Remember when I said I wasn't dieting? Well...
Okay…so remember when I said I wasn’t dieting anymore? I was like standing on a mountaintop and the wind was blowing through my hair and I had a flag that was flapping and I raised my fist in the air and said “I! Will! Not! Diet!!”
Remember that?
Yeah. I was totally lying. Sorry about that. I wasn’t intentionally bullshitting. I mean, that day when I wrote about it, I totally believed it. I was tired of obsessing and feeling bad about myself and feeling guilty for everything I put in my mouth. Well. Ahem. Not everything. Not everything I put in my mouth has calories.
(Groan. Bad joke. Bad.)
Anyway. I believed it. I was committed to it. I had three days of guilt free eating and relaxing. And then I stepped on the scale.
Now, my pants have been getting tight and I was certain it was just that I had the dryer on high. I turned it down to medium. And I couldn’t remember my stomach ever being so muffin-toppy, but memory, sheesh. It does weird things. That muther humper scale though…she’d tell me the truth. And she did. The bitch.
I’m at my heaviest weight in seven years. I’m heavier than when I was pregnant (course I threw up nonstop then). What happened? Why do I care?
I don’t know. My feet hurt when I exercise. I love food. I’m happy. Blah blah blah. But the truth is, with my clothes tight and my face puffy in pictures, I don’t feel like myself anymore. And there’s that tricky little thing of being super high risk for diabetes, since I had gestational diabetes with both my kids.
So I’m dieting.
I’m trying to do it right this time though. No Weight Watchers or Flat Belly Diets or grapefruit or protein shakes. I’m just keeping track of the calories I eat with a handy little app for my iPod touch. I’m upping my walking and exercise, etc. And the farmer’s market will open soon and I plan on consuming plenty of fresh produce again.
It does suck though. At least this time I’m doing it not because I feel pressure from anyone else. (My boyfriend says I’m sexier than ever.) This time I’m doing it for myself. No cocky proclaiming now.
I’ll save that whole proclamation on a mountain thing for the next time I’m PMSing.
Six Sentence Sunday 5/1/2011
And it was at that precise moment that the florid man with the enormous eyebrows made a peculiar sound like “Hrrrrrrrrrr”, clutched his chest, and pitched forward, straight into a rather large slice of prime rib that was so rare it seemed to be still pulsing with life.
The man, however, was not pulsing, with life or anything. In that brief moment, he was knocked stone cold dead.
“Well, I never!” cried Melody, as if angered that the man dared to behave so poorly at the dinner table.
Pepper Wellington jumped up, took the man’s pulse, and shook her head. “He never will either,” she said. “He’s expired, I’m afraid.”
From "Pepper Wellington and the Case of the Missing Sausage" by Tanya Eby
Random conversation with my son. This is how we talk.
Sometimes conversations or bits of conversation happen in my house and I just start laughing. It’s like I can step outside of myself and hear myself say something, but I can’t stop myself.
Consider the below. Louis is 6. Keep that in mind.
ME: Louis, eat your crepes.
LOUIS: No. I won’t do it. I won’t eat my crepes.
ME: Do you know how lucky you are? How many kids do you think get crepes in the morning? I mean besides French kids. Most kids get like poptarts. Maybe. Eat your crepes.
LOUIS: No! I don’t want crepes! They’re yucky.
ME: You wanted crepes. I made you crepes. You specifically asked for crepes three times. Eat your crepes. All you get today is crepes. That’s it.
LOUIS: Then I guess I’ll starve.
ME: I guess so.
LOUIS: And you’ll go to jail and you’ll be sooooo upset because you killed your son.
ME: Well. That will be a sad end to our story, won’t it?
Louis came down from his room half an hour later. We apologized to each other. He ate his crepes. I won. I’m #1!! Yay!!
PART TWO
Louis was in my lap, kissing me and then he started nuzzling my neck like our emotionally disturbed three-legged cat Peanut does.
ME: Louis, stop suckling me.
LOUIS: Why? I like suckling you. ME: Yeah. But you’re too old for that. You shouldn’t suckle anyone until you’re at least eighteen. Probably older.
LOUIS: (blink blink blink) Okay, Ma.
I just had multiple epiphanies
What's better than one big epiphany? A series of prolonged little epiphanies. That's what.
I’m done whining. At least for a little while. I do apologize for my last post where I was all “Woe is me!” I’m over it. I’m glad I didn’t chuck the whole idea of writing and self-promotion and marketing, because then what would I do? Chalk drawings probably.
After my prolonged tantrum, I had a series of epiphanies. The epiphanies felt so good I think my toes curled. Mmmm. Epiphanies. Anyway, these realizations inspired some decisions. Most of them begin with pseudo-swearing, because honestly, I sound kind of ridiculous when I really swear.
1. Blast! I’m going to stop complaining and get back to what I do best: write. Or is it writing. Whatev.
2. Tarnation! I realized that ebooks sell great…if you write erotica or paranormal stuff. Quiet novels with saucy language, well, they don’t sell as well. I considered writing “Three Men and a Little Semen” but then quickly reconsidered. So….
3. Muther humper! I’m going to send out “Foodies Rush In” to the other editor who requested it. If she doesn’t want it, I’m publishing the book myself so that I can move on to the next thing I want to write.
4. Holy smokey! The next thing I want to write is to finish “Tunnel Vision” and return to a novel I abandoned ten years ago called “Fortunes Told Above Rusty’s Grille”. Both of these stories are literary fiction, but with my quirky stamp on it. I’ve been afraid of literary fiction. But I’m taking it back.
5. Daggnabit! I had hoped to do a reading/book signing of “Pepper Wellington and the Case of the Missing Sausage”. I was going to have my cousin sing with her duo (she plays accordion and everything), serve drinks and appetizers, and have it be super cool. Originally, it was going to be on a Thursday…but cousin can’t come. So, I found a place that I could rent on a Saturday. May 28th. The only date I could get. Everything is pretty much booked through July for theater events and weddings. I was excited. Then my cousin reminded me that the day I booked is Memorial Weekend. So. Yeah. It’s hard enough to get people to come to a reading on a regular weekend, let alone a major holiday. Reading/signing is cancelled…BUT…
6. I’m going to do an Awkward Book Tour instead, with a little help from the Blunder Team. What’s the Blunder Team? Click here to read the post on that. Anyway. Starting in Mid-May I’m going to have flash signings. Not ‘flash’ as in I wear nothing under my cape (scary), but ‘flash’ as in instant. I’ll tweet/facebook a location, set up a hand-written sign in a restaurant and sign books while I eat a gigantic sandwich.
And finally
7. Stuart at Sound Post says I can record “Pepper” for audio book release. Even though I can’t do a reading in a cool location with wine and appetizers, you can still listen to my work while getting sloshed and eating too much in the comfort of your own home.
And that’s it. That’s my series of epiphanies followed by decisions. I’m tired now. This whole thing has worn me out.
I haven’t even written about my experience at last week’s Art Downtown/Site Lab yet. Man. Stories to tell.
Those stories will have to wait. I’ve got to crack my knuckles and get back to work.
Ouch.
Blunder Team Powers ACTIVATE!
Join Blunder Team! Get free stuff!
Blunder Team!(I don't actually know who these people are in the photo below, but you get the idea)
So I’ve created a little thing called a street team. What’s this, you ask? It’s just a group of you who like my work, want some free stuff, and agree to help spread the word about my books. Why? Dude. FREE STUFF. And you get to be part of a grass roots movement…if you like that sort of thing. Actually, you're more a part of a secret super-hero organization. Masks and all. Only you tell people about it.
Sign up now and I will give you a free download of the audio edition of “Easy Does It”. Really. You click on a topsecret link I’ll provide you with, and the files will download to your computer. You can then put it on your iPod or whatever.
Here’s what you do:
1. Email me at heyblunderwoman@gmail.com and say you want to be part of the team. I’ll add you to the email Blunder Team list so you’ll get insider information about the Awkward Book Tour…and occasionally…FREE STUFF.
2. All you agree to do is either tweet, post a facebook message, or tell a friend about my blog. That’s it. You can go a step further and suggest my book for a cool book club gathering (instead of a super serious one). Or whatever other ideas you have. Basically, all you do is spread the word. That’s it.
3. Once I have your email note, I’ll email you the top secret link for your free audio download. And don’t worry. There’s nothing creepy in the download. I don’t want to blow up your computer. I’m an awkward super hero. Not an evil one. Or even an actual superhero. I'm a writer in yoga pants and a sweatshirt, okay?
Join the team! Spread the seed! I mean, the word, about my quirky writing. Get free stuff!
-Tanya-
PS 12 of you have already joined. Let me know if you'd like the audio link as well. Audio link is active for five days, then disappears into the ether.
Melodramatic Writer Meltdown
I’m having an existential writer moment. At least I think it’s existential. Hell. Basically, I’m just throwing a tantrum. I get so tired of promoting all the time and then when I see my sales report (abysmal) it’s really hard not to take it personally. It reminds me of auditioning…even dating…where somehow you’re never quite good enough. To wax old-gold-digger: Tarnation!
I guess this is the modern life of a struggling writer, or any artist really. You have to produce work, believe in your work, constantly put it out there, and hope that it catches on. I wonder though, sometimes, at what point do you just give up? Not that I’d ever give up on writing, but I do think sometimes of giving up on trying to get a big publishing house, or even promoting my current work.
I just sent out a dozen free books to people in hopes that they’ll help spread the word about my work. There’s no telling if it will work. That all comes out of my pocketbook. I had to buy the books to give them away. Ouch. And I paid for some advertising. Promo stuff. Etc. etc. And now I’m looking at doing a reading/signing at St. Cecilia. I couldn’t get Schuler’s to call me back. A reading is a great idea, but it will probably cost me about $500 with food and promo materials. And there’s no guarantee that anyone will show up. (See the onion spoof here. It’s funny because it’s true.)
Sometimes I wonder if I’ve been swept up in some massive scam that gets writers to pay for promotional material and even their own books. Then I immediately stop thinking about that because it’s too sad.
Wah. Wah. Wah.
I think this is just another temporary setback. I’ll get over it. It just comes at a time when I still don’t know if my teaching contract will be renewed and I’m not sure how many more voice over gigs I’ll get. If teaching tanks and I’m not selling books…dear god…what will I do then? It scares me. Deeply. Probably not the best time to watch the first episode of Mildred Pierece where she’s all starving and looking for work. I do not want to be a waitress again. I really don’t.
I’ll get over this and my tight pants. I’m not dieting, exactly, but I am upping my workouts. I probably need the endorphins. And I have wonderful friends and family who read my work and love it. And, of course, I’ve got my kiddos and Kealoha. It’s just sometimes I get tired of all the work and I want to see the fruits of my labor. And by fruits I mean ‘income’ and by labor I mean ‘writing’. That’s my dream, I guess. To one day see my writing pay off, literally.
It might never happen. So…guess I’ll just continue doing what I do. I might bitch about it every now and then, but sheesh, I’m endlessly flawed and human. And my zodiac sign is Cancer, so what can you expect really?
And Mildred Pierce eventually made some kind of fortune out of pies or something, didn’t she? I haven’t watched the whole thing. I’m afraid maybe she has some kind of confrontation with her daughter involving wire hangers. (I could be mixing up old movies here.)
I’m hoping all this will blow over when it’s finally sunny outside and I can get over my angst and put on a sundress and a pair of sandals. That’s all I really need. OR…I could pretend I’m in a 1950’s melodrama. I sort of like that idea. Let me go get a hanky so I can flit it around while crying dramatically, and without tears.
I leave you with some melodrama. Enjoy.
Happy Birthday, Simone.
A birthday note to Simone...and thoughts on mothers and daughters
5 years ago, I met Simone Nichole for the first time. I'd been carrying her for almost nine months and as you can see from the below picture, I was pretty much miserable. There's no 'pregnancy glow' here. This was sheer misery. I had gestational diabetes, threw up four to five times a day for the entire pregnancy, and had to keep going in for tests to monitor her heart beat.
So when I say I couldn't wait to meet her, I mean it. But it was more than just wanting the pregnancy to be done. When I was pregnant with my son Louis, we had two possible names chosen. Only two. "Louis" and "Simone". It's sort of like I knew somehow that I would have two kids...and who they would be. I knew their names, but beyond that, everything else would be a surprise.
We went in during a snow storm. Yes. In April. And today it's snowing too. Everything was covered with white. It was that heavy kind of snow. And then the next day (or was it two?) when they sent me home with little wee Simone, all the snow had melted. Sun was shining. Tulips and crocuses had sprouted. In a real and very cheesy way, I feel a like that about Simone in my life. I had Louis and that was great, but something was cold and frozen and missing. What was missing was my daughter. Bringing her home with me was like bringing home fresh flowers and sunshine. Yes, I realize it's corny, but that doesn't make it any less true.
Not to be all unicorns and rainbows...I wanted a daughter but was also terrified. A mother/daughter relationship is so complicated. And I felt that I'd given all my love to my son. How could I love another needy baby? How would I show Simone how to be a strong, loving, creative girl and eventually woman. If a daughter learns from her mother's examples, what kind of life would I set her up for?
Simone and I had to get to know each other. I think the idea that you instantly love your child is a fallacy. You do love them, but you have to fall in love with them through time and experiences. When she was born, I loved that she was with me and that she filled an empty space. Now, I love who she is. I don't know how much is by my example, or the combination of the the people in her life, or just who she is...but Simone at five is a wonderful human being.
She's strong, opinionated, empathetic. She's funny, curious, creative. She has no problem saying "Whoah. Look at this heart I just drew. I think I have a lot of talent." She'll wear a pretty dress and then run outside to get dirty. She takes incredible pictures. But even that doesn't explain who she is. Look into her deep blue eyes, and there's a deep spirit there. In fact, I think I learn more from watching her than she does from watching me.
Simone, my love, my sweet girl, you know I'm not religious necessarily, but if anything could make me believe that there is goodness and beauty in this world...it's you.
Happy 5th birthday.
What You Might Not Know About Narrators And Audiobooks
A long blog in which I explain some of the secrets in recording audiobooks.
This morning I went to Audible.com to refill my iPod so I could listen to another audiobook. I’ve always loved audiobooks, even before I started narrating. I love being told a story. My favorites are mysteries…because I think the heavy plot and action lends itself well to a good listen.
I made a little mistake though….I clicked on some of my own books to see what people thought. I’m constantly trying to get better as a narrator, and I’ve certainly improved over the years. In the beginning, I tried to sound like a man with the male characters, but eventually dropped that for more subtle reads. When I listen to an audiobook, for me, I don’t expect the narrator to sound like the opposite sex. For me, it’s about characterization. How does a character speak? Are they fast, slow, do they upspeak, are they breathy, are they kind? And if you listen to people, really listen to them, there’s a whole range of voices. Women don’t always speak high. Men don’t always speak low. Anyway, for one reviewer in particular, this was the worst choice ever.
Most of the books I’ve narrated are rated around 4 out of 5 stars. It’s hard to know what they’re rating. Are they rating strictly the storyline or the narrator’s performance, and how do you separate the two?
Anyway. This one reviewer listened to a series I recorded and book after book said I was horrible, paused in weird places, and my male characters were too feminine sounding. She was venomous in her review. And, you know, it did hurt my feelings a bit. I also felt terrible for the writer. Had I failed her? Did she wish I hadn’t narrated her book? It also made me question my choices as a narrator. I’ve certainly made some missteps…but am I the worst narrator out there? I’m not the best, I know that. I know that my voice is well-suited for fiction with strong women characters. I do well with romances and mysteries.
I’m not going to defend myself. I’ll just keep trying to improve. But the comments did hit a sore spot. All of this got me thinking about the industry, and some of the reviews criticized things that are beyond a narrator’s control. So…here are some things you might not know about narrating. This is my experience, and might not be true for everyone, but here it is.
1) Narrators are not allowed to contact the author. I wish this weren’t so. I’d love to talk to the author and ask them what they want. I’d even try some voices for them for characterization, but I’m strictly forbidden to contact them. The most I can do is send them a tweet or reply on their website…and even that could get me in trouble. Directors can sometimes talk to the author, but rarely.
2) Some reviewers hate women who try to sound like men. Others hate it when women don’t sound enough like men. What’s a narrator to do?
3) Narrating is incredibly difficult. I have people coming up to me all the time saying “I should be a narrator. I read to my kids all the time.” I smile. I nod. Maybe they would be great…but…you have to read, interpret, perform, do characterizations, accents, differentiate between sexes, sometimes read foreign phrases, and read every single word as written all while making as few mistakes as possible. It all comes down to time and money. Read this paragraph aloud. Cold. Try to not take breaths between commas or periods. Try not to make a single mistake.
4) I get usually three days to record a book. There isn’t time to practice and finesse. You read and hope it’s good. If you make too many mistakes and they have to add a day to record, you probably won’t be hired again.
5) I prep all the books I record, but sometimes I’m only given a script a few days in advance. Most of the times, this is because of issues from the publisher. Everyone’s got a deadline and when one person is late, it affects everyone in line.
6) The director decides if a word is pronounced correctly. I’ve had many discussions and debates over words and names with directors. You’d be surprised how different a word sounds with a different accent on just a syllable. I have to defer to the director. Sometimes they want me to say foreign phrases with the right accent. I feel ridiculous doing it, but they want it right. Authentic. I’ve been slammed for narrating a book in an accent. I didn’t want to do it. The director insisted I do it. I did it. The fans of the book and the author hated that it was read in an accent. The blame fell on me. I was never hired for that author again, and lost three years of work because of it.
7) People rarely review products they love. They might give it stars, but they don’t write a review. If people hate a book, they’ll send venomous reviews. Reviews matter. Bad reviews matter more. I guess this is good because as a listener you have a lot of power. But a series of bad reviews can get a narrator fired. For real.
8 ) I put my heart and soul into every recording I do whether I personally love the book or not. I love the sound of words aloud. I love getting lost in characters. I love telling stories. It’s why I’m also a writer.
I guess this has turned into a little bit of a defense on my behalf. Maybe it’s because it plays on that whole “I’m not good enough” thing I have sometimes. So, I am taking these reviews to heart…but just in the sense that I’m trying to get better. The more reviews I read, the more it seems like the pendulum is swinging back to people preferring big differences between male and female characters. I’ll try it. We’ll see what happens.
If you’ve actually read this really long blog (sorry about that) I hope, if anything, it makes you think a little more about the business of producing an audiobook and what goes into it. By all means, post reviews and be critical. There’s a difference though between critical and hurtful.
I’m going to go post some positive, supportive reviews of books I’ve read and listened too. Got to cleanse the palate.
Street Team Powers ACTIVATE
Last week I mentioned on Facebook that my publisher (Champagne Books) is hoping their writers can form "street teams". I didn’t know what the beejus that was either, except it sounded like you should carry a baseball bat and be all slicked back and tough like in The Outsiders. And they wore way too much hair product for my taste.
A street team, though, is just a group of people who like a musician, an artist, or a writer and want to promote them. One thing I’ve learned as I dip into publishing is that while I can get my stuff out there, it’s really hard to let people know about it. I simply can’t do it alone. Basically, I’m looking for some devoted minions, except, you know, nice minions. LIke you'd be more prone to give a backrub than take over the world.
What do you do? What kind of relationship is this? Basically, I give you some free stuff to get you started. In the beginning, I can give up to fifteen free books (maybe twenty if there are some ebooks in there). One to each minion. And all you do is tell a friend. Maybe mention my blog or facebook page, or suggest that your book club cover a quirky romantic comedy or mystery instead of a super serious death-read. And that’s it. That’s all you have to do. You tell a friend through face-to-face, Twitter, Facebook, what have you. If my work is strong enough, others will want to read it. And then I can keep writing.
In the future (as soon as I get things ordered), you’ll receive some free promo stuff. Bookmarks, Band-Aids, recipes, etc. Keep some for yourself, and share with others. You can help me promote an awkward book tour and I might have some dorky challenges. (Like be in a book trailer.)
It’s painless and potentially fun. Why would you want to help someone you don’t even know? Good question. I can’t answer that, but I think it’d be fun to be part of a clandestine organization where the only point is to tell someone about an unknown writer and hope it catches on.
It’s sort of like attaching a note to a balloon and letting it go and hoping someone across the ocean gets it. (And of course that the balloon doesn’t pop and kill a dolphin. I’m emphatically against killing dolphins. And unicorns. I do not kill unicorns.)
What do you say? Want to help? Email me your name, email, and address and if you’d like a paperback or ebook. If you have a preference for which book you’d like to receive, let me know that too. There are three to choose from: “Easy Does It”, “Blunder Woman” and “Pepper Wellington and the Case of the Missing Sausage”.
Free stuff for you…and for me…someone new might stumble across my work. It’s not just about money. I’m really not making any money at all on this. I just want to keep writing and keep finding ways to find the funny in life.
Guest Blogged
I guest blogged today. You can find it here: http://grandrapidsregionwritersgroup.blogspot.com/
And I promise, a new blog is coming. Just after the whole Joe-in-the-closet and the-missing-tree events, it's little hard to figure what to write next.
Hysterical Witty Post
I don't have any time, but imagine if I did that there would be a hysterical, witty post right here now.
In fact, to help make it real, please laugh annoyingly hard. Snort. Wipe your eyes. Do it loud enough so someone can say "What are you reading?" and you can say "I'm just reading a hysterical, witty post by Tanya Eby."
They will be jealous. You will be plump and satisfied for having pulled one over them.
Win a book! For real! April 11 only.
Did you see the interview this morning with Emily Richett on Fox 17? If not, here it is:
To celebrate that interview and the release of "Pepper Wellington and the Case of the Missing Sausage" I'm giving away TWO BOOKS for FREE! That's right. I won't include any ginzu knives though.
How do you enter? Simply leave a comment on my blog today (anywhere works) or tweet me, or send me a message on my author page on Facebook: Tanya Eby Narrator, Novelist and Numskull.
At the end of the day, someone wins. It's that easy. Winner chooses which book they want.
The Case of the Missing Tree (True Story)
THE BACK-STORY
Before I tell this story, I need to tell the back-story. About ten years ago (wow) I was living with my friends Brendan and George. They took me in after I moved home from living in NYC and helped me get on my feet. While there, we had great meals, fun talks, and just plain weird experiences. One of those was a day that Brendan and I were hanging out in the backyard. George had been at his cottage all day and came home. And he came home pissed. His face was red, smoke pouring out of his ears, that kind of thing. “Where’s my tree?” he asked angrily. Brendan and I just looked at each other. We asked, of course, what he was talking about. “Someone took my beautiful tree out of the front yard!”
It was sort of a crazy thing to say since that tree was like thirty feet tall and massive. You don’t just take a tree. And anyway, we’d have noticed, right? The three of us walked to the front of the yard. George pointed to a spot in the middle of the yard that was covered with fresh dirt and seeds and, indeed, no tree. During the day, someone had come and taken the entire tree…and Brendan and I never noticed.
We found out later that a tree company messed up. They were supposed to take and dispose of a diseased tree down the street, but someone transposed the address and they ended up taking Brendan and George’s tree instead. Still, a crazy thing to have happen. It made me realize though, that weird shit does indeed happen.
THE NOW STORY
Flash forward ten years. I’m staring at my backyard looking perplexed. Kealoha looks at me and says, “What’s wrong?”
I turn to him and I say… “I can’t believe this but there’s a tree missing in my backyard. Look! Look at that stump!” I point to a tree in the yard that is no longer a tree but a stump. In my mind, I remember lush green foliage. Someone came into my yard, probably in the dead of winter, and decapitated my tree, mulched the evidence and took off.
“Are you sure?” Kealoha asks in a way that makes me sort of question myself.
“Weird,” I say. I don’t know. Maybe I’m wrong.
TWO WEEKS LATER
Mom has come over to look after the kids. When I get home, she’s staring at my backyard with a perplexed look on her face.
“What’s wrong?” I ask her.
“There’s a tree missing from your backyard. Look! Look at that stump!” She says. (I swear to God this is true.)
See? See! I want to cry out! Someone stole my tree. They done stoled it!
I begin immediate research. Research, meaning, I stare at the stump and try to come up with a possible story. I think the neighbor behind me did it. She never liked that tree. Said there were branches falling into her yard. And didn’t she have a tree company come and trim her tree? Yes! She did! I remember! She trimmed her tree and then she had them consume mine!
I am just about to find a gauntlet and go over there and smack her across the face and challenge her to a duel. Or at least a bake-off.
Then it occurs to me that maybe I’d better double check. I scroll through pictures taken a year ago when I moved into the house. And the evidence I need is there. The solution to the mystery. CASE SOLVED
There in front of me is a picture of my yard over a year ago, when I moved in, and there is the tree…that is not a tree but a stump. A stump! There was never a tree there! I made the whole thing up!
Worse, is that my mom made the whole thing up too. We were both certain that someone had snuck into my yard in the depths of winter, probably in a burglar costume, sawed down that tree and took it, just to freak me out.
THE VERDICT
It’s official. I may possibly be some sort of splice or clone of my mother…which would also explain the sudden attraction I have to collecting boxes.
Hmmm.
Random Thought
To promote "Pepper Wellington and the Case of the Missing Sausage" I was going to have a photo contest on my website where people send in pictures of their favorite sausage.
Then I paused.
Thought about that.
Quickly decided against it.
I'm not dieting anymore
I’ve been dieting since I was 17, so for the last twenty years. I don’t mean actively dieting, more like I’m always saying I’m on a diet and then I fall off the diet and then blame myself for every piece of chocolate or bag of chips that I eat. It’s really annoying.
In my journals I’ve recorded my weight, my activity level, and there’s always a sense that I’m never going to lose those five pounds. The only time I was at my goal weight was during the last couple years of my deteriorating marriage. I wasn’t happy then and I was at my goal weight. Why am I doing this to myself now?
I had a great discussion with my Gender in Society class and we were talking about beauty. There was a discussion on photo shop and how it’s so prevalent that it’s perpetuating an unattainable sense of beauty. Or consider the Dove short that shows how a cute woman is transformed into a super model by actually lengthening her neck and moving the placement of her eyes. But when these photo-shopped pictures are everywhere, it’s hard not to think you should look like that.
For me, I generally feel good about myself when I’m on my own. It’s more that I worry people are judging me. My ex and his wife are very healthy and run marathons, so when I look at them, I think in comparison I look like a hippo. The truth is, I will never have a lean runner’s body because I’m not a runner. I’ll also never look like a “Real Housewife” because they have so much plastic surgery they probably glow in the dark.
Still, those lean runners and those “Real Housewives” have bodies that are more desirable than mine.
Or do they? When am I going to give myself some credit? I’m voluptuous. I always have been. And now that I’m inching towards forty, I really should cut myself some slack. I won’t look like a twenty year old ever again because I’m never going to be twenty. And I’ve had two kids. Actually, for nearly forty with two kids, I’m doing pretty good.
I recently bought the flat belly diet book and was going to do the whole 4-day detox. I told Kealoha my plan and he said “Why?” Why, indeed. Because I want a flat belly. I want abs of steel. Why though? Is it really for me? No. I think I want flat abs for everyone else because I….I don’t even know. I guess because in our society it’s more important for a woman to beautiful and young than it is for her to be creative and witty and ambitious.
And I’m tired of it.
So, officially, I am not going on a diet. I’m going to try and cut myself some slack. I’m a foodie, a sensual woman, a good mom. I love food. I exercise when I can, and will more as the weather improves. You know what we’ve had the last few days for dinner? On Sunday we had this incredible soba noodle stir fry dish topped with cashews and carrots and beans and ginger. Then we had homemade pea soup and bacon avocado sandwiches. Last night, was pulled pork carnitas with a roasted tomatillo salsa. All food that I made (with a little help from K-man). This is good food. Slow food. Food for the spirit, the body, and maybe even eventually my thighs.
I don’t care anymore. I think it’s time I started being grateful for what and who I am instead of always wishing to be something better. I’m certain I’m not alone in this.
Bad Ode-- Ode to Rain -- By Schulyer & Tanya
LIke a good flash thunderstorm, I present you with a good (bad) flash ode...written by Schulyer Esperanza and Tanya Eby. Follow Schulyer on Twitter @ReadersInk . Try your own flash bad ode, or write one with a friend. It'll make you feel good for being able to be so bad.
ODE TO RAIN
You are little drops of hell on my head
You're like that Chinese Water Torture
(or is that politically incorrect?)
…anyway…
Rain,
You're a cold bastard.
I wipe you from my face
And wash you from my hair
Like I did that loser from last night;
I'm cold as you are.
And like that dude from last night
You better bring me flowers
Or I will never
Ever
Forgive you.
Rain.
Blugh
It's just one of those days.
I don’t know if it’s the dreary weather or the fact that the kiddos are gone with their dad and are up in Canada…or maybe I’m just PMSing…or maybe, just maybe I’m a moody mofo, but I don’t feel like doing ANYTHING today. It’s not like I haven’t done a ton already, but now I’m sitting here in my yoga pants and big tshirt and I keep looking at the clock trying to figure out when I can eat again and it wouldn’t be considered gorging.
This morning I had a voice over before school so I went to the studio waited for Joe to get done recording. I was cracking up. He had to say the line “Mmmm. That’s some tasty beef” like twenty times. Each time he said it, he had a little more enthusiasm. It was hysterical. I’ve had to say ridiculous things. (Some of you recall the time I had to say in a commercial “Boy! I just love to sit on a big deck!” It was a restaurant with a deck party and I had to REALLY enunciate the word ‘deck’.) This morning, though, it was just a warm and fuzzy bank commercial. I had to make sure I had a smile in my voice. Mostly, I just wanted to scratch myself.
Then I went to school and prepped for the next two and a half hours. I forgot my lunch and picked up the worst tuna salad ever. It was noodles, tuna, peas, cheese and straight mayonnaise. Blugh! Then I went to class and we talked about beauty and why is there suc h a pressure to be beautiful and I said that I’d been trying to lose five pounds for twenty years. It’s true. I’m never thin enough or smart enough or pretty enough or successful enough. It was a great conversation, but I ended up just wanting a donut. I schlepped home. I was starving so I heated up delicious dinner from last night. made some coffee and then looked at my To Do List. That was three hours ago. I’ve since played an hour or so of Angry birds, complained about the weather, looked at myself in the mirror and said “Oh, just give up on those five pounds already” and then went to watch TV.
Even TV didn’t work, so I turned to youtube thinking I could post a clever video, but the only search term I could think of was ‘funny’.
Now I’m here. Yoga pants, tshirt, and half an hour until Kealoha gets home and we’re having pea soup and grilled bacon, cheese and apple sandwiches.
I want me some sunshine and warm weather. And a book deal would be nice too.
If today’s blog isn’t exciting enough, I leave you with 9:43 seconds of a dude mowing his lawn. FOR REAL. At least it looks warm.
Excerpt from "Easy Does It"
Three chapters totally free of "Easy Does It"! Yay! Office reading. :)
A couple of years ago, I self-published my first book "Easy Does It". Why would I do this? Because I wanted that baby out there. And it's out there still. If you haven't checked it out, here's the first few chapters. I'm proud of this piece...and it's what got me started with the whole novel writing thing. Enjoy! EASY DOES IT
by Tanya Eby
Chapter 1
It’s not me. It’s you.
Julie held the postcard and read it for the hundredth time. On the front was a picture of a pig with wings and a caption that said: “Cincinnati. Home of the Flying Pig Marathon.” On the back, written with a red marker were the words: Cincinnati rocks! Cheers, Ronny.
This was the fourth postcard she’d received in the two weeks since Ronny had left her. He’d stood in the middle of her bedroom, cheerfully stuffing all of his band clothes into a couple of army duffel bags. She replayed the whole Day of Being Dumped once again, as she did every time she looked at another of his cheap postcards.
There he stood at the foot of her bed, and there were his army green bags, and there went his clothes. His clothing resembled the costumes of hair-band rockers in the late ‘80s complete with mesh t-shirts and too-tight jeans. “Look, Jules. I’ve got to be honest here,” Ronny said in his thick English accent, thicker perhaps because he was from Detroit and not England. “It’s not me. It’s you. You’re too dependable.”
“Dependable?” Julie asked. “That’s a bad thing?”
“Well, yes, actually. If I’m going to be a rock star, I can’t bloody well have a girlfriend. I’ve got to keep open. Be a sex symbol. I’ve got to be more like Bono.”
“Bono’s married.”
“Yes. Okay.”
“He’s actually super responsible.”
“But he didn’t start out that way, did he? I mean, he’s a rock star. Purebred. Like me. What I need is some spontaneous string-free romping. You stay home and watch the Food Network and Star Trek. It’s like you’re sleep walking through life or something. I want to tear life apart and suck the marrow from it, you know? And I would too if I weren’t a vegetarian.”
Julie couldn’t believe this was happening. She’d been dumped before, too many times to count, but they always tried to spare her feelings. True to form, Ronny spared nothing. “I mean, what’s the last really crazy thing you’ve done? Besides take up with the likes of me?” Ronny paused here and Julie realized he was waiting for an answer. She tried to think but she couldn’t come up with anything. Three years ago she’d taken Ronny home with her after his set. It was, truly, the last, first and only spontaneous thing she’d ever done.
“Look,” he continued as he rifled through the closet and pulled out his studded leather jacket and slipped it on. “It’s a terrific opportunity. We’re touring all of the Midwest including Cincinnati. Can you believe it? Cincinnati! We’ve even got groupies following us.”
“Meg and Marla?” Julie asked. She hadn’t meant to say anything, she was too numb for that, but the words sort of slipped from her mouth.
“Yes. Meg and Marla.”
“They’re not really groupies,” Julie said softly. “They’re your band members’ wives. And they’re in their fifties.” “What bloody difference does it make?” Ronny’s voice was high-pitched and tight. “I’m leaving, Jules, and that’s all there is to it. Maybe when I’m back, if I’m back, we can try again.”
“You mean after you get rich and famous?”
“Yeah. Exactly.”
Ronny stepped up to her, pulled her in close to him, and kissed her; because she didn’t know what else to do, she kissed him back. “Later, Jules,” he said, and then left.
Now, just two weeks later, Julie’s apartment was empty of all traces of him, except for her four postcards from the Midwest with notes like “I’m living the vida loca” and “Flint is wilder than I ever dreamed.” And what was she doing? Flipping through her pictures of him, eating cold Indian takeout, and crying. She’d really thought Ronny was The One, or at least tried to convince herself of it. And just when she’d thought she’d gotten over him, she’d get another stupid postcard in the mail reminding her that he was on the road, and she was still stuck in Grand Rapids, Michigan.
She blew her nose into a tissue and tossed it on top of the pile at the foot of her bed. “It’s not me,” he’d said. “It’s you.” End of story.
Or was it?
Julie grabbed her cell phone and speed dialed her best friend, Eve. Dependable, huh? Living her life as if she were asleep? Julie Mills was about to change that.
Chapter 2
The only thing she knew how to cook was takeout.
Eve opened the back screen door to Bud’s Bar and barreled through, bringing the cool, crisp smell of leaves with her. Otis Redding was blaring on the jukebox, and Buddy Henderson stood behind the bar counting bottles.
“What?” Eve called. “No applause?” She struck a pose. Bud looked up from the glasses he was cleaning, wiped his hands on his watermelon belly, and gave a slow clap clap clap. With his graying beard, round glasses, and smiling face, he looked a bit like Santa Claus…if Santa Claus wore his hair in a ponytail, greased his handlebar mustache and wore a leather jacket.
“You’re looking good, old man,” Eve said. She leaned over the bar and gave a quick peck to his beard-speckled chin.
Bud sighed. “I tell you, Eve, it’s a real struggle for a looker like me to stay single.”
“Please. You’re still single because you haven’t let anyone know you’re on the market.”
“Ah,” Bud said, shaking his head. “I’ve been on and off the market so many times, I’m just plain tired out. I’ll give it one more try, though, when you’re ready.” He winked at her. “You know who we need to get back on the market?” Bud asked.
“Where is Julie anyway?”
Bud grabbed a beer, cracked it open, and handed it to her. “Where do you think?” He nodded towards the kitchen. “Can’t you smell it?” Eve took a deep breath. The bar (which usually smelled of stale beer and smoke) smelled warm, buttery and yummy. “Good God, she’s making bread?”
“She’s been here since last call last night…on her day off no less. And it gets worse. She’s got something in there with little pine trees and garlic.”
“Rosemary,” Eve said. “This is serious. All right if I check it out?”
“Be my guest. But be careful. She was working with chocolate earlier.”
Eve crossed behind the bar and walked through the swinging doors into the kitchen. When Bud opened the bar, he’d made an attempt at offering food, but over the years the menu had shrunk to whatever could be prepared in the deep fryer or microwave. Consequently, he only used one small corner of the kitchen. When Julie came in, he let her have the run of the rest of the place. During slow times in the bar, Julie would prepare warm meals with garlic and wine sauces for her and Bud to munch on. If someone happened to be in the bar, she’d feed them something too.
Eve’s stomach growled. The only thing she knew how to cook was takeout. She tried not to think about eating because she knew that if Julie were cooking up a storm then she was still upset over the breakup. She hoped this time Ronny was gone for good so that Julie could move on. “Julie?” Eve called. “You here, sweets?”
Eve couldn’t believe what she was seeing. The tiny kitchen was stacked with dishes of food: flourless chocolate cake, a steaming casserole of leeks and butternut squash, and a colorful salad with flowers and berries. Julie was slicing a loaf of French bread into thick chunks. “We’re having a little snack,” she said.
“More like a feast. Are you okay?”
Julie didn’t look up from the bread. She buttered one side and began layering the bread with red peppers, kalamata olives, and goat cheese. “Am I okay? No,” she said.
“Put the goat cheese down and come here.” Eve extended her arms; Julie turned around and gave her a hug.
“I hate him, Eve. I’m serious. And I can’t stop going over the whole breakup, and what he said to me. He said he wasn’t the problem, I was. I’m the problem. Can you believe it? So he’s living the life of a rocker with ‘string free romping’. Worst of all…do you know where he’s touring?” Julie didn’t wait for Eve to respond. “The Midwest! Dead-end bars. He’s left me for tight pants and Cincinnati.”
“Shhhh,” Eve said. “It’s okay. You’re going to be fine.”
“Look at this!” Julie handed Eve the most recent postcard, and turned to face a sandwich the size of a skateboard. “I want to show Ronny that I can suck the marrow with the best of them.” She grabbed a butcher’s knife, and walloped the sandwich, splitting it cleanly in two. “Okay?” “Okay,” Eve said. “But no need to get violent.”
“I’d like to get violent with Ronny and I have a pretty good idea how.” Julie slid the sandwiches onto a hot griddle, placed a pan on top of them, and turned to Eve. “I call them Poor Man Paninis,” she said and smiled sweetly.
Eve laughed to herself. No matter how sad Julie was, if she was cooking food, she could always pull herself out of it. “It sounds divine,” she said. “Let’s eat, and you can tell me what you want to do to Ronny.”
“I don’t want to do anything to Ronny ever again. What I want is to do something to myself. And I will too.” Julie grabbed two plates, loaded them with French fries and coleslaw, and turned back to the sandwiches. “We’re gonna need some energy for this.”
Eve nodded. “Then I’ll grab this bread here. And this roast. And that cake. And you grab a bottle of wine because I don’t have any hands left to grab with.”
Chapter 3
I’ve always wanted to be a hermaphrodite.
Then I could have sex with myself.
Julie unfolded the piece of paper in front of her, smoothed out the creases and passed it to Eve. They were seated in their favorite booth near the back of the bar, huddled over the table. “I wrote it really fast. It needs work,” Julie explained.
“Seems kinda long,” Eve said as she reached for her reading glasses from her purse.
“Yeah, well, there’s no real word limit online. Glory of technology, I guess. Be honest, Eve. Should I really do this?” “You said you wanted to do something crazy. Though, I have to admit, online dating doesn’t sound all that wild to me, although it was wild like in 1994. Now everyone does it. I was sort of thinking you were going to do something wild and drastic like a sex change or something.”
“Yes,” Julie agreed. “I’ve always wanted to be a hermaphrodite. Then I could have sex with myself. You want some more cake?”
“Of course. So with this ad you want, what? True love?”
“No. No! I was thinking…maybe I want dating practice or something. I want to experiment with being crazy. I guess at the heart of it, maybe I just want to get over Ronny, or back at Ronny, or something, and I want to do it as quickly as possible. I can’t take any more of his postcards. I want to have postcards of my own! I thought…I don’t know. It’s stupid.” She reached for the paper and crinkled it in her palm.
“Give me that!” Eve said. “It isn’t stupid at all. What I meant was that when you said you wanted to do something spontaneous I thought you were going to go on a trip to Europe or have a radical make-over. But online dating is good. It’s a start. Give me your ad. And the cake.” She read:
Young Treasure Seeks Seaman on Love’s Sea
When I was young, I collected broken pottery shards
that had washed up on the beach. Each one, I knew,
was from a shipwreck. In my palm, a tiny piece of
white plate became the last dinner of a couple in love.
A brown half of a beer stein with edges smoothed by
sand and time became a sailor’s last drink just as the
swell of the lake surged and took him over. These
collected pieces of plates and bowls from the last
moments in people’s lives proved to me that all things
end: childhood, careers, and yes, even love. I am
resigned to this reality. Still, I am looking to date.
Casually. If you are interested, here I wait, at the
bottom of the sea, for you to find me and uncover me.
Eve wound a finger in a lock of her honey hair. “Okay, Young Treasure Seeks Seaman on Love’s Sea. That’s catchy.”
Julie couldn’t tell if Eve was emotionally affected by the impact of her personal ad, or if she had something stuck in her teeth. “Is it all right?” Julie asked again. “Oh, you hate it, don’t you? I sound boring, don’t I? Oh, forget it!” Julie took a huge bite of her sandwich. Her eyes were burning with tears.
“I don’t hate it. Not at all. It’s just…a little sad. It sort of makes it sound like your life is a shipwreck.”
“Exactly!” said Julie emphatically. “A complete and utter shipwreck.”
“Let me read it again,” Eve said. Julie watched her intently, looking for any reaction from her, good or bad.
She read it again, coughed, set the paper aside, and quickly downed her glass of water. “Julie…Look,” Eve continued. “I love you. To pieces, and anything I can do to help get Ronny out of your system, I’ll do. But you say here Young Treasure Seeks Seaman. It sort of looks like you misspelled ‘semen’, like this is a personal ad for semen.”
Julie gasped. “Eek! No. No no no. I was trying to be poetic.”
“It is poetic, but maybe you should just say sailor instead.”
“Okay. I can do that. Anything else?”
Eve hesitated. “Can’t you cheer it up a bit?”
“Cheer it up? Why?”
“Julie, you sound like you don’t believe in love. You’re posting an ad to find love and you’re saying here, quite effectively, that you’re obsessed with things ending and dying. Do you really think that all of life is a shipwreck?”
Julie felt a rush of tears forming. She was so emotional lately, and talking about love did nothing to help her. “Not all of life, just mine.”
“You’re smart. You’ve got talent. A wicked sense of humor, and, need I say, killer knockers. Your life is not a shipwreck. And I’m sorry to be such a hard-ass with you, but ever since Ronny took off you’ve been swimming in your own misery, and you’re better than that. Now write this down. We’re going to write you a personal ad that really works. That sings. An ad that will bring the man of your dreams to your feet.”
“Fine.” Julie said as she reached down and picked up her personal ad. She liked what she’d written. She didn’t think it was that depressing.
Eve leaned in. “Now take this down…”
Bud interrupted from the bar. “How about…Hot Mama Seeks Love Slave And Marriage. That would reel me in.”
Chapter 4
She laughed. She cried. She was drunk.
That night, Julie logged onto CoupleMe.com and began typing in her personal ad. She considered it again. What exactly did she want? Posting for a mate was sort of like ordering a pizza. Did she want another vegetarian, or something with a little meat?
Meat, she thought. This time I want meat.
She typed. Took a sip of wine. Thought: Mmmmm. Merlot is yummy. Took another sip of wine.
What was she supposed to say? The truth? I’m lonely. I’m in love with my ex-boyfriend. I’m totally dependable and predictable, which means…I’m boring. You could feel those things, but you couldn’t write them. She sipped her wine.
She looked at the picture of Ronny she still kept by her computer. It was her favorite shot of him on the night they met nearly five years ago. He was playing piano for his band, The Two Wets. He stood in a spotlight, head tilted up, his face pinched. It was a familiar expression to Julie since it was the same pose he struck when he had an orgasm, except without the spotlight.
Julie toasted the picture and gulped. Usually, she’d stop at one glass, because wine tended to make her loopy, but tonight was a special night. She was in search of loopy. She poured another glass, stuck her tongue out at Ronny, and slammed his smug orgasm-face on the table. She couldn’t look at him any more especially since she hadn’t had an orgasm-face in months.
If she were being honest, and drinking an entire bottle of wine led her to be pretty honest, Julie admitted she felt like that miscellaneous sock at the bottom of the laundry basket, the one you keep washing in hopes that its second half would eventually show up. “Thass me,” she slurred to the computer screen. “I’m a sock. A hole filled socky-sock-sock.”
Julie tried to pick up her cell phone and call Eve but she was having trouble seeing the buttons clearly. No need. She could post this ad on her own. She didn’t need Eve to hold her hand with everything. She would post this ad! She grabbed her “Semen” personal ad and began typing. Maybe she would change her ad. Cheer it up a bit, like Eve said.
She made a small change. Good. Then she thought: I’ll just erase the pottery shards and tweak it. Just tweak it a teeny, tiny bit. Tweak, tweak!
She wrote so quickly she barely knew what she was typing. Her words flew from her in a torrent. She laughed. She cried. She was drunk. She hit “submit”, and then slunk back in her chair for a very quick nap.
*
Five hours after Julie posted her ad, she awoke still sitting at her computer. There was a paperclip stuck to her forehead and a swollen mailbox brightly signifying mail. Oh my God, she muttered. She picked the paperclip off her forehead and slowly dragged the cursor over the screen.
114 messages.
Then Julie saw what she had done. “Young Treasure Seeks Seaman on Love’s Sea” became, with the help of her computer’s thesaurus and a fourth glass of merlot: “Easy Lady Requests Guy with Two Socks.”
--If you want to read more, you can order a copy at Amazon or see if your library has it. OR you can tell your library to order it. Click HERE to check it out.--
What I Know About Joe
