Brief Thoughts on Game of Thrones, Hairy Knees, and

I’ve had a week of being 40, and…whatever. I’m over it. I’m more interested now in WTF happened in “Game of Thrones” and why, why, WHY when I shave my legs and get them all silky smooth do I always forget to shave my knees? Seriously. My knees are like the Sasquatch Bermuda Triangle. I don’t even know what that means, exactly, except that it’s bad. And I need to wear longer dresses.

Luckily, Kealoha just ignores my knees entirely. For a while, when he’d touch my leg, I thought he just had a thing against knees. They’re angular, not particular sexy, but then I looked down. He was just nice enough not to say anything about the crop circle growing on my knees. Now that’s LOVE.

Whatever.

I’m now officially old enough to have permanently crossed into Quirkyville. So, I leave cabinet doors open, I routinely ignore shaving my knees, I’m trying to eat healthy so this means I now have salads for breakfast, and after years and years of trying, I’m pretty sure I’m incapable of relaxing.

It’s all good. I’m okay with this. Plus, I’m too engrossed in gorging on “Game of Thrones” episodes to care about piddly things like my smoothness, or lack thereof. Priorities, right?

Desiderata by Max Ehrmann--Good Words To Remember

My uncle just sent me a lovely birthday card where he put some of his favorite quotes. They included "A peasant must stand a long time on a hill with his mouth open before a roast duck flies in" (Chinese Proverb) and a quote from the Desiderata by Max Ehrmann. My mom had this poem on the bathroom wall. It was a heavy plastic thing, sort of like a self-help 1980s self-help poster, but I read this poem over and over. I'm not religious, but if I had a religion, this would describe it. Having my uncle remind me of the line "With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world" made me want to revisit the piece. It still rings true for me. It's self-helpy without feeling self-helpy.

If you haven't seen it, here it is. If you know it already, here it is again:

How 40 Starts

At 1AM last night, I woke up hearing Bruno Mars shouting through my window that he would do anything for me. ANYTHING at all for me. He’d jump out of a plane, step in front of a train, go insane in the membrane…

And then I heard my next door neighbor scream at the top of her lungs: “FUUUUUUCK YOUUUUUUUU! Don’t you even CARE? Who ARE you? Shut off the FUCKING MUSIC!!”

And then I giggled. Welcome to being 40, Tanya.

I then had a very strange dream where I was still living at my stepmom and dad’s house. It was totally decaying. Mold everywhere, water dripping, and I was sitting on the front porch waiting for something when the roof caved in. I watched it cave in and then I texted my dad and said “I’m moving out.” He texted back and said “It’s about time. Everyone else has been gone for years.”

If that little episode doesn’t sound symbolic, then you haven’t been in English class or had any therapy at all.

Then the dream switched and I was in the ocean trying to study new lifeforms. Whoever gave me this job clearly didn’t read my resume. I looked over the boat’s edge (I’m sure it has a technical term but I don’t know it) and there was this huge wall of water coming for us, ala The Perfect Storm. I said “Huh”. Then I saw a giant whale jump out of the ocean, twist, flip, and do a giant cannon ball and I said “Look at the giant WHHHHHAAAAALE!”

Then I was showing my college roomates (Kim and Rachel, who I spent my thirtieth birthday with getting ridiculously drunk) this dingy Chinese restaurant where I would eat lunch and try to pitch my stories to hungry Asian businessmen who didn’t speak English.

The dreaming ended when I bolted upright in bed and thought “Coffee” and then “What a fucked up night”.

I think I was too hot last night. Yes. On the night I turned forty, I’m pretty sure I was having a hot flash that caused mild hallucinations.

It sounds like it’s going to be an interesting decade if last night is how it’s all set up. And, also, now I want Dim Sum.

Conversation With My Kids at Applebee’s Episode 4

Franz, 8; Moxie, 7 ME: You know, some people think I’m really funny.

FRANZ Whatever.

ME: Seriously! I’m like seriously funny sometimes.

FRANZ Mom. Come on. You’re not funny. You can’t be funny. You’re, like, well…you’re a goth.

(He says this like he’s telling me I’m missing an arm and no one has wanted to mention it before because they don’t want to stop pretending to high-five me.)

ME: I’m not a goth.

FRANZ: Mom. You’re a goth. I mean, come on! You’re dressed entirely in black.

ME: It’s a black dress.

FRANZ: It’s summer. You’re dressed entirely in black. You’re hair is dark. You’re wearing dark glasses. You’re all dramatic and serious and stuff. You’re a total goth.

ME: Oh.

MOXIE: Next time, Mom, talk to me before we go out. You really should’ve worn a pink necklace or something.

ME: Huh. Maybe I am a goth.

(I turn to Kealoha)

ME: Am I a goth?

KEALOHA: Sometimes, yeah.

ME: Huh. I do like writing poetry.

FRANZ: See? Goth.

ME: Eat your fish.

***

From Urban Dictionary:

On Starting A New Novel and Muskrats

I’m here. I’m here. I’m feeling a little blech with the blog. I love doing it, but sometimes I just need a mini-break. Plus, I’m starting to think of the new project I want to work on (while I collect rejection slips on my memoir “Popsicle Toes”), and that’s starting to take over my brain. The idea is churning around in my head. It’s like, a novel starts with an idea, but then it starts to branch out and become a web. It’s very insect-like actually, spinning of ideas, seeing what sticks together, how everything connects, what mates are consumed after fornicating. Wait. Maybe one of those things doesn’t actually belong in my writing-as-insect metaphor. Hmmm.

Anyway.

I know I want the next book to be literary fiction and I know I want there to be a high conflict and a lot of action, and now I’m letting my brain do the work. I just sit back and wait.

Last night my brain woke me up. I dreamt I was with the kids and Kealoha and I were all packing to go camping. (We never camp, so you know this is a dream.) Franz and Moxie kept talking about something in the woods. “Ma, Ma! Are you sure we should do this? We’ve heard there’s Something In The Woods”. I said “We’re fine. We’re fine! There’s Nothing In The Woods!” We walked to the car and started to drive away and then my brain went black and I saw the words “The family was never seen alive again.”

Yes. I actually saw subtitles in my dream. And I woke up with a gasp.

First, that is NOT the story I want to write and second, I’m pretty sure the Something In The Woods was inspired by watching reruns of Lost and seeing a muskrat on my walk the other day. I was walking by the pond with my friend K and all of a sudden the cattails started shivering. Then I heard crunching. When I saw the muskrat, it all made sense, but that moment BEFORE seeing it was a little nerve-wracking. I mean, shivering and crunching, that’s the stuff of Stephen King. (Or a decongestant-inspired hallucination.)

So. My brain is occupied with birthing another novel. Luckily, unlike a real pregnancy, this process doesn’t make me nauseous.

It does make me spacey. I mean, more than usual.

I think I have the opening scene ready and I’m almost, almost ready to start writing again.

I’m so looking forward to it.

Big Giveaway

I have to say that being a narrator is a pretty kick ass job. Sometimes literally. Or at least literally kick-ass in the stories I get to read. Sometimes I’m catching criminals, sometimes I’m falling in love, and I get lucky over and over and over again in various degrees of detail. Oh, how I love my job.

June is audiobook month AND it’s also the month where I have a birthday. My birthday is June 30^th . This day is important because, in days of old, most coupons expire on June 30^th. I don’t know why, but it’s true. AND this June 30^th is a big birthday for me. The big FORTY. Which means any time I leave the house wearing tight pants and sequins, people will look at me and think “Huh. There goes a cougar”.

In honor of all that, I’m giving away some of my promo copies for some of the favorite things I’ve narrated. These are MP3 discs so you get the whole book (5-14 hours usually) all on one disc, which you can then put in your computer and transfer to your iPod or phone or whatever.

That’s right. IT’S A GIVEAWAY. All you have to do is comment below. On this blog only. No Facebook or Twitter comments, so we all know it’s fair. Also, when you comment, you type in your email so I’ll have a way to get in contact with you. Your email isn't visible to anyone and I won't share it. After the contest, it all gets deleted. You won’t be put on any mailing list or anything. I’m too lazy for that. If you have a preference for a book or if you like mystery better than romance or vice versa, let me know.

On my birthday, I’ll choose winners of the books.

1. Last To Die A Rizzoli and Isles novel by Tess Gerritsen. How lucky am I that I took over this series around book 7? I love these women, and the men they work with and love. This series is a mystery and has great depth of character and emotion. Fingers crossed I’ll get to narrate more of these. I’m really proud of my work with them. [soundcloud url="http://api.soundcloud.com/tracks/97284042" params="color=ff6600&auto_play=false&show_artwork=true" width=" 100%" height="166" iframe="true" /]
2. A Perfect Evil by Alex Kava. I took over this series in the later books, but then recorded some backlist titles. Here we meet the troubled Maggie O’Dell and her partner Tully. Hard-edged murder mystery with dark killers. Again, love love love this series.[soundcloud url="http://api.soundcloud.com/tracks/97284040" params="" width=" 100%" height="166" iframe="true" /]
3. Married by Monday by Catherine Bybee. Fun romance series, perfect for the summer. Lots of fun characters.[soundcloud url="http://api.soundcloud.com/tracks/97284043" params="color=ff6600&auto_play=false&show_artwork=true" width=" 100%" height="166" iframe="true" /]
4. Summer Nights by Susan Mallery. A Fool’s Gold romance. I was lucky to get cast with this series from book one and have been able to grow (along with the stories and the characters). Each book stands alone, but together you get a sense of the town. This book has two of my favorite female characters: Annabelle Weiss and Charlie.[soundcloud url="http://api.soundcloud.com/tracks/97284047" params="" width=" 100%" height="166" iframe="true" /]
5. Rainshadow Road by Lisa Kleypas. Romance but with a hint of magic. Her work reminds me a lot of Alice Hoffman and I LOVE Alice Hoffman.[soundcloud url="http://api.soundcloud.com/tracks/97284045" params="" width=" 100%" height="166" iframe="true" /]

Runners up will get copies to one of my own quirky rom-coms.

Good luck and happy listening, and happy me, almost officially a cougar. Prrrrr.

On Turning 40 And The Magical Powers Of A Mustache

I turn 40 in two weeks. I TURN. The way that milk sours, meat goes bad, and voluptuous crosses over to chubbyville. I’d say ‘insert whining here’ but I think you can tell from my opening that I’m already whining.

I’m also wearing comfortable cotton pajamas with a drawstring waist. It’s only a short distance until this outfit TURNS into a full-on muumuu.

I don’t know why I’m mourning my youth so much…except maybe that now that I’m almost-forty I’m saying things things like “mourning my youth”. I also started a new diet, or ‘shift in eating habits’ where you replace the bottom rung of the food pyramid with fruits and vegetables instead of grains. It’s called the Eat to Live diet, but I think it should be called the Poop to Live diet.

40, high fiber diet and stretchy pants. Bring on the pole dancing, fellas! Mama wants to work it!!!

Er…

Wahhhh!

I’d actually start crying right now if it all weren’t a little bit funny.

It is a little bit funny because, to be honest, I acted almost-forty when I was twenty and thirty. I’ve been almost-forty ever since I was sixteen and a college guy asked if he could shake my hand and I said very primly “I’m not that kind of girl!”

What I need to do is shift my thinking. Like, I can be the hot-young-forty-year old mom in comparison to the moms who had kids late and are now in their fifties. I can watch reruns of Madmen to see how to rock a muumuu. I can make crab rangoons, narrate an audiobook about vampires and/or spiritual awakening, while taking care of my kids, hubby, and working on writing the next book.

And really, all this angst comes down to the same thing: I’m in between projects and I need some place to put my energy. Some place other than a mirror and a bottle of merlot.

As soon as I get out of these stretchy pajamas, I’ll start working on that.

Side note

While sitting here whining , my 8-year-old son just came in here wearing a mustache and gave me a kiss. He said that there’s nothing that a good mustache can’t fix. I find that wildly entertaining and deeply disconcerting at the same time.

And he’s right. I feel much better.

Waiting For A Publisher To Contact You Is Like Dysfunctional Dating All Over Again

Today I stood at my window, and looked out, pondering the universe while looking at my watery reflection . Then I leaned my head and sniffed my armpit. Everything seemed fine, but I was worried that maybe I smelled like onions. Or maybe I’m just weird. I returned to pondering my reflection in the glass. I looked normal enough. Whatever. Surely, today they’d call. Because, it’s just like that dude in those Saturday Night Live sketches used to affirm “I’m good enough, I’m strong enough, and gosh darn it, people like me” (even if I smell like onions).

Then Kealoha came downstairs and said: “Tanya, what the fuck are you doing?” Not in a mean way, mind you. In a soft and gentle and loving way.

Ahem.

Here’s why I was staring at myself: last month, a publisher read the first two chapters of my memoir “Popsicle Toes” and requested the whole manuscript. But it’s been over a month and I haven’t heard anything yet. And then last week, I had a speed dating session where I met five major publishers in audiobooks who all professed to find my narration really attractive and gave me their cards. I have followed up with all the publishers (one for my book and five for audio/narration work for other people’s work). I composed emails that I hope made me seem witty, carefree, professional, totally sane, totally reliable and unbelievably talented. And now…now it’s just a waiting game.

And I’m having flashbacks to my single days where I questioned everything I’ve ever said or done on a date, and tried to read into the dude’s perspective. “He said he liked me and I’m not like anyone he’s ever met so does that mean he’s interested in me, or does that mean he thinks I’m schizophrenic? I mean, does he like me or is he just being nice? And why did he breathe when he said…”

Now it’s the same thing, only I’m questioning my talent and how long do I wait before I contact the publishers again, and if I email them again, will I come off as creepy and pushy…but if I don’t email them again then maybe I’m not present in their mind and, dammit, something or someone smells like onions here and I’m going insane, but I’m totally able to handle all of this and why, why, WHY don’t they want me? Aren’t I good enough? Huh? HUH?

Breathe, breathe, breathe.

I’m trying to remind myself that if they’re really, really interested in me, they’ll contact me. I mean, Kealoha filled out an application  to date me so that proves something, right? Except, it took him fifteen years to get to that point, and I really don’t want to wait fifteen years to get my book published or to get a recording gig with another publisher.

It’s time for a big ol glass of wine and to stare out the window again. If it were raining, it’d be even better. I think I’ll make faces like I’m trapped and trying to get out, just to keep the neighbors’ guessing. It will keep me from obsessing over when, or IF, my phone is ever going to ring.

(But they wouldn’t give me a business card if they weren’t interested, right? Right?)

Gah.

On New York, The Audies, And My General Awkwardness

Well, my great New York Adventure has come to a close. I didn’t take my computer this time and obsess over blogging. I figured by going to a conference on audiobooks (APAC) and then the Audie Awards, I’d have plenty enough to obsess about. And I was right!

THE CONFERENCE

I was nominated for a shiny award for my narration of “Great on the Job” by Jodi Glickman, a great book that gives you pointers on how to succeed in business…which is funny because I suck at business AND with people. Case in point: at the conference, there were all these narrators, talking to each other in their deep, resonant voices. In my head, I walked over to them and said in a sultry voice “Hey, everyone, I’m Tanya Eby. Let’s be friends.” In reality, I hung out in the corner, with a slightly psychotic smile on my face, thinking, I can do this. I can do this. I can do this. At least I hope I was thinking it, and not muttering it out loud. Sheesh.

Then there was this speed-dating session where I got to meet casting agents from Random House, Simon and Schuster, etc, and I had two minutes to sell myself. Near the end I was getting pretty good at it. Until…well…here’s the dialogue:

ME: I’m really versatile and can narrate fiction, nonfiction, young adult, even erotica.

MAN: Well, there’s not too much Christian erotica out there.

ME: Errr…

MAN: Yeah. We’re a Christian publisher.

ME: Ah. Probably should’ve done more research. (nervous maniacal giggle.)

I’ve read some Amish romances. I liked those. There were, uh, lots of, uh, Snickerdoodles in them. And, like, God.

But besides that, it went pretty well.

Then I went to a party for Tantor where I met people I’ve been recording for. (They have a sale for audiobook month. Check them out HERE.) I had a big ol’ gin&tonic and then stood around awkwardly while narrators and publishers laughed and did secret handshakes and synchronized swimming. Maybe one day, I’ll learn the moves and be IN the circle.

I lasted through one drink and then made my exit home to the hotel to wait for Kealoha to get back from his David Byrne show.

THEN THE AUDIES

On the day of the Audies, I was pretty much a nervous wreck. I found a random Korean lady to do my hair and she was really nice. At least I think she was nice. We didn’t understand each other very well.

I was too nervous to eat, so my dress fit really well. I got all gussied up, and Kealoha gave me his arm (it was still attached to his body, and clad in a groovy smoking jacket) and we were off. Immediately, he got me another drink and I put on my medal and managed to talk not-too-awkwardly to narrators, narrator-hopefuls, publishers, and the waitress who carried teeny tiny madeleines topped with caviar. About two dozen people came up to us to shake Kealoha’s hand (again, attached to his body) and compliment him on his jacket. I felt famous. I mean, I did buy him the jacket for Christmas.

We joined the Brilliance crew in the theater, and five minutes later, my category was announced, and my mug shot flashed across the screen with the other five men in my category. I didn’t win. But I could finally relax. Being nominated was pretty cool though.

And as I sat back in the theater, watching the Lemony Snicket dude present awards and tell insider audiobook jokes that I actually understood, I sorta felt like when the Grinch’s heart grows three sizes bigger. Or I felt stoned. Whatever. I felt warm and happy and…well…part of something.

I’ve been working really hard to succeed in this business, and I feel like I am, awkwardness and all.

Another day in the city, and a stressful plane ride home where I read “World War Z” (so good!) and now I’m back home with my kiddos, narrating, got new headshots, and a stack of veggies in the fridge I need to cook.

All is well.

Hi, Honey. How Was Your Day?

Using my high-tech recording system (a tiny man who lives in the cupboard and is a certified stenographer) I recorded this conversation with my husband, Kealoha, and our two kids. Here is the transcript. We are eating dinner at this time and I have left out the eating sounds from the transcript:

ME So, tell me a highlight of your day. What about you Moxie?

MOXIE Welllllllll, I had recess and played with Ruby and Viola and we were playing this game and then Ruby didn’t want to so I said I didn’t want to and Viola said she didn’t want to so we played a different game.

ME Nice. How about you Franz?

FRANZ So there are these eggs…

KEALOHA Eggs? What? For breakfast?

FRANZ No, just wait for it. So there’s these eggs and they hatched and I saw them and one of the chicks was all covered with gunk and stuff and there were six eggs that hatched.

KEALOHA Whoa.

ME Okay, Kealoha. You’re up.

KEALOHA Okay. So. At the deli today I asked for half a pound of ham and a half of pound of turkey so she goes to get me the meat and she says “What was that?” and I say “I want a half a pound of ham and a half of pound of turkey” and so she says okay and then gets me the ham. Then she says “Anything else” and I say, getting really heated now, “Yes. I want. A half a pound. Of ham. AND a half a pound. Of turkey.” So she gets the turkey and she says “How much do you want?” and then I…

ME Did you hurt her?

KEALOHA I wanted to.

ME That’s very exciting. Can I tell you about my day?

MOXIE AND FRANZ Okay.

ME So. Okay. I was in my apartment and these assassins were coming to kill me and I had no where to hide so I pulled the stuff out of a bean bag chair and I hid in there all scrunched up…

FRANZ Wait. Wait. Wait! You have an apartment?

ME Yep. And there were assassins coming to kill me. But I hid in that beanbag chair and they didn’t see me. And then, when they left, I jumped out the window, scaled the wall, clinging to it, and then I was lifted up to the roof and it was Choo-Choo!

MOXIE Who is Choo-Choo?

FRANZ Wait a minute! What about Kealoha?

KEALOHA Yeah. What about me?

ME Doesn’t anyone care that there were assassins trying to kill me? All you’re asking about is my apartment and Choo-Choo!

MOXIE Mom. You don’t have an apartment. And I hate Choo-Choo.

FRANZ Is this even real? I mean, what???

ME Kids. I’m a narrator, remember? I’m telling you about my day. That was just the morning. In the afternoon I went all ninja on the assassins.

MOXIE Was Choo-Choo there?

ME Yes.

MOXIE I hate him.

ME That’s okay sweetie. I don’t really like him either. Too much drama. I much prefer Kealoha and his trips to the deli.

I’m Pretty Sure I’m Turning Into A WereCougar

A strange thing has been happening to me. Stranger than the ever expanding/drifting size of my ass, and my vain attempt to lose weight even though I’m eating better and walking 12-15 miles a week. I’m starting to be okay with my shape and…dare I say it…I’m starting to flaunt it a little.

 

Maybe it’s that I turn 40 next month, and there has to be a time when you stop hating yourself and just say “Fuck it. THIS is who I am. THIS is my body, this is my hair and skin and breasts, THIS is what I’ve got, and I’m going to stop beating myself up for not being a size 6 anymore.”

 

It slowly dawned on me that every time I eat, I feel guilty. Not just guilty, but APOLOGETIC. And ASHAMED. And that’s awful. I feel guilty every time I look in the mirror and I see size 12 me, instead of size 8 me. The truth is, I was only a size 8 when I was 16, and then again when I was in a marriage that didn’t fit me. A relationship so constricting, that I lost weight to slip away from it. I stayed thin for a while afterwards, but it wasn’t a happy-thin. It was a I’m-desperately-trying-to-get-my-life-together thin, and that ain’t sexy.

 

So. I’ve got a butt now. And a rack. And I’ve started wearing pretty frilly little outfits to bed, and just in general. I mean, how can you feel sexy when you’re wearing huge cotton undies? You can’t! You can, however, feel that farting is okay in public while wearing enormous cotton panties, because, why not. You’ve already crossed a line. (I speak from experience.)

 

I bought new clothes that fit THIS body, and not the body I think I should have. I bought some cute swingy skirts, and fitted shirts. Some jeans that hug the curves I have. New bras that lift me up a little bit further. (This may be too much detail for some of the fellas that read my blog. Sorry, brother.)

 

At any rate…I’m trying to change my mindset and it’s just possible that I may have succeeded in transforming myself into a WereCougar. I’m not going to go after college boys or anything, I mean, I’m very happily married (nod to Kealoha)…but I may randomly start sashaying or purring or something. I’m just tired of being so hard on myself and feeling bad about enjoying good food and good company and good living. It’s just stupid.

 

Bring on the pretty clothes and soft fabrics and girly, sexy underthings. I figure that at almost-forty, I deserve to celebrate. 

Numbers, Numbers, Numbers

Okay. So I’ve taken time off from the blog for a few reasons.  

1)   On our way to the writing conference, I checked my ‘platform’ numbers. Publishers like to know how many friends you have on Twitter and Facebook and what your website hits are. It’s annoying, but part of the industry. I thought the blog was doing really well, and then I looked at the numbers and saw there’s about 200 visits a month. Then I got all embarrassed because I’d need like 10,000 hits a month or something for a publisher to even blink.

 

2)   I needed time off to work on my memoir. Memoir writing is depressing and hard, but I guess therapeutic. But after working on that, the idea of sitting down and writing more about my day-to-day life just seemed, I dunno, indulgent. Like, annoying-indulgent. Like, why-is-she-showing-us-all-her-back-hair indulgent.

3)   I’ve been trying to pull back on the time I’m at the computer so I can ‘be more present’ with the kids when they’re here, and then prep audiobooks and narrate when they’re not.

4)   I don’t know what my blog’s Point of View is anymore. When people ask me what I write about, I just say, uh….my stuff.  Then I get nervous because then I wonder if they think I mean that I write about my vagina, which I don’t. My vagina does not have a blog, although I bet if it did, it could get at least 300 hits a month.

I’m really not moody OR going through an existential crisis. It’s just blogging takes a lot of time and energy and writing mojo.

Once I figure out more of the stuff to write about, I will. I mean, I have this kick ass trip to New York coming up to go to the Audies. And I might post excerpts from the memoir. And summer is coming, as soon as spring can stick around and I still have that food blog with three more dips to post and…I don’t know.

Maybe I shouldn’t look at the numbers anymore. Maybe I should stop trying to be this big ‘success’ with my blog and books, and return to writing just because I love it.

A Conversation With Franz About The Future

My 8 year old son and I had a little mommy & me time this weekend. So over our frozen yogurts, we had a little heart to heart. Here is our conversation:  

FRANZ: So, Ma, what do you think the future will be like?

ME: What do you mean?

FRANZ:

Whadya mean, what do I mean? I mean the future. What will it be like?

ME: Well, you know how we use iPhones and stuff to search when we don’t know something?

FRANZ: Yeah.

ME:

Well, maybe they’ll implant like a computer chip or something in our brain so we can access the web inside our heads, like use our eyes to scroll on a screen that appears in our mind and we can download whatever we want whenever we want and then everyone will wear robes and stuff because it’s more comfortable and…

FRANZ:

What are you talking about? Are you crazy? That would hurt! They’d inject a computer into a baby’s brain? They’d crack the baby’s head open! I mean, that’s so cruel. Your future sucks. In my future, nothing changes. Maybe they discover a few new animals or something, but they’re not going to put anything into your brain for crying out loud.

ME:

You’re probably right. I mean, we pretty much have everything we need right now.

FRANZ: Except Sour Patch Kids.

ME:

That’s true. But that’s a problem we can fix right now.

***

And so we did.

My Squirrel Monologue

I find that walking really allows you to connect with a person. Maybe it’s because you don’t have to look them in the eye, that you can share deep, personal moments with them. Here is my Squirrel Monologue as shared with Kealoha, followed by a brief scene. Feel free to read allow for full effect: ME: So I was sitting on the back porch in the sun, kinda soaking it in, ya know, when I felt someone looking at me. Like I felt little eyes boring into my soul, or whatever. I looked at the bird feeder and sure enough, there was that fatty squirrel, staring at me. Just, STARING. He had his little hands halfway down the birdfeeder, gripping it, and his dark eyes just looked at me and I thought, holy shit. We’re having a stare down. It made me all uncomfortable because he aasn’t moving, except for an occasional twitch and I thought, this squirrel is going to take a flying leap and attack my neck! So I very coolly broke eye contact, and looked the other way, like, “Oh! Look at the interesting so and so!” I know, I know, I was giving top dog status to the squirrel, but I really value my neck. When I looked back, he was STILL staring at me, and then he made this little uh-uh-uh sound and I sorta started sweating. “Hey, squirrely!” I said in a fake cheerful voice. “Just do what you gotta do! Ha ha!” Sweating bullets! That’s what I was doing. Then the squirrel squinted at me as if to say “Don’t make one move you mother fu…” And I laughed, uncomfortably, the way you laugh when being chased by a murderer and you want to pretend you’re totally not scared. Or maybe that’s just me. Anyway, then the fatty squirrel went back to eating the birdseed.

KEALOHA: Wow.

ME: I know. And THEN I saw another squirrel lying on top of the playset. You know, arms on either side, not moving, its little limbs nagging over the board, just lying there perfectly still and I thought, man, that squirrel’s got polio! And then…

KEALOHA: The squirrel has polio?

ME: Yeah!

KEALOHA: You know,  you’re the only person who thinks this way.

ME: What? That the squirrel has polio? No. I’m pretty sure lots of people think like that.

KEALOHA: (Laughs) Nope. Pretty sure they don’t.

We kept walking. And I continued to share my deepest, darkest thoughts with Kealoha about the Whirly Pop and feeling bloated and what to make for dinner. Like a good husband, he listened quietly, occasionally said “Yeah,” so I’d know he was there.

I’m telling you, spring makes the crazies come out. And by ‘crazies’ I mean squirrels. Which reminds me, Kealoha, if you’re reading this, please refill the bird feeder for the squirrel. I don’t want him attacking us in the middle of the night with  a little squirrel machete or whatever.

Why Tanya Has Been So Lax With The Blog

I’ve been conspicuously quiet with the blog lately, and I wanted to tell you what’s been going on in case you’re worried, because I’m sure you all think about me and my own little life every moment. (That’s sarcasm, since you can’t hear my voice.)  

Instead of telling you what’s been happening, I thought I would give you some options, and you can choose why I’ve been so lax with the blog:

WHY TANYA IS SO LAX WITH THE BLOG:

1)            Tanya has been practicing for a jazz concert where she’ll reenact the scene in the Fabulous Baker Boys. Since her voice is not at all sultry and better for songs like Kumbaya and Joan Baez tunes, this has required her to drink a lot of Scotch and stand on street corners soliciting not sex but a cold to make her sound sexy. She has also spent a lot of time searching for a red dress that emphasizes the good things, mainly: T&A, and hides the bad things, mainly: muffin top.

2)            Tanya has been training to be the only solo team on The Amazing Race. She’s solo because she gets so incredibly stressed out driving across town to pick up groceries that she has to take an Ativan, so this process of travelling around the world has required deep meditation and finding her higher power. Tanya’s Higher Power, if you haven’t guessed, is chocolate.

3)            Tanya has refused to leave her couch and is gorging on movie-style popcorn popped in the Whirly Pop that her friend Debbie gave her for Christmas. She has vowed not to leave the couch until she watches everything Hitchcock (that creepy bugger) made, OR until she eats all the Whirlypop popcorn kits that she impulsively bought when she was feeling blue one day.

4)            Tanya has become a Hare Krishna. She’s always liked the color orange.

5)            Tanya believes that she needs to be on MadMen. She’s got the hips for it. So she’s travelling to Hollywood to check out the casting couch and see who she needs to do…I mean…what she needs to do to kick Joan out of the office, and get into Don’s bed. On the show. Yeah. Just on the show. Ahem.

6)            Tanya is busy working on her memoir. She should’ve finished it already but, hey, she’s not always focused. Tanya likes squirrels. And beavers. The word “Beaver” always makes her laugh.

I’ll let you decide what’s been happening. Don’t fret. I’ll be back soon. If you’re bored, type random words into the search bar on the site and see if anything pops up. OR, hey, here’s an idea, read one of my books.

No pressure.

(pause.)

(pause.)

Okay, a little pressure. But good pressure.

-Cheers-

General Meh

I don’t know if it’s the weather fluctuations or some planet is in retrograde or that I turn 40 in a few months, but I have been an emotional mess. It’s like I’m a teenager again except with better skin, more money, and less bounce.  

It’s rather disconcerting.

Kealoha and I went to the Madison Writing Conference and I just didn’t feel like playing the conference game. I think I’m done with writing conferences for a while. They can be a little rah-rah-rah and when I’m moody like this it makes me want to punch people. Example:

SUZIE WRITER:

Hi! I’m Suzie! I wrote a complicated pseudo-memoir

based on Toy Story! What did you write! More

importantly, how can you help me get published!!!

ME:

(punch in the face)

See? That’s a problem. The thing is, I guess I know a little bit too much about the writing world now to feel inspired by a conference. Mostly, I just felt gassy. (Not really, but it’s funnier than saying I felt melancholy and overwhelmed and ultimately dissappointed.) See, I get tired of hearing all these self-publishing success stories: “I never wanted to be a writer, decided to give it a try, put something up on Amazon, and sold 15,000 copies in three months and now have a three book deal with Random House!” My story doesn’t compare to that: “I’ve wanted to be a writer my entire life, have sweated, ached, dreamed, written five novels, have two published, published three on my own, do a blog and a website,  have a social media ‘platform’, and I haven’t sold 1,000 copies of anything, and I can get agents to want to hear my pitch but then my work gets swept up with the thousands of other books out there.” Wah.

That’s not a story people want to hear.

This isn’t another angst-y confession where I’m all “I give up! I’m not doing this anymore!” Of course, I’m still doing it. I’m still writing, and I’ll probably pitch my memoir or novel or self-help zombie love story in the future. Because I’m a masochist…or rather….a hopeless optimist even when I sound pessimistic.

So that’s what happened last week. I’m sort of annoying myself with this mood. I’m hoping once spring is actually here and stops messing with my heart, that my spirit will sudden brighten and…

I don’t know. Sprout beans or something.

Beans would be nice.

I Am Not Betty Crocker

8 days! 8 days without blogging! How is this possible? What life shattering things have I been up to that prevented me from posting on my beloved blog? Building houses for the homeless? Proselytizing the benefits of yoga pants to new mothers? Hiding in my basement watching “The Following”, “New Girl”, and “The Voice”?

Actually, I’ve been trying to enter the Pillsbury Bakeoff Contest, while also hiding in my basement. (I’m a little creepy sometimes.)

It’s true. It’s absurd, but it’s totally true. PILLSBURY BAKEOFF. See, I’ve have several life-long dreams of mine come true: 1) have a family, 2) write and publish some books, 3) travel overseas, 4) be a professor.

I also wanted to sell Avon makeup, but I gave that one up a while ago since I can’t even pencil in my eyebrows without looking like I’m permanently surprised.

But my #5 on my Dream List is to Be In A Bakeoff Contest. Like, I want to go somewhere that’s hot and musty and put on an apron and high-five septuagenarians and talk about pie and constipation. I want this. I dream of it! I’ve thought of entering cooking show casting calls, but I’m really not a chef. I’m a good cook. But I haven’t perfected any recipes like a perfect chili, and no one really wants to know how I make my polenta.

But Pillsbury! Maybe, maybe I could crack open a crescent roll pack, though the exploding can scares me, and weasel my way into a competition. So I’ve spent the last two weeks forcing Kealoha to eat creations that require 7 ingredients or less, 2 of which come out of a can. He’s been a trooper.

And I’ve also been working on my memoir. Which I’m about to pitch at this here writing conference I’m attending. If the book doesn’t sell, I’ll be back home in the kitchen, dreaming of being the next Betty Crocker.

I bet Betty Crocker was on Valium, that’s why she’s always smiling. That’s right. She was high.

My Nemesis: The Phone

 I’ve been trying to connect with a friend who moved away and chat with her on the phone. This is complicated by a number of factors: 1) After narrating all day, it’s hard to talk on the phone. My brain and mouth just don’t want to do it. 2) It’s hard to talk on the phone when you have small children because as soon as you’re on the phone and they see it, they’ll want something and/or light something on fire. AND 3) I have phone anxiety.

I pretty much think of the phone as evil, like this:

 

Basically, the real reason is #3. I have phone anxiety. I’m phone-incompetent. I’m basically on the Autistic scale when it comes to the phone. I’m half-joking half-serious there. When I’m on the phone, I’m at a loss. I can’t read someone’s body language, I can’t interrupt naturally, and pauses feel like a little-death. I feel lost on the phone. Like that dude in the Twilight Zone who woke up and everyone was speaking a different language. This problem started early with me.

 

The first crush I had happened in 6^th grade. There were two kids whose moms picked them up really late after school: me and Little Bob. (There was also a Big Bob in our class because he was big. I didn’t have a crush on him.) So, after Little Bob and I were the only ones left on the playground, we’d talk about general stuff, mostly because Little Bob could no longer ignore me. I got his number. I liked him so I started calling him. I called him a lot. Our conversations always went the same way:

 

ME: Hi, is this Little Bob?

LITTLE BOB:

Yeah.

 

ME: Hi! It’s Tanya!

LITTLE BOB: Hi.

ME: Hi. 

LITTLE BOB:

….

 LITTLE BOB:

…..

LITTLE BOB:

……

LITTLE BOB:

Well, I have to go now.

 

ME: Okay! I’ll call again tomorrow!

 

Then in high school there was a boy that I’d talk to, but I was so worried that my parents were listening that I tried to talk in code until the boy I was talking to thought I hated him and never wanted to speak to him again. (I had tried a code of speaking in opposites so when I said “You’re the ugliest human being ever!” I was really saying “Please take my virginity”. Guess I shoulda told him about the code language.)

 

Then, after college, I was working on a musical with a man and I’d call and his wife would answer the phone. I would be super professional and ask to speak with the man. Later he told me, “Tanya, my wife doesn’t like when you call. You never talk to her or ask how she is. She says you’re a little rude.” I didn’t understand because I didn’t really want to know how she was, I just wanted to talk about the musical.

 

It hasn’t gotten any better. I don’t use the phone to chat. I use the phone to schedule pap smears and play dates. Yep. That’s pretty much my life: pap smears and play dates. Even my sister laughs at me and says, “You know, Tanya, you’re the worst phone talker ever, but it’s okay because I’ll just talk and you can listen.”

 

It would take so much more pressure off of me if everyone on the other end of the phone knew this little trick: Just, talk to me. I’ll listen. And then I’ll send a follow up email that’s sensitive and caring.

 

But the phone makes me curl up in the fetal position and rock back and forth until I feel comfort, which doesn’t come until I hang up.

 

So, see? I’m not rude, I’m just emotionally challenged on the phone. It’s just another one of my many quirks that I’ve come to terms with. I suck on the phone. I leave cupboard doors open. And I cry every time I watch a reality TV singing program. Every. Time. 

Kealoha's Bacchanal

It began with chicken & wild rice soup (homemade) and watching “The Following” on our DVR. Then Kealoha decided to fix himself a drink and I poured myself a glass of expensive wine ($15 a bottle! Whoa!). “I’ll be down in a minute” he said so I waited downstairs, trying not to munch on the Caesar salad with greens from our CSA and my homemade croutons. (I’m very proud that I’ve actually had time to cook some decent food.)

It took him forever to come downstairs. My soup and salad were calling to "come to me"...with French accents, and it’s very hard to resist a French accent, especially when it’s your lettuce speaking to you. What the hell was taking him so long?

Twenty minutes later he came down carrying a very tall drink. “I made my own Long Island Iced Tea,” he said, grinning.

 

And the spiral began.

 

There were six shots of alcohol in his drink and I have never seen Kealoha so drunk. We were like college kids laughing inappropriately at “The Following”. If you watch that show, then you know we were drunk on account of it’s about a serial killer cult. Last night it was hysterical though.

 

It was also hysterical watching Kealoha try to hold himself up by clinging to the wall, and proving that he wasn’t drunk by walking in a straight-ish line…only he walked in slow motion. You know when they show men walking on the moon? That was Kelaoha in our kitchen. One small step for man, one tiny step in slow motion while hanging onto the counter for Kealoha. In fact, I recorded Kealoha walking in our kitchen. Here's the footage:

 

On his second drink (when I was upstairs doing dishes) I heard him squeal, “I’ve done it! I’ve beat spellcheck! I’m typing so fast spellcheck can’t stop me!” And then he laughed maniacally.

 

 I don’t remember much after that except I woke up on the couch wearing some weird 1950s outfit and there were suspicious remains of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich scattered around the floor.

 

I found Kealoha outside singing to the moon, which wasn’t a moon at all, but someone’s closed curtain.

 

This is what happens when the kids are away for a week. And this is only day 2.

 

Spring Break and General-ness

The kids are off to South Carolina with their dad for Spring Break so that means I have one week to clean the house, finish the memoir, lose twenty pounds, cook amazing from scratch-meals and freeze for future use, dye my hair, watch all the shows that are rusting on my DVR including 6 episodes of Nigella Lawson cooking shows, and while I’m at it, I should also probably do some general protesting and picketing for causes I believe in.  

Yep.

I’ll get right on that.

Yesterday, I did accomplish something. I planted a bush. And I made ravioli stuffed with arugula and goat cheese with pine nuts and lemon. We ate all of it and froze nothing. We watched “The Walking Dead” and I practiced zombie faces in the mirror thinking maybe I could get a guest role as a Mom Zombie. Then I took a nap. I also walked outside for an hour until my legs were wobbly and my toes sent threatening signals of “Blister alert! Blister alert!” Then I ate some sprouts that I grew in my little sprout-maker thing in the effort to Get Healthy. It made me feel like a rabbit, chewing those sprouts.

Today, I have a To Do list that’s three feet long, but I think I’ll just focus on eating my favorite Buffalo Tofu sandwich, prepping some books for narration, and trying to cheer Kealoha up. He’s crabby because the weather is nice and he just knows it’s going to change ANY MINUTE. That’s a true Michigander for you (or an old fuddy duddy, but don’t tell him I said that. In fact, don’t tell anyone that I actually just used fuddy-duddy in a sentence in earnest).

No crazy antics in this post. That’s okay. The week is young.

Happy Spring, everyone.