking them to a restaurant or a friend’s house because they might be rude or throw a fit. So, in essence, their behavior controls us.

When I was a kid, I used to play outside on my own, but I can’t let my kids do that. The world has changed. I can’t just let them out unsupervised and I don’t have friends with kids in the neighborhood. We don’t all get together for cocktail parties etc. I don’t have animals for the kids to play with and I chose a partner who didn’t have kids partly because I love him, but I also didn’t want my kids to feel replaced by another family. I’m not a sports person. I don’t enjoy playing outside, so it’s an effort for me to constantly plan things to tire the kids out.

Parenting is hard. I’m doing my best. I wish my kids knew how much I’ve given them. I wish they were perfectly behaved and kind all the time, but they’re not. Some times, they’re mean little dinks.

It’s hard not to compete with an ex, but at this point, it certainly feels like he’s winning, especially with a house filled with playmates, whereas ours is filled with just me, Kealoha and a few too many toys. But our house is also filled with time and attention and love and Kealoha and I doing our very best to raise two loving, empathetic kids.

Sometimes, though, it’s overwhelming and just plain hard. And those stupid Facebook posts can cut right to the heart sometimes.

Monopoly Shenanigans

The following is a transcript recorded by my in-home recording device (AKA my brain) on Monday, January 7, 2012, in which my eight-year-old son, Franz, kills me in Monopoly. This excerpt occurs about an hour into the game, when the concerned parties have purchased most of the board’s property.

ME Ah ha! I’ve landed on Boardwalk! Aw, yeah! Aw, yeah! And I already have Park Place! I’m gonna buy me some houses and hotels and…Soooo…

(I look at my stack of money. I have three 1s and a 5.)

ME Uhm…how much is it? $400?

(FRANZ notices my stack of money.)

FRANZ:

Aw, yeah! Aw, yeah! You’re in the poorhouse, Ma! You’re bankrupt.  Say it! Say it! Say “I’m on the low end!”

ME What?

FRANZ:

You’re on the low end!  The LOW END! You spent all your money!  You got nothin’. You always go bankrupt! You’re always on the low end. Hahahahah!

ME Fine. I’m on the low end. But…boy…I’m movin’ on up…to the east side…

KEALOHA

To a deluxe apartment in the sky…

(Then Kealoha and I started clapping and singing the Jefferson song while Franz did a jig. We recovered after a while. Maybe after too long a while.)

(Awkward silence.)

ME Okay. I’d admit it. I’m on the low end. I’d have to mortgage all my properties to buy Boardwalk.

(It occurred to me that maybe this would be a Teachable Moment.)

ME Let that be a lesson to you, boy.

(I’m such a good mom.)

FRANZ

Whatever. It’s my turn.

Random Blogness And Star Wars Hyperspace

  I’ve been staring at this empty white page for a while now. It’s not empty now, because I’m slowly hacking out some words, but this is what I’ve been looking at:

For a while. I’d say it’s like staring into a blizzard, but at least with a blizzard, you can sometimes pretend you’re in Star Wars jumping to hyperspace or whatever.

Or maybe that’s just me.

Why am I wordless and thought-less today? I don’t know. Maybe because I started work on a memoir, so all my writing energy and self-reflection is going in there.

Maybe because I’m promoting the release of “Tunnel Vision & Other Stories From The Edge” and as much as I love self-publishing and getting my work out there, no one buys my books.

That’s not true. Ten of you did, and I’m really, really grateful. I shouldn’t look at success in my writing life, numerically, right? But it’s hard not to. My whole life, I wanted to be a Writer, but in my mind Being A Writer meant having thousands of people read my work, not just the act of writing. It meant being in bookstores. It meant, I don’t know, a corduroy jacket and book readings at tiny bookstores where I’d been invited to go. It didn’t mean a near constant plea of “Please! Buy my book! Or my recording! Read it! Listen!”

Blurgh.

I’m trying to ‘adjust my expectations’ and ‘be grateful for those of you who choose to spend time with my words’ but it does make me cranky. No quotes around that word. Not ‘cranky’. CRANKY.

So sometimes I sit at the white page and I think, why bother? But then I bother because I CAN’T STOP MYSELF.

I need to write the way that marathon runners need to get up at 4 am in the bitter cold and run on ice. (Here I remind myself that I am glad my lifelong dream was not to be a marathon runner.)

Here’s the good news: I had two weeks off from work and it was terrific. I’m back to the studio this week, and it’s slowly sinking in that I don’t have to teach anymore. Suddenly, I have more energy for my own reading, and writing, and just energy to be a good mom and wife and person. It’s amazing what lowering your stress level can do.

And I’ve been eating healthy and cooking and working out for almost two weeks now, and have even *shocker*, lost a few pounds.

And I love the design and effort my husband did with “Tunnel Vision”. I’m proud of that creepy little endeavor. (Click here for other new releases. Soft sell, see?)

I guess, today, I just stare into the blizzard a bit longer…and home at some point my words will take flight.

Except when my words and books finally do take flight, I hope that there's not a giant Wookie sitting next to me. I'm sorry, but Chewbaca probably smells. There's no conditioner in outer space.

Some of the Recent Projects I'm Proud Of

In an effort to expand the blog to start covering some of my narration endeavors (because I'm full-time freelancer now), I thought I'd occasionally update you all on some of the my recent projects and releases. Since this is the first time I'm doing this, it might be a longer post. In the future, I'll highlight two or three releases, and probably just once a month. (Just click on the picture to go to Audible or Amazon. On Audible, you can hear a free sample of the book.)

WORK I WROTE & NARRATED:

Finally! A couple of my pieces are available on Audible, and I'm thrilled that they're getting 4 and 5 star reviews. Audible critics are notoriously tough. In fact, I'm pretty sure a couple of their reviewers want me fired....so....to have my own books getting such high reviews is especially pleasing.

 WORK I PRODUCED & NARRATED:

This one only has a couple of reviews and one of the reviewers totally missed the point of the novel. I loved reading it. It's set in Hawaii, has all sorts of crazy characters, a mystery, and it's just plain funny. (Crazy characters include a group of senior citizen hula girls, a fire eating detective, and a drunken parrot.)

The next one is a scary book by Scott Nicholson. I really liked the darkness in this piece and it kept me interested and engaged the whole time. His work isn't gory or anything, just lots of spooky stuff going on.

If the picture doesn't link, click HERE. RIGHT HERE. ON THIS LINE.

WORK I NARRATED:

Here are two books that I had a blast narrating. The first is a post-apocolyptic story with a kick ass heroine. This book hasn't received nearly the press I think it should've. Good conflict, action, plot, and characters. And there's a heart to it too. It's called "Flowertown" by S.G. Redling.

And here's a fun, strange listen. In it, Marilyn Monroe meets Nikita Kruschev (I can never spell his name) for a little spy adventure. So, I got to give voice to Marilyn. Hello. Dream come true. I tried not to mimic her, but rather, tried to suggest her voice. This was so fun to narrate and I'm hoping people will think it's a great listen, though, again, there's no press really on this book. So many good books get neglected, I think.

And the link for Bombshell (for some reason it keeps evaporating) IS RIGHT HERE. REALLY. RIGHT HERE.

WORK I'VE WRITTEN:

My newest release, if you didn't know already, is "Tunnel Vision & Other Stories From the Edge." Please take a chance on it, especially if you like slight dark and/or creepy stories. There's a novella and three short stories. Click HERE for Kindle and HERE for everything else!

Next month I'll highlight fewer books...but there are definitely some great ones coming. I'm so lucky I get to read such terrific work.

Win a Paperback of "Tunnel Vision"

You can win a copy of "Tunnel Vision and Other Stories from the Edge" on Goodreads! Just follow the below link and add your name into the pot. Also...more regular blogging coming to this site soon, but for now, I'm off to the studio to record a truly wonderful book called "What The Family Needed" by Steven Amsterdam, in which during a time of difficulty each family member discovers they have a super power.

All good stuff. Enter the contest here:

Goodreads Book Giveaway

Tunnel Vision And Other Stories From The Edge

by Tanya Eby

Giveaway ends January 26, 2013.

See the giveaway details at Goodreads.

Enter to win

"Tunnel Vision" is Now Available!

What a good way to start 2013. I woke up and Kealoha informed me that "Tunnel Vision & Other Stories From The Edge" is now available as an ebook. Paperback is coming soon, and we hope to have an audio version as well.

You'll notice from the cover that this is a departure from my comedic writing. Don't worry. I won't always be dark, but it's fun to mix it up.

Here's a quick summary of "Tunnel Vision" as described by the inmates. The novel switches POV between the inmates and Dr. Kinney:

SUMMARY:

It is 1932 and we are the inmates at the Northern Michigan Insane Asylum. We are tended by physicians like Dr. Elliot Kinney, but we do not care for him or his modern techniques. There is a secret he carries; it slithers within him. We can tell. We watch. We know.

 At night, beneath the asylum, we move in the vast network of The Tunnels. We slip in and out of shadows, for we are keeping our own secret close to us. We have kept her for over twenty years.

 She is our Alma, our soul, and we do not want Dr. Kinney to take her from us. There are ways we have of fighting.

 Shhh.

 We will never tell.

***

Along with the novella “Tunnel Vision”, author Tanya Eby includes three stories from a dark edge: “The Perfect Neighbor”, “The Shedow”, and “Birth Day”.

Thanks to everyone who helped me get this piece out there. I hope you enjoy the novella and the short stories I've included.

Links to purchase:

CLICK on this line to go to Amazon

CLICK on this line to go to Smashwords

My List Of Unattainable Resolutions And One I Can Do. Probably.

Well, it’s the end of another year, and the beginning of a new one. I’m not prepared. I mean, I thought that all civilization was going to end because of the Mayan Apocalypse but all that happened was my Facebook page blew up with funny pictures of Godzilla and Grumpy Cat.

Actually, maybe that WAS the Apocalypse.

So I guess I’m supposed to make resolutions or something now. I’ve said this before. I hate resolutions. Nothing makes me feel like a bigger failure than setting unattainable goals and then obliterating said goals with self-destructive behavior twenty hours later.

Here then are my

Unattainable Resolutions:

1)   Lose 20 pounds. Really. 20.

       --Impossible to achieve since I’m ALMOST 40 and the only way I seem to be able to lose weight is if I’m depressed and stop eating. And I’m happy. So, mixed blessing.

2)   Sell 10,000 books.

      --I’ve sold about a hundred. Unless I threaten people with another Apocalypse, I don’t think my 10,000 goal is going to happen.

3)   Work out five days a week.

       --After working out for two days, my knee got all puffy and started sending me Morse Code messages that said “I’m. In. Pain. Bitch”.

4)   Cook more.

       --I’m doing this!!! Until I start working again. But so far, so good.

5)   Relax more.

      --I’m doing this too! Especially since I started taking anti-anxiety meds. Yay! Pharmacy!

6)   Actually do yoga once while wearing yoga pants so the next time someone asks, “You do yoga?” I can say “Yes” instead of “Ohhhh, no. I just wear the pants.

       --Again, what fantasy world am I living in? Never going to happen. NEVEHH!!!

7)   Realize that if I eat the edges of  all the brownies in the pan, this still counts as EATING BROWNIES and is not free of calories simply because I’m eating the crunchy part of the brownie and think no one will notice.

      --Fuck you, Resolution Maker. Fuck. You.

Ahem.

I’m a pragmatist. I know that my 1-7 goals are pretty unattainable. Here then is my revised list of

Attainable Resolution(s) of 2013:

1)   Remind yourself that even when things are tough, good things can and will happen. Good things like to happen as unexpected surprises, because they like to make an entrance.

That’s it. All I’ve got to do is REMIND myself of the above. I don’t even have to believe it.

I can totally do this.

Happy New Year to you, dear reader. May you have unexpected good things come your way with a heavy dose of laughter, and no indigestion.

New Cover For "Tunnel Vision"

Coming soon to a bookstore and ereader near-ish to you:  

Cover created by David Kolenda.

Meh, Meh Christmas

I didn’t blog at Christmas. Shocking, right? Usually I get all emotional around Christmas time, you know, sorta like in days-of-yore (my twenties) where I’d drink too much and then start randomly calling people on my phone to tell them how much I loved them. But this Christmas I was just…meh.

I did the Christmas stuff you’re supposed to do: I made cookies, ate too much Chex Mix, and sent Christmas cards. I listened to Christmas music by Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby and the hottest song EVER by Dean Martin “Baby It’s Cold Outside”. (He’s the only singer that seems to understand that this is a song about seduction, about Getting It On, and not about staying inside where it’s toasty.) So, I did everything RIGHT, but I just couldn’t get into the spirit.

I don’t think I needed ghost visitations like in Scrooge to get me excited about cooking a turkey while simultaneously giving me hope for the future. I just needed…snow. And the kiddos. They spent the week leading up to Christmas with their dad, and that made me a little blue. It was also just plain WARM outside, and I just can’t think about sleigh bells when I’m sweating.

A True Story to Illustrate My Sense of Meh:

A few days before Christmas, I stayed overnight at a hotel near the studio I record at because I was exhausted. In the morning, I decided to treat myself to breakfast, so I went to a little diner next to a fast-food Chinese place. It was dark out. I hopped out of the car and was immediately startled by a legless man sitting in a wheelchair in a dark corner of the dark (so, dark squared) smoking a cigarette. Nothing against legless men, but the dude was scary, and he was LURKING. Not that he could run around or anything. Oh, shit. Forget I said that. (Horrible horrible me.)

Anyway. Here is the diner I went to. I know, I know, I should've known it'd be scary:

I ran into the restaurant which was about 2/3 full with old men in work clothes and heavy duty boots. The waitress (in her 60s with a smoker’s voice) sat me in the Singles section. All the Singles were facing the same way, except one dude was turned to look at all the Singles, and she put me right in front of him. We were a chair away from each other and he was staring at me while shoveling scrambled eggs into his mouth. In between bitefulls, he made big hacking coughs, as if attempting to expel a demon from his chest.

The waitress poured me coffee. It was so thick, I thought it was syrup. I tried to drink it, but it burned…the way vodka burns, except without any hope of getting a buzz. Getting The Plague, maybe, but not a buzz.

I took out my iPad and everyone sorta stared at me, and I could hear their thoughts: “Look at that lady bringing in her fancy tech gear and thumbing her nose at our coffee”.

I looked around the restaurant for a friendly face, and immediately noticed a table with four women, one of whom was dressed LIKE AN ELF. A 6’3 ELF. She had on this red velour shirt with a pointy green collar and bells. And she was wearing old jeans. And the whole experience made me feel as if 1) I’ve become a snob and 2) It’s hard to feel merry about Christmas when a legless guy scares you in the parking lot, a guy hocks up breakfast, and a tall lady-elf glares at you.

So I didn’t write during Christmas because I don’t want to be a Debbie Downer.

Wait. That phrase “Debbie Downer” is someone who makes others depressed, right, and not a porn name? Right?

Aw, jeez.

We ended up having a good Christmas. Kealoha spoiled me. And I feel better now that the kids were here for Christmas Eve and day. But I sorta am ready for the comfort of routine, and the time when you don’t feel so much pressure for everything to be sparkly and perfect and life-affirming. You know? I’m not hungry for turducken or caroling or miracles; I’m just hungry for normalcy. And maybe a wet burrito. But normalcy first.

Franz is dramatic and hates art.

My son, Franz, is turning out to be a little bit dramatic. He’s eight, but already he knows, accepts and embraces his identity as an actor. I’d like to take credit (blame?) but I’m pretty sure he was born this way.  

Example, Scene One:

ME: So, Franz, there’s a school play coming up. The Jungle Book. Why don’t you audition?

FRANZ: Are you crazy?

ME: Why? You like acting and stuff.

FRANZ: Because the only thing that second graders can do is this ridiculous singing and dancing.

ME: Well, you’re good at singing and dancing.

FRANZ: I know I’m good at it. But my heart is with ACTING.

KEALOHA: Too bad they’re not doing “Death of a Salesman”.

Example, Scene Two:

Yesterday, Kealoha and I decided to take the kids out on a Family Date. We had lunch at Red Lobster where the kids said the ambiance was nice, and they liked the lobsters in the fish tank waiting for their death, but the food was just okay.

Then we took them to Meijer Gardens to look at Christmas tree lights and sculptures and their train set.

The kids took off like they were teenagers and desperate to get away from Kealoha and I. We followed them like good parent-stalkers.

After looking at all the trees and claiming which tree was ours (Moxie went with the Canadian one because of all the owls; Franz chose the Scandinavian one because of the ships on it; I got the Victorian one because it was behind glass and had old-fashioned stuff; Kealoha chose the African one because of the weird ornaments on a baobab tree)…

Wait. That was a long parenthetical. What the hell was I saying?

Oh! After looking at the trees and walking through the green house area in search of birds, we finished off the day by checking out the sculptures in their special room.

I guess this was an Art Prize exhibit. As soon as we walked in, we were greeted by a plaster of Paris sculpture of a pair of legs with another pair of legs fused on top so it looked like a giant X. Franz was incensed and said the following REALLY LOUD, so a group of parents could overhear.

FRANZ: Oh, Jeez. Oh, come on!

ME: What’s the problem?

FRANZ: Man, I hate art! They’re always showing naked people and I really don’t want to see that. I mean, it’s not appropriate!

ME: It is appropriate. The artists are trying to get you to think and to see that the human body is beautiful and a work of art. It’ll expand your brain.

FRANZ: No. I don’t WANT my brain expanded or whatever. Arrrrgh!

He pointed to a naked man hanging upside down here. I noticed the man’s penis seemed to defy gravity. I sorta wanted to look at it a little longer. I mean, wouldn't the penis flop the other way? Like pointing to his head? I needed time to figure that out. Art really gets you thinking, I guess.

FRANZ: I don’t want to see that! Oh, Jeez. Look at that! Man. It’s like...I don’t want to see naked people. I especially don’t want to see YOU naked, Ma.

I turned fifty shades of red on that one. I can’t blame him. I don’t really want to see me naked either. I once saw my mom naked, back in the seventies, when women were ‘natural’. And the sight of all that hair… * shiver *

Anyway. We made it through the exhibit. Franz was emotionally scarred, but I figure it’s good for him. Moxie said she liked art and naked people because she wants to be a photographer and you have to like that stuff.

Kealoha and I walked with our kids through the drizzle of a late December day. We held their hands. We laughed. We embarrassed them. They embarrassed us. And I’ve never felt so grateful to have all of them with me.

On a lighter note, I would pay big money to see the 2^nd Grade class put on “Death of a Salesman”. I mean, now, THAT would be art.

On The Way To The Family Christmas Party...

We had the Eby/Kolenda/Knaggs/Sirois/Ogle Christmas Family Party last weekend, or EKKSO. It was at my sister’s house, and I can’t tell you where she lives because I never remember the name of the town. Basically, she’s about forty minutes from us and tucked in the woods by a lake. There’s, like, bait shops and churches, and farms with horses on the way there, so it’s like travelling to the moon.We were going to take two cars, but my niece was sick, so instead me, Kealoha, Franz, Moxie and Nana all piled into one car. Moxie was upset by this.

MOXIE: Nana! You’re not supposed to be in the car!

NANA: (gently) But we’re all driving together.

MOXIE: Mommy says you’re supposed to go on the roof!

(Pause)

Did I say that? Yes. Yes I did, but it was taken out of context. Kealoha said it first that if Romney could carry a dog on the roof, then we could put Nana up there, and I said it would be like National Lampoon Vacation and Nana would have a great time, so, yes, TECHINICALLY I said she should go on the roof.

But she didn’t. And I wedged my enormous hips sideways between the two kids’ car seats in the back and wished that I didn’t have such birthin’ hips OR that I could resist cheese and logs and balls and dips.

It was cold out. I was giving Kealoha directions. I could feel his blood pressure rising. That’s because he’s used to GPS systems. Essentially, I was the GPS system, but it went sorta like this:

ME: So, okay, I’m not sure where or when you turn, but I’m pretty sure it’s by a grocery store and you probably turn right. Oh, in a mile or so. A country mil…TURN! TURN NOW!

And then:

ME: Now we’re looking for a church with one of those big steeple like things and then we’re either going to turn left or right or go past it a bit. Just be on the lookout for a church. Or a barn.

FRANZ: This road is curvy.

ME: I know.

MOXIE: You look weird, Mom.

ME: That is because I drive really slow on this road. But Kealoha is doing a good job. I did not even notice that he’s going 57 and I usually go 40. He’s very good at driving.

KEALOHA: Ha! Am I making you nervous?

MOXIE: You don’t seem nervous, Mom.

ME: Not on the outside. INTERNALLY, I’m pretty much screaming. Turn! TURN NOW!

We made it there in one piece, physically. Maybe not psychologically.

And then we were wrapped up in the chaos of my family. All the good stuff that happens at family gatherings was there: awkward conversations until the drinks kicked in, duos sneaking off to smoke and get caught up (Kealoha and I avoided this), jokes, performing children, undercurrents of past hurts that everyone tries to pretend aren’t there but you can feel them vibrating….you know….Christmas.

Then it started to snow giant fluffy flakes and we dove into presents.

We laughed. We got good gifts. We hugged. Nana was thrilled with her gigantic box of chocolates and iPod and asked if the iPod had “Fifty Shades Of Gray” on it. We were all uncomfortable. My nephew loved his purple unicorn shirt and immediately put it on. The kids got toys (including Kealoha), and I got a very cool wallet. And then it was over.

The only thing left was a forty-minute ride home through near-blizzard slush/sleet/rain/snow, but I tried to keep my eyes closed. Nana stayed in the car on the way back too instead of the roof. We’re considerate like that.

Meet Franz and Moxie

Well, the time has come in my blogging life where my kids have grown old enough to know that I’m talking about them, and to hate it. It’s a dilemma bloggers eventually face: To Blog or Not To Blog. To share deep, personal stories that may also serve as ammunition when the kids are older and dating, or respect their privacy and talk only about your own life? This would mean I couldn't write any more dialogues or conversations, and I would talk mostly about narration prep and intestinal discomfort.  

Fuck that! I carried those puppies for nine months each, threw up three to four times every day with them, had gestational diabetes with both and that means I couldn’t have a sandwich (or keep it down) for EIGHTEEN MONTHS. I have earned embarrassing them. I’ve earned it!!!

Still.

I am a compassionate, caring mother. So I am now and forevermore renaming my children on this blog, so that when they say “Ma? Are you writing about me? I can truthfully say “Nope. I’m writing about some kids named Moxie and Franz”.

Moxie. And FRANZ.

These are my blog-children.

You will hear more from them soon. In my blog-world, my son Franz wears lederhosen and is pissed off about it, and Moxie wears a 1920s flapper-style dress and a cute hat. She’s sewn sparkles all over it. Franz is 8; Moxie is 6.

And while we’re in fantasy-blog land, please imagine me as 29, a size 8 again, with long auburn hair.

Scratch that. Imagine me in lederhosen too, only I look like this:

Kealoha you can imagine as he usually is: Hawaiian shirt, jeans, mai tai in hand, because really. You can’t improve on perfection.

I have a Christmas scene with Moxie, Franz, Me, Kealoha and Nana coming soon.

BEWARE

This is a slightly INtoxcited Blog.

December 8l , 2012  

I HAVE SURVIVED THE SEMWTER AND AM CELEBRATING WITH A FLLASS IF…

Oh. Sorry. Had the Caps on. I have finished with my classes, survived the hardest semester EVER, and have had two days to get caught up on audionbooks and prep and etc. and am now celebrating with my 2^nd glass of wine. Actually, it's only ONE glass of wine. (But it's HUGE.)

Kealoha is off working. Not on the street corner or anything. He’s working a GIG. It involves frozen food and special lighting. I don’t know what the hell he’s doing but I know it involves driving, and VIP people, and possible frozen prawns. PRAWNS.

I miss him. Gone three days and home is just not the same without him. I mean, my husband fills the house with bad polka music and I an hear him laughinf gfrom random rooms when he looks at cat picture memes or whatr have you.

But still. I needed me some Tanya Time. Seriously. It’s been ages since I’ve had time to do nothing, and I needed to do nothing and answer to no one because my stress level has been off the charts.

Whatever.

Today…I had the house to myself. The kidas are at their dad’s so I worked all morning and recorded some saucy stories in my home studio. I mean SAUCY. Steampunk Erotica. It’s true. ME! Narrating stories about heaving bosoms and pink things and mechanical devises built just for pleasure. And I used an ENGLISH accent. And what I think may have possibly been Austrialian. Occasionally. Just for the Hobbits.

Then I got all worked up and walked on the treadmill for an hour or so. Then I made BALLS. Olive cheese balls! Then I went to World Market! (Maybe not int hat odred). I contemplated buying a bag od yellow candy called Pee On Snow candy, but decided not to. I mean, it was funny, but it wasn’t $1.99 funny. And now I’m drinking wine BECAUSE I CAN.

This blog documents the dange r of drinking wine, alone, unwatcherd and unprotected, while your husband hels people with PRAWNS. Or whatever.

Gosh, I feel nice. I miss wine. I don’t do this often, but even middle-aged married moms need to kick back once in a while. And that’s what I’m doing I’m kick.in…

Shit.

Just fell over.

Maybe more than two glasses of wine. Should probably switch to smaller glasses.

Merry Christmas everyone! Love and Kisses,

Tanya

PS Buy some of my books for presnets. Because I need the money and they’re funny. Ish.

Just Some Good Old Fashioned Bitching.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but lately I’m like a big slug of emotion. That’s right. A SLUG. Of emotion. I’ve cried while watching Glee, Alfred Hitchcock presents, and even the weather. (Global warming is freaking me out.) I know I’m stressed out.  I mean, clearly, I’m STRESSED.  

I look in the mirror and I see a pudgy, middle-aged woman staring blankly at me and I think “Who are you?”  and “Why do you keep looking at me?” and “Stop pointing your finger at me!” and “You’re creeping me out!” Then I realize that I’M the pudgy middle-aged woman and if I want to stop staring at me, then I need to turn a light off or something.

I know how this happened. All of it. The stress, and the pudge, and even the middle-age-ness. What I want to know is how do I make it stop? I mean, yes, I’m not going to stop aging, but something has happened where all this stress is making me not very likeable. And it suddenly occurs to me that people aren’t liking me all that much. I mean, when did people get so polite around me? When did I inspire kid-glove handling?

Maybe it’s because they can feel the stress pouring off me like AXE deodorant.

***

I had this nightmare last night where I was dead. Really. D E A D. It was horrifying. I walked into a hospital-like room and I knew I was there to see my body. Then I thought, no, I’m fine. I’m not dead. And then I saw the page stapled to a blackboard: TANYA EBY’S BODY IS TO YOUR RIGHT. I went to the right, and sure enough, there I was. Thankfully, I was covered with a sheet, but I knew I was beneath that sheet. Kealoha and my two kids were there and so was my mom, and I thought, this sucks, and…why aren’t I hysterical? But I felt nothing. Then I hugged my son and said “I’m sorry this happened to you”. “I’m not” he said and that’s when I woke up, covered in sweat, heart racing, and absolutely terrified.

I quickly analyzed the dream and most sites said “Maybe you are stressed about something” or “Death in a dream usually symbolizes the end of something and the start of something new”. Yeah. Okay. Fuck you. Ugh. Sorry. That was the stress talking, not me.

So then. What am I stressed about? Hmmmm. Cue Jeopardy music:

STRESSES

1. Finals at the college and 90 final papers to grade in one week
2. Still working two full-time jobs
3. Narrating constantly
4. Kid troubles
5. No time to exercise
6. Pants getting ever increasingly tighter
7. No time for friends
8. People seem to dislike me more and more
9. Kealoha is currently job-less
10. I need to bring in enough money to support my family
11. Two mortgages
12. Holidays
13. My books = WTF?
14. PMS so bad that I’m folded origami style trying to battle cramps and chocolate cravings
15.  Teaching ends in two weeks and then I’m full-time freelance
16. Terrified of freelancing full time. See 9, 10, and 11
17. No time to write
18. No time to breathe
19. Chocolate makes me feel good as does Chex mix but then see #6
20. I never get invited out to dinner but I wouldn’t be good company anyway
21. I think I’m depressed
22. Where's the fucking snow and cold weather?

Stress? I’ll say. I don’t even have time to be funny, although I do have time to chafe. Stupid cheap razors.

So maybe I have a little time to ATTEMPT to be funny.

Remember when I said I was a slug? Yep. Merry Christmas. I feel like a big old slug in a pair of yoga pants and a t-shirt that is too tight because I can’t step away from a fucking giant burrito. Just cut it in half, Tanya, and have leftovers for crying out loud! STEP AWAY FROM THE FUCKING BURRITO!!!!

I told my students that blogs are excellent ways to practice nonfiction writing and to connect with your readers. I wasn’t necessarily talking about this blog. This blog is just plain old-fashioned bitching.

I need to get through the next two weeks. Change is a-coming and I hope it’s good. And I hope with going down to one job, I can have time for friends again, because I’d really like to go out with a group of people, have some food and conversation, and get out of my little slug brain and my tight yoga pants and put something on with sparkles on it.

But first I’m going to have a big old cry and hug a pillow, probably while watching The Voice, because if I wasn’t feeling pathetic at the start of this blog, I certainly am now. Wah.

Nothing Says Merry Christmas Like Bigfoot And Elvis (Misadventures in decorating the tree)

When I envisioned having kids, I think I thought it would be something like the song Somewhere That’s Green and I’d be all Betty Crocker/Marilyn Monroe, and hubby would smoke a pipe, and our kids would be perfectly coiffed and say things like “Yes, Mummy. I love you with all my heart.” (In my fantasy, we were all English.)  

The reality of my family life is more like Animal House. We’re all like drunk college students wearing togas and screaming about farts. Except the kids aren’t drunk. (Fingers crossed.)

Here are excerpts from putting up the tree with the kiddos last night. Simone is 6, and Louis is 8.

SCENE ONE

Simone is unwrapping Christmas ornaments.

SIMONE

Elvis. Elvis. Another Elvis. A Moai. Kealoha, a Moai! Oh! And here’s Bigfoot. Mom? MOM! I found BIGFOOT! I put Bigfoot on the tree because I know he’s your favorite.

ME

Well, nothing says Merry Christmas like a Sasquatch.

SIMONE Bigfoot says “Merry Christmas and GRrrrrrrr!”

SCENE TWO

Louis holding onto a glass pickle that you are supposed to hide in the tree and whoever finds it has good luck. I am in the kitchen when I hear:

LOUIS

 I get to hide the pickle! I’m hiding the pickle! I’m going to hide that pickle so hard!!

My face flushes red as I think about hiding the pickle. I look at Kealoha. He doesn’t even say it, but I know he’s  thinking “I want to hide the pickle hard too.”

SCENE THREE

Kids are setting up two manger scenes. One from my childhood and one that’s a Charlie Brown nativity. We’re not religious, but I always liked setting up the manger.

LOUIS

Uhm…Mom…Jesus Doesn’t have an arm.

ME

Yeah. I know. He doesn’t need an arm. He’s like holy and stuff.

Five minutes later. I’m in the kitchen and Louis calls to me.

LOUIS

Mom? Can we make a baby?

Long. Pause.

Me: Uh…What?

LOUIS

You know for the Charlie Brown manger set cuz there’s no baby Jesus.

ME

Oh! Make Jesus…you mean…like…out of…Legos?

LOUIS

How would I make Jesus out of Legos?

ME

You know. Use one of your Lego guys. They’re small enough to be a baby.

LOUIS:

Okay.

Sound of frantic rummaging through Lego box looking for random Lego heads and bodies. Five minutes later.

LOUIS

Does this work?

ME

 Sure. If you want baby Jesus to have a mustache.

Louis goes back to Lego box and more frantic rummaging. Five minutes later.

LOUIS

 Here. This is better. Only write a sign that says This Is Baby Jesus at 3 Years Old. And I put some weapons in the manager for the Wisemen dudes in case they get attacked.

ME

Smart thinking. Better make sure they have a bazooka or something, cuz you never know if there’s going to be like a coup or something. In Bethlehem. On Jesus’s birthday. With the little Drummer Boy.

LOUIS Stop it.

 

SCENE FOUR

LOUIS

 Simone, you better be nice or Santa’s going to give you coal.

SIMONE

That’s okay. I like coal. Kealoha! Mom! Add coal to my list. You can draw with it and stuff. Coal is great.

Kealoha adds coal to her list, along with the turkey baster request, microscope, pink DSI, bouncy ball, horse, and an owl stuffed animal, though we’re not sure which animal to stuff the owl into.

It’s going to be an interesting holiday.

You Can Be In The Acknowledgments of "Tunnel Vision" If...

You can be in the acknowledgements of "Tunnel Vision" if you give me one hundred dollars!!! Naw. I'm just kidding. You won't need to give me one penny. Unless you really want to, then, okay. I'll take it. Here's the backstory:

Way back in the summer of 2010, I asked readers to vote on what kind of blovel (blog/novel) I should write. They chose a gothic story set in the 30s, and it eventually became “Tunnel Vision”, the story of twisted love in The Northern Michigan Insane Asylum.

I’m writing the acknowledgements and I need your help. Please let me know if you did any of the following so I can include your name in the book (if that’s okay with you):

• You read the blovel, even if you never told me or anyone else
• You commented on a post or on my Facebook page
• You gave a character name suggestion
• You encouraged me in any way to keep on going

I’d love to include your name in the acknowledgments, so let me know who you are either by commenting here with how you’d like your name to appear, on my Facebook page, or send me an email to Tanya@tanyaeby.com.

And if you have to give me a name like Ben Dover, I’ll put it in there too, because I’m a teenager at heart and that stuff makes me laugh. But your real name would be good too.

And in case you’re wondering: here are the characters that made it into the book:

Eliot Kinney

Bill Pepperidge

Mallie Lyn Peters

Lilliana

Dr. Christopher Grooms

Margaret Grooms

Harvey Briggart

Rose Kinney

Alma

Charlie Young

Lynnie Grant

Tim Beeler

Robert Kostic

Alma

Nurse Kolenda

I Thought It Was A Typical Thanksgiving But Kealoha Begs To Differ

A lot has happened this last week, which is why I really haven’t been blogging. One day, Kealoha had a  full-time job with insurance, and the next he didn’t. Don’t worry. It’s good. It’ll be great. He needed to get out of there and he was entirely justified in quitting (I even encouraged him), but let’s just say it’s been a week of trying to figure things out. We’re both now ‘transitioning’ to a new lifestyle where I’ll be freelancing full-time and Kealoha will also freelance until he finds a steady gig. We still have two mortgages and now both of us are without insurance, but…well, we’re still okay. It’s just a teeny bit of stress. Then add on the holidays, and voila! Stress flambéed.  

It ended up being a small Thanksgiving. My mom, my friend K, my two kids, me and Kealoha. The morning started with me waking up at 5AM to start cooking. (Kids had to be at their dad’s by 2 so we had an early turkey day.) Louis (my 8 year old) was in a BAD temper. Black smoke followed him in every room. He was grumpy, and pinch-faced, and tantrum-throwing. I forced him outside but that didn’t help. Then we put him in his room with a plate of food and "Tom & Jerry" cartoons. 45 minutes later, he emerged like a peaceful butterfly. So. Mental note. Son has some blood sugar issues. When he’s hungry, he’s Mr. Hyde. Or is it Jeckle? Whatever. He’s the crazy mean one.

Kealoha relaxed with a rum and Coke and I poured a glass of wine. And then another. Even though it was only 11. I justified this by knowing that you’re supposed to have festive drinks on the holidays, especially after suffering through your kid’s meltdown(s).

We pulled the turkey out from the brine and got that bastard cooking. I made about twelve dishes, and I’ll spare you the pictures and recap. Suffice it to say: it was awesome. Julia Child would’ve been proud, especially when I dropped the turkey and just kept on going. (Not really. It never touched the floor.)

Mom came over. The kids call her Nana and she is now fully embracing the eccentric grandmother role. “Come here, Simone, and give Nana a big ass hug!” she said. Kealoha and I died laughing. Mom said, “What? I said give me your biggest hug. What’s wrong with that?”

There was a swirl of activity and chaos. Simone cried because she couldn’t find her favorite toy Puffy (the baster she carries around and sleeps with). She also cried at the grocery store with Kealoha because she found a new Puffy in the shape of a turkey, but he wouldn’t buy it for her. I guess his thought was a girl only needs one baster. She also cried when she asked him who was the prettiest girl and he said “Your mom”. Then he had to explain to her that she was the prettiest girl that he was not married to, and that he had to say I was the prettiest because otherwise he’d get in trouble. Simone cried harder.

Back to dinner. While putting dishes on the table, Louis helped himself to a ton of mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce and turkey. He said, “Hey, Ma! Come look at my White River Of Blood.”

Simone cried because I purchased a ½ pound of butter shaped like a turkey and every time someone wanted to butter their roll, they had to slice into the butter-turkey and she said “You’re killing it” so I sliced off the turkey’s head and said that it would no longer suffer.

Nana then said she was laughing so hard that tears ran down her leg.

I about choked.

We ate in about five minutes. Waited five more and then had pumpkin pie, cheesecake and chocolate roulade.

Five  minutes after that, K and mom packed up leftovers, I feel asleep on the couch, slept for half an hour, and then we walked the kids to their dad’s. Kealoha and I walked home quietly, listening to the wind and the crunch of leaves. We retreated to the basement for Dexter, leftovers, and the movie “Drive”.

And I didn’t freak out or think about the future or anything all day long. I was too happy with the food, wine, and the quirky chaos of my family.

That's something to be thankful for.

****

In Which I Get Therapy From The Russian Pedicurist

The horror of my daily work schedule continues. I’m so busy that I don’t even have time to poop.  

(Actually, that’s not true, but I thought I’d write it because Kealoha installed a new toilet in our house this week and I have tried to avoid talking about anything scatological because it makes me curl up in the fetal position. I have a bathroom phobia…and let me tell you the bathrooms in Paris…NOT a romance. More like a nightmare. But I digress.)

Anyway. So last week I finally had a day to get caught up on grading, narration prep, housework, etc., and realized I had a two-hour block of time so I called up the local salon and went for a pedicure. My hobbit-feet needed desperate tending. Even my seven-year old son told me that maybe I needed to do something about my toes.

So I went in and was delighted to be assigned the Russian pedicurist. I envisioned our conversation and how I could maybe talk to her about all my stress and work load and she could offer pragmatic Russian advice in a thick accent like: Get over yourself. You are not important.

It was not to be. She worked on my feet but ignored me entirely. It was okay. This is part of her charm. She doesn’t give her clients what they want. She does what she wants.

When the pedicure was almost done and I’d stopped squirming from her touching my feet (I don’t actually like getting a pedicure. I find it weird and awkward.) she said in her thick accent: “It is gray outside today.”

I wondered if she was quoting a Hemingway story. Then I said, “I actually like gray days.”

She breathed heavily. “You do? Thank you. I like gray days too, but I never tell my clients that because they like the sun. Me? Not so much. On gray days you can…” She gestured in the air and I said, “On gray days you can relax.”

“Yes,” she said. “Exactly.” She smiled then. Or maybe it was a facial tic. Anyway she said, “You know, they aren’t exactly gray days.”

“No?”

“No. They are silver.”

I nodded and sat back in my chair. I think there’s something profound about that statement and I think I fell a little bit in love with her right then. And then she told me that she wasn’t actually Russian but Armenian which, she said, is similar to Greek. I didn’t know what to say to that so I said “Cool” and I hope she understood that what I was really saying was “Thank you for saying that gray days are silver and for having an accent and for being just plain interesting.”

I also wanted to thank her for not making fun of my freakishly long second toes, but I thought maybe that would be too intimate.

I hobbled out of the salon back into the chaos of my current work life. At least while I’m running from the university to the studio, I know I’m running with sparkling toes under a silver sky. That’s a comfort.