Crazy Conversation, Moving My Mom, and a Guy Named Joe...
What you are about to read is an actual thread that occurred on my Facebook page. I have changed the names to protect the innocent, though just how innocent my friends are is debatable.
STATUS UPDATE
Tanya Eby: This weekend my mom moves into Kealoha's house. I already have a bald spot because of the stress this is causing me. #CrazyMotherAlert March 24 at 12:01pm
Kealoha:
As a side note, I have already moved out of my house. I am NOT moving in with Tanya's mom! March 24 at 12:04pm ·
Tanya Eby:
You do realize with mom moving three blocks away, we have officially become a sitcom. March 24 at 12:06pm
Megan:
Brain Overloaded.
March 24 at 12:08.
Kealoha: As long as we don't have the Nutty Neighbor who randomly drops by. Seriously, we've got plenty of nuttiness to go around!
March 24 at 12:09pm
Lindsey:
I think it would be more funny if Kealoha *were* moving in with Tanya's mom. awkward....
March 24 at 12:10pm Kealoha:
*DISLIKE*
March 24 at 12:11pm
Lindsey:
Boy would Tanya have something to blog about then!
March 24 at 12:11pm
Megan:
I think Tanya's mom should move into Tanya's house with both of them, then Tanya should move out into Kealoha's place, then they should find another house that's only, like, 4 houses away from Tanya's original house, and Kealoha can move into that one. With the cats. THEN they can play musical houses.
March 24 at 12:13pm ·
Tanya Eby: Dudes. You're killing me. I'm having a panic attack.
March 24 at 12:15pm
Megan:
Can't SOMEONE just live in the garage? I don't care who, but someone???
March 24 at 12:16pm
Kealoha:
OK, I'm picking up limes tonight for Mai-Tais.
March 24 at 12:16pm
Megan:
At which house?
March 24 at 12:17pm
Kealoha:
I DON'T KNOW ANYMORE!!!
March 24 at 12:17pm
Megan:
Awesome.
March 24 at 12:17pm
Megan:
Thank God the kids don't have a tree house. I mean, THANK GOD.
March 24 at 12:19pm
Kealhoa:
There's is the playset... wait.. WHY AM I FUELING THE FIRE!!! AAAAARRRRRRRGGGHHHH!!!!!
March 24 at 12:20pm
Megan:
My work is done here.
March 24 at 12:21pm
Robby:
Don't think of it as stress...think of it as your next book.
March 24 at 12:45pm
Robby’s right. This is certainly fuel for the next book, whatever that book will be. And I haven’t even told you about the move itself! I can’t even speak about it yet. Let me first say that my mom is a wonderful being. If you don’t believe me, read a previous blog I did on her. But holy cow, she’s a pack rat. Like a hoarder. Her apartment was crammed full of stuff. No wonder she’s so excited about moving into a house! She needs the space.
I can’t put into words how much stuff she had, except to say that we moved her from a one bedroom apartment to a three bedroom house and ended up putting most of the stuff in the garage because it wouldn’t fit in the house. Not to mention weird things we found. Boxes and boxes of fabric, weaving looms, ribbons. And the strangest was a box marked “Temporary Holding Container” from a funeral home. Kealoha looked at the box, realized it had ashes in it and said to my mom “Anne, who is this?”
My mom looked at the box and said “Oh, that’s Joe.”
There’s a long story there too. Suffice it to say, Joe is in the garage until his wife comes to get him. Apparently they’ve been separated for years, ever since his death. If she doesn’t come soon, we’re going to give Joe a proper send off. Hopefully, he’d find all this funny. If he really was as a shaman like my mom says, then maybe he can help us all find the deeper meaning to this. My mom now lives three blocks from us. Let the sitcom begin!
It could be worse. I could be dating a mime.
I’ve worried that since I’m now in a happily committed relationship and the drama of the divorce over the past two years is now safely behind me…well, I’ve worried that I might become boring and have nothing to blog about. I recently had two conversations that assure me that my life will never be boring. Here’s the first conversation as presented by Twitter with a writer friend of mine. I’m the Blunder_Woman handle, of course.
Blunder_Woman:
Keahloha has just unpacked his juggling stuff and conga drums. Kids are going berserk. Just wait til they see him on his unicycle.
Blunder_Woman:
You might think I'm joking. I assure you, I'm not. My boyfriend juggles, play congas, and rides a unicycle. (Just not all at once)
JArmintrout:
OMG ARE YOU DATING A CLOWN?!
Blunder_Woman:
It's TRUE! And I'm afraid of clowns!
JArmintrout:
What about two out of three?
JArmintrout:
Like, can he juggle and ride the unicycle, or incorporate the congas somehow into his juggling?
Blunder_Woman:
I’m not sure. But it could be worse. I could be dating a mime.
Blunder_Woman:
I am now wondering what...uh...intimacy with a mime would be like. Give me a few minutes here.
Blunder_Woman:
HAHAHAAHAHAHAHA!
JArmintrout:
I think it would depend if you were having relations with a mime inside a visible box, or on a very windy day.
Blunder_Woman:
Thank you. I now know the next hot romance book I'll write. “Seduced By A Mime. A Tale of Quiet Longing.”
JArmintrout:
Better title than "Touched By A Dance Major". Let's face it, that's what mimes are.
JArmintrout:
"He passed his interpretive movement course... but stopped for her heart."
Yes. This conversation proves to me that life is still interesting. And wait until you read what happened on Facebook. I’ll change their names to protect the innocent…though honestly not a one of them is truly ‘innocent’. I don’t think I’m able to have innocent friends. I like my friends slightly tainted.
Bad Ode-- Ode To Spring--Pole Dance Of Love
Oh, Spring, glorious Spring
You’re like one of those dancers,
you know,
a lap dancer
where you taunt and tease and titillate,
but The Man can’t touch!
Oh, no. He can’t.
You just want his dollar bills.
You tease me like that, Spring,
and it’s worse because I don’t even have
a dollar to give you.
You seduce me with promises of
flowers and birdsongs
and balmy nights where I can wear nothing
but a secret
and yet
and yet
you hit me with ice.
You’re frigid, Spring.
Open up for me, please.
I want you.
I need you.
I go down on my knees for you.
Show me the full monty, Spring,
and I,
I will give you everything,
which admittedly isn’t much,
but I will give you my love.
And a dollar…as soon as I earn one
on this internal pole from which I hang
with one leg wrapped around
and the other reaching
reaching
reaching
out
to
you.
Seduction Pasta-Step 1) Get Your Man Drunk
I’m a bit of a contest freak. I don’t know why. I just love the possibility of winning something. I rarely win, but it’s that lovely shiny possibility of winning that’s so fun. I’ll buy a lottery ticket and not check the winning numbers for weeks just because maybe, just maybe, I’m walking around a millionaire and not even aware of it.
What does this have to do with anything? Well, Susan Mallery, a New York Times bestselling writer and an author I narrated three books for, has a contest on her blog where you can send in an original recipe and win $300 to Williams Sonoma. So many things are exciting about that. Then I thought, I should have a contest on my site…but I am not a New York Times bestselling author and parting with $300 is akin to taking blood from me, something I am not willing to give up. So instead of holding a contest, I entered hers.
Here’s my entry. Why am I sharing it? Because it’s ridiculous and it made me laugh. I rewrote a simple recipe that’s one of my standards for company, seduction, and even when I have the kiddos. See? It’s multi-faceted and I can even make it while drinking and nervous. (Except I don’t do that when I have my kids.) So here’s my entrance into Susan Mallery’s contest. If it doesn’t bring me $300, it at least brings me possibilities. If you make this, may it either bring your love or at least a good fling.
SEDUCTION SHRIMP PASTA
AKA Roasted Shrimp with Pasta and Some Lemon
INGREDIENTS
1 pound (17 to 21 count) shrimp, peeled and deveined
1/8 cup olive oil
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper
½ pound pasta (fettuccini, spaghetti, or angel hair)
2 tablespoons butter
1 lemon, zested and juiced
pine nuts (optional)
parsley and parmesan cheese (optional)
DIRECTIONS
Preheat the oven to 400 degrees F.
Get your man drunk. This accomplishes two things. First, if you’re a bad cook, he’ll be so tipsy he won’t notice. And second, if he’s drunk and his vision is blurring a little bit, then you have an instant face-lift and thigh slimmer. It’s awesome.
Boil water for your pasta. Don’t stare at the water. It takes a long time to boil. Have a glass of wine.
If you forgot you were going to cook tonight, defrost shrimp by running cold water over them. (But put them in a colander first.) Pretend like you planned this. Drink your wine.
Toss shrimp with olive oil. If you wear a tight t-shirt and a short skirt, you can add a little pizzazz by ‘accidentally’ dropping a shrimp on the floor and bending over seductively to pick it up. Say “Oops!” and then toss the shrimp back in with the others. This will prove you’re tough. Your man will be impressed, unless you hit your head on the stove, so drop the shrimp away from the stove.
Place oiled shrimp in one layer on cookie sheet and sprinkle with salt and pepper. Have some wine.
Roast the shrimp for 6 to 8 minutes, just until they're pink and cooked through. Your water should be boiling about now. If not, don’t curse. Just wait. That mother will boil eventually. Have some wine and blink rapidly at your man in a seductive way. Try to make it look seductive and not like you have a facial tic.
While the shrimp roasts, cook your pasta. While that’s happening, you can get your lemon naked. This involves zesting the lemon. You can have your man zest it, or you can do it. Whoever is less drunk as a zester could be considered heavy machinery. Juice the lemon too.
When the pasta is done (read the directions to know when) drain it, and toss with the lemon juice, butter, a little salt and pepper. You can add a little of the pasta water if you remembered to save some. If not, throw in some wine if it’s white. Don’t throw in beer. That would be bad.
Now add the shrimp and toss on some pine nuts and parsley and parmesan if you want to be fancy. If you’re too drunk to be fancy, just put the shrimp pasta in a big old bowl. You can sit down and share the pasta or have two plates. Give your man a chunk of bread. If you’re drunk at this point, don’t use a knife. Just rip that bread bastard with your bare hands. You’re a woman. You can do this.
Eat your pasta suggestively. If you need me to spell this out for you, then immediately buy a romance book for instruction.
If your man isn’t entirely in love with you after this dish then he’s crazy, not worth it, or simply a kosher Jew. You know, the whole shellfish thing. I recommend finding out if your man is Jewish before serving this seductive dish. I’m sure you could substitute cooked chicken if you needed to.
Enjoy!
Other New York Highlights
Now that I’ve had twenty-four hours back at home and have hugged and squeezed my kiddos until they stopped breathing for a second (don’t worry. When I let go the air returned to their lungs) I can now look back on the trip to New York and say with utter sincerity: it was fucking awesome.
Sorry for the profanity there, but sometimes, a girl just has to use it.
This was the first trip for me and Kealoha. I felt pretty confident that we’d be okay travelling together, but you just never know. You can love someone but as soon as your trapped in a plane, a taxi, and a hotel room with them, you can end up wanting them to spontaneously combust or something, so much so that you say “Here, have another drink!” That didn’t happen once. Not once! I actually liked having him with me. We joked that he was my support team, but it’s true. He’d get us coffee in the morning, print things I needed for the conference. When I was brain dead and couldn’t think, he took care of finding us someplace to eat. But he didn’t control anything. In fact, when I was adamant about where the subway was and he knew I was wrong, he walked with me the extra five blocks until I saw the truth for myself, and he didn’t even rub it in. Man, what a good guy.
So here are some highlights:
CUBAN RESTAURANT
On our first night there (I think) we walked around Times Square (see previous post for me and an M&M). It was loud and bright and filled with people and has that peculiar energy that I’ve only experienced in New York. I don’t know what it is. It’s gritty excitement mixed with awe. We walked and walked and then found this cool Cuban restaurant. They pulled us in with their neon sign. The mojitos made us fall in love. Not with each other, we’ve already done that, but with the restaurant. The mojitos came with mint and real sugar cane. And the dinner was delicious. I sometimes feign vegetarian, but this was not the place for that, although you’d have a perfectly fine veggie dinner. No. The evening called for meat and I had me some fine picadillo. It’s a spicy meat mixture with olives. That doesn’t sound appetizing, so they call it picadillo.
PLAY DEAD
The next night was St. Patrick’s Day and people were pretty much drunk on the streets by 9AM. If you wanted to hear a good New Jersey accent, this was the time. I don’t know how many times I heard people shout into a phone “Are you fuckin’ kidding me? No fuckin’ way!” Or “We’re on MacDougal street. I said we’re fuckin’ on MacFuckinDougal Street!”
I was exhausted from the conference and the last thing I wanted to do was see a play, but Kealoha had already purchased the tickets, so in we went.
“Play Dead” is sort of like visiting that creepy relative’s basement, or worse, visiting your creepy relative’s subconscious. It’s dark and cobwebby and sometimes the lights go out. You sit in total darkness and suddenly your mind kicks in and starts freaking you out. Hearing audience members scream doesn’t help either. At the same time, watching the magic on stage, hearing true ghost stories, is at once horrifying and titillating…and I think that’s good theater. Add to that the unknown of a little audience participation, and you’ve got a great night. And don’t worry. The blood washes out.
TIKI BAR AND FRIENDS
The next night we met my cousins Mike and Tessa and our friend Arnie. We ate at the Back Forty, an intimate restaurant with a lot of wood and the magic of Christmas lights. It was so warm out we sat outside in the garden area for dinner. This is where Kealoha ordered the deep fried pork jowls. With a little of the spicy jam, they weren’t bad, although Arnie was right, they were a little mushy. We had wine and fish and laughed a lot and then decided to go to this secret tiki bar Kealoha had researched.
At this point, I’ll be honest, I was a little tipsy. By the end of the night, I was just plain drunk.
The tiki bar was called The Painkiller, and it lived up to its name. It’s tucked on a dark street and the opening looks like any graffiti-ed wall, but when you go down the stairs you enter a bar that’s like a bamboo womb. Great music plays and they have an extensive menu of $16 drinks. It makes sense though. The drinks are enormous, packed with alcohol and real juice, and so good I had two. Well, that’s all I can remember having. We were joined later by New York friends Ryan and Tristan. I hope I didn’t drool.
Not drool over Ryan and Tristan, although they’re very handsome. Just drool in general. Sometimes I do that.
INDIAN RESTAURANT
The final night was just me and Kealoha. We were both exhausted, so we found the closest Indian restaurant, ate until we were stuffed and then waddled back to the hotel room. He rubbed my back and I fell instantly asleep.
So my trip to New York this time wasn’t marred by needing a root canal or doing anything terribly embarrassing…
Wait. I did moon the subway. I was wearing a green and black dress, walking shoes, and a mismatched sweater. I looked like Crazy Cat Lady again. A gust of wind tore through the subway lifting my skirt over my head and showing about a dozen people my very boring, almost granny-ish pink and white bikini underwear. So there was that.
At any rate, Kealoha and I came home to cats and kids, to knowing that we could endure travelling together, and I came home feeling a little more confident that someday, somehow, somewhere, I’ll have a book published by a big publishing house. Stranger things have happened.
What I Learned at the Algonkian Conference
There’s so much to blog about, I don’t quite know where to start. I could start with our trip back and the turbulence in the plane, my sudden birth as a Catholic where I tried to pray and say Catholicly kind of things, or when our connecting flight was delayed because Frontier Airlines couldn’t find their 2nd Officer. I mean, he was missing. Gone.
But let’s go back a little bit. My trip to New York was mainly to attend the Algonkian Pitch and Shop Conference. Five days to work on a pitch for your novel and then about three minutes with four different editors to sell yourself and your work. And I do mean sell yourself. One of the main things I learned about the conference is that publishers aren’t just looking for a great story. They want a whole package. (More on that in a minute.)
The conference was intense. The first day my group of sixteen spent all day listening to each other’s pitches and offering criticism. My pitch was well liked, so I felt good that I had sort of pre-pitched it online with you guys (whoever reads the blog). The next day we met with our first editor.
For other writers out there struggling to sell a novel, I thought I’d share some info with you. Would I recommend the conference? Yes. Absolutely. But you’ll need to be tough and have your work together. It’s not a love fest that’s for sure.
So. Here’s what I learned at the conference:
1. Shorter pitches are more successful.
You really need to condense your entire novel into one of those back flap pages you read when trying to pick a book. You need to get through a sense of your voice, the uniqueness of the book, and hook the reader with wanting them to read more. Save long explanations for your novel. The pitch is more advertising than anything.
2. Begin your pitch with one or two ‘comps’, that is, comparing your work to someone similar.
I compared mine to Jennifer Crusie and Nick Hornby.
3. Publishers want writers with established platforms.
What does this mean? It means they want writers who are not only serious about craft, but about promoting themselves. In the first pitch, we listened as a group as each person talked to the agent and I noticed she got a little exasperated when people didn’t have a blog or were networking. On the final editor pitch, I was able to say that I narrate audiobooks, have two books published through the small press Champagne Books, and have a social networking following on Facebook, Twitter, and through my blog. The editors want that. So do what you need to to start building a following. Promote yourself. Have confidence.
4. Don’t defend your work.
When you defend your work to an editor, you sound confrontational. Accept what they say. They know what they’re doing.
5. They might like your pitch, but if they don’t represent your type of work, they won’t choose you.
So, focus your pitch to the right editor or agent.
6. Editors know within about thirty seconds whether they want your work or not.
It’s true. They either like you or they don’t.
7. If your story is amazing, then none of the above rules matter.
Truly. There was one woman in our group whose pitch was so engaging and the story so interesting, that I think every editor asked for her manuscript. It didn’t matter that she’s a new writer with no publishing credentials or platform. Rightly so. She has a great story. Her story also crossed a few genres. It could go into mainstream or multicultural or into a literary market.
I actually made some new girlfriends at this conference and that was also a benefit. Writing is such a lonely endeavor, that it’s nice to have a little support group. And if you read my blog, then you know I’m all for therapy and support groups.
Next blog, I’ll talk about the fun things that I did in New York and my adventures with Kealoha. Let’s just say I was serious quirky writer by day, but by night, I was full-fledged awkward (and slightly intoxicated) Tanya.
Tanya In New York
I'm too tired and crabby to blog right now, so I thought I'd share this video from NYC. Kealoha filmed it. This is me, going super crazy in Times Square.
Day 2 NY: Rare bathrooms and psychic surgery
My plan was to come to New York, go to this little writing conference by day, go to restaurants and shows and out drinking at night, and blog about the whole experience. Promises, promises. So, yeah. I underestimated a few things here.
First, there are hardly any public toilets in New York. They exist, but they’re hidden. What does this have to do with blogging? Well, I spend an inordinate amount of time obsessing about where is the next pee stop. Women, you know what I’m talking about. I’m drinking coffee like crazy to stay awake and spirited, but it makes my bladder all crazy. So that’s taken my mind off blogging.
The second thing is there’s also hardly any free wifi. You can find pockets here and there, but if you want wifi, you’ve got to pay for it. And pay a lot. I guess I’m cheap. I’ve broken down and paid for it at the hotel, but I’m not there all that much.
And the third things I underestimated was just how tired I’d be after the conference. Yesterday, we spent all day listening to book pitch after book pitch. I’m not kidding. ALL DAY. We’d listen to the pitch, give comments, and answer the writer’s questions. It was grueling. I learned a lot, and I also understand why some editors and agents get crabby. When you hear a bad pitch or encounter a writer who isn’t prepared and there are a hundred other writers in line waiting to pitch to you, you sort of feel like “You’re wasting my time”. My goal now is to be so interesting and prepared that I won’t see the editor’s eyes glaze over.
So far this has been a fantastic trip including great food and drinks with Kealoha at a Cuban restaurant, walking around NYC, and last night we saw a terrific show called “Play Dead”. It was creepy and scary and there were moments when you’re in total darkness and then you feel something scurry across your head. And then Kealoha was called up on stage, put on a table, had his shirt lifted, and then had a psychic surgery in which the magician pulled out all these guts and gore from K’s exposed belly and (oh yeah) a naked woman crawled out too. I wasn’t happy about a naked woman crawling over Kealoha, but he assures me the lights were so bright he didn’t notice her nipples. He said he could only see her when she transformed into an old dead woman.
You’d think I made the above up. I assure you, it’s all true.
As I write this, I’m sitting in my hotel room. I’ve got a busy day today. First pitch to a major publishing house. I feel really confident about the pitch…now I just hope that an editor bites and wants to read it. And if they read it, I hope the novel is strong enough. I think it is. And if it’s not, by golly, I’ll make sure it gets there. I’m so motivated right now I could like, kick things.
Maybe I should cut back on the coffee.
New York DAY 1: Valium, Flight, & Curtains
I’m currently sitting in my hotel room that looks a little bit like a grandmother’s guest room. How? How can there be a room like this in New York? Isn’t New York supposed to be trendy? I blame Priceline. I wanted a deal, and I got one. I also got curtains with those pom pom things hanging from them. Next time, I’m paying the extra fifty bucks or so in hopes of having a room that is sleek and modern and doesn’t smell slightly floral.
Ah, well. Kealoha doesn’t seem to mind it. As soon as we walked into the room, he passed out on the bed. I passed out too. I woke up and we were both next to each other with our arms out and legs spread. We looked like this: XX. I think I was drooling.
The flight went pretty well this morning. I took a valium. “Can you tell I took a valium?” I asked K with a big smile on my face. “Yep, I sure can,” he said. “How can you tell? You can tell? How can you tell?” Then I realized that I kept repeating things, and I was smiling, and I was holding on to him so I didn’t fall over or smash into a wall. Oh. So that’s how he could tell.
The check in line lasted forever. We heard the final boarding call for our flight. There was no way we were going to make it. We were there 45 minutes early, it’s just the line to get body probed was unusually slow. I think security was just being very, very thorough. Possibly sadist. I called out to a security guy sitting at a tiny table. The security dude looked a little like this:
Me: Hey! Excuse me! They just called the final boarding of our flight and we’re stuck in line! Can you tell them we’re coming?
Security Dude: Sorry. I can’t do that.
Me: Why?
Security Dude: Because I can’t leave this spot.
Me: Can’t you call them? Don’t you have a phone or something?
Security Dude: Nope. Sorry.
I scrunched my face. I was thinking, what kind of security guard doesn’t have a phone and can’t leave his chair? What good is he? Luckily, seven or so people let us cut in front of them so we could make our flight. See? There is goodness.
The rest of the morning is a blur of stale air, slight turbulence, and endless circling over Manhattan. Then we had the longest taxi ride ever into the city because of construction, but a very friendly taxi driver.
On the way to the hotel, I saw a sign saying COLIN FIRTH! and I gasped. “Oh, please! I want to see Colin Firth!” Then I realized it was just because it was a movie theater. I turned to Kealoha. “I think they should just put Colin Firth on stage and have him wear a sweater and look cute. I’d totally pay for that.”
We’re at our hotel now about to go exploring, and tomorrow is the conference. We looked for the conference site today but had the wrong address. It was a dingy building smooshed between a burrito joint and a Korean market. It was so scary looking that I broke out in a rash. “That can’t be right,” I said. “It’s what the phone says,” Kealoha said. Then we checked again. There’s a couple of building owned by this conference. We’re hoping the real one won’t be as frightening.
Until tomorrow….
Oh! And I’m giving Broadway regards from many of you who’ve asked. I’ll whisper your name to Broadway and tell her you say hello.
New York Trip Eve--Let the blogging commence!
Tomorrow morning, Kealoha and I leave for New York City. Our flight leaves at 6:45 in the morning, so we’ve had quite the discussion on how to navigate flying when both of us are kinda neurotic freaks about travelling. Kealoha likes to relax with a mai tai or two before flying, but how do you justify that at 5 in the morning? I told him I’m all set. I’m taking a valium. For real. I still have some from my doctor for ‘moments of high anxiety’. I think flying counts. As do PTA meetings. And standing in the line at Starbucks and…
Don’t worry. I’m only joking. Not about all of the above. I really am going to take a valium for the flight. I just have far too many panic attacks. Blugh. But I’m not a 1950s valium addict like in “Valley of the Dolls”. Really.
I’ve got about four different lists in preparation for the trip: things to do, things to take, breathing exercises, etc. I also made a list for K. He needs to change the cat box and eat the leftover Chinese food (hopefully not at the same time). My list has things like clean fridge, get money, pack gadgets. Then I contemplated whether I should specify on the list what I mean by gadgets in case my mom reads the list and wonders if I’m packing some kind of kinky sexual thing to experiment with K. I mean gadgets as in computer, iPod, Kindle, cell phone and all the charging devices.
Last night, as we were leaving the Mike Bribiglia performance (which was AWESOME. I wish I could tell a story like he does) I told K. that I’d made a decision about our trip. “I think we should take your car and park it…” I began, envisioning a long drawn out discussion in which I try to convince him that it’s worth the expense of parking at the airport.
“Okay,” he said. “I agree.”
I looked at him and felt my brow crinkle. “No, wait. I have to go through the justification. I don’t feel satisfied.”
“Okay. Go ahead.” He looked at me with an expression that said: “I am listening and taking you seriously”.
“Well…I want to drive your car because it’s too early in the morning to ask a friend to do it and I don’t want to take a cab because then you just end up sitting around and waiting and when we get back I just want the car there because otherwise we have to wait for someone to come get us and then we have to talk about the trip…”
K finished the sentence for me… “When really all we want to do is just get home and take a shower or go to sleep.”
“Yeah,” I said. I still wasn’t exactly satisfied. “See? I’m right.” I had to say that just because I’d been expecting a fight.
“Okay,” he said.
I think I’ll add on my To Do List, give K a big all smackaroo. On the lips. He barely bats an eye at all my neuroses. In fact, he seems to think exactly the way I do about things. I’m reminded when we were just starting to date and he said to me in that hushed lover-type whisper “You know, it’s like all our neuroses fit together perfectly.”
Isn’t that romantic?
We’ll see how the trip goes. Wish me luck. By day, I’ll be pitching my novel and K. will travel the streets of New York in search of delicious pastries.
I’m not joking.
See you tomorrow. I’m blogging (and tweeting) all week about our adventures.
Would You Read This? UPDATED
Busy week for me. It’s supposed to be spring break, and I guess it is, but I’ve spent the week narrating and bemoaning that I feel tubby. It always happens when I narrate. I have to sit still for three days and eat gigantic meals and it makes me crabby. Ah well.
I’m also prepping for this conference I’m going to in New York. I’m going to meet 5 editors, and pitch my story to them. It’s a commercial fiction conference, and they’re looking for work that will sell. But how do you condense a novel into a one-minute pitch? You know those little back flaps on a books? They’re fucking hard to write. I hate to swear, but sometimes, you’ve just got to.
My question is…is this a book you’d want to read?
Here’s my pitch:
Foodies Rush In
Dana Kupiac is a single mom and certain that love has passed her by, especially since her husband left her over a year ago. With the help of Dana’s eternally-lactating sister Valerie, Dana takes a once in a lifetime trip to a food conference in Las Vegas where she learns a lot about her new foodie business, and also has a wild weekend with a quirky gentleman. Their adventure ends in an impromptu ceremony where they’re “married” by Elvis.
Dana returns home, thinking that what happened in Vegas, stays in Vegas. Life, though, has other plans. What happened in Vegas actually knocks on her door a week later, proving that maybe life has a few more surprises for Dana.
Dana's whirlwind romance is awkward and real and warm. “Foodies Rush In” is rich with quirky characters and realistic moments. It’s a story that proves that love can happen for anyone, even if your heart is broken. Even if you’re starting over. Even if you’re a mom with two kids. Even if you have a name like Theodore Drimmel.
***
I don’t know. It’s a quiet kind of novel. Funny. Awkward. Quirky. But I don’t know how to sell it. I’m hoping I can get a little more confident with it, and convince an editor to take a chance on a tubby girl from Michigan.
Although I’m hoping by next week, I’ll feel a little less bloated. I’ve vowed no salt or ice cream or salted ice cream until after the conference. Drinking wine or mai tais with my man, well, that’s another story. I’m not crazy. I’m not giving up everything that’s good. Just stuff that makes me feel pudgy. Of course, I could probably get on the treadmill too. Man, if only spring would get here...
I got a little sidetracked. Sorry. If you have any thoughts on my pitch, let me know. I'd love to get some feedback before walking into the scary NYC writing conference. And if I can't have feedback, then I'd at least like to learn some wrestling moves to force an agent or editor into taking me on.
UPDATE
After reading the great comments, I updated the pitch. Here's the new one:
Dana Kupiac is a single mom and certain that love has passed her by, especially since her husband left her over a year ago for the wilds of Ohio and a woman named Allyssa. With the help of Dana’s eternally-lactating sister Valerie, Dana takes a once in a lifetime trip to a food conference in Las Vegas where she learns a lot about selling her spicy chutneys, and meets a man whose name suggests more nerd than knockout: Theodore Drimmel. Their weekend together ends in an impromptu ceremony where they’re “married” by Elvis.
Dana returns home to Michigan, thinking that what happened in Vegas, stays in Vegas. Life, though, has other plans. What happened in Vegas actually knocks on her door a week later. It seems Theodore isn’t sure if he’s legally married to Dana or not, and if he is, then his fiancée might be a little upset.
What happens next is awkward and real and warm, and involves a broken leg and a Michigan Guard father who is so intense he can carve a canoe out of a tree with just a toothpick and his bare teeth. “Foodies Rush In” is a story that proves that love can happen for anyone, even if your heart is broken and you’re starting over. Even if you have a crazy family. Even if you’re a nerd more comfortable with the recipe for a great chicken piccata than a recipe for a real relationship. Can a single mom and an awkward entrepreneur find love? If Iron Chefs can create delicious onion-flavored ice cream, then maybe two eccentrics can find the right recipe for love.
The Unusual Suscats
If I am going to become a Crazy Cat Lady and part of a Crazy Cat Loving Couple, then I need to start taking this seriously. I need to make a little purse size scrapbook of the kitties at their finest, you know, a book I can pull out and show to random strangers. I’ll corner them in elevators and say “Now, here is Peanut and she likes to suckle like she’s a kitten. It’s so funny watching her look for a teat!”
Until then, I’ll blog about them. (Don’t worry. I’m not turning this into a Look At My Cats blog. I’m just introducing you to them this once. Just this once.)
THE UNUSUAL SUSCATS
BUBBA RAY LOVE
Bubba is the Grand Poopah (or is it Boobah?) of the house. He’s massive. So massive that the ground shakes when he walks. And he has this way of looking at you that says “I really don’t care about you at all, but I guess I’ll put up with you because you feed me.” He’s too old or just annoyed to engage with hissing at the other cats. When one of the other cats tries it, he just shoots them The Look, and they back off. Simone calls to him by singing “Oh, Bubba Ray Looooove!” Bubba never sings back.
MERCEDES
Mercedes is a complicated femme fatale. She swishes and swaggers and looks dreamily at nothing in particular. You’ll have a conversation with her and ask her about her day and she’ll just randomly shout out things like “I like cheese!” or “I want the shiny!” She’s a neck sleeper. She likes to curl around your neck like she’s a scarf. She has issues with Peanut. They’re both girls, though, so a complicated relationship is expected.
MIST
Mist needs a cape. He thinks he’s a super hero. He’s always wired and jumping everywhere. We blame his part-Siamese DNA. He jumps on your back, on the top of door frames, drinks from the sink, head butts doors until they open. He’s not very bright, but he is interesting. He’s infatuated with Mercedes. If you rub Mist’s belly, he’ll love you forever. (I find that he’s like most males in this sense.)
PEANUT
Oh, poor Peanut. First, she’s a runt. Second, she’s missing a leg. And third, she’s so stressed out that she will suckle anything anywhere. She suckles like she’s possessed, and she just might be. Clearly, she has no idea where Bubba and Mercedes came from. Peanut jumps around the house, scared of shadows, hair, and anything pointed. She’s just nervous. She thinks, maybe, that random cats are falling from the ceiling…which might happen. Mist and Bubba have found a secret entrance into the ceiling. Any day, one of them will fall through. My money’s on Bubba, but I don’t think he’ll care. At any rate, Peanut is a house favorite, probably because she needs therapy.
And those are the cats. They’re great. Loving. Weird. The kids like them. And they make our family life just a little bit more chaotic and a little bit more wonderful. I can tell you more as soon as I trap you in an elevator. I also have home movies I could show you.
Our Modern Family: 2 neurotics, 2 kids, 4 cats.
When you combine two lives, it’s tricky. In college, I have to say, it was a lot easier. I lived with my boyfriend and basically we decided to move in together, packed our backpacks, and we were done. When you’re in you’re late thirties and you move in together…it gets a whole lot trickier. Add to that being divorced, having kids, both owning a house, having tons of stuff, and neuroses that have been solidifying for decades…well…it’s downright absurd.
Thankfully, the transition of moving Kealoha in has gone pretty smooth. We haven’t disagreed on much. He likes to have this weird toothpaste squisher thing on the toothpaste. I guess to get every drop. I don’t understand it, but hey, it’s important to him. I’m fine with the house being disorganized and then go on random bursts of obsessive cleaning. I leave cupboard doors open. Kealoha likes the toilet paper roll to go over not under. I have no idea what that means. I have two kids. He has two cats.
It’s that last issue that has caused us a little bump in the road. You’d think it’d be combining his tiki collection with my need for sparseness, or you’d think that my having two kids would prove difficult. No. It’s the cats. See, I have two cats also. Together we have two houses, two kids, two cars, and four cats. And now we want to combine all of that into one house and have my mom move into Kealoha’s pad down the road. It’s drama just waiting to bubble.
And it’s not really that the cats are a big issue. It’s more like…well…where is the line between having a loving home with cats, and becoming a crazy cat lady? Consider the below:
See? Where is that moment of transition from normal person to crazy pet owner? God knows, Kealoha and I have hair wild enough to slip into “OH! I’m crazy!” land.
I’ve had quite a bit of anxiety over having four cats. First, was my son’s allergies and asthma. If he couldn’t handle it, then we’d have four cats we’d need to find homes for. I was already looking and Kealoha suggested maybe we should see if it was an issue first. So we brought all the cats over and waited. I anxiously checked Louis for any signs of increased allergies. He didn’t show any. Even when the cats were hissing and fighting and there were little tuffs of cat fur floating like dandelion wisps.
The next issue is more vague. I never saw myself as a woman with four cats. I’ve actively avoided having this many cats all my life…and now…blammo!
How is this possibly going to work? Can we have a life filled with kids, cats, and craziness? Really? Am I going to start wearing sequined/quilted holiday sweaters because I like them. Good God! I might!
So far we are doing okay. Kealoha reminds me to breathe a lot.
And the cats, like Kealhoa, me and the kiddos, are quite the characters. There’s big ol’ Bubba, airy Mercedes, little cat with big (metaphorical) cajones Mist, and then Peanut. She’s the three-legged cat and also supremely neurotic. She needs to suckle as if she’s either still or a kitten or she’s some kind of drug addict. You can see her just jonesing for a suckle.
More on the cats in the next blog. I’ll introduce you to the usual suspects. Until then, I have obsessive vacuuming to do.
On Love & Identity
After suffering through a day of stomach flu and what my son calls The Pukies, I woke up feeling like I knew exactly what would make me feel better, and for once it wasn’t a sandwich. No. I wanted to blog. I just didn’t have the energy to come up with a topic, so I asked some Facebook friends for topics. Two hit home.
My old roomie (as in a prior roomie, she’s actually quite youthful and lovely) asked the question “When a woman finds love, does it change her identity” and then my boyfriend’s mom asked that I write about our four cats and the power structure. I think these two questions might be related some how, but my brain isn’t quite functioning fully. So I thought I’d tackle the first one, and once Kealoha takes pictures of all of our cats, then I’ll blog about that.
So…when a woman finds love, does it change her identity? My first impulse is to say “No! It shouldn’t!” but, of course, it does. I was out for a walk around Reed’s Lake with my friend L. She’s going through all the same kind of dating drama I’d experienced: falling for the wrong guy, not meeting the right guy, trouble meeting guys at all, horrible first dates, angst, etc. And I realized that I wasn’t the quirky-single-girl anymore who needed dating advice. No. I was the friend-in-a-healthy-and-loving-relationship GIVING the advice. This astounded me, because I’ve always been the quirky-single-girl needing advice. And when I was married, I was the quirky-married-girl needing advice. Suddenly, I don’t feel like I need advice at all anymore.
What’s happened to me? And the deeper question is, am I still the same person now that I’ve found love?
It’s a yes and a no. I think it’s ridiculous to say that we aren’t changed when we’re in a relationship. We are. I think in the healthy ones, though, you’re still fundamentally the same person and you still have time with your friends and still time to do things that feed your soul. So I guess in that sense your identity remains and should remain the same. But when you find love, when you’re part of a couple, there are fundamental things that change. For me, I guess that I stop being so self-focused. I have to think not just of my wants and needs, but of Kealoha’s. (And of course the kids’.) I like having Kealoha as part of my life. He’s a balance. I like that if I’m invited somewhere, it’s sort of a given that he’ll go with me.
We’re now partners in our lives. I know that sounds hokey and almost like I’m saying we have a civic union. I mean it literally though. We’re sharing a life together and the choices I used to make on my own, I now talk over with him. Not because I need to or feel pressured to, but because I want to. So I guess my single-girl identity has shifted to being part of a couple. I’m now taken-girl.
I used to feel smothered in relationships, but I think it was because I was making the wrong choices. It’s not that the men I dated were bad people or my marriage was bad, it’s just that we weren’t good together. We didn’t bring out the best in each other. I feel like the opposite is true of Kealoha. He brings out the best in me…in no small part because he loves me just as I am.
I guess when you’re in a loving relationship you lose parts of yourself. You lose loneliness. You lose a sense of longing. You shouldn’t lose who you are. With Kealoha, I haven’t. I think I’m still quirky, I’m just not single anymore…and I’m trying to get comfortable with the new role of offering advice instead of needing it.
I think it’s a good thing. I used to think that people don’t change. Now I realize that’s not true at all. Well, maybe we don’t change, exactly. We evolve. We get smarter and our edges smooth. This is a good thing. So if finding love hasn’t exactly altered my identity, it has changed the way I look at life and love in general, and that’s got to be progress.
What do you think?
How To Get Into Voice Work
I’ve had a lot of questions lately from friends and even people I don’t know asking about voice-overs. I think I’ve written about this before, but figure it’s worth revisiting. I’ve been doing voice work for fifteen years. (I started in college to make extra money.) I’d always wanted to record things, and I had a college boyfriend who was recording commercials. He took me to Sound Post Studios in Grand Rapids. I wrote and recorded a demo…showing off different kinds of reads. At the time, my voice was pretty green. Basically, I could play a young kid, a depressed teenager, and a college student. After I recorded the demo, I was lucky to get hired.
The first commercial I ever recorded was for a restaurant. I think Finley’s. I totally bombed on the take. I couldn’t do it. I was sweating, nervous, and so bad that the art director said he was very sorry but couldn’t use me. I went home crying. After I got it together, I called the studio and begged for a second chance. I drove back, recorded the commercial, and they used it. And the client kept calling me back.
Fifteen years later, I’m still recording and have moved on to audio books. My voice is different now. Some of it is age, and some of it is developing my lower register. My speaking voice is naturally high, sort of Soprano-like (as in singing, not as in mobster). My recording voice dips into the alto range. I’ve practiced all kinds of reads. Sounding sexy, sounding smart, sounding bored, intelligent, excited, young, old, married with kids, single and looking. And I’ve had to develop accents and try to sound like a man, or at least suggest a man when reading a novel. You’d be surprised what you can suggest with just the tone of voice. And now I do character work with audio books.
But how do you bust into the business? How do you get into audio-books?
I’ll be honest. It’s not easy, especially now. When I started, the Internet was just taking off. Now everything is digital and you can have voices from all over the nation competing for a local coffee commercial.
If you want to get started, you’ll need to do a few things:
1) Practice reading out loud.
Seriously. You’ll need to be good at dry reads. That means you don’t get rehearsals with commercials. You get the copy and you perform. So start by practicing. Read aloud. Anything. Everything. From magazines to books. Try to give the words emotion and feeling. And try not to stumble.
2) Record a demo.
You won’t get work without one. Yes. You can record one on your own, but you’ll get a better product if you record one in a studio. Your demo should highlight your voice. Start with commercial voices, then move on to industrial narration. You can also do a demo of character voices, but these don’t get as much work as a commercial demo. Each demo should be about 1-2 minutes long, with voice samples in 10 second clips.
01 Tanya Eby Narration Voice Demo
3) If you want to do audio books, you’ll need a demo of that.
Pick several different types of books to read: mystery, romance, classic, young adult. Read it well and with emotion. Choose a scene that is mostly dialogue between a man and a woman. Whatever you do, do not read “Harry Potter”! You’ll be instantly compared to Jim Dale and there’s no way you can compete. Seriously. I can’t compete either. Jim Dale’s narration is brilliant.
1 Minute Audio Book Demo
4) Send your demo to local recording studios.
You can also post online at Voice 123 or other audio places. Research audio book distributers and find out how to contact them.
01 Tanya Eby Character Voice Demoe V01
5) Make a wish, but don’t hold your breath.
People think that voice over work is easy. It isn’t. It is fun, but there’s a lot of work behind the scenes. You need to be really bright and in tune with written copy. You need confidence and acting ability. You need to be able to read aloud while your eye skims a little ahead looking for hints to inflection. You need to get good at reading without stumbling.
It’s also physically exhausting. When I read an audio book, I narrate from 8:30 until about 4:30. I have to be perfectly still. Keep your body still for almost eight hours. Control your breathing, your stomach gurgles. Do it for three days or five for a longer book. It’s tough. Your body will hurt.
There’s no magic code for busting into the industry. It takes talent and a good helping of luck. But like any entertainment industry, you can’t bust in without a sample of your work. So start there.
And good luck! Really! If you can get hired, you’ll find the work is fun, creative, and quirky.
Let me know if you have questions. I’ll try to answer them for you here.
Confessions of a Temporary-Minor-Local-Celebrity (Wannabe)
Today I was on the Clarice Drew Show, a local radio station program and it was lovely. I had a peculiar moment where I sort of felt like a real, honest to goodness, minor local celebrity. I think maybe because the show had contacted me because they wanted to interview me. They contacted ME. I didn’t coerce, or throw a tantrum, or seduce with cookies. They actually WANTED to talk to me. So that was nice. And surreal.
Clarice read “Blunder Woman” and actually quoted from it. (I’ll post the link later.) The whole experience made me look back on this little promotional campaign I’ve been doing for “Blunder Woman” and my writing in general. Here are some highlights:
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After an interview on “Eight West” both Teri Deboer and Rachel Ruiz seemed to be talking to me at exactly the same time, and both a mile a minute. Teri wanted to set me up with some newly single dad golfing buddy and Rachel wanted to tell me all about her dating escapades. I would’ve gotten more details, but they had an interview with Spunky the Dog coming up next.
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I sat in the green room at “Take Five” with an awkward group of people. There were two grandmother types in matching holiday sweaters, and a man holding onto a plastic replica of the seven pounds of fat that most people gain over the holidays. The fat was yellow and bumpy. There was also a really nervous younger buff guy who was going to talk about gift ideas for senior citizens. He had a basket of yarn and a Snuggie and I had to stop myself from saying “Dude. What are you thinking? No senior citizen wants that. The senior citizens I know would much prefer a vibrator. Just ask those grandmas.”
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And who can forget my temper tantrum over the Press not running the article when they said they would. They eventually ran the interview and it was great. I just had a minor-local-celebrity-diva moment because I felt like “Whaaaaa! Why do I have to prove my worth?” It didn’t help that my alma mater had said no to letting me give a reading there because my type of writing wasn’t ‘helpful to their students’. And, okay, I was PMSing too.
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Then there was the interview with On The Town. I talked with her on the phone and tried to sound really professional. All the while, I was in my pajamas and a stained shirt, having just put the kids to bed. And I think I’d had some sort of panic attack involving scarfing down a box of chocolates to calm my nerves.
I have to say it’s all been a lot of fun. I dreaded this part of writing…the promotion of it, but it’s been sort of like my life: a string of awkward appearances and just a dash of chafing.
I may not be ready for a close up, but I am ready to sell my next book. Bring it on.
Bonus! Bad poetry! To the Dude on the corner....
I feel like writing bad poetry. Here's one for you now:
TO THE DUDE IN FRONT OF THE
FRIEND OF THE COURT BUILDING
Today, walking to my job carrying a mighty
Jimmy John’s submarine
or grinder
or sammich (what have you)
I passed a guy on a cellphone.
He was just an average guy
in baggy jeans
with the rim of his boxershorts showing...
like a little secret saying “Hi there!”
I walked past you
and you watched me
and I heard you say into the phone
loud as a breaking plate
“Man, will you stop being an A-hole.”
You, tough man, said A-hole.
Then I passed and stood on the corner
and I could still hear your words
“I said A-hole, man. What do you mean
what’s an A-hole? It’s an ASS hole. You’re
being an ASS hole. I just didn’t want to say it
just then.”
I smiled as I crossed the street,
scent of sammich wafting up.
I think you said A-hole for my benefit,
reminding me that perhaps somewhere out there
someone still thinks
I
am a tender flower.
Thank you, dude. Thank you.
My Love/Hate Relationship with Valentine's Day
Ahhhh. Valentine’s Day. It’s the Day of Love or the Day of Heartbreak or the Day of Venereal Diseases, depending on your perspective. I’ve always had a love/hate relationship with Valentine’s Day (excuse the pun) mostly because I don’t want to have expectations for it, but I always do.
When I was single (and for some reason I always seemed to be single on VDay) it seemed like everyone around me was walking and skipping and in l-o-v-e. It was very annoying. It almost seemed like a personal affront, like the world was saying “See how in love everyone is, Tanya? And look at you! Your pants are tight and your feet are cold and you have no one to warm them up against.” I assume my inner voice was talking about warming up my feet and not my pants.
I didn’t want to be depressed on Valentine’s Day…and yet…every hour that ticked by and there was no declaration of love from a secret admirer, I slipped down the hill into a little crevice of depression. When you’re alone and lonely and you don’t want to be, Valentine’s Day is unbearable. It’s like having a massive toothache. You just pray for it to be over.
Now I’ve got Kealoha in my life and Valentine’s Day doesn’t seem to be as much of a big deal. Maybe because I don’t need to have constant reassurance that he loves me. He shows me that every day with all the little things he says and does (without my asking him to). I know he loves me when he shovels and fixes things, when he eats anything I cook and says it’s good. When he reads to my kids, or plays Fashion Barbie with Simone. I know he loves me when he curls up next to me or rubs my back. I don’t need chocolates or flowers from him (although I wouldn’t say no to them). And that’s a nice place to be.
I think Valentine’s Day in theory is a great idea. Tell people you love them. Show them that you love them. But I don’t think you should save your love and spend it all on one day. One day of balloons and teddy bears and chocolate doesn’t make up for all the rest. Real love shows itself in the tiny things, the sweet comments, the shared glances, the reassuring touches.
And if you’re feeling a little lonely on this day, hang in there. If anyone is proof that love can come for you even if you’re weird and neurotic and slightly obsessive, I’m proof of it. Just remember, today is just a day and it will pass…and unlike a toothache, you don’t have to yank out anything to ease the pain. That’s got to be good for something.
I leave you with this video. This makes me happy, the idea of singing and dancing even if you really can’t. (Note Norton’s dancing. It’s genius.) And I also like the cheesy idea that life is like a bad musical number. And like Valentine's Day, you'll either love this clip or hate it. I totally love it.
Conversation between Kealoha and my daughter
Now, granted, I only heard part of this conversation, but I think I got most of it. And it shows Simone is definitely my daughter. I was cutting vegetables or something and Simone was sitting on Kealoha's lap. They were having a detailed conversation about the cardboard grocery store Simone has. She was upset because our cat Mist keeps jumping from his cat tree onto the cardboard grocery store. A smart thing for Mist (it cushions his fall), a bad thing for the grocery store.
KEALOHA: Don't worry, Simone. I could bring a cardboard box home from work. We'll build you a sturdier grocery store.
SIMONE: Build me one?
KEALOHA: Yeah. You know. From scraps.
SIMONE: What are scraps?
KEALHOA: Oh, you know, stuff that's not worth much and no one wants anymore.
(Simone thinks for a moment)
SIMONE: Oh! Yeah! Like your FACE!
Love it love it love it. I laughed until I couldn't breathe. Of course, I'm super congested right now, but still, it was pretty funny.
It's not an empty house anymore
It’s been six days since my last blog. Six days since my last confession! I used to have to blog every day. I’m not sure if this is progress or not. Maybe it is. Maybe it means I’ve stopped obsessing so much and have started living a little bit more.
My friend L. and I go for walks. We took a long walk this weekend. Only two miles, but because we were crawling through snow banks and balancing on ice ponds, it took us over an hour. I love L. for lots of reasons, but one of them is that she’s just as neurotic as I am. We talk and analyze and obsess together.
This blog is sort of like that for me. A walk with a good friend. Sometimes through snow and across scary ice patches, but still worth it.
I’m sort of groaning at the simile in the above paragraph. Forgive me if I wax poetic. It’s part of my DNA.
Part of the reason I’m not blogging as obsessively, is that my life is not as emotionally wrought with turmoil. Now the turmoil is just every day living of running up and down the stairs taking care of the kids, running errands, working, writing, spending time with Kealoha. He started moving in this past weekend. He brought over his two cats and computer. So it’s official. He’s moving in. This was our first week together in one house.
