Thanksgiving Disaster (What's Yours?)
Thanksgiving is on THURSDAY! Oh, baby! I’m so excited! A holiday devoted to overeating and family awkwardness….what could be better?
And I have to admit I’m glad that Baby Jesus doesn’t have any part of this holiday. Not because I’m against Jesus, it’s just that I can’t stuff my face guilt free if I’m thinking about salvation and world peace. No. This holiday is about guilt-free gluttony pure and simple. And pie. It’s also about pie.
I’m making the traditional stuff, and a three-tiered chocolate ganache and mousse cake. More about that in a later post. You know, an appetizing post.
We were watching "The New Girl” last night and they had their Thanksgiving episode on. It reminds me that everyone pretty much has a Thanksgiving Disaster story. Mine happened several years ago when I was married to the kids’ dad. The kids were two and one and I had decided to cook a traditional Thanksgiving meal for his parents who were coming down from Canada. That’s always awkward because Thanksgiving is all about celebrating being American, and Canadians don’t like that sort of thing. They like to set themselves apart from Americans…so much so that they have Thanksgiving too, only in October so they can beat us to it.
The week before Thanksgiving, the kids had all been hammered with the stomach flu. I won’t go into too many details but let me just say A) toddlers can puke an amazing distance and B) you can’t catch it in your hands, even though impulsively you may try.
By the time my in-laws got to the house, everyone was feeling okay, except the flu finally caught up with me. I spent a day running to the bathroom and trying to throw up QUIETLY so as not to disturb anyone.
Then my mother-in-law decided to help out and cook for everyone. She made an enormous pot of pasta with spicy sausage, green peppers, onions, and tomato sauce. The house smelled like hot meat and garlic. It did not suit my stomach AT ALL.
Then I recovered. The next day, my then-husband was sick….only he’d sadly eaten a ton of that spicy meat pasta the day before. Then my father-in-law got sick. It was horrendous. And there’s nothing worse than listen to the beast sound of men puking. Seriously.
Then our sewer backed up, and my one-year-old daughter fell down the stairs. She rolled down the stairs, we looked at her in horror, and then she started crawling around like nothing had happened. I’m still in therapy over it.
Two days later, it was Thanksgiving. We were pretty much all battered and bruised. My father-in-law shook his head and said in his heavy French Canadian accent “Oh, Tanya, that was terrible. It was like that song. A ring of fire.”
Turkey and mashed potatoes soothed our broken bodies.
I laugh about that Thanksgiving now, but it was truly terrible.
I’m really looking forward to this Thanksgiving. I’ve got Kealoha, his family, my sister and her family, my mom, and kids. And hopefully no one will suffer “The Ring of Fire”. I’m hoping we all just get indigestion from eating too much. You better believe I’ll be wearing my yoga pants. God, I love those things. In fact, I hope everyone comes in yoga pants: kids, women, and especially men. It just would intensify all that family awkwardness.
Have a Thanksgiving Disaster? Please post it here in the comments. Don't have one? Don't worry. Maybe this year is the year for you.
Thanksgiving is coming. That means time for some Foodporn.
Thought I’d better post a new blog pronto to cover up yesterday’s WORST PICTURE OF ME EVER. So.
I’m sitting at my computer wanting/needing to write, but I can’t get my mind to focus. I should be in class right now, but I cancelled it due to this cold that will not loosen its grip on my throat. I keep having these coughing fits where I sound like I’m trying to give birth to an alien OUT OF MY MOUTH. It’s embarrassing. And today I’m trying to keep my voice from failing entirely until I get through this week (and the end of my narrating). Hence, cancelled class. (And I need to get better by Saturday so I can cook a Thanksgiving feast next week.)
Lack of voice has no effect on my typing though.
I should be thinking about writing. But all I can think about is Thanksgiving! I’m obsessed with this holiday. It’s my absolute favorite, which makes sense, since I’m a foodie and all.
I thought it was going to be a sad holiday with just me, Kealoha, and my mom since my kids are with their dad this year. BUT my ex and his wife have agreed to let the kids come down for half the day for a traditional turkey day, and then they’ll head to their dad’s for their non-traditional celebration. I think they do a tofurkey there. And since Kealoaha’s parents can’t leave for Florida until some doctors’ appointments….so they’ll be here too. Maybe my sister and Kealoha’s brother and their spouses too. So my sad, little wee holiday has just turned into a bonafide FEAST.
And I need to do some menu planning fast.
I have a bit of a sickness with cookbooks and cooking magazines. It’s genetic. That need to hoard. I do control the sickness by ripping out recipes I want to make and throwing the rest of the magazine away. And I go through my cooking books yearly and pull ones out that I haven’t cooked from. Still, it’s a problem. I’m obsessed. I don’t know why it’s so enjoyable to flip through pages and pages of food.
Maybe it’s the challenge of it. Maybe….it’s the POSSIBILITY. The possibility that I could make and eat anything my heart desires. (If I don’t fuck it up.)
So instead of working on my sci-fi stories, or prepping for the next class, I’m going to spend the next hour joyfully flipping though food magazines and oohing and aahing at the centerfold pictures of luscious loins…pork loins that is. I can almost see those heaving turkey breasts and gleaming turkey legs all slick and shiny with butter.
Okay. So maybe my obsession with cooking magazines is more primal. Maybe I’m just a FoodPorn addict.
It’s true. I even listen to bad seventies music while looking at recipes for cornbread pudding.
Oh god.
Oh god!!! CORN PUDDING!!!! STUFFING! MUSHROOM GRAVY DEGLAZED WITH WHITE WINE!!!
I need a moment or two by myself. Just to…you know…uh….think about things. Yeah. Think.
While I take care of some, uh, thinking...please enjoy this foodporn video:
Worst Picture of Me EVER.
So my dear, quirky, neurotic husband took this truly horrible picture of me. It’s so horrible, I keep looking at it. Seriously. It’s on my desktop. I obsessively click on it. I ENLARGE it. I look at it and a thin sheen of sweat breaks out over my forehead and I think “Good god. Is that me? That can’t be me. Do I look like that when I’m sleeping? No! NOOOOoooOOOO!” It is me though. Here. Look at it. Just look at it, I tells ya. Do your eyes burn?
Now, granted, when this photo was taken, I’d had the kids for about a week and my daughter wasn’t feeling good. She kept waking up in the middle of the night and I’d rush to her so she wouldn’t wake up my son or Kealoha. Then I couldn’t get back to sleep for an hour or so, and then I’d finally fall asleep, and my daughter would wake up bright eyed and ready to go AT 5:30 IN THE F^&#ING MORNING! So. I was operating on about two hours of sleep for a week. And then we had Kealoha’s parents and my mom and his grandma over and I’d been narrating and apparently (from the picture) eating enormous sandwiches while PMSing. Clearly, I’m bloated in this picture.
Look at it. I mean, just LOOK at it. It’s the worst picture ever!!! I am both horrified and endlessly amused by it. I know the angle is bad, and that I’m exhausted. I know that when I stand up that those rolls on my neck disappear. But it’s like Kealoha took a picture of my worst fears realized and now I can’t stop looking at it.
Went to my doctor’s this week for my annual exam. He gently told me that I probably need to lose ten pounds. I told him I’d been trying to lose ten pounds since I broke my foot. So he’s going to have my thyroid checked to make sure things are working the way they should. Still. If this picture isn’t encouragement to up the workout (again) and down the bread (down as in ‘put it down’ not ‘swallow’) …then I don’t know what kind of encouragement I need.
Worst picture EVER. I’m going to look at it one more time, just to be sure.
(PAUSE)
Yep. Still awful.
Here’s one where I look shiny and voluptuous. I'm wearing the same hoodie in this picture. It was taken at a cooking class I went to with my friend D. Of course, it looks like I'm going to bust out of the hoodie, like I'm wearing pasties underneath or something, but that's just the glow-ey effect that cooking has on me.
There. That’s better.
Oh. And here’s an awful picture of my son that he took himself. We didn’t know he had done this. It just showed up when we downloaded the pictures to the computer. This makes me laugh.
I guess that’s the benefit of awful pictures. They can make you laugh. (I’m very tempted to post an awful picture I took of Kealoha where he looks very, very effeminate. I’ll save that one. Keep it in my pocket for blackmail.)
Finding An Agent Is Like Trying To Date Someone Who's Not Interested In You
Last week I sent “Foodies Rush In” off to another agent…and I’ve been obsessively checking my email ever since. It occurred to me that finding an agent is like dating all over again…only it’s dating someone who you’re totally crazy and infatuated with, and they maybe-might-possibly be interested in you, and you’re desperately looking for any hint that they actually know you exist.
In March I went to New York and had two editors from Penguin request my manuscript. I sent it the same day they asked. Then I waited and waited. I went over and over in my mind when we met. Here’s how my inner dialogue went:
She seemed really interested in me. She laughed when I said I had crazy hair but I was not a crazy writer. She said she loved my pitch. She said she loved my pitch!! What if she didn’t actually love my pitch, but was just trying to get me out of the room? What if saying she loves my pitch is the equivalent of saying I have a nice personality but she’s not interested in me? Oh god! She’s not interested in me! I’M NOT GOOD ENOUGH!
I waited for four months for an answer from both agents. Then I sent a polite, painfully worded email in which I try to sound gracious and accepting. Something like “I met you a few months ago and you seemed really interested in me and asked for my number. I gave you my number and made it clear I was available but you haven’t called yet, so I’m wondering if maybe your computer crashed or your email/phone/iPad isn’t working? Or maybe I transposed some numbers or something? Hope to talk to you soon! PS: I’m not crazy!”
Actually, that might’ve been a voice mail I left for a guy I was obsessed with in my twenties.
One of the agents responded, said her computer DID crash. I was overjoyed! I sent the manuscript again. She said she’d get right to it. That was three months ago. I then sent a follow up email that bordered a little bit on creepy and needy. Needless to say, she hasn’t responded.
Then I had an agent who wrote to me saying I had the best pitch she’d ever read and to send my manuscript right away. I did. In June. And…I’ve heard nothing. Apparently, my pitch is better than the actual novel.
Now most recently my book sits with another agent who also requested pretty much manuscripts or excerpts from everyone at the conference. It’s like entering the lottery, only with a group of deserving friends. Everyone deserves to win but chances are only one (maybe) will. You hope it’s you, but you also feel bad if it’s you.
I’m now obsessively checking my email and replaying my meeting with her. Just like the others. Haven’t I learned by now that looking for an agent is like The Rules? Remember that annoying Rule book? It said basically that you shouldn’t call or chase a guy. If he’s interested in you, truly interested in you, he’ll pursue you.
It’s annoying, but there’s some truth in there.
The sobering reality is, if my book was as good as I was hoping, these agents and editors would be chasing me. And honestly, I don’t even think it’s a miraculous book. I just tried to write something sweet, fun, accessible and marketable. It doesn’t advocate for social change; there’s not a ton of sex; it’s just a simple story of two nerds who fall in love when the timing is right.
I think I’ve written the novel-equivalent to a wallflower. My book is that girl that no one really notices, but if they only took time to get to know her, they’d find out that she’s colorful, soft-spoken and quirky.
Sheesh.
All I can do is wait. I’ve promised myself to stop checking my email, and stop even thinking about sending up that needy follow-up email that says “Hey! I’m here! Did you read my work? I thought you liked me? Don’t you like me? WHY DON’T YOU LIKE ME?”
I’m thinking these are good choices.
I waited thirty-eight years to find the perfect man for me. I’m just hoping finding the perfect agent doesn’t take as long. I really have been very, very patient.
For now, I’ll do what I’m best at: I’ll just keep writing. Someone’s going to notice me sooner or later.
OR ELSE.
(Okay. So maybe I am a little bit crazy, but only enough to be interesting.)
On the Kardashians, Magic, and Fiction. For real.
I do not want to write about this. I don’t! I swear to you! But…I. Can’t. Stop. Myself.
Why? Why do I insist on writing about the Kardashians? And her broken marriage?
Bear with me. (Or is it ‘bare’ with me. No. Can’t be that. We don’t want to be naked together). Bear with me. I have a point to make. And it’s a point, actually, about fiction and magic.
Magic doesn’t exist. I’m sorry. It doesn’t. But we WANT it to. And there are magicians out there who are terrific and making us see things we want to see. They’re illusionists. We watch them knowing they’re playing tricks on us, but we go into it willingly because if an illusionist is good, really good, then they make us BELIEVE that magic is actually possible, even if we know deep down it’s not. The trick isn’t about seeing birds appear or disappear. The trick is making us believe the impossible is possible.
I realized this is true with fiction at a young age. I remember telling a story on the playground. I must’ve been in fourth grade. I had a whole group of kids listening to me as I told them about a story where I knocked a kid out and sent him to the hospital. My audience was enthralled. They couldn’t believe it! They laughed. They were shocked! “Really?” they asked me “You did that?” I felt proud of my story. So I told them the truth: I made it all up. I thought they’d commend me on a great story. Instead, the group turned on me. They called me a liar. They were mad at me for making them believe. They were upset that the story wasn’t true. They had wanted THE BELIEF and I took it from them.
This is why people are upset with Kim Kardashian. It isn’t about her or her marriage. It’s that we’re fascinated with reality stars because they’re just human enough to create a fantasy world that we can believe in. We can see ourselves living in a mansion, being beautiful, having crazy exciting things happen, having a wedding that costs ten million dollars. We know the whole thing is a sham…but it’s just real enough to make us believe for a little bit that this kind of life is possible. For a while, we live as them. As disturbing as it is, we ARE the Kardashians.
It’s the relationship of fiction. A world is created the people can visit, inhabit, and feel is real. What happened this week is that the Kardashians said “It’s all fake” even though we all know it’s fake. But by ending the relationship with her husband, Kim Kardashian almost admitted to the sham. She’s a magician who showed the trick to the illusion. And we didn’t want to know the details.
I guess the deeper question to all of this is why do we need fiction at all? I think of it as the way in which I can live multiple lives without repercussions of actually making those choices. In my real life, I’m a mom and a wife. In my imaginary life, I’ve been an explorer, a heroine, a victim, a magician who can save the world. I know it’s not real, but I don’t need anyone to tell me that. I enjoy the fantasy.
I think what happened this week is that Reality TV just admitted that it’s not real. It’s a bit like hearing that Santa Claus is really a metaphor and not an actual person. It’s sobering. It’s sad. But it isn’t anything surprising.
In a while, a new celebrity will rise up and we’ll be able to believe the fantasy all over again. Until then, maybe people should just read some books. There are worlds to inhabit out there where the magic is still very much alive.
Do It Yourself BLOG
I'm really busy. Insanely busy. Stupid, crazy busy. I want to blog, but I don't have the time. Instead, I will give you some blank space. You can stare at this space and create your own blog IN YOUR MIND or you can print out this page and draw pictures of stick people in it. Maybe stick people with swords. If I had time, I'd draw stick people with big fangs and bloody swords killing a gigantic Stress Ball Monster. It would be good therapy.
Here you go (I can't do total blank space because it won't let me so I'll enter in random symbols):
.
+
]
:)
.!
.
(mofo)
.
.
Belly dancer!!!
.
.
,
*sparkle*
.
ahhhhh
Ah. What a great blog. You did a good job!
Halloween Spooky Story "The Perfect Neighbor"
I've been playing around with short stories lately. To celebrate Halloween, I thought I'd attempt to write a scary one. That's right. Comedic writer goes spooky. I hope you enjoy it...and...Happy Halloween everyone. :)
The Perfect Neighbor
by Tanya Eby
I bought the house on Whippoorwill all on my own. I fought for it; I worked for it; I prayed about it, and I’m not even a religious person. I don’t know. I wanted to prove something to my ex and to myself. Maybe that I was actually capable of doing something on my own. The house was small but cozy. A perfect house for one. I didn’t think of it as a Forever House, just an in-between house. A house in which to heal my heart and spirit in.
Movers moved in what few boxes I had. I unpacked on my own and felt the weight of loneliness like a brick inside my stomach. So when my next-door neighbor stopped by with a batch of brownies still warm from the oven, I was touched. It seemed like the sort of thing housewives did in the fifties. It was quaint and cute. She even wore an apron. “I see you’re making quite a nest for yourself here,” she said, nodding to my house. I had spent all morning painting my bedroom, changing it from an ugly bright yellow to a comforting deep brown. I wore paint spattered clothes and my frizzy hair puffed out at the corners of an old baseball cap.
“I’m making it more of…oh, I don’t know. More me.”
She nodded and I could tell she understood. “Well, I just wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood. I’ve made you these brownies. They’re shamefully gourmet. I’m a bit of an overachiever that way.”
She handed me the brownies, and I could feel the slight heat from them. In my mind I was already topping one with ice cream. “They smell perfect,” I said.
“They are,” she said with a slight smile and we both laughed. “I like things to be a certain way. What do psychiatrists call it? OCD? But they don’t call Martha Stewart that.”
“Are you a Martha Stewart?” I thought she might be. Her lawn was a deep green next to my slightly browned one. She had planters that were hand painted in deep swirls of green and yellow and flowers that looked so perfectly in bloom that they could’ve been fake.
“Me? A Martha Stewart? No!” she laughed again and I think it was then that I realized something was a little off, but I ignored it. “I’m a Marilyn,” she said as if that explained everything.
***
Marilyn and I became…friends. Yes. I guess that is the word for it. When I worked outside on the lawn, mowing or raking as the months passed, she would come out with freshly squeezed lemonade on a platter with a side of homemade cookies. In the summer the cookies were lightly scented with lavender from her garden; in the autumn she made apple cookies with apples from a tree in her backyard. She always wore a dress and looked attractive. Her hair was long and brushed til it shined. Her makeup could’ve been applied by a beautician. Her nails were manicured: perfectly arced, the perfect shade of red.
As time passed and I sweated and struggled outside to maintain the lawn, it occurred to me that I never saw Marilyn leave her house. Nor did I ever see anyone enter it. Did she work? Did she date? Was she alone? If she was alone then why didn’t she have the same frazzled look that I seemed to wear? I could barely manage to pull myself out of bed and get ready to go to the office where I researched and wrote grants. I did pull myself out of bed and work, but I somehow seemed to look ruffled…or at least like I needed an antidepressant.
Marilyn was so perfect she seemed to glow.
October rolled around and the large tree in my front yard seemed to burst into flames, it was such a deep orange. When Halloween approached, my tree shed the last of its leaves. One still clung to a low branch, and for some reason it was still green. As I bagged the last of the leaves (while in yoga pants, a stained t-shirt and my hair in a haphazard pony tail) I sensed rather than heard Marilyn approach.
“No, no, no!” she cried and then flung herself up towards the leaves. Perhaps it was just my imagination of a play of the light, but for a moment her brightly painted nails seemed to look like talons as she swiped at the lone green leaf. She tore it from the tree and crumpled it in her hand. I noticed that a strand of her perfect hair fell over one eye, hiding it. She carefully smoothed it back into place, took a deep breath and said: “That leaf was just out of place. It looks so much better now.” She wiped her forehead with her hand and there was a thin line of dirt. Certainly it was dirt and not, as my mind had tricked me into thinking, blood.
***
On Halloween night, Marilyn’s house transformed into a cover of a magazine. She somehow had decorated the house overnight because when I awoke the next morning, there were perfectly carved pumpkins lining the steps. A witch’s pot boiled with dry ice. Piped in scary music echoed from her porch. The spider webs glistened and looked so real…the spiders crouched within them appeared as if they were about to give birth to a thousand babies. It made my skin itch, how perfect everything was.
I worked all day and did not have the time or energy to carve pumpkins. I turned on my porch light, put out an un-carved pumpkin, and waited for the kids to come. I envisioned handing out chocolates and being the Cool House. I’d actually purchased about twenty full-size candy bars. One of the reasons my ex and I had divorced was that after ten years together, I decided I wanted children. He decided he wanted to buy a boat. I thought the children in their costumes would cheer me somehow.
I waited.
And waited.
But no children came. At least not to my house, and not to any of the other houses on the street—except for Marilyn’s. A steady stream of families drove up. Lovely, thin, perfectly coiffed women walked their children up to the door. They kissed their cheeks, and left quickly. It seemed strange to me that the children were older, probably twelve or thirteen, without costumes, and without siblings or friends. Each mother dropped off one child. The moms were so beautiful yet seemed sad. Perhaps, I thought, Marilyn was hosting a party for busy working moms. What a strange Halloween party it must be. There seemed to be no joy from any of the children.
At nine o’clock, when the steady stream of cars to Marilyn’s had stopped and the street slipped completely into night, she came to my door. She was dressed as a witch, wearing full makeup. Her face was gnarled and twisted, her back humped, and her hands looked arthritic…no doubt bent from so many potions. She’d even disguised her voice. “Come into my house,” she offered. “We’ll have a pot of tea. I want to show you my Halloween collection.”
Because I was lonely, because I waited so long, because Marilyn was so perfect at everything, because I was so inadequate, I did the only thing I could think of. I went over to her house.
***
The inside of her house was as beautiful as the outside. In fact, it was like stepping into the pages of a magazine. Her lush living room featured a leather sofa, a perfectly roaring fireplace, and silk pillows in shade of crimson and burgundy. She walked me through the kitchen with gleaming countertops and a silver fridge. There was an island made of some kind of expensive looking wood with a set of knives spread out as if she was ready to carve a Thanksgiving turkey.
“Did you have a nice party?” I asked her.
“Party?” her voice crackled. I wished she’d drop the old hag act. I was beginning to get annoyed by her Halloween, and for a moment I dreaded Christmas. Would she don a Mrs. Claus outfit? Would there be elves?
“You know,” I said, “all the children?”
She cackled then. Yes. A real cackle. Her laughter sent shivers up my spine and somehow I knew. It was as if the spell of perfection over her house shimmered and popped, the way a bubble shimmers and pops as soon as you’ve launched it into the air. I saw the perfection of her kitchen, and then I saw the kitchen as it really was. The dozens of Mason jars stacked on shelves. The piles of children’s clothes in the corner. The blood smeared cutting board. The shadows. Oh, god. The shadows, everywhere.
I looked at Marilyn. I stared at her…and I saw. She wasn’t wearing makeup. The slight green of her skin was its natural hue. Her pointed nose was her actual nose. And her fingers were, indeed, sharpened into talons.
“You see me now, don’t you dear?” she asked. I broke out into a sweat. I could not speak, so I nodded instead. “And do you know what I keep in those jars?” She pointed to a row of jars above the stove. I did not need to look at them because I knew. I knew. She kept children in those jars. Bits and pieces of them. Everywhere. An entire collection replenished every Halloween.
She pushed me gently forward. Led me into a small room that looked like a fortune teller’s lair complete with swaths of fabric, sparkling light, and a fortune teller’s ball in the center of a round table. “Sit,” she ordered and I did. “Payment first.”
As if in a trance I held out my palm but there was no money there. She dragged her nail across the palm, and a thin line of blood sprung to the surface. She brought my palm to her lips and I felt the leathery tickle of her tongue.
“I know what you want. You want what all the women who come to this neighborhood want. And you can have it. You can have it all, for a price.”
I couldn’t breathe. My heart hammered. I wanted to cry out, to run, but I was frozen there. “Tell me what it is your heart desires,” she hissed, drawing out the last syllable.
I could not stop myself. I spoke the words. “I want children,” I said. “I want love. I want a nice house. I want to be beautiful. I want things to be easy.” It was as if all my secret wishes simply floated from the surface, like bubbles of air rise when you are swimming underwater.
“Yessss,” she said. “And you will have it all.”
***
I would like to say that I called the police and turned her in. I would like to say I ran screaming and asked for help. But I did not. We shared some pumpkin bars, and then a special cup of tea. It was thick like cocoa and bitter and she told me to drink every drop. Payment, she said, would not be due for fourteen years. Fourteen years seemed so very far away.
I noticed the changes almost overnight. I began to lose weight. My hair grew long and shiny. Things came easier at work. In fact, I started to excel at almost everything. And then I met the man of my dreams. Franklin and I wed almost three months after meeting, and I conceived almost immediately.
I have long since moved from the house on Whippoorwill. We live in a seven bedroom, three-bathroom home in East Grand Rapids, Michigan. We have, I must admit, a picture perfect life. And with four beautiful children now, it seems the price will be almost worth it.
There is a price for this perfection. Would I change anything? If I hadn’t met Marilyn, if I hadn’t agreed to her terms, would I have the beautiful and easy life I have now? No.
I have tried not to love my firstborn, but it has been difficult. She was such an easy baby and now, at thirteen, I can see the woman she could become if the contract weren’t due. My husband and I have not explained to her the price of perfection. We do not speak of it. It is something we know and accept. It is the way things are here.
Tomorrow is Halloween eve and I will travel once more back to Whippoorwill where Marilyn is waiting. She only shows her true face on Halloween so that she can perform the incantations she needs to make the magic happen. I will drop my daughter off to her front porch, and my daughter will go inside willingly, and I will drive home to my perfect family, and we will say a word of thanks for all our blessings.
Things I've Learned from my Grandpa and Novels
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the structure of stories and novels. How they focus on one important event (for a short story), or several events (for novels)….but they never do really mirror life because they’re so, well, tidy. I guess maybe that’s why I love writing short stories and novels. You can focus in on characters and problems they encounter, put the characters on a journey, witness how they change, and then you’re left with, ultimately, a feeling of order.
Real life isn’t like that. Moments in life can feel that way, but it’s sort of like one story blending in with a novel and just as that novel is coming to an end, another novel starts on top of it. Sometimes you have three or four different novels going at the same time, each in a different spot, each with different characters… Well. You get the metaphor I’m going for here.
Why am I rambling about this? Last week I was posting my wedding pictures on Facebook and I got a call that my grandfather (Robert Hotaling) had passed away. He was 93 and died suddenly. Just the week before he had written me a letter inviting Kealoha and I to lunch so he could meet him. So while I’m posting the pictures of our wedding, I found out that he had passed away and it was that moment where you go “Ah. This is how life is. The start of things. The end of things.” But unlike a novel, it’s all at the same time.
I’m juggling a lot right now: classes, audio narration, kids, homework, writing, reading, research, trying to rewrite things and getting an agent, dealing with family issues, with the past, with the future, with unknowns. Will I have a job next year? Will Kealoha and I sell his house? Will I ever have time to finish the books I want to finish? Will I ever get that publishing contract? Will the kids do better now that we have a new schedule?
Throw in holiday planning and looking to July for our belated honeymoon and going to a funeral tomorrow…and that’s a sense of how life is. It isn’t tidy that’s for sure. And it also isn’t boring.
My grandpa wrote a few letters to me in the last couple of years. I was working so much (since starting over) and getting to visit him was difficult. At first it was hard to just emotionally manage the trip there to explain what had happened to my marriage. I wrote to him instead. My grandpa was beyond understanding. He told me that he had been blessed with a rich life. In fact, he wasn’t even my biological grandpa. He was my grandma’s second husband, but all my life he treated me like I was his natural granddaughter, and I think, to him, I was.
He taught me how strong love is. That you can have expectations in life, but life will surprise you and you must go with it, accept it, embrace it. He was in WWII, I think, but I never talked to him much about that. He worked as an urban planner. He was always busy. He started out with very rigid ideas about life, but over time, he became open and accepting of change. His children married people of different colors and cultures. There have been struggles with mental illness in the family. There has been despair. There have been children and broken marriages, and then there has been starting over again. Some of us have strong relationships. Some of us have troubled ones.
One day I went to lunch with my grandparents (grandma died shortly after this). They told me when they met they had both been hurt in their previous relationships. They came from marriages where there was abuse and mental instability. Grandpa saw grandma in church. She was wearing a colorful hat and he knew he had to talk to her. (Later, he said it wasn’t actually the hat he had noticed, but really just the woman wearing it.) They eventually fell in love, got married, blended their families. This was back in the 50s and 60s so that was a really big thing.
He loved my grandma. Adored her…and when she died he later married a friend of hers. I think that was a great honor. Both of them were widowed and they needed each other. See…life teaches you that you just keep going on. That’s what he did. He looked at change, was afraid of it, but went with it anyway. He loved his ever-changing family.
Grandpa taught me that life is not tidy nor should it be. It’s complex, layered, and never goes the way you think it will….but that’s the surprise and beauty of it. In that way, real life is so much better than a novel.
What Should I Write for NaNoWriMo? VOTE!
The last two years, I participated in NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month). Basically, you commit to writing 50,000 words in a month, or 1,550 words a day. Or something like that. It’s intense, crazy, mind-blowing, hard and wonderful all at the same time. And it’s how I got first drafts of “Pepper Wellington and the Case of the Missing Sausage” and “Foodies Rush In”. the first drafts weren’t good, but they were complete novel-skeletons. So. I’m going to try this again. Only I’m having trouble deciding on what to write. Please cast your vote and I’ll write one of the following:
1. “Pepper Wellington and the Case of the Curious Curry” in which we revisit Pepper, Sausage, and Graham as Pepper attends a dinner party to celebrate the 40th year reunion of a commune she lived in. Quirky characters and a dinner to die for. Literally. People will end up dead and it will be up to Pepper (with the help of her favorite people) to figure out who’s spicing the food….with poison.
2. “Chloe Knaggs is Blunderful” in which we meet Chloe Knaggs as she was at age 14. The young adult novel takes place over Thanksgiving and Christmas holiday when Chloe and her crazy mom take a trip to visit relatives (and possibly escape from the law). Chaos. Awkwardness. And all things blunderful.
3. A collection of short stories called “Seven Sarahs” in which we meet seven different women (of all different ages) in pivotal moments of their lives. Some stories are literary. Some humorous. The ending story will tie all the previous ones together in a surprising way.
See? I’m not abandoning romantic comedy…I’m just shifting my comedic sensibilities in a new direction and trying some new-ish things.
Which book do you think I should write?
New Review of "Pepper Wellington and the Case of the Missing Sausage"
This is in the October issue of "On The Town". I didn't even realize they had the book. See original story HERE. By Joanne N. Bailey-Boorsma
Pepper Wellington and the Case of the Missing Sausage By Tanya Eby
With perfectly normal Amy Wellington set to walk down a perfectly normal aisle, a wedding weekend that should be perfectly dull turns into fun, games, and murder when her mother, Pepper, and hunky ex, Graham, arrive for the nuptials. Turns out perfectly normal Amy is perfectly unique Sausage Wellington, running from a past that has now caught up to her on the picturesque Leelanau Peninsula and plans to wrap its loving and patchouli-scented arms around her despite Sausage’s objections. When wedding guests begin dropping like flies the night before the wedding, Pepper sends Sausage and Graham to a secluded cottage for their own safety. Soon the remaining guests-turned-suspects all arrive, seeking sanctuary and unwittingly putting themselves in very close quarters with the murderer.
In true Eby style, the book is fast and funny. I tried to figure out the culprit before my eyes read far enough, but I was pleasantly surprised when the villain was revealed. Like Eby’s other books, Pepper Wellington has a satisfying ending with an out-of-left-field twist that suits the pace and the story perfectly.
The Perfect Answer to "Do I Look Fat?"
There are times when you know you shouldn’t ask a question, but you just can’t stop yourself. This happens to me all the time. I sorta float outside my body, see what I’m about to do, tell myself “Oh no you don’t” and then I go ahead and ask the question anyway.
This happened Sunday evening. Kealoha’s parents and grandmother came over for lunch along with my mom. His grandmother is in her nineties and says what’s on her mind. It’d okay. I figure she’s earned that right. She told us we should live in a different house, that mine was too small, that Kealoha needed to lose weight, that her fingernails were falling off and I was terrified that she was going to tell me I looked fat (because she did say that in my engagement pictures I looked fatter in some pictures than others). Thankfully, she didn’t call me fat. I might’ve cried.
Later, once everyone was gone, I sat drinking my wine. Louis (6) sat working on his homework and Kealoha sat across from us. And I floated outside my body and I knew I shouldn’t ask it but I did it anyway. I said those words every woman shouldn’t say, but she does it anyway. I said: “Do I look fat?”
There was a moment of post-nuclear silence and I think I could see Kealoha sweating. Louis said immediately “Oooooh, no. You are NOT fat. You might FEEL fat, but you are definitely NOT fat.” Then he continued with his homework.
I sat back, glowing. That might be the best answer I have ever heard for that impossible question.
Men: memorize that answer. You’re about to make the woman in your life very happy, and it’s an answer she’ll understand.
I asked Kealoha to check his app and see if I was PMSing. I’m not, but Louis was right. I just FEEL fat. It’s stress. And extra salt. The feeling will pass.
Random Sunday Morning Talk (I mention Smurfs)
I’m sitting in a completely dark room wrapped in my enormous fuzzy blue bathrobe. I’m like a Smurf on steroids. I love this bathrobe because A) It’s warm; and B) When I take it off, I feel like an instantaneous AFTER picture. Before: enormous Smurf that is slightly frightening. After: much svelter wearer of yoga pants, only frightening if I don’t have coffee and/or am having a bad hair day.
It’s 5:30 on a Sunday. Coffee is burbling and it’s too dark in my office to see my hair. (I’m trying not to wake up my kids.)
I got maybe four hours of sleep last night. Part of it is because my son had an asthma/coughing fit during the night and I stayed up with him, moved him to the downstairs couch, comforted him. (Got bonus points for good momming.)
The other reason I’ve been up is because I had a great day at the GRRWG conference yesterday and I keep turning it over in my mind, the way you sometimes revisit good kissing in your mind. (Or is that just me?) Honestly, after that whole book fair experience, I didn’t even want to go to the conference. I’d committed to presenting on branding and sitting on a panel on query writing, so I had to follow through.
I’m so glad I did. One minute I’m about to give up on everything, the next I’m presenting material and talking with an agent who actually likes the kind of thing I write: romantic comedies. I didn’t know there were any more agents out there who’d even consider it.
Presenting was fun too. I like talking about…stuff. I like teaching. And I felt pretty confident and smooth, and since I wasn’t wearing my Smurf outfit, I also felt relatively skinny. All bonus things.
This is how life goes. One week, you’re in the dumps. The next, you’re feeling pretty good.
Oh sheesh. I hope I’m not bipolar.
Now that I have that thought to obsess over, I can start my day.
Bonus Blog! The Shake Weight.
Oh God. For some reason, I just thought of this commercial. I had to look it up on Youtube again. Nothing makes me happier than watching this commercial over and over and over. I laugh, I fan myself, and I think, "Really? REALLY?" It's so lusciously PORNOGRAPHIC!!! Enjoy.
Ahem.
Just Keep Breathing
I feel like I’ve been neglecting my blog, but I really have been busy. Honestly. For real. Yep. Busy. Real, real busy. How come the more you say you’re not lying…the more like you sound like you are?
Here’s what I’ve been up to:
Last week, I directed my first (almost) audiobook, taught, dealt with kids. Then the book fair. (Previous post. Thank you lovely people for being so supportive about that affair.) Then I was swept up in midterm grading, prepping for classes, and preparing to narrate all week. The narration was pushed back, but I still had one of those stressful days that never seemed to end. I thought I was about to lose my job at Kendall, so started looking for a new one. Had a panic attack about Kealoha and I owning two houses, paying two mortgages, and freaked because we still don’t have his old house on the market. My 6 year- old son had major tantrum meltdowns. I still have no idea about what. I learned that my grandfather passed away and that brought on a whole avalanche of feelings and memories. (He just sent me a letter last week congratulating me on the wedding and asking to take Kealoha and me and the kids out to lunch. He was 93. A great man.) Then I heard that my dad is going to try and come to Michigan and I’ve seen him once in the last fifteen years. Then I decided, oh, I’ll weigh myself. Yeah. Good idea. Then I sent out emails to see if I could adjunct at two local universities if I get kicked from Kendall. Then I prepped for a presentation I’m giving for my writing group this weekend at the So You’ve Always Wanted To Write a Book Conference. Then I got the kids fed and put to bed (twice) and fell asleep in Kealoha’s arms while watching that heart warming show about the serial killer who only serial kills serial killers. Ahhhhh.
Most of that was within twenty-four hours. I like to condense my stress into a single, hard- to-digest ball, and deal with it all on one day. Sheesh.
By today, I’ve dealt with all the stuff. Kendall is not firing me right away. I have a possibility of two more years of employment, and then they toss me if there’s not a full-time position available. But that’s possibly two years from now, so for now, I just breathe.
We’re talking to realtors. (Breathe, baby.)
I’m narrating next week and will be able to attend my grandpa’s funeral. My dad will be there. It is what it is. (I’m breathing.)
We figured out a new schedule for the kids and hopefully my son will stop spazzing out so much. (Inhale.)
I went to the salon and got the highlights taken out of my hair. I’m now a redhead-ish again. (Exhale.)
And I wrote two new stories. (ahhhhhh.)
It’s a whirlwind sometimes and some days suck. Some days are great. I guess this is life, right? And you just keep on keeping on. I’ve found that as long as I keep breathing, I’m in pretty good shape.
And I’m throwing my scale out the window. It’s cheesecake time.
Here's something to help you relax if you need some time to breathe too:
Uh...Awkward. ( AKA Adventures At Local Author Book Fair)
On Saturday I attended my second book fair. The first book fair was when I had just my first book available: “Easy Does It”. I sat out in the rain near a lake while parents ushered cranky kids right past me and bought books on Jesus and Good Cooking. I vowed after that experience to never attend a book fair again. It was humiliating. I felt like I was begging people to buy my work. All I needed was a cardboard sign saying “Hungry writer. Please buy my book” and a tin can. But I decided to give it another go. When the Grand Rapids Public Library decided to host twenty-five local authors (and I was included) how could I turn that down? It would be a terrific event! I could sell my books, do a reading, meet people who read my work. I immediately ordered supplies: extra books and band-aid promotional swag. I promoted the event on Facebook, on my website, my big ol’ face was even in the paper. With 25 writers also promoting the event, we would have easily a few hundred people there. Right?
I vastly overestimated. It was awkward, awful, and a smidge humiliating. What I thought was an opportunity to read our work, was more of a flash discussion on publishing, which I whole-heartedly did not want to discuss. So we sat outside while writers and attendees abandoned the book fair for an hour and a half to talk ‘shop’ AKA BSing.
Kealoha was with me and he made me laugh (except when he analyzed the meaning of 'bad boy' and where did that come from and then I just felt tired). When people came by my booth, they’d grab a band-aid dispenser, smile awkwardly and then go talk to the nonfiction dude sitting next to me. The mostly above-age-seventy group (of maybe fifty or so people) weren’t interested in romantic comedies. Except one woman. She reads romances while she works out her bad knee on a treadmill because you don’t really need to think when you read a romance. She passed on my book though and chose another’s (a friend of mine, so I’m glad she at least sold something).
Another woman stopped by, read “Blunder Woman” for about twenty minutes, laughed, said “You are really good”, and then proceeded to flip to the final pages of the book, read the ending, and then said thanks and walked away. I gave her a band-aid dispenser of course too.
The most action we got was from men admiring Kealoha’s fancy sign with the phone code things that you can take a picture of and go to a sight. They took pictures of the display so they could copy it.
Another woman stopped by, read the titles of my books and asked “So…uh…do you write comedy?” I said yes. She said "Hm."
We sat there. I tried not to get depressed. I tried not to think that this was just another sign that I’m writing things people don’t want to read. I’m exhausted by endlessly promoting something people don’t seem to care about. I feel like I’m pleading with people and shouting “But I’m funny! This book will make you happy!” It feels sort of like elementary school when you want to be in the popular group, but you can never BE in the popular group because to get in the popular group you can’t WANT it.
We sold one book…to a friend of Kealoha’s. I think he arm wrestled her to get her to come down. * sigh * (She was very nice though. I’ve met her a few times. She’s funny and she geocaches.)
So. What’s an awkward novelist going to do? I’ve got book four just waiting for a publisher, but if I can’t get people to read the first three, who’s going to read the fourth, besides my mother-in-law, mom, and Kealoha?
It IS depressing.
I know the book fair wasn’t the perfect venue for me, but it seems like neither is online, my blog, my publisher’s site, Amazon, or Facebook. People just don’t want the books…and there comes a point when I have to stop pushing so hard. You can’t force people to read your work. You can’t force them to buy it. The only thing you can do is give them a free band-aid dispenser and hope they think of you.
Wah. I’m whining. I know it.
The event itself was lovely and the library did a great job, there just weren’t enough people there, and certainly not enough interested in romantic comedies.
I’ve got one more last chance with “Foodies Rush In” and then we’re self-publishing it, and I’m not writing any more romantic comedies for the foreseeable future.
For now, I’m writing stories. Sci-fi and Young Adult and whatever else occurs to me. Stories are short, manageable, filled with energy, and it doesn’t break my heart if someone doesn’t want to read it. I can always write another. In fact, I wrote two new stories this weekend. That’s got to count for something. Maybe this is a good thing. Maybe my best work is in front of me, the work that people will line up to read.
You gotta keep hoping. That’s what I do.
Please Join Me: Two Cool Events THIS MONTH
Greetings, readers. My blog is a random hodgepodge of writing, recipes, and every day awkward living, but today I want to do something different. I want to invite you to two awesome events happening here in Grand Rapids, Michigan. They're both thrilling for similar reasons: the support and encourage local writers. FOR READERS
Get out your pen and put it on your calendar (or enter into your iPhone. Whatev.). Next week, Saturday the 15th from 10-2, please check out the Grand Rapids Public Library Local Authors Book Fair (click title for link), or GRPLLABF.
Uh. That's not actually an acronym, but I like to say it out loud.
I'll be there selling and signing books, along with about 25 other local writers with novels in every genre: YA, mystery, romance, erotica, humor, steampunk, thrillers, etc. Support local writers. Please buy a book (even if it's not mine). Also, Christmas is coming...buy your mom a hot pirate love novel. She's probably into that. Or, of course, one of my romantic comedies. Everyone needs a laugh, especially an awkward one.
FOR WRITERS
The other event is also exciting, but in a different way. I'll be presenting at the Grand Rapids Region Writers Group first conference! It's called "I've Always Wanted to Write a Book Conference" (click on title for more information).
We wanted a conference title that told exactly what to expect. This conference lasts all day on Saturday the 22nd at the Radisson in Grand Rapids. You can still register. It's $100, which is an investment, but hopefully affordable. You'll hear great presentations, network with others, come home with a goody bag and lots of ideas. There's also a social on Friday evening at the hotel.
It's great for all kinds of writers: new writers, closeted writers, polished writers, and never-written-anything-but-wants-to-be-a-writer writers. If you blog, write novels, want info on self-publishing, epublishing, or just how to get your stuff out there, please join us.
Even if you're just starting to write, join us. This is a great group of writers of all backgrounds and genres. We support and encourage each other.
Here's the schedule for the day:
9:30 - 10:15 Room 1 - Using Relaxation Techniques to Boost Productivity - Dr. Sandra Portko Room 2 - Writing Effective Queries - Michele Paulin, Tanya Eby and Sidney Ayers Room 3 - Writing Mysteries - Maris Soule
10:30 - 11:15 Room 1 - Writing Erotica and Erotic Romance - Abigail Barnette, Temple Hogan, Mia Watts, Suzanne Graham and Bronwyn Green Room 2 - Making the Most of Your Writing Time - Margaret Yang Room 3 - Author Branding - Tanya Eby
11:30 - 1:00 Lunch and Keynote Speaker, Jacqueline Carey
1:15 - 2:00 Room 1 - Writing Romance - Lisa Childs Room 2 - Why the Genre You Write Matters as Much as What You Write - R.A. Evans Room 3 - Everything You Need to Know about E-books- Margaret Yang, Temple Hogan, Abigail Barnette and Suzanne Graham
2:15 - 3:00 Room 1 - Trends in Young Adult Fiction - Tess Grant and Aaron Thomas Room 2 - What a Character! - Harry Campion Room 3 - Authors Behaving Badly - Jennifer Armintrout and Bronwyn Green
3:15 - 4:00 Room 1 & 2 - Q & A with Literary Agent Michelle Grajkowski and Editor Michele Paulin
4:30 - 6:00 Rooms 1, 2 and 3 Booksigning, open to the general public
Kealoha and Blunder Woman At Home
A week later and the dust has finally settled. Kealoha and I are married. It’s weird because things don’t feel any different, although I like looking over at him and seeing that shiny ring on his finger. Now that the bacchanal of the wedding is over I guess we just…well…move on. We go back to being the daring an audacious couple we were before, only now we’re a Mr. & Mrs. (although I’m keeping my name). Here is an example of just how wild and crazy our life is. We were sitting and having dinner last night. Kealoha grilled sausages and veggies and I made a trial dip for my dip blog. (No Bake Warm Artichoke and Spinach Dip. I’ll post it later.)
We were talking about our day. Then I stretched and said: “It’s pajaamma time” and Kealoha and I simultaneously seat-danced a little to Hammertime. He did the “doodoodoodoo”. We looked at each other and just laughed. It was ridiculous on so many levels.
(I was going to put in the "Hammertime" video from Youtube, but I got distracted by this)
Anyway. Kealoha said: “It’s official. We are now an old and boring married couple.” I said I was okay with that. Kealoha nodded and put more mustard on his plate.
Then I said that I had my students bring in songs to play and talk about the song’s ‘emotional argument’. It’s a way of getting them to write a thesis. I said, “You know, I like listening to the music they choose. It reminds me how out of touch I am.” Then I said something like “In my twenties I would’ve known all these bands. Now I’m just too tired. I don’t have the energy to find new music.”
Kealoha nodded in agreement. “Why do you think I listen to polka?” he said.
Yes. This is the new Kealoha and Blunder Woman, sitting at home, eating sausages, getting ready for bed at 7:15PM, quoting bad 90s music, and detailing the finer reasons for appreciating polka music: it’s less exhausting than looking for new music.
In short, marrying Kealoha has changed exactly nothing. We’re still exactly the same, only this time we have rings to say we’re a unit.
Heheheeh.
I said “unit”.
sigh
The Wedding
I'm still processing everything...but what I can say right now is that I had my dream wedding. It didn't involve a hugely expensive dress or gigantic flowers. There were no violins or love poems. There was great food, great drinks, and one of the shortest ceremonies ever. There was Star Wars music, Elvis, "Dancing in the Moonlight" and my family and friends laughing, applauding, and dancing the night away.
I'll blog more about it later. I'm hoping that for everyone there it was more than just a wedding...it was a time to relax and have fun with the people important in your life.
Here's the song my brother danced me down the aisle to. I wanted to enter the marriage with pure joy...and it's totally how I feel about Kealoha. I never really believed in soul mates, until I met him. I love that man. If you know him, then it's easy for you to see why.
On Getting Married. A Letter To My Former Self.
The wedding is finally here. It’s really here! Kealoha and I are officially getting hitched. Hotel is booked. Flowers ordered. Food set. Dress and all that jazz ready to go. Friends and family coming in to town from all over Michigan, New York, and Florida. We are so excited. Of course, to say that this makes me a little emotional and weepy is an understatement. Last night I was crying while watching Chopped. Granted, I cry while watching Chopped a lot, but this time there were big tears. Sometimes being happy is hard to handle.
I’ve been thinking about the blog I wanted to write before the wedding. Most of what I want to say about Kealoha, I’ve already said.
What I want to do instead, then, is talk to my former self, my self from two and a half years ago. If I knew how this story would end, I could have told her so many things. Of course, you can’t know the future…you just have to believe there is one. So. I write this letter to who I was two and a half years ago, but maybe I’m also writing it to some of you. I’ve had comments from readers and friends going through things I went through. So. This is to me and to you.
Dear Tanya of 2009,
Believe in yourself. Trust yourself. Know that with choosing to start over, you are choosing a hard road, a sometimes lonely road, but it is the right road. Stand up for yourself. You don’t need to justify your choices to anyone or defend. Just be quietly strong. Others will come around to seeing why you made the choices you did.
Believe the future will be better. You will find yourself one day with a broken foot. You will collapse on the floor of your kitchen and you will cry and sob at the sheer weight of your losses and your fear. You will have no money. You will be afraid of losing your teaching job and your narration gigs. You will be terrified of losing you children. You will not be able to walk on your own. When your sister says, lovingly, that at least thing can’t get any worse…laugh…and believe her. From that moment on, you will be stronger. You will be new. You will emerge, a Phoenix.
Fight for what you want. You will do surprising things. You will buy a house because you are determined and you don’t accept people telling you ‘no’ anymore. You will teach and give your heart to your students. They will appreciate you for who you are.
You will be lonely. You will cry. It’s okay. You will need to be on your own for awhile….because you will need to remember who you are. You can only remember who you are when you are quiet and there is no one around to distract you.
You will screw up. You will make bad choices. You will go on bad dates and try to convince yourself that this is what you deserve. Then you will wise up, and your new strength will tell you to move on. You will not make those mistakes again.
You will open your heart. You will learn to love a friend. Your kids will thrive. Your new home will be warm and inviting. There will be laughter again. Your confidence will grow. You will still worry about money and choices and whether you are a good mother to your kids, a good partner to your fiancé. It’s okay. It’s good to worry about these things.
And when you are ready, when you have finally stopped being angry about the past and when you can be strong in the choices you’ve made…then…then you will wear a 1950s dress and your friends and family will watch you marry the man who has been in your life for 15 years, but always on the outside of it…until time and experience and living allowed you to see him for the first time.
No matter how bad things get, believe things will change. Things will change, because you have made them change. You did not leave it up to Fate or wishful thinking. Things will change because you willed it to happen. Things do change. For the better. You can do this.
Maybe I couldn’t tell myself these things then, but I think somehow I believed them anyway.
So. A letter to myself…but also to others of you out there. Maybe the whole foot thing won’t apply to you, but it might if you think of it as a metaphor.
Cheers, Tanya of 2011
One of my earliest bad poems
You all know I'm a fan of bad poetry. It's just so luscious. So satisfying. And if you can't write good poems (which I can't) you ought to enjoy being bad at it. I enjoy it all the time. On Facebook yesterday, my childhood friend Melissa posted this poem. Apparently she found it in a box of stuff. I even signed the poem, probably thinking one day I'd be famous. I must've convinced her because she's kept it for twenty years.
I must've been ten or eleven when I wrote this. Maybe a bit older.
Melissa and my mom were great friends, then we became friends first because of pressure, and then because of choice. She was older and wiser and more sophisticated than me. We lived across the street from each other for a time. She lived in a cute Victorian house. I remember there were completed puzzles all over the walls. And she had a collection of 45 records. Is that what they're called? She introduced me to the song "I'm Your Venus" by the classic band Bananarama. I was shocked when I heard it. I thought it said "I'm your penis".
I was a homely little girl. I was, as some of you know, often mistaken for a boy. Getting my hair cut at the barber's didn't help. Melissa, though, was glamorous. She wore makeup and had curly hair and knew stuff. One day she even did a makeover on me. A real 1980s Bad Movie kind of makeover with huge hair and full makeup. I remember going to school and reading to my little 1st grader buddy and my buddy saying "You look different today. You look so pretty."
I don't remember writing this poem, but I do remember one line. I'm sure it was inspired by our frequent games of Monopoly in which Melissa often beat me. I found my revenge though...through words.
Even as a preteen, I was pretty good at bad poetry. Here it is:
Monopoly by Tanya Eby
As we sat face to face I saw the joy come over her. She smiled I frowned she laughed I cried, somehow. She took my house she took my land she took my money too. She laughed I cried I shot her she died. So, now I sit here with nothing to do 'cause I just went bankrupt, somehow Oh, all this happened in just one day over a simple game of Monopoly...