A Goal, a Wish, and a Gish for 2011
So, the holidays are over. Or at least Christmas is over. (I’ll write a blog later about my holidays. It involves stress, humor, and a turducken.) Now the focus turns to the New Year and what are your resolutions. I'm not big on resolutions. It's a scary word, like it should be accompanied by a guillotine or something, or at least a scary voice proclaiming WHAT ARE YOUR RESOLUTIONS with a freaky reverb on the word ‘resolutions’. I do like making lists, though, I just like to tweak it a bit.
I have my New Years' Goals....but then I also have a separate list for Wishes. Goals are something I can attain if I work really hard. Wishes are something that need a little bit of magic. Last year, I had a goal to finish another book. I did that in November. But I also wished to find love in my life. It took almost a year, but the wish was granted. Maybe because I was really, really specific.
It's that whole Law of Attraction thing. I had an idea of the perfect partner for me so I wrote him a letter. Last January I read the letter every night. (If I can find it I’ll post it.) It was cheesy and said things like “I know you’re out there for me. You are kind and funny and warm and love me just as I am.” That sort of thing. I tried to believe in the letter, but around February I gave up. The letter was with me though, in the deepest recesses of my heart…so when I dated Biff, I knew in my heart that the letter wasn’t to him. I tried to be okay with that. As time passed, I realized I wasn’t okay with that.
Now, almost a year after I wrote the cheesy letter, I know the man I wrote it for: Kealoha. Funny thing is, I’ve known him for years…but it honestly took the right timing for me to see him in a new way. So, my wish was granted. I now have love in my life, besides the love of my kids.
So…what are your goals and wishes for the New Year? I have a goal, a gish, and a wish. My goal is to walk a mile a day (that’s 365 miles in a year). I can totally do that. That’s manageable if I’m focused enough.
My gish (goal/wish) is that I can find an agent for “Foodies Rush In”. I love the publisher I’m with now, but I want something bigger. I want wider distribution and my books in stores. It’s a gish because part of it will involve magic, and the other part will involve my hard work and perseverance. I’ll need to send out query letters, brave rejection, and maybe even attend a conference in New York to meet some agents, but I’ll do it. And my wish? Honestly, I’m very happy right now.
I guess my wish is that Kealoha and I stay together and I take good care of my kids and keep them happy and that I have a good job for the rest of 2011. These are things that are possible, but not entirely in my control. I believe that wishes can be granted though.
Forget resolutions, but tell me your goals and wishes or even a gish for the New Year. I think if you put it out there in writing, it makes the idea more tangible. I’ll send you wishes that you get what your heart desires. For real.
Stupid Cat Videos
Yesterday I posted a sort of serious holiday message. Today, I'm posting stupid cat videos. Why? Because...well...no reason really. It's just if you have a few minutes, maybe you want to waste it watching something that makes you laugh. Here are three of my favorite youtube videos. The kids and I have watched and rewatched these. Don't judge us. Happy holidays!
My Holiday Message
Oh, man. Christmas is almost here and I am crazy excited. Really! This week I’ve had a lot of time to think about it. I was supposed to be narrating this wicked cool audiobook about a Necromancer, but I was walloped with a cold (my kids have it too) and the cold went straight for my voice and snatched it. Saturday and Sunday I was literally unable to speak. I could barely even whisper. It made me feel a little helpless, and gave me flashbacks to last year when I really was helpless with my broken foot.
This year, though, my mom came over and so did Kealoha as well as my friend Katie. They made sure I didn’t talk (as much). Katie went so far as to make sure I mimed everything. And this year, I was able to take care of the kids unlike last.
It reminds me of how much can change in a year. The lowest point happened for me last year the day after Christmas. I couldn’t take care of the kids so they were with their dad. On Christmas, he’d had a family party with his then fiancée and I didn’t get to talk to the kids. Well, I did talk to my son, but it was after 9 and he was exhausted. It wasn’t malicious of my ex not to call, more like he didn’t know how to interrupt the family party and have the kids call me. And I’d spent the holiday in my empty apartment using crutches and crawling everywhere.
My sister came over the day after Christmas to take me out to the bar. We laughed and joked and met a few friends. When we came home, we realized that we’d locked the door and my keys were inside. It took four hours before we could get in. I stood in my driveway on my crutches, snow falling down, trying not to cry. Finally the locksmith came and opened the door. It was so slippery and the stairs were so narrow that I had to crawl up the stairs. I tried to stand in my kitchen and I slipped and fell to the ground and I just started crying. Me, in a my green cast, crutches splayed, crying.
My sister held me. I cried because of the divorce, and because I was alone. I cried because I was exhausted and terrified of not making enough money to support me and the kids. I cried because, literally, I was broken and could barely walk. I cried with loneliness and shame and despair. My sister held me. She said “Let it out, honey. Just cry.” And I did. It felt like I cried for days. “I promise you, seester, things will get better,” she said. I just stared at her and I said “I don’t believe that. Look at my life. How on earth could they possibly get better?” My sister told me she didn’t know how things could get better, but at least things probably wouldn’t get worse.
A year later, my life is drastically different. You all know where I’m at now. I still struggle with concerns about taking care of me and the kids. And I’m terrified that by losing my voice on this narration they might not hire me again. Voice-overs are my safety net in case my teaching contract isn’t renewed. Last night, Kealoha put his hand on my shoulder and said, “It’s okay. We’ll get through this.” And it was that simple use of the word ‘we’ that showed me how much can change in a year.
I have a lot of friends who are struggling right now. Holidays are great but they’re also incredibly difficult, especially if you’re alone or struggling financially. I guess the biggest thing I learned in this year was to have faith that life can get better. It really can. And even when you’re on your knees crying with a broken foot, if you don’t believe things can get better, at least try to believe that they can’t get much worse.
I think I’ve lived more fully in this last year than ever before. I’ve learned how to trust, how to love, and how to be okay with who I am. I think that was the surprising gift of last year. Honestly, though, I’m glad I won’t repeat that Christmas this year. The kids are coming over, my family will be here, Kealoha will be at my side. We’ll have Chex Mix and turducken and maybe drink a little too much. The kids will wake up here Christmas morning and we will open presents as a family.
I’m glad I listened to my sister last year. I’m glad I didn’t give up.
A New Tradition--Bad Holiday Odes
By now everyone knows I have a certain twisted affection for bad poetry. I especially like to read bad poetry aloud. I use a hushed-smarty-pants voice and I add in a lot of dramatic pauses. If someone’s watching me (an audience is one or more people) I may stare at them intently for a moment as if I have a lot of depth to me. I like it when my audience snaps. And so…a new holiday tradition. Please join me in writing your own bad holiday ode. You can submit it to me via email heyblunderwoman@gmail.com or in the comments section of this blog. I’ll copy your ode not into the comment section, oh no, but into the very body of this blog and maybe, maybe even add a picture.
So I challenge you: bring me you Christmas trees, your shopping, your stressed out holiday meal with drunk family members. Bring me your bad poetry, your overdone metaphors, your pointlessly deep ideas. And may your Christmas be merry and bright.
Here’s an ode to get us a started:
Ode to Santa Claus
by Tanya Eby
Dear Santa…
My dear, beloved, Santa,
I’ve been thinking about you
a lot.
You’re such a giver, you red-clothed devil you.
Let me be your minion.
I want to trim your tree,
Santa.
I want to decorate your
halls
of love.
Let me rub your belly as you tickle
my fancy.
Oh, Santa, I know it might not seem appropriate
but I’ve always had a thing for older men
(like Colin Firth, sure, but I also love Gregory Peck even though I’m not sure if he’s alive or dead.)
Santa, you fill me
with joy
Let me give you something back--
my back Santa.
I love you. I adore you.
It might be your beard, your rosy cheeks, whatever
I don’t care.
I just want you to know that I
can be naughty or nice
I’ll be whatever you want
because I believe in you.
Please, believe in me
and the depths of my affection
like cold bells ringing in the night.
Santa, it just isn’t Christmas
without you in
my sleigh
bed.
An Ode to Mistletoe
by Cheryl
Mistletoe, you spy, you seasonal infiltrator.
James Bond looks at you in envy.
0-Toe-7, super spy.
Deadly in the wild, choking your host,
If your berries are plucked, you poison.
But all fades in your super power -
Invisibility.
From one unsuspecting victim to another you flit,
a holiday spider, lurking above innocents,
Casting your spell,
Linking, if only for a moment,
Two in affection.
Ah, mistletoe, the power you wield!
0-Toe-7.
Super spy, lover.
Moments With My Mom
I have that wonderfully complex mother/daughter relationship with, well, uh, my mother. I love her to pieces. She’s warm and quirky and funny and full of spirit. She also drives me crazy. Now, that may sound harsh but if you’re a daughter you know what I mean. Our mothers naturally drive us crazy. The unspoken secret…we drive our mothers crazy too, so it’s a balanced relationship.
I’m thirty-seven now (Kealoha and I just figured it out. I thought I might be 38 and he said “No, you’re 37” and I said “Am I?” Apparently I am.) My mom is sixty-one. We’ve had lots of ups and downs in our relationship and have finally settled into that wonderfully adult understanding where Mom knows my neuroses and tries to navigate them and I understand hers and say things like “Now, Mom, I know you need to have a lot of stuff with you but when you bring over six garbage bags full of clothes it makes me feel anxious.” She then hides the bags so I won’t see them, does her laundry and then everyone is happy.
Mom is the inspiration for the quirky mothers in my fiction. They all have a spark of her. While she’s never done naked meditation outside (that I know of) like the mom in Blunder Woman, she does carry a parachute in her car for emergency gaming. And there have been far too many conversations where she’s asked me about my sex life and I blush and say “Mom!” and she says “Okay, you don’t have to tell me but you should know that a good sex life is really important, especially for the Knaggs family.” (My mom’s side of the family, according to my mom, has a very high libido. Something I didn’t really want to know.)
My mom is also one of the kindest people on the planet. I’m not kidding. She’d do anything for a friend in need and has. She’s done anything she could for me from staying with me in my apartment for a week in college when I was horribly sick, to helping me when I had my kids, to watching the kids and taking care of me when I had a broken foot last year and was going through a divorce. Mom has picked up people off the street (a family once) and taken them to run errands because they didn’t have any way to do it on their own. She’s worked with mentally ill, on psych wards, helping those with minds wasted by years of medication. She does crafts with them. Endlessly patient and helping them glue sea shells to picture frames. Around my mom, people just get calm…while at times she seems to be a kinetic bundle of energy.
Mom/Nana/Annie/Anne Knaggs
She’s had lots of trouble with relationships (which caused trouble for me growing up) and has admitted that for most of her life she’s looked to a man to support her. She’s currently separated and struggling with starting a new life and dealing with lonelieness. I feel for her. I wish I could make it better.
And as much as she makes me crazy (she needs to be surrounded by stuff; I need things clean) she also cracks me up. I love listening to the stories she tells my kids while they do crafts. They begin harmless enough but they take a turn somewhere.
“Oh! Hawaii!” she said when Louis asked her about it. “I went to Hawaii a couple of years ago and it’s so warm and it smells like flowers and it’s surrounded by the ocean. You have to take a plane and travel for hours and hours to get there. And when I went there it was a dream come true and I got to help my dear friend because her husband had terminal cancer and then he died and that was really tough for her. And do you know that they have something called macadamia nuts…”
Uh…Her stories are usually like this: informative, soft, and then with some mention of a terminal disease. The kids listen scientifically. This week my mom went through her ornaments with the kids. “Now, if mommy says you can put this on the tree, you can, but mommy gets really anxious if there’s too much stuff around. She has a lot of anxiety so we have to ask her if we can put up this candy garland…”
Simone was looking at the old nativity set I used to put up. My mom held it out to her. “Here’s the baby Jesus in his crib. Now, we lost the crib so your mommy made him a crib from a box of matches and folded a napkin in there for a little pillow. See the little pillow?”
Simone peered into the little box. “Where is baby Jesus’s hand? Why’s he only got one hand?”
My mom considered this. “Perhaps baby Jesus had an amputation.”
I started laughing. “It was a real Christmas Miracle,” I said.
I think her quirkiness makes me love her more...and as I get older, I have a lot of respect for her too. My mom was a single mom in the seventies and eighties. I spent a lot of time on my own while she worked. We were poor. We struggled. But I never went without food. Mom never made more than 18 thousand dollars a year and my dad didn’t pay child support. I don’t know how she did it. I’ve been a single mom for a year, and it’s been exhausting and horrible and terrifying. I’m scared to death of losing my job and not being able to pay the mortgage or feed my kids (part of why I’m so driven. I'm also driven because I want to be able to take care of my mom financially and find her a good place to live. It's a struggle).
Mom told me a story once and she told it while laughing. Like wasn’t it funny and ridiculous. “One time I was PMSing so bad and I wanted a candy bar. I didn’t have any money and I’d just fed you and Shawn the last box of macaroni and cheese and we had nothing. And I had this moment where I just was exhausted and I wanted a fucking candy bar and I remember crying my eyes out and checking all the couch cushions looking for a quarter so I could just go buy a fucking candy bar. That’s how bad the PMS was.”
She laughed and I laughed and then it dawned on me: she fed us the last box of macaroni and cheese. “Did you find a quarter, Mom? Did you get the candy bar?”
“Naw,” she said. “But I’ll never forget that wanting.”
My mom is a beautiful person. She really is…and when I look back on my life and what I’m grateful for, she’s at the top of the list, along with all her stuff.
TUNNEL VISION--Chapter 16
“Go on in, now!” The old man driving the truck said to Ama and gave her shoulder a shove. Ama nearly fell from the truck and landed on her knees in the snow. The tires behind her spun and the truck lurched backward, taking the light with it. Ama slowly got to her feet, careful not to slip on the ice. She felt a flutter in her stomach and wondered if she’d waken the creature now growing within her.
Lights were on in Building 50, and as the moth is pulled to a flame, Ama felt herself drawn forward. She walked up the steps. Before she even got to the door, she could hear the coughing. Ama could run if she wanted, she could turn around and crawl to the safety of her room and never emerge again. She could slip inside the shadows, become one if she wanted, but something within her had changed. She raised her slender hand and knocked.
The doors opened. Ama stared straight into the eyes of a nurse she’d seen a hundred times, but one who had never acknowledged her. She was a ghost to all of them. They’d seen her dancing in the halls and turned their backs. They’d heard her cries in the tunnels and kept on walking. They left bread for her and ribbons but they never called her by name. Now, she stood in front of one, determined to be seen.
The nurse looked like a giant potato. She was so thick she seemed to have lost the appearance of a neck. Ama shivered. The nurse looked her from head to foot and then said in a gruff voice “I know who you are.”
Ama nodded.
“Do you think if I put you in one of these dresses that you could give us a hand with the sick? And not say a word to anyone about it? Pretend you’re mute or something. But God help me, people are dying and I need the help. You and me can figure out what you want in return later. Could you do that for me?”
Ama nodded. She could do that. She would be happy to do that. She would be happy.
“Then come on inside. Get out of that cold,” The nurse said, and with that, she welcomed her in.
****
Nurse Kolenda led Ama in through the front door. Ama shivered in the warmth of the building. She was home and not home. She wondered if maybe having been gone for so long, she might never feel like the place was home again. “Can you start at once,” Nurse Kolenda said. Ama nodded. What else could she do? She was in a sort of shock, knowing that her papa and her husband were fighting in the snow and the cold, longing to return to the shadows of her former life, but also feeling somehow as if it were her duty to help the people who had for so many years protected her very existence. “This way,” the nurse said and walked briskly through the building. “We’ll take the tunnels to the women’s ward,” she said. “You’ll need a uniform and then you will help immediately with whatever needs doing.” The nurse paused and turned to face her. “It’s tuberculosis, dear. An epidemic. There is much death here I’m afraid.”
“It is okay,” Ama said softly. It wasn’t the dead that she was afraid of; it was the living. “Let me lead the way.” The nurse seemed to agree. Ama took her place in front of the nurse and walked to the tunnels, returning to the place of her own genesis.
****
Outside, the wind swirled. Kinney’s hands were of ice. He face, ice. And there was a deep almost growl-like sound resonating in his chest. He coughed and spit bright red into the snow. He looked at his hands: red also. His shirt was read, his shoes. When you took a life by force, the body seemed to protest with violence. He was covered in the violence of Kostic’s passing. He’d ripped the soul from Kostic’s body and it showed.
Kinney dipped his hands into the snow and began to scrub his hands. He could not seem to get the red out. At that moment the doors swung open to Building 50. He sniffed the air. He would have Rose soon, he knew. He could feel it.
“Doctor Kinney? Is that you?” He thought it was the behemoth Briggard calling his name but he couldn’t be sure. For some reason Kinney had sunk to his knees in the snow and that growling in his chest became a roar, as if a beast was about to leap free from him. He wanted to tell Briggard to bring him inside so that he could take Rose home with him. He’d pulled Rose from the dead, brought her back in Ama’s form, and he wanted her with him. He tried to explain but he could no longer contain the beast within him. “Oh, dear god,” Briggard said. “You’re sick, doctor.”
But Kinney didn’t hear him. He was coughing too hard. Great spasms of cough. Coughs so raw and deep that a red rose spewed from his mouth and decorated the snow and froze there almost in the amount of time it took for Kinney to pass out into the coldness of night.
Little (big) Rebellions
This month I indulged and ordered Showtime. Yes, it’s an extra expense. No, I don’t need it. Yes, I wanted it at first because of “Dexter”. Then a couple of days ago I wanted to fold laundry and decided to watch the first episode of “The Big C”. Now, granted, the premise of the show sounded superbly depressing: a woman finds out she has stage 4 melanoma and then…what? They’re going to make a series from that? Eeeek! First off, after working at Gilda’s Club, I’ve seen a lot of cancer. And it scares me. Deeply. And in the media and every women’s magazine they’re always talking about it. Cancer Cancer Cancer. It feels like it’s inevitable. So, I admit, I’m terrified of it.
Then why would I watch a show about it? Because it stars Laura Linney and for some strange reason I really connect with her. Maybe it’s her acting style, maybe it’s the roles she chooses. I don’t know. I just like her. So I pressed play, started folding clothes and within two minutes of watching the show…I was laughing. That’s right. I was laughing.
The show is fucking funny. It’s created and written by (at least a few of the episodes) Darlene Hunt. And I think I noticed one other writer, also a woman. Here’s the thing: the writing is fresh and funny. The characters are flawed and complex and likeable. It’s the kind of stuff I’d like to write. It’s deeply feminine and emotional and UNAPOLOGETIC. More importantly, it’s telling a story that I want to follow. Yes, it’s about cancer…but there’s another meaning to the story that I deeply connect with. Ultimately, it’s about living your authentic life.
I talk to my girlfriends about this. Even my ex-mother-in-law (who is now a friend.) I’ve talked to students and coworkers and other women about this. And there seems to be some unwritten rule that women follow, a caregiver rule, to put everyone first, everyone but themselves. I’m phrasing this awkwardly. What I mean is when you’re a mom and a wife, you put your kids and husband first. You give and give, and care, and tend to and that feels good. It feels right. At the end of the day, though, there is little energy or time left over for yourself. I know this from experience. How many times has there been something I wanted or even needed and I said “No, don’t worry about it.” How many times have I been quietly polite instead of saying what I really think? How many times have I been quietly invisible so that others are comfortable? Too many to count. But not anymore.
I connect with “The Big C” because it reminds me about living authentically. A couple of years ago when I was still married, I started doing small rebellions. I joined Facebook, and I realized that I had nothing to post about my status that didn’t involve my husband or kids. I had nothing to post about ME. So, I got a narration gig. Then I started writing again. I remember one day buying a shirt for myself because all the ones I had were stained. I bought myself flowers.
Later, these little rebellions led to big ones. I realized that in my marriage, I wasn’t an authentic person. I was playing a role.
Now, single for over a year, I feel a bit like the character Cathy in “The Big C”. She takes joy in little rebellions that aren’t really rebellions at all: she’s simply doing things she wants to do. She’s stopped apologizing for everything. And while she still cares about people, still tends to them, she’s also tending to herself.
This is why I ordered Showtime. A little gift for myself. I’m not going overboard. I don’t think I’ve been narcissistic. I’m just balancing out my life, living more deeply and fully. Last night, I ordered Indian food for myself. I ordered it because I wanted it and I love it. I could’ve made it. It would’ve taken me two hours to do, but I could’ve…but I didn’t want to. So I ordered a cauliflower curry and naan and papadams. I put on pjs and I watched TV.
Then I did something crazier. I slept in just my underwear. What an act of rebellion! What pure craziness came over me? See, I’ve always been really sensitive about my body. I’m always a little overweight. Always a little pudgy. My tummy sticks out. I have lots of moles. I never look at myself naked and I never, god forbid, sleep naked, not even with a lover. Why? I think I’m uncomfortable with myself.
Then when I look at pictures of myself from a few years ago I think “Wow, you were really pretty. Why did you hate yourself so much?”
Last night I decided it was high time to feel what it’s like to be in my own body. I took off my bra, stripped down to my panties, and checked myself out in the mirror. And you know what? I’ve got a nice rack. I do. I like my boobs. And I like the gentle curves of my body. I’m not skinny, but I think my body is a body that can be warm and comforting to my kids…and also very womanly and sexy (when I want to be). I slipped under my silky sheets, noticing how the fabric felt against my bare skin.
I like these little acts of rebellion…and I like in my life I’m finally strong enough to do them. So, “The Big C” has encouraged me to live a little more fully. I hope more women are watching or listening…or in the very least…taking a minute for themselves. We spend so much time telling ourselves we’re not worth it. Whoever started that phrase I’d like to challenge to a duel. That’s right. I’d like to smack them across the face with a glove. We are worth it. Our little wants and needs…they aren’t little. They’re important. We’re important. You’re important.
Rah rah rah.
Do something for yourself. Something huge like living on your own, or something small like ordering Indian food and checking out your boobs for the beauties they are. Why? If no one else will tell you this, I will: because you’re worth it.
TUNNEL VISION: Chapter Fifteen
Tunnel Vision returns...for this week at least.
Chapter Fifteen
Ama clung to Kostic in the truck as the old man drove. He breathed through it. He did not like to be touched but Ama was the exception. Ama was the exception to everything. He could talk to her. See her. Help her. She was, he supposed, the child he might have had once upon a time. He touched her once. Patted her head. “Where are we going, Papa?” she asked him.
The old man Pepperidge spoke to him but kept his eyes on the swirl of white outside. “It’s a bad night, Robert,” he warned.
“I know it’s a bad night, but it’s the best night for this.” Kostic said. The words were a struggle for him.
“Why do you want to go back to the asylum? It’s foolish. Surely my sister would take you back in again. She loves you.”
Robert Kostic clenched his teeth, flexing his muscles as he did. Ama clung ever fiercely to him. He did not like to talk about his mother, nor did he like anyone knowing that the old grounds man was his uncle. Kostic was well enough to know that he was the family’s secret; what they didn’t know was that they were his secret in return. No one knew about them.
The truck lurched on the road, tires locked. “Hold on!” Bill said. His thin arms flexed and spun the wheel. Without thinking, Kostic reached over and with a single hand, wrestled the truck back on the road. The truck swerved, wheels spun, snow swirled, they turned sideways and then came to a stop. “Jesus,” Bill muttered. “If that’s not a sign you shouldn’t go back, I don’t know what is.”
Robert pointed into the snow. The headlights lit a path in front of them that was only inches wide, but even then they could see the dark figure standing in front of them.
Ama began to cry.
“It’s not possible,” Bill said. “He was back at the house.”
Kostic held onto Ama, pulling her close. He knew that not only was it possible, it was predictable. Dr. Elliott Kinney was a demon and everyone knew that demons could fly.
He kissed Ama’s forehead. “Take her home,” he said to his uncle. And then Kostic released her, opened the door, and climbed out of the truck, grabbing the baseball bat that had been resting at his feet.
“Kostic,” Dr. Kinney sneered.
As a form of greeting, Kostic raised the bat and swung.
*****
“What’s happening!” Ama cried. She tried to see what was in front of them but the old man was reversing the truck so quickly that soon her husband and her papa were swallowed whole by the storm.
“Don’t pay attention to them,” he said, his voice loud and piercing. “We’ll be home soon enough.”
Ama tried to stop herself from shaking. It was too much to bear. Too much! She’d left the only home she’d ever had and moved to that horrible room. She’d loved Kinney as her mothers had instructed her, with her body, but he had wanted to possess all of her. He had tried to make her into something she was not. She was not his wife. She was not a Rose. And now there was a child growing within her, a creature with His brain and His soul and she could not stand it. She could not stand it!
“Stop crying,” the old man said. “It’s a helluva drive. A horrible storm. I need to think.”
She tried to swallow the tears. They wedged in her throat. She closed her eyes. If she closed her eyes, she could pretend that none of this was real. She was not on the road in the cold in a storm. She was in her little room with the pictures on the walls and her family around her. She was happy. She was not going to grow a baby. She was a baby herself. She was Ama. Just Ama. And she was loved.
Just then the truck came to a sliding stop. “We’re here,” he said.
Ama opened her eyes. She opened her eyes and smiled. He had taken her home, just as he’d said. Building 50 of the asylum loomed in front of them. “Home!” she breathed and then she was running.
*****
It was more than a storm. It was like being inside a sheet of ice. The wind and snow attacked his skin, tearing at him. Kinney staggered forward. He could feel blood running from his temple and dribbling down his cheek. He could taste the iron in his lips. His only thought now was to trudge forward. He could not feel his body. He was too cold for that. He knew that the asylum was within reach. Behind the gusts of wind, he could see the outline of her in the distance. That’s where he would head.
Forward. One step at a time.
He spared no thoughts of Kostic’s body in the snow. By morning he would be fully covered. And if anyone asked, he could tell them he was attacked. A poor psychiatric doctor attacked by a wayward inmate.
He thought of reaching his wife. Of taking her back to his house and his bed and locking the doors. He was done with work and trying to help mankind. He had plenty of money on which to live. He needed only his wife and the warmth of her body to help him feel alive. He needed no one else.
These were the thoughts in his mind as he walked through the storm.
Just before he entered Building 50, he thought of a reason for the cut on his forehead and his condition. As an after thought, he tossed the knife, the tip frozen in with red and bits of brain matter, into the bushes. Maybe they’d find it in spring when the snow melted. Kinney doubted it. Many things that were covered were never found again.
Decorating the Tree: REAL vs IMAGINED
I write about decorating the tree and how I imagined it would be versus what it really was like.
Today I’m continuing with my holiday traditions blogging. That sounds awkward. What I mean to say is that December is chock full of activities and if you like traditions (and I do) you can be buried under parties, cookie exchanges, Christmas letters, and piñatas. It’s a nice kind of burying, but still.
This weekend we decorated the tree. Last year The Time of Decorating the Tree was promptly followed by The Time I Fell Down the Stairs and Broke My Foot. This year…way better experience. Kealoha picked the tree out with me and the kiddos. In my mind, there’d be carolers and everyone smiling and high-fiving, and a magical snow would be falling. Kealoha would grab me and kiss me in the snow and say “I adore you!” And I’d say, “Really?” and the kids would laugh and giggle and have rosy cheeks.
Reality isn’t as golden, but maybe it’s more interesting. Louis ran around the tree lot possessed. Kealoha chased after him. I tried to find someone to help me with getting the tree to the car. They were sort of operating in a different time speed: everyone in slow motion. No snow fell. And as I got the tree, Simone watched Louis run around the East football field and screamed over and over “LET’S PLAAAAAAY…SOCCER!” Kealoha got her to also scream “Let’s play rubgy” and football, and tiddly winks. We didn’t declare our love for each other but I think he winked at me…or he had something in his eye.
Then I envisioned decorating the tree. There’s the kids and me and Kealoha and my mom. We’re all wearing sweaters and listening to Bing Crosby and there’s a fire crackling. Reality? We put on this cool jazzy music. Simone and Louis stuffed ornaments down my mom’s shirt so her backside was gigantic. Like, ENORMOUS. I was freaking out because I couldn’t find the bubble lights and I was certain my mom lost them last year when she packed the ornaments. Kealoha was obsessively untangling my lights and had a monologue about the importance and effectiveness of LED lights which I listened to while slowly blinking.
We didn’t drink egg nog, though I did have two glasses of wine which helped me ignore the gigantic mess and the cats and the kids fighting and my mom trying to give me a backrub. She’s like a ninja attacker with backrubs.
I breathed. I relaxed. Kealoha told me everything was going to be okay and I believed him.
Which brings me to the ornaments. I like this part of Christmas, when you pull something from the box and it triggers a memory. Stephen Paulsen has The Starship Enterprise as an ornament…and Tim Beeler has a tree of superheroes. I have a Marilyn Monroe figurine that reminds me of when I had blond hair and fancied myself a 1950s starlet. The kids have the ornaments they made of pirates and reindeers. Kealoha brought over Elvis ornaments and a spaceship. There are birds on the tree, which comforts me. And Mom found the bubble lights (she’d wrapped them to keep them safe) which made all of us happy.
This year, I’m adding two more ornaments to memory lane. One is a morel ornament which makes me think of all the times spent mushroom hunting with my family. It’s also incredibly phallic and has glitter all over it. So, it makes me feel warm and fuzzy and then slightly uncomfortable. The perfect combo for an ornament.
And there’s the sasquatch ornament I just ordered because Big Foot makes me happy.
There’s also the ornament that Kealoha grabbed from Lowes. I’d looked at it a few weeks ago and when we went back for a strand of LED lights (compromise) he snagged the ornament. What a good boyfriend. He may not say things like “I adore you!” and I’m sort of glad he doesn’t. He does say things like “I can fix your thermostat” and I find that incredibly sexy.
Where was I?
I dunno.
But I do love the holidays, especially this one. My saddest holiday was in New York. I had no money and made a tree out of a paper bag and drew ornaments on it. It was sad. But this year…this year…well…maybe it didn’t go the way I envisioned. That’s okay. Because it was more real and more fun than the way I’d pictured it. And now I have Elvis on my tree with Marilyn. That seems to fit.
Here's how I found the two ornaments tonight. I don't know what they're doing. It looks like if either of them has a drink, then things could get racy.
If I Ran Like This...
I used to be able to run around Reed's Lake...4 1/2 miles. And then, this time last year, I broke my foot. I thought once the cast was off, I'd run again...but the pain in my foot was sharp, like stepping on a splinter. Finally, by August, it was more of a dull ache. Now it's December, a year after the Broken Foot, and I'm trying to run again. It's hard. I'm out of shape. Today though I was so stressed out I thought, I have to give this a try.
I walked on the treadmill today for twenty minutes and ran for two. It still hurts. It's still hard. And it takes massive amounts of self-motivation to get my ass on the treadmill with the idea of running.
My son wanted to have a turn, so I hopped off and let him give it a go. What happened next made me rethink the way I'm running. If I could run a little bit more like Louis, maybe running would be fun again. I'm going to give it a shot. Seriously. I don't know why I haven't thought of this before. Make it ridiculous, and surely the pain will lessen. That's got to be in some handbook for living somewhere.
Wait a minute. It is! Mary Poppins sings about it.
Aw, man. I'm now trying to live my life according to Mary Poppins.
Whatever. Here's the video. I'm going to go try this now:
What I'm Working On Now
All through November, I worked on NaNoWriMo, waking up at 5 in the morning to do. And I did it. I wrote a novel in a month. So...er...now what?
I had all these holiday plans for my month-long holiday from teaching. I picked up two Aldous Huxley novels (The Island and Brave New World) and a Philip K. Dick novel (The Crack in Space). I figured I'd run a mile a day, read vintage sci-five, rewrite the novel, see movies, hang out with the kiddos. I also planned extensive menus for the Logs, Balls, and Bad Holiday Sweater party I'm hosting with Kealoha..and our Christmas Day feast of turducken and a three-tier chocolate mousse cake from Bon Appetit.
Then...I got an email asking if I could record five novels in the next three weeks. Five novels! They're by Lilith Saintcrow and I get to play a badass Necromancer and do all these demon voices. What? Really? HELL YES! (Literally. The heroine spends a lot of time in hell.)
So all of my holiday plans have been postponed. I'm now working on this:
I have to prep all the characters, read the novels, look for words I can't pronounce, and then spend three weeks recording. It's not the Christmas I had planned, but it's going to be devilishly fun.
I'll still have time to blog. Next one I think is about Christmas ornaments and decorating the tree. We had quite the adventure here yesterday. It involved quotes like "Man, Nana's got back!" and "Catch the tree!"
A Holiday Letter From The White Family
It’s December 1st and that means it’s time to get those Christmas cards in the mail. This brings to mind one of those curious holiday traditions that seems to still persist even though with Facebook you now know exactly what Little Timmy has been up to all year round: namely bong parties.
I’m guilty of the annual Christmas Letter too. When I was married, the letter became more of an account of the way I wanted the year to be remembered, and not 100% the way it was. (I think this might be true of a lot of people.) Last year, I didn’t send Christmas cards at all. How could I? My letter would say the following:
Dear Friends and Family,
Happy holidays, mother fuckers! You know what I’m doing, huh? I’m flat on my back on a couch ‘cause I broke my foot, and it’s Christmas, and I’m going through a divorce, and I’m bitter, man. I’m bitter. So when you open your presents, think of me: alone, wrinkly and with NO PRESENTS AT ALL.
Love,
Tanya
Hmmm. Probably good I didn’t send it. Now I’m struggling with this year’s letter and it sounds annoyingly chipper. You’ve heard all my good news already so I won’t bother repeating it, but it has a lot of exclamation points. !!!Yay!!!
As I sit here, I wonder what this lovely holiday tradition would be like if people wrote about the year as it really was and not how they wanted their year to be perceived.
Here’s an imagined holiday letter from The White Family:
Dear Friends and Family,
Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukah, and if you’re an atheist, well, happy dark days of winter! Bob and Marsha had quite the year. They’ve been fighting like crazy! Marsha put on ten pounds and wears nothing but sweatpants now. (Bob says she looks like a walking sausage.) Poor Marsha, though. Who can blame her if she takes comfort in a pint of Ben and Jerry’s? Bob hasn’t had sex with her in nearly seven months…ever since that new neighbor Jim moved in. Yes. Bob and Jim are having a secret love affair. It’s the best sex either of them has ever had! Too bad it’s a secret.
Little Timmy is having an awful time too. He’s in eleventh grade and between all the time he spends watching online porn and downloading illegal music, he hasn’t had a single second to spend on college applications. He won’t get in anyway. We all know Little Timmy is stupid.
And Emma, well, Emma spends most of her time in her room burning effigies to the spirit gods. She’s on a variety of pharmaceuticals. She’s having a great time!
That’s just a little update. There’s really so much more. The White family hopes you have a great Christmas and lots of presents, because we’re broke and miserable. But cheers anyway!
All Our Love,
Bob, Marsha, Little Timmy, and Emma
I really would like to get a letter like that. And it’d be even better if it came with a family portrait of everyone in matching sweaters looking pissed off.
Seriously, though, I am going to write a holiday letter. I can’t stop myself. It’s tradition. Only this time, my good news will be real. I’m actually very happy. Even my therapist will tell you so.
Next up on the weird holiday traditions? Hmmm. Christmas pickle ornaments? Setting up a manger when you’re not a Christian? The holiday pageant? Christmas dinner? I’m so excited to write about these things I can barely contain myself. Really. I probably will need to be locked up somewhere.
I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.
:)
Why Aren't Romance Writers Taken Seriously?
I’m baaaaccckk.
Remember that creepy girl in Poltergeist? That’s me. I’m back. And, yes, I know I was really only absent for a week, but still. A week is a long time if you’re an ant. If you’re a mayfly, well, that’s an eternity. They only live one day.
Now I’ve totally forgotten the purpose of this blog. Oh, yes. It’s a venting blog, people. A venting blog, but not like the vent Marilyn Monroe stood over.
Nope. This one is about writing, and The Industry. (insert dramatic music here.)
This has been building up in me and now it’s time to give it a voice. So, yes, I have a mild chip on my shoulder about not feeling important. It’s something left over from childhood and previous relationships, and maybe, maybe a little bit of it is also in society. Like, you know, women come second in a lot of ways. But this one is about writing.
I self-published “Easy Does It” a couple of years ago because I couldn’t get an agent to touch it. They liked it. Several agents loved it, but the publishing industry doesn’t like Romantic Comedies. Chick lit has been dead for a while. Now, if I had written a young adult novel with vampires making out, I might’ve had something. But a story about two geeks falling in love? No. So I self-published.
Thankfully, I found a publisher (Champagne Books) willing to take on “Blunder Woman” and “Pepper Wellington and the Case of the Missing Sausage” so my stuff is finally out there. Legitimately. Now I’d like The Industry to take me seriously.
Unfortunately, of all the genres you can write in, if you choose to write a romance novel and one that’s a comedy, chances are you’re not going to be taken seriously. No. Not by serious literary types. Why do I care? I mean, it is comedy, right? Sort of. But comedy is serious business, and I work hard and I’m proud of my stuff. So when my alma mater said I couldn’t give a reading there because my work isn’t serious enough or helpful to their students, I took that personally. I have two books published and a third on the way. I have two-dozen audiobooks out there that I’ve narrated. I have plays and radio plays that have been produced. I’ve dedicated my life to writing, but my work isn’t serious enough? Really?
And then I had some disappointments with the local press. Granted, I somehow convinced them to interview me, but both publications bumped me to cover other more ‘serious’ writers, and one that is a comedy writer but is already famous. So much for supporting local writers (something I also have a chip on my shoulder about).
I announce firmly that I now have a chip on my shoulder that’s more of a dent.
What other genre of writing would a college not take seriously? Sci-fi? No. They take that seriously. Mysteries? No. That’s serious stuff. So what does The Industry have against romance writers? Why are romance writers treated like the scoliosis girl in Sixteen Candles? Why doesn't anyone look at a romance writer?
I’m not the only one griping. There was a recent debate with a group of NY Times bestselling romance writers who can’t get their books reviewed in the NY Times because ‘they’re not serious’ enough. Romantic novels are consistently in the top tier of sellers in all formats from paperback to eBook.
So if million of people read these types of books, why aren’t they serious? Yes. I think part of the problem is historical. This genre is popular among women, and I’m sorry, but in literature there are a handful of women taken seriously. Especially if you’re funny.
I do grant that it’s changing. Tina Fey is getting lots of credit for being funny. I think we have further to go, and it starts with local media and colleges. Yes. My work is light-hearted…but I strive to create accessible, real characters with heart. And I try to make people laugh. A little confession: being funny is hard. Being dramatic is easy. It’s an easier choice to give a character cancer than it is to make them fall believably in love. Don’t believe me? Try writing both of those scenes and see which one is easier.
Tell me your thoughts. Do you read romantic novels? Why? How do they affect you? Are they serious literature? I’m trying not to think that this genre isn’t supported simply because it’s mostly written by and for women, but at this point, I am starting to wonder.
Again, I say, my words are important. And I don’t just mean me. Romantic writers write some of the most emotionally moving stories and if that’s not serious, really, I don’t know what is. Our relationships, loving and not, are some of the most complex feelings out there. Why can’t these stories be taken seriously, even if they make you laugh?
A Message from Me and Richard Simmons
I've been meaning to blog all week. I mean, there's so much to cover...from the crazy Thanksgiving with my family and friends and the idea that it's not really Thanksgiving until my sister says "boner"...to shopping on Black Sunday with my ex-mother-in-law who is now a good friend...to the admission that I bought sweat pants because I have finally crossed the line and have plumped up like a hot dog. (Thank you overeating, wine, and PMS.)
But I'm resisting the urge to blog. Why? Because I'm also doing National Novel Writing Month. Or NaNoWriMo. The goal was to write 1667 words a day and at the end of the month you have an entire novel. I'm on Day 27 and I'm at 45,163 words. I am THIS close to finishing! The book is called "Foodies Rush In" and it pretty much sucks. But it's a first draft and I didn't have any of it written at the beginning of this month.
For the next two days, I'm locked up in my house with nothing to eat but Chex Mix and Thanksgiving leftovers. I'm writing. I'm doing it. I am going to finish this novel and possibly have to buy a bigger pair of sweatpants. It's okay though, because I know that somewhere out there someone loves me. That's right. And his name is Richard Simmons.
Guess what? He loves you too. Here's the video to prove it.
Enjoy the rest of your weekend. I'll be back in December, which is just a few days away.
On Birthdays and What My Son Has Taught Me
My son is 6 today…and while I don’t think anyone is out there thinking ‘please write about your kid’ at the same time, his birthday brings up complex emotions and thoughts in me. Maybe you can relate.
When you’re a kid, every birthday is a big deal. You’re one year older and one year closer to doing really cool stuff. Maybe you get to stay up later, or maybe you get to finally ride a roller coaster because you’re tall enough. Birthdays are exciting. First, they’re all about you. Secondly you get cake and presents. What’s better than that?
Then you get older, and older, and older and birthdays lose a little of their shine. For me, a birthday is really important. It’s a chance for your loved ones and family to acknowledge you, to let you know that you’ve made an impact on their life. And it’s why it hurts so deeply when you’re forgotten on your birthday. It feels sort of like you’re not important or don’t matter.
I’ve had 37 birthdays and they’re still fun…but the ones I look forward to now aren’t my own, but my kids.
My kids’ birthdays are now a reminder to me of what a gift they are. It makes me think of when they were born and how.
Six years ago, Louis came into the world. Anyone who’s gone through giving birth (and this includes dads because you’re right along in the delivery room) knows that it is deeply traumatic, painful, and then hopefully filled with joy. So, I guess the whole process of entering the world is a little bit like life itself.
At age 30 (and after witnessing 9/11 and then moving home) I no longer wanted to be a writer. I mean, I wanted to write, but it seemed to me that living just for my art had cut me off from a whole range of experience. And after September 11th, I was more certain than ever that what I wanted most out of life was not to be famous for my words: I wanted a family. I never thought it would happen for me. I’d fallen in love with men who would not or could not love me back and I thought, at 30, that I was losing out. I was certain that it was too late.
Then I met P., my now ex, and I have to say that no matter what happened later with our relationship, at the beginning, we both wanted exactly the same thing: and that was to have a family. And I am so grateful for that because now I have two wonderful children, and they have a great dad.
So I was pregnant and it was awful. I hated it. I threw up five to six times a day. I had gestational diabetes and had to check my blood sugar seven times a day. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t eat. And I wanted desperately not to be pregnant anymore. Finally, November 23, 2004 rolled around and I was in labor. It was five in the morning. I made P a pot of coffee and let him sleep in. Later, I woke him and then my mom.
P. ended up heading into work. He had a huge conference he had to take twenty students to. My mom drove me to the hospital and brought supplies. She filled a black garbage bag with rolls of paper towel, a two liter of pop, and about twenty aromatherapy oils. She threw in a CD player (but no cd’s). Then we were in the waiting room and as I tried to ride out the pain she tried to do reiki on me. “Mom! Not now!” I cried. And then “I love you , Mom , but I really can’t handle all this junk in here. Can you please take it out.”
Mom looked at the garbage bag and then we both started laughing. “I don’t know why I brought all this,” she said. “You want some paper towel?”
Later P. joined us, leaving the conference. And then it was just me and P and then the delivery room.
I won’t go into all the details here. It was intense. The baby was pressing on some nerve and I felt like my legs were literally burning. I’ve never experienced that pain before. I was certain they were encased in flames. They gave me the shot in the back, but it didn’t help. And then, I was pushing and the doctors were counting. In between contractions, P and the doctor talked about the East GR Football team. I was actually relieved because it meant I didn’t have to contribute to the conversation. (I honestly thought that. I’m always trying to be a good hostess.)
Then Louis entered the world, not with a scream, but with utter silence.
I have never known such fear as those few moments. It might have been a few seconds, but it felt like a lifetime, or worse, the end of a life.
The cord was wrapped around his neck, and tightly. He wasn’t breathing. The laid-back atmosphere quickly changed to one of urgency. I couldn’t see what they were doing, but that doctor swooped over to Louis and worked on him and then finally, finally, Louis cried. He cried! Then I cried. Then P. cried. It was beautiful.
I don’t remember much after that. I remember later when I held little Louis I thought “Oh, god. What do I do now?” I wanted him so badly and then when I held him I didn’t feel anything. I didn’t feel that mother-love they say happens. What I felt was absolutely terrified. What made me think I could be a mom? What did I have to offer?
Louis has taught me a lot of things in these six years. He’s taught me patience, he’s taught me kindness, he’s taught me to believe that good things happen. He also taught me that love isn’t something that happens instantly, even between a mother and child. It’s something that grows through experiences, through shared pain and laughter, through panic and tears. P changed Louis’s first diapers because I was terrified. But slowly, slowly, I grew to have confidence in being not just a mother, but Louis’s mother.
And later when Simone was born I realized that love wasn’t finite. That I could love infinitely. And that there are two little people in this world who can do anything and that my love for them will not break, it just gets stronger every day.
Yes, I know there’s an element of cheese to this, but if you’re a parent, you know what I mean. Shoot, if you’ve ever loved anyone, you know what I mean.
A birthday is a time when we acknowledge that love…and greater still that someone is a gift to our lives. Today, I celebrate my son, who I never believed I would be lucky enough to have and then…because maybe miracles do happen…I did.
Bumper Stickers, Amish, Bigfoot, and Finding the Funny
Usually I focus on pretty serious stuff on my blog…except for, well, the ridiculous odes and stories about my obsession with sandwiches. And I thought about writing a serious topic today tentatively called Why Romantic Comedy Writers are Like the Scoliosis Girl in Sixteen Candles. I will write that blog, but not today.
Today. Random stuff.
I’m holiday shopping and to my great joy and amazement I have discovered (thank you, Kealoha) an actual site where you can buy a Sasquatch Christmas tree ornament. I mean, this is brilliant. What says Christmas better than Big Foot? Or in Big Foot’s language “ARRRRRRRRR”. Yeah, Bigfoot sounds a little like a pirate, but that’s because there’s probably genetically some pirate in him.
Christmas makes me crazy emotional, especially now that the kids are in the whole phase where Christmas Magic is Real. And it’s a little sad because they split the holiday at their dad’s. From their dad’s house, the kids will get the religious background on Christmas and what it means to our culture and spirituality.
At my house, they’ll understand why bad holiday sweaters and fruitcake and songs about running over Grandma are important to our psyche. I truly believe that laughter is magical too.
It’s why I actually spend time brainstorming possible bumper stickers like:
Pro-Amish!
or
My God is an Alien
I like laughing. It feels good. And I like being ridiculous. And I especially like that this Christmas I don’t have to be all emo and serious all the time. I’m dating a guy who not only likes my quirky ideas for a holiday party, but actually has 3 cookbooks with 1950’s style groovy recipes and a book called Kitschmas.
About ten years ago, (wow) I lived in NYC and went through 9/11. I decided to move home. I wanted to give back to the community so took a job at Gilda’s Club Grand Rapids, a cancer support community. One of my jobs (besides fundraising and grants) was to work on a newsletter and try to find the humor in a journey with cancer. Seriously. I have to say, this job had a radical effect on my life and now my career. It made me pause and work to find the funny in even the most difficult of times.
Today I sat in the audience while Gilda’s Club GR unveiled LaughFest, a festival of laughter that will run for ten-days in March. I helped write the copy for their website and some promotional stuff. I wasn’t wearing a cape in the audience, but I did feel like I was finally using my little power, the power of words and humor, for the good.
See? Even in humor there’s something serious.
So my meandering, random blog ends with the thought of encouraging you to take a pause and find the funny in your day. And if that’s trying to find a Christmas ornament of Tom Selleck as Magnum P.I. then I’m right with you.
Seriously. I’m right with you. If there’s a Bigfoot ornament, I just gotta believe there’s one of Tom Selleck.
That’s another bumper sticker:
I Believe in The Magic of Tom Selleck.
Have a lovely day.
Holiday Recipes, Awww yeah.
If you haven't checked out my food blog, please do. There's cool stuff there. WARNING: it may make you hungry and threaten diets.
Because I don't have enough going on with Twitter, Face Book, my blog, working on novels, promoting, etc., I also have a food blog.
I know. I know. Overkill? Maybe. Fun? Yes. I'm a foodie, and I like to write about it.
This week, I'm posting Holiday Cooking recipes...recipes of family recipes from people I know. Check it out here:
Good Food For Good People
And if you want to add a recipe, send me a note. I love hearing about what people are cooking.
It's Time for Some Bad Odes.
Years ago when I lived with my friend K, we were such dorks that for fun, we wrote bad odes. We’d sit on the couch and one of us would write a line for a bad ode, then pass it to the other. This is how we came up with such ideas that Santa was a crack whore, and an ode to sausage logs.
Yes. Writing bad is good. It’s so good, I ask every writing class I teach to join me. Even today when I gave a presentation at GRRWG, I asked them to play along. Why? Because we worry so much about writing well, that we forget to write fun. And it’s a fun exercise because the entire goal is to suck, and suck hard. So if you're a bad writer, you'll be great at this. You will wear a cape of Badness which in this case is good.
So now, I present my bad ode to you that I wrote in about thirty seconds. You shouldn't spend time on an ode. Time in writing is good. No. You want to suck. And what’s worse than bad love poems written really quickly? So, bring me your tired metaphors, your elated praise, your bad similies. Shower me with odes about pancakes, and beer, and holiday sweaters.
Here’s my Ode:
Ode to a Spatula
Oh, you flat bastard you
How you flip
me out.
I love your shiny-ness
Your cool shape
(unless you’re made of plastic and then
I support you but I don’t love you).
Oh, spatula
You can fry my bacon
Turn me over
And roll me in the pancake of your love.
I love you.
You complete me.
Word.
Send your bad ode to the comments below. Let’s see how wonderfully bad you can be.
Grab the tissue. I'm all nostalgic because of holidays.
We are inching ever closer to my favorite holiday of the year. Yes. Thanksgiving. Of course, that’s my favorite holiday. It’s the only holiday that’s entirely focused on FOOD. And, yeah, giving thanks. I mean, I love Christmas and all that, and Fourth of July, and Easter can have a pretty good brunch and all…but Thanksgiving? Come on. It’s brilliant.
Holidays always make me a little nostalgic too. I start to look back on my life and then I look forward and then sideways and then I get dizzy and then I get all emotional and start crying at holiday commercials and I’m all “Oh, he gave her a puppy!” It’s kind of pathetic. This year is no different. I already feel the tear ducts kicking in.
This year, though, all I have to do is look back one year ago and it’s enough to make my throat get all choked up and those tears don’t even threaten anymore, they just start flowing. Not with sadness, though. Ohhhh, no. It’s joy. Simple, uncomplicated joy.
A year ago, I was still newly separated from my husband and questioning how on earth I thought I could be a single mom. What had possessed me to break up our marriage and our family? I was at a little apartment (that cost a lot) in East Grand Rapids. I was a few months in to my contract with teaching at Kendall, and I was facing the first holiday without having my kids with me all the time. And, let’s be honest here, I was really lonely.
Last Thanksgiving my friends Brendan and George invited my mom and me and the kids over to their place. It was so nice to be included in a family. One of the things that was so hard when I separated was that fracturing of the family. My ex (a year ago) had met and was committed to the woman who is now his wife, so their holiday season was a first for him in building a new kind of family. And I couldn’t compete with that. I was barely hanging on with working full time, writing, trying to get published, and trying to keep my emotions together.
We survived Thanksgiving. It wasn’t as painful as I thought and it helped sharing it with friends. And then the rest of the holiday happened. Last December, I broke my foot, on the day we got our Christmas tree and I was so proud for hauling it in myself. Sometimes I still cry over the moment when I was on the ground and my two kids were trying to help me get up, and I had the realization that I physically couldn’t move, and I couldn’t take care of them, and I tried not to cry in front of them. That Christmas I asked my ex to take the kids, because I knew with the cast and all, that I couldn’t drive them around to look at lights. I couldn’t get presents under the tree. I couldn’t carry them to their rooms if they fell asleep. My mom was there to help me, but it was a holiday season that I spent feeling entirely alone, literally broken, and barely able to keep my head above water financially.
What a difference a year makes.
This year, I am in my new house, my dream house, with a beautiful backyard and the kids have their own rooms and we have two spirited/demonic cats. My sister and brother in law and her kids are joining us for Thanksgiving. My mom will be here, as will Kealoha, who every day I love a little bit more. He makes me feel…cherished. Cheesy, maybe, but it’s true. And it’s funny to me that I’ve known him for so long, but only now have I really been able to see him. And…I’ve got my books out there and I’m finally getting some acknowledgement for all the hard work through some interviews coming up in local papers. To top it off, Kendall is looking at possibly renewing my contract for another year.
Last year I didn’t feel like I could offer my kids anything. I questioned all my choices…and worse than feeling like a bad mom, I felt like a bad person. That’s all changed. I have a confidence I never suspected was even possible. And somehow, through sheer determination and maybe because I had no other choice, I have built a future for me and my kids. It’s more than a future, really. It’s a family. My house, both literal and metaphorical, is filled with friends and family and laughter and good food…and…yes…hope.
See? See what holidays do to me? They make me go crazy emotional. What can I say? I have a lot to be grateful for. I don’t know. This year, well, it’s enough to make a slightly dramatic, overemotional, 37-year-old writer/woman/mom believe that there really is a little bit of magic left in the world.
And if there’s magic left in the world, maybe, just maybe Bigfoot exists too, and that makes me really happy.
