admin 1/1/12 admin 1/1/12

My Favorite Awkward Christmas Present (AKA I'm A Muppet!)

My sister is terrific. Bawdy, loud, emotional, supportive, and one of the best giver of gifts EVER. She buys me pretty things that I didn't even know I wanted. This year for Christmas, she gave me the strangest set up pajamas. They're super soft, yes, but they hint at a future of me wearing a comfortable pajama set to go shopping at Walmart. I think this is what's going to happen next. Already, I live in yoga pants. How far away is the next leap towards just not getting dressed EVER? I bet you in another five years, I'm going to LIVE in pajama sets, and probably forgo wearing a bra too. It's going to be a dark day when that happens.

I was a little horrified by these pajamas. I put them on...and felt...well, about twenty pounds heavier and like I could be the next Muppet star. See below.

Oh, god. They're so awkward! And....I hate to say it....they're so comfortable I might just wear them ALL THE TIME. I've been waiting for a winter storm and one is coming tonight! I can't wait to wear these pajamas! They're calling to me now, the damned sirens. "Tanya...put your legs in the pajamas. You'll be so warm and comforted. Put us on! We love you! We will keep you safe and warm and you won't stop rubbing yourself. TAKE USSSSSS!"

It's hard to resist Pajama Sirens. Honestly. I don't think even Odysseus could do it.

So. I guess my future is now. 2012 begins with me, as a Muppet. A very comfortable Muppet.

One other bonus with these...I may feel enormous while wearing them, but when I take them off it's like stepping right from the BEFORE photo into the AFTER photo. And that's a good feeling.

admin 12/29/11 admin 12/29/11

It just FEELS like forever.

Kealoha and I had a nice Christmas. Santa came a week early for the kiddos, and then on Christmas Eve we had my family over for turducken, roasted redskin potatoes, crazy good broccoli with pine nuts, homemade rolls, and enough dips and desserts to give you a heart attack. Thankfully, no one actually had a heart attack.

I could go on and on about the day, but it’s mostly boring warm-and-fuzzy stuff.

It also reminded me of Christmas two years ago. Just two years ago, I was flat on my back on the couch with a broken foot in a bright green cast and suspended on a stack of pillows. I couldn’t have the kids over for Christmas, because I couldn’t take care of them (having just broken my foot the week before). I was lonely, nearly broke, and literally broken. You’ve heard this story before. The point is…how even in the darkest times, the times when things have felt the most permanent, change still happens. That Christmas day, I’d never felt so alone. I felt like I’d be like that forever. I’d be poor, unloved, unwanted, and disabled. It felt like forever, like I’d finally reached my future.

And then my niece came and took me to see Sherlock Holmes (the first one). It was a gift, really, to know that someone loved and cared about me. My mom came over to help me with food and get around. After Christmas, I could take care of my kids again. I learned how to navigate the ice on crutches and still managed to get to work and take the kids to school and grocery shop. I earned more money. I spent a lot of time with friends and on my own. I dated.

I didn’t settle. I tried to once or twice, but I knew that wouldn’t work. I wanted a future that was good and wholesome, one in which I would be loved and supported. I tried hard to believe it was possible.

I’m saying all of this because I know some of you who read my blog are in dark places too. Maybe you’re lonely. Maybe there’s little money. Maybe you feel like you’re in your own kind of Forever, and your spirit is broken.

It may feel like Forever, but it’s not. Remember, broken bones do heal. It just takes time.

Hang in there. Hang on.

If there’s anything that’s proof that change can happen and can happen for the better, look at my story. There isn’t anything extraordinary about me. I’m a regular woman, maybe a bit quirky. I’m not famous. I live a quiet life, but I believed enough in myself to hang on. Someday I believed just enough to hang on to the next day…but that was enough. And even when I didn’t believe, things still changed. Gradually. For the better.

Worlds can change in two years. Lives can be transformed. I didn’t wait for the change to happen though, I prepared myself to be ready for it. I got stronger. I worked hard.

I’m not saying that ‘anything is possible if you just believe’. You don’t have to believe. Change will happen anyway. Just open yourself to the possibility that the change that is waiting for you is a GOOD one. That’s the possibility I tried to believe in (even when I didn’t).

Today Kealoha and I are taking a day trip to Ann Arbor to go to Zingerman’s Deli and Trader Joe’s. We’ll go together and be dorky and talk about food and kids. It’ll be fun. Safe. Comfortable. And about a million miles from where I was two years ago.

On that note, then, my wish for you:

May you have a New Year with unexpected surprises and delight and joy in the small things, and may change come to you and make you stronger and happier.

Phew.

That was a heavy blog.

Next time I’ll talk about my favorite kind of cheese, or maybe on why shows like American Idol and XFactor rarely create real stars. You know, deep stuff like that.

admin 12/23/11 admin 12/23/11

The Holiday Party (a festive story)

I posed a challenge to my writing group to write a story called The Holiday Party. This is my attempt. Enjoy, and may you find love and laughter this weekend.

The Holiday Party

by Tanya Eby

Turducken roasting. Check.

Holiday songs on Pandora playing. Check.

Bar set up in corner of kitchen. Check.

We were ready to go. Our first holiday party as a family, and soon my parents, Matthew’s parents, his uptight sister and equally uptight husband, their kids, and my younger brother would be showing up on our doorstep. “You ready for this, Jayne?” Matthew asked me in the kitchen. He pulled me close to him and I nestled in, careful not to stick my nose in his armpit. (He’s taller than I am by about a foot.)

“I’m totally ready,” I said. “Merry Christmas, husband.”

“Merry Christmas, wife.” He said. We laughed a bit at how the titles still felt a bit like oversized sweaters. We’d grow into them.

Matthew and I had been married for a little over a month, and already it was clearly different from our first marriages. We were both really young when we married the first time: me, to a man who became a vegan and gluten free control freak; Matthew to a woman who was very active online. Online dating that is. Together, Matthew and I had three kids: two of them mine, one of them his, but they really felt like ours. I even envisioned adding one more to our new family. I wasn’t quite 40, so I’d be an old mom, but still. I didn’t care so much.

“Mom! Mom! They’re here!” screamed TJ. He was eight and beyond excited. The kids were excited to see their new cousins, and eagerly waiting for presents to open.

“Let the chaos begin,” Matthew said and walked to the door.

I thought he was joking. I never knew he could actually see into the future. Chaos was coming, stomping up the sidewalk, and it was carrying a Velveeta Dip and wearing the worst holiday sweater I’ve ever seen.

“Holy sh….” Matthew breathed. “That’s Grandma Hollis.” It became clear it wasn’t just Grandma Hollis, but pretty much Matthew’s entire extended family. Our intimate little Christmas Eve get together just turned into a full-fledged party. Or nightmare. Depending on your perspective.

***

Matthew opened the door. “Grandma Hollis!” he exclaimed. “I thought you were still in Germany. You weren’t able to come to the wedding.”

She shoved a yellow casserole dish into his arms. “I didn’t come to the wedding because I don’t like parties. I don’t even want to be here, frankly, but I’m probably going to die soon and I want to see who here is worthy enough to inherit my Collection.”

I looked at Matthew and he whispered in my ear: “She has a collection of decorative plates. She thinks they’re worth a fortune.” “What’s that?” she asked, then turned up her hearing aid so it caused a huge shriek.

“I said you have a great collection! Of plates!”

“That’s right. I have an entire set of M.A.S.H, complete with Klinger in a mumu. Worth a FORTUNE.”

She barreled her way in the door.

We shut the door.

***

Minutes later, the doorbell rang again. In spilled my mom and dad (wearing matching green v-neck sweaters), and Matthew’s parents (looking very dignified and overly dressed), and then his Christian sister and brother-in-law showed up with their two asthmatic looking girls.

Matthew’s five-year-old daughter Molly asked the two girls, “You wanna come up to my room and play?”

The girls shook their heads in unison. “Jesus doesn’t play. He’s the Son of God and this is His day.”

I bent down to talk to the twins. (At least I think they were twins.) “Technically, Jesus’s Day is tomorrow. Tomorrow is Christmas; today is just the night when the wise men saw the star. I’m pretty sure they thought it was a sign of a party!” I laughed nervously. The girls just blinked. Okay then. “Molly, why don’t you take the girls up to your room anyway. You can play and they can draw pictures of Jesus on the cross. In slight pain.”

The twins smiled. Apparently, this sounded like a great idea.

***

There were about twenty people in the house at this point. Matthew was starting to sweat. “Turn off the heat,” I said. “It’s like a sauna in here.”

“I think I’m having a hot flash!” my mom exclaimed and then, to my horror, she pulled off her v-neck sweater revealing a very thin, and entirely see through white t-shirt. And under that shirt it was very clear that my mom was wearing some kind of red flimsy bra with little bits of holly over the nipples.

“Cover your eyes!” I said to TJ, but he was already crying.

The doorbell thankfully interrupted my mother’s striptease. (She was now fanning herself and complaining of ‘vaginal discomfort’.)

“Who could that be?” Matthew asked. “It’s like all of Bethlehem is here already.”

I surveyed our living room where our family was all smooshed in eating Velveeta dip and drinking egg nog that my Uncle Rich had liberally doused with rum. I looked for the telltale head of red hair and knew immediately who was missing. My brother. Jack. Or as he liked to go by now that he was a published poet: Fido.

***

I knew he was bringing his current girlfriend; I just didn’t know that girlfriend would be a four-foot tall Asian woman who was about ten months pregnant. “Jack!” I said and then promptly “I mean, Fido!”

“I’m going by Philip now. It’s more distinguished. Philip Jackson the Third.” It was Matthew’s turn to look confused. I shook my head, sending him telepathic messages to just go along with it.

“And you must by Megan!” I said to the pregnant woman.

“I’m Julie. Who’s Megan? Who is this MEGAN?” She put her hands on her hips and for some reason I imagined an Oompah Loompah. Maybe she was going to give me some chocolate.

“That’s right,” I said. “I’m sorry. I was thinking of a friend of mine. Julie. So glad you could come. You must be tired, what with driving from Chicago and being, what, seven? Eight months pregnant?”

She looked at me, then at Jack/Fido/Phillip. “Who’s pregnant?” She asked him. “What is she talking about?”

“I have no idea,” he said. “That’s a little rude, sis.” I smiled and offered a short “Ha!” and then realized they weren’t kidding. She looked like she was about to pop out four or five enormous children and she was saying she wasn’t pregnant.

“Come on in,” I said and ushered them inside.

***

I’m not sure what I thought would happen on our first family Christmas together. I’d envisioned windows rimmed with ice and Frank Sinatra singing about walking in a winter wonderland. I imagined me and Matthew and the kids, and our parents and siblings, sitting around our expanded table and eating our new tradition of turducken. I imagined laughing when my family reminisced about past Christmases and how charming both Matthew and I were.

I did not imagine the reality: a house filled with too many people, the toilet backing up after Grandma Hollis spent forty-five minutes in there. I did not imagine my mom and Matthew’s mom bonding over stories of getting their stomachs stapled or the length of errant hairs they’d found sprouting from the nose/chin/vaginal-area. I did not imagine Matthew’s dad choking on a piece of tater tot casserole that one of the cousins had brought with them. Some of the tater tots were still partially frozen and lodged in his throat until Matthew’s sister prayed to Jesus and then gave her dad the Heimlich maneuver with such force that the tater tot threw across the room and stuck to the window.

And I did not imagine my brother’s non-pregnant girlfriend’s water breaking and then her insisting that she wasn’t in labor, but was just a little gassy.

***

Total chaos. I mean, the kind of chaos you see in disaster films where people run screaming and waving their hands in the air and then getting sucked in by a blob or stepped on by a giant lizard, or swallowed whole by the earth itself.

We laid Julie in the middle of the living room where she panted and insisted that she was not sprouting a child at all. “Push!” Matthew cried. “Push!” I echoed. And then we caught that slippery little child with a towel while my mom called 911.

And then Julie looked into her child’s eyes and said “Weird” and I nearly wept with the pure beauty of it.

Molly came down with the twins and the girls held up their hand-drawn pictures of Jesus suffering. “And the baby was born unto them and would later rise up to be the King of Kings,” they said.

“King of Kings,” my brother breathed, and kissed the baby’s head. “Exactly. We’ll call him Elvis.”

***

After the ambulance came and took the new mom and dad to the hospital, and after we’d cleared everyone out (no one was really all that hungry after watching Julie give birth), tucked the kids in for sleep and promised them that Santa would come when they were asleep and dreaming.

Matthew and I returned to the kitchen. He pulled me close to him again and I just stood there and breathed. “Tell me it’s not always going to be like this, husband.”

“I’m pretty certain that this Christmas will go down in the history books.”

I laughed a little then and then I heard…I couldn’t believe it…a soft tinkling of a bell ringing. “Every time a bell rings,” I began and Matthew said “An angel gets its wings!” It was a sort of miracle, really. Our own Christmas mir…Wait a minute, I thought. That’s a whole lot of angels getting wings.

The bell kept ringing and ringing getting louder and louder until we found the source of the sound: Grandma Hollis was in the bathroom again and had slipped and fallen when the toilet started overflowing. She wore a bell around her neck for just such an occasion.

We helped her up and I gave her some dry clothes to wear home.

Matthew dropped her off at the retirement community.

In the morning, against all odds, Christmas came, the kids loved their presents and then passed out in post-presents-coma. Matthew handed me a present stuffed into a plastic bag. It was a special commemorative plate of Archie Bunker. Apparently, we weren’t worthy enough for Klinger, but we had earned at least one of the plates.

It was my favorite present that year because I think it sort of captured how the rest of life for Matthew, me, and our kids together would be: a life of chaos, laughter, and a family crazy enough for bad television.

Somehow, I’d gotten everything I’d ever wished for. I didn’t know who to thank really. Santa, Jesus, or maybe the King of Kings—Elvis. You don’t have to know where blessings come from, you just accept them into your life. And then you hang those blessings on the wall, surround yourself with them. Which is exactly what we did with Archie Bunker. He’s right in the middle of the wall, surrounded by pictures of our crazy, lovely family. Matthew and I still look at him and laugh, even now, all these years later.

THE END

Merry Christmas, everyone.

Cheers!

-Tanya-

admin 12/23/11 admin 12/23/11

On Scrotal Sacs & Anal Probing (Happy Festivus!!!)

Every once in a while, I ask my ‘readers’ to send me questions that I can answer. I want to involve them, yes, but actually this is me being lazy. When I can’t think of a blog topic, I turn to others to think for me. Patrick started the conversation off on my Facebook page. Patrick asked: “Does any particular breed of bovine produce a better scrotal sack/bag than another? Ie, Angus, buffalo etc....”

I had to think about this for a while. Then I started REALLY thinking about this. A LOT. What did I know about scrotal sacks and balls? My only experience with them has been in biology class, one time when my older brother (he was 10 or so, I was 6) was wearing cut-off levis that were so short his balls squeezed out and I pointed and screamed (I thought there was something wrong with him), and the times where I have, uhm, encountered balls on my own. In the dark. Feeling around for, uh, stuff.

But I’ve never been served balls on a plate. Not even deep-fried ones. I was at a loss on how to answer this question. Thankfully, there were other readers on my Facebook page happy to help out.

Mary responded: “It depends on what your definition of "better" is...are you looking for size, fertility, or flavor? (I'm an old 4H kid).”

I breathed a sigh of relief. Now here was someone who seemed to know a thing or two about scrotal sacs. Maybe I could learn something.

Patrick continued: “Looking for more of subjective perspective. Things like feel, enjoyment factor, fashion comparability.”

JC jumped in and said: “@Patrick, Ah! Well, then I guess it will depend on which one you don't mind as much kicking you. ;) Unless of course it was Curly, our old AI bull in college, but I'm sure he's been made into burgers by now. (Old 4H kids can be evil sometimes),”

All I could think of was pendulous ball sacs. And cows. And my brother’s super-short-shorts. It was very disturbing.

I said: “You guys truly ask probing questions”

(I thought that would buy me more time to think up a clever answer.)

Patrick continued again “Speaking of probing.... What is the fascination of aliens and anal probing? Not really sure what relevant info resides on my rectum.”

Finally! A question I could speak about with real authority. Not FIRSTHAND authority, mind you, but authority because I’ve spent a good long time thinking about anal probing.

I could totally handle this.

For Patrick—On Anal Probing & Aliens

Patrick, you ask what the fascination is with aliens and anal probing? I got this. See, aliens are super smart and technologically advanced, so clearly they must know something about medical instruments that we don’t. Obviously, our rectums hold a variety of vital information like whether we like to surf board or play Scrabble. Since aliens don’t speak our language (they communicate via mind images), they simply extract the information from our rectums using gigantic PROBES. They go straight to the source. Since many of us think out of asses anyway, this makes total sense.

Sincerely,

Tanya Eby

I’m very satisfied with this answer. In fact, I think I’ve found my new calling. I can answer deep questions and explain mysteries…unless it’s about bovine scrotal sacs, and then I just can’t focus.

admin 12/22/11 admin 12/22/11

Another "Wah is me" blog

I’m sitting in my house and it’s quiet. Super quiet. Kealoha is at work and the kids are at their dads’. I’m not teaching or narrating right now. In my head, I had my whole week planned. Every day, I’d wake up and write for an hour, then go to the gym for an hour. I’d stick to my Weight Watchers plan. In the afternoon, I’d read and work on syllabi for my classes.

Uh….

Today, I’ve cleaned the house a little, but then I watched an episode of “Breaking Bad” even though it’s depressing. Weight Watchers makes me obsess about food and feel guilty for everything I eat until I just say “oh, fuck you” and eat whatever is in reach. Today, lunch was leftover chicken wings, a cookie, and a handful from the chocolate tower. I sat at my computer and clicked on random crap instead of writing. I thought about working out, and then I took a nap.

I’m so…meh. I don’t know if it’s the weather, or if this is my default position for when I have time to myself. Instead of accomplishing all the things I never have time for, mostly I just lie around the house. Lay around the house. Whatever. Mostly I just put my body on the couch, snack and take random naps.

Luckily, the New Year is coming so that means I can start everything over in a couple of weeks. I’d tell you what my resolution is going to be, but apparently, instead of accomplishing my To Do List, I feel another nap coming on.

I do have a little Christmas wish before I curl up for a fifteen-minute cat nap. I’d like to get some of my boundless energy back, and certainly some of my writing mojo. This year I’ve taken a real pounding with that, and it would be nice to feel like my writing was actually moving me forward instead of making me feel like I’m on a treadmill. Of course, to actually have some momentum, I should probably actually write something. Which I will put at the top of my list…for tomorrow.

admin 12/20/11 admin 12/20/11

An Entirely Different Rudolph

My 7 year old son just sang me a Christmas carol. It’s his own rendition of “Rudolph”. It goes like this:

Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeer Had a very shiny blade and when those stupid reindeer friends laughed at him he took his blade out And...

And then one foggy Christmas Eve Santa came to say:

“Aaaaaarrrrrhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!” (read as a bloodcurdling scream) Then Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeer went after everyone in town. Merry Christmas.

(Sound effect of swords clashing.)

He starts therapy on Wednesday.

admin 12/20/11 admin 12/20/11

Blog Slacker Right Here

I feel like such a blog slacker. I haven’t blogged in almost a week. I could say it’s for good reasons: 1) We had Christmas early since the kids will be at their dad’s this year.

2) My son has been having major tantrum meltdowns that require a ton of attention and energy (and future counseling).

3) My son also developed a fairly high fever over the last two days and I’ve been up around the clock tending to him.

4) My daughter got a new music box and she’s playing it incessantly. Swan Lake is now a loop in my brain and affecting my writing mojo.

I could use all of those as an excuse, but mostly I haven’t blogged because I just didn’t feel like it.

I did have a dream where I gave up my ‘online presence’ entirely. No blogging, Facebook or Twitter. Suddenly, friends had no idea what I was up to. I became a mystery once again. People started wondering: “whatever happened to Tanya”. It was a great feeling to be missed and wondered about. Then I got an email that said: “Tanya, 75% of the ENTIRE WORLD relies on your blog for writing angst and dip recipes. Stop dinking around.”

I woke up sweating, but still had no idea what to blog about.

So I’m here. Busy week. It’s peculiarly lacking the Christmas Spirit, but I blame the lack of snow for that, PMS and probably something to do with the planets.

I will eventually answer the questions I received on Facebook, but frankly, I don’t know if I’m smart enough to talk about what kind of cow balls are ‘better’ or why it’s called “Real Housewives of Orange County” when they’re not ‘real’, ‘housewives’, OR living in a place with lots of oranges.

These questions hurt my head. Right now, all I can really think about is disconnecting from the computer and curling up with a book. I know that 75% of the world is counting on me for blogs, so I’ll be back. But first I’m going to take a massive….nap.

admin 12/15/11 admin 12/15/11

True Story.

I had a dream last night where I was walking through a dense woods. I couldn’t see anything, but noticed there was a flashlight at the bottom of my feet. So, naturally, I bent down to pick up the flashlight. I couldn’t pick it up. I wrapped my hand around it, but it seemed to be connected to the ground. I tugged. Damn it! Why couldn’t I pick up the flashlight! I adjusted my grip, and I tugged again and again….

…and woke up and realized I was not tugging on a flashlight…but actually tugging on Kealoha, who was curled up next to me. He had a big smile on his face. Thankfully, I was just tugging on his hand and not, you know, something else.

At least I think it was his hand.

admin 12/14/11 admin 12/14/11

Updates I didn't put on Twitter or Facebook, for good reason.

I am not going to complain in this blog. I am not going to complain in this blog. I am maybe going to complain just a little bit in this blog, but it’s not a REAL complaint.

Secretly, I worry that I have become boring.

I like to tweet and blog about the crazy things going on in my life, but this last week….man. Here are tweets and Facebook statuses I didn’t post:

Slept in. Did some stretching. Took a nap.

Now flipping through cookbooks and planning our next week’s menu. I’m thinking empanadas and Tuscan bean soup, and tilapia in an herb crust.

I had a stomach-ache all day and thought it was appendicitis, but really it was just gas.

Finally read “Breaking Dawn.” If I was a vampire, I don’t think I’d philosophize and talk so much.

I have the longest hair EVER on my CHIN. What is wrong with me? Am I becoming a Sasquatch? Or a man?

Was proud of staying on Weight Watchers plan when I had lunch with my sister. Looked up crab legs. 3 points! Delighted in meal. Found out later that it was 3 points PER LEG. So, uh, my actual lunch was 30 points. Cannot eat for the rest of the week to balance it out. #DietsSuck

Watched six hours of “Breaking Bad”. Am worried I am an addict. Drugs scare me and make me itch.

I mean, what is going on? Where’s my angst? Where’s my inner turmoil? How do I function if….I’M HAPPY? I’m even losing my writing juju. I just sort of feel: meh. I’m like a fat cat who purrs all the time, rolls on the ground, and says RUB ME. (Just ask Kealoha.)

I’m trying to breathe through this. I know it’s going to be okay. I can handle this. I can totally handle this.

admin 12/11/11 admin 12/11/11

Bring On The Food Allergy Mumbojumbo Testing, and Rub My Chakras

I’ve been trying to figure out why I’m having such a hard time losing weight even though I’m exercising and watching what I eat, blah blah blah…and I’ve been wanting to get tested for food allergies. I asked my allergist and she said that they only do the blood tests. But I have friends who’ve gotten this weird test that included holding balls or something and discovering that wheat or cheese or berries or whatever messes up their system. I’ve been wanting to do this for two years. I mean, you HOLD BALLS. Who doesn’t want to hold balls? Except, you know, maybe lesbians. (Bad joke. Bad, bad joke.)

So when Groupon offered a $50 coupon for Food Allergy Testing, I signed up. I was the first in line. Me! #1! And Kealoha freaked out. (But in a cute way. Not a creepy way.)

See, Kealoha’s an atheist, though he likes Christmas music, especially if Jesus is mentioned doing the polka. So the idea of having someone link me up to a car battery and shoot electrical impulses through me to see what I may or may not be allergic to, sort of freaked him out. His face got all red. He got so worked up he…well…I can't talk about it. I can say it’s okay. It happens to the best of us. Here is our conversation:

KEALOHA: You are not doing this. You can’t be serious.

ME: I’m serious. Dude, I’ve been wanting to do this for YEARS.

KEALOHA: Yes, but it’s ridiculous. You’re supporting medical malarkey. I mean, the place is in a health food store in a STRIP MALL. You’ll probably be in the middle of the store with some adolescent hooking you up to a machine.

ME: They don’t hook you up to a machine. They ask you to hold balls.

KEALOHA: If you want to know if you’re allergic to wheat, I have a pair of balls you can hold. I’ve got them RIGHT HERE. Go on, hold them. I'll tell you what you're allergic to.

ME: I’m not holding your balls. But I am going to do this food allergy thing. It’s going to be awesome. I mean, a STRIP MALL! They use ANCIENT CHINESE SECRETS. They say so. Or they imply it.

KEALOHA: Ancient Chinese Secrets? What are they? A dry cleaner?

ME: And you know what, I’m going to bring my MOM.

KEALOHA: Oh god. She’ll probably get a job there.

Then I said I was going to do it and, in fact, I had already signed up. There just needed to be four more people out there to sign up and I’d get the deal. This caused a profusion of laughter so hard that, well,the thing That Cannot Be Named happened. (Hint: It involves and explosion of air WHILE laughing.)

If four more people sign up, I’m going. And I’m bringing Kealoha with me. He can watch me hold those teenager’s balls. It’s for SCIENCE, man. Science.

UPDATE: Five other people out there signed up for the deal. I'm doing it!

admin 12/9/11 admin 12/9/11

So…Uhm…Where’s Christmas?

Christmas is in two weeks(ish). Two weeks(ish)! And I just can’t seem to get into it this year. Maybe it’s that there hasn’t been any snow and I haven’t actually HAD to wear my winter coat and gloves. Or maybe it’s because of the wedding in October, and we’re still partied out. Or maybe it’s because my son has been throwing so many tantrums and calling me all sorts of horrible names (we’re taking him to a counselor) that I don’t really feel like being all warm and lovey dovey during the season. Or maybe that I’m back to trying to lose the weight I gained after breaking my foot (two years ago!). Or maybe that it’s I have to do a ton of research for my Madness and Women in Literature course, and nothing says holidays like studying insane asylums and crazy chicks. I don’t know what the issue is.

I’m just crabby. And tired. I don’t want to go out and celebrate because I just end up eating everything in sight and then I feel guilty and bloated for days. Mostly, I’d like to stay inside and watch Netflix, read, get back into the groove of writing. There’s all this pressure though to be cheerful. Where’s the holiday where you get to celebrate moodiness? Isn’t there one?

Now I want to create a NEW holiday. It happens at the end of February when you just want to curl into the fetal position. (No, not Valentine's Day.) I'm going to call it CareLess Day. You know, a day where you could care less about what happens. You don't put on makeup. You don't take a shower. You don't have friends or family over. If you do venture outside, you actively try to steal someone's parking space. You eat pizza and drink red wine and YOU DON'T USE A NAPKIN. You eat ice cream right out of the container. You don't buy anything, because you hate shopping. You get to be grumpy allllll day long, and you don't even have to sing carols about it.

Hmmm.

All right. Maybe that's a bad idea.

It’ll be okay. I am actually looking forward to my family coming over for Christmas Eve. We’ll have turducken and a gift exchange, maybe play some games, or at least do some serious holiday drinking. I’m going to try and set aside all my grouchiness that day and just let it all go and enjoy. Kealoha and I will spend Christmas day together. The kids will be at their dad’s.

I really am just being grumpy. Maybe the snow that’s currently falling will help cheer me up. It’s now officially cold enough that I can pull out my bad holiday sweater (the one that makes me look 60ish and like I have cookies baking).

I’m going to try and do some deep breathing to channel the Christmas spirit. Or maybe a Ouija board.

Actually, that’s not a bad idea. Bring on the séance, people; it’s Christmas.

admin 12/8/11 admin 12/8/11

Chapter One of "Foodies Rush In"

I've been talking about my new book "Foodies Rush In" for awhile now. While agents and editors have nibbled at the book, I think it might just be another of those quiet books that doesn't have enough 'wow' factor for a big publishing house to take a chance on. It's okay. Not all stories are loud. I'm proud of this one because it shows a softer side to my writing. I'm not sure what I'm going to do with it yet. Haven't quite given up on getting an agent to rep it....but....it's possible I might just publish it on my own. Kealoha and I are looking in to a little publishing business to also produce audio books. We'll see. Until then...here's the first chapter of "Foodies Rush In". Hope you like it.

FOODIES RUSH IN

Chapter 1

Dana Kupiac leaned her head back against the plane’s seat. She hated flying with a passion, but if she just breathed through it, she’d be fine. In just two more hours she’d be home cuddling on the couch with her two kiddos and back into the grind of her life as a single mom.

The old woman sitting next to her softly patted her arm. “Would you like a drink?” she asked. The woman had white hair with just a twinge of blue, a bedazzled holiday sweater, and that soft sympathetic smile that brought up images of grandmothers and poodles and cookies baking. “You look like you could use a drink,” she continued, her smile beaming. “I’d have another one but I already had a heavy dose of Valium. Doctor prescribed of course. Does wonders for flying.” The woman winked at Dana, then her gaze seemed to go off into the yonder. She stared at her bedazzled chest and then picked a piece of lint of the sequined Santa. The woman had a sequined Santa face on her sweater and Dana tried not to notice that those pink eyes were exactly where the grandmother’s nipples would be.

“No, thank you,” Dana said and shook her head. “I just need to breathe through this. I’ll be fine. I just get a little nervous about flying.” Dana considered for a moment. “I get a little bit nervous about basically everything.”

The grandmother nodded sympathetically. “Valium does wonders for most everything,” she continued. “Why, I’d take it all the time if I could.” The woman stared at her chest again and flicked the bell on Santa’s hat. She seemed to like the way the bell ‘tinked’ because she flicked it again.

Dana tried to stifle a laugh. The woman next to her was blasted. Totally blasted. And if she had cookies baking at home, they were probably laced with something. Dana smiled and then closed her eyes. If she pretended to sleep…maybe then she wouldn’t have to talk to the woman.

With her eyes closed, Dana tried to have her mind not focus on the sounds of the plane hurtling through the air and the probabilities that there would be a crash of some sort or a terrorist attack. News coverage of that sort of thing had almost completely ruined travel for her. She was always so creative in her neuroses that they sometimes threatened to really drive her crazy. No. She’d do as her sister Valerie suggested: she’d find her Zen. Dana was pretty sure her Zen left along with her husband last year, but still, she’d try to find it. Maybe it really was within her and not somewhere on the coast of Ohio. Did Ohio have a coast, she thought? No. No. Not like Michigan. Michigan was surrounded by water. Michigan was her home. And in two more hours, she’d be hugging her kids, and the neon lights and general craziness of Las Vegas would be far behind her. Less than two hours. The flight only had another half hour or so before landing, and then she’d get her luggage, get her car from long term parking, drive the half hour home to Coopersville, and return to farmland and kiddos and making jams in her kitchen…and all of the glitz and adventure would be over. Quite possibly forever. At thirty-seven and single again and with boobs giving in to gravity more and more each day instead of fighting it, Dana didn’t see a whole lot of razzle-dazzle in her future. Unless it was battery operated.

“Course, Ecstasy is nice too,” she heard the old woman say. “Young folks call it the E. When my husband and I pop ‘em we go at it like we’re teenagers. It makes everything sorta…glow.” The old woman reached in front of her and began to stroke something imaginary. Dana closed her eyes tighter and pretended to snore.

Dana needed to find her Zen. Where was her Zen?

She didn’t have one. Let’s face it, being high-strung was part of her genetic make-up. She wasn’t like her sister Valerie, a stay-at-home supermom to twin baby boys. She could latch both boys onto her nipples and still manage to not only clean the entire house including scrubbing the floors, but also cook a four course gourmet dinner while doing pilates. No. Dana wasn’t like her sister at all, and with her dark hair and skin that hinted of past ancestors from around the world, Dana sometimes wondered if they were really related. Of course, Valerie was an exact copy of their mom and Dana…well, her strong chin and deep brown eyes looked just like her father’s. Sometimes she wondered if she’d even inherited his facial hair.

She sighed. Thankfully the woman next to her had stopped talking. Dana would’ve worried she’d gone into some kind of overdose condition, but she could hear the woman flipping pages of a magazine.

A slight smile started to form on Dana’s face. It was slight, sure, but even a slight smile was something of a miracle. This last year had been worse than hard. It had been almost unendurable. When Paul left her, she’d felt abandoned and devastated, yes, but more than that, she’d felt deeply betrayed. Not to mention the anger she’d felt with him leaving not only her and their marriage but also their 4-year-old daughter Ruby and 6-year-old son Zach. Paul had left everything they’d built together and started over with a new woman, a new house, and a new baby on the way. He paid child support, took the kids every other weekend or so, but beyond that, Dana had been on her own.

And she’d made it work. She taught English at the local Community College, worked at a restaurant on the weekends she didn’t have the kids, sold the jams and jellies and spicy chutneys she canned in her friend’s kitchen. And she’d somehow managed to keep paying the mortgage payments on the modest house. She’d kept the kids clothed and fed and loved. And she tried only to fall apart when they were sleeping or at their dad’s. A year of constant work and struggle had left Dana beyond Zen, beyond constantly exhausted. She was in a land of barely existing at all.

So when her sister had given her the round-trip ticket to the conference in Las Vegas, a conference for foodies of all kind, Dana had sunk to her kitchen floor and cried with the sheer weight of the kindness. “I’m not just being nice,” Valerie had said, wiping the hair from Dana’s forehead. “I’m making an investment. In you. In your catering business. Vick and I will watch the kids and you can go to the conference. Learn everything you can about how to sell your food because, Dana, it’s amazing. And then come back here and we’ll do it. I’ll help you. Things will get easier.” Valerie had said the last part so convincingly that Dana had nodded as if she believed her. “And,” Valerie continued then looked around to see if any of the kids were within earshot. “Try to get laid. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, right?” Then she’d slipped Dana a crinkly condom wrapper into her hand and closed it tight, an action that was exactly something like their mother would do.

Dana laughed a little to herself as she thought of this. She was deep in her thoughts now. So deep she didn’t mind the turbulence at all.

She replayed all the crazy things that she’d done at the conference. The first two days, she’d gotten all the information and then some that she needed to work on her catering and canning business. She could make the food in her friend’s kitchen (Stella had a restaurant) and then sell her packaged goods online. She’d made contacts and handed out information. Tried amazing combinations of foods. And then…then…she’d met someone. He was cute, awkward, funny, and a great kisser.

Dana floated away thinking about him. She could remember almost everything about their two crazy days and nights together—except with all the mai tais and other tropical drinks there were a few holes in that last evening. She could still feel his kisses on her lips, on the side of her neck, even on her... If the old woman next to her knew what she was thinking right now, she’d wonder if Dana were on the E.

It was a foolish rendezvous, but it was also a lot of fun. And that last night…Ha! That last night began with a karaoke contest in a tiki lounge and ended with a hysterical fake wedding with her dressed in an 80s style short fluffy white dress and her ‘husband’ dressed in a t-shirt that looked like a tuxedo and jeans. Elvis had ‘married’ them of course and they had laughed and laughed and laughed, and then drank some more.

Of course, none of it was legal. They hadn’t filed paperwork or anything. They hadn’t even made love. Had sex. Whatever you’d call it. Had a one-night stand. No. All they’d shared was a simple kiss at the chapel, and then a much more complex series of kisses on the elevator up to the hotel, much to the apparent delight of a couple of Canadian tourists (she knew they were Canadian because they wore little red maple leaves on their matching jackets). As much fun as Dana had had with him, she knew it was only for a couple of days. But it was a couple of days that might allow her to get through the next year of hard work and endless struggle but still have something small within her that was her own.

“Please put your seats in the upright position,” one of the flight attendants announced over the loudspeaker. “We will be making our descent into Grand Rapids, Michigan where it is a balmy 14 degrees. Happy holidays, everyone!”

Dana barely heard the words. She was too busy reliving the vacation of a lifetime. For the first time in a year, she felt rejuvenated and relaxed, ready to start her new business venture. She’d make a secure life for her and the kids, Paul be damned. And thinking about all the things she’d done this weekend, she realized that for the first time since before she was married, she felt reconnected to her body again. She’d never realized how over the years in her marriage she’d shut herself off from being a sensual being. Dana knew now, although she’d known it before, but maybe it was helpful to be reminded…Dana knew now that she was more than just a single working mom. She was more than a sister. She was also a woman. What happened in Vegas would stay in Vegas, of course. It was two days and two nights of sheer liberation. But she was taking back something with her. She was taking back more of herself. She was going home stronger, more motivated, and she couldn’t wait to hug her kids and get on with their lives.

“You’re looking very relaxed,” the woman next to Dana said as if she approved.

Dana nodded. “I’ve found my Zen,” she said softly, more to herself than the bedazzled, drugged up grandmother.

When the plane finally zoomed through the atmosphere and slid across the runway of the Gerald R. Ford Airport, Dana was still smiling. She had, indeed, found her Zen. It had begun with a man named Eugene…

admin 12/4/11 admin 12/4/11

Puffy

I’m slowly coming to terms with the fact that there are just some behaviors in your kids that they’re born with. You can’t talk them out of it no matter how hard you try. It’s also possible that somehow your kids will be opposite you in ways you can’t believe. My mom is a hoarder. It was funny at first, but now it’s a little bit creepy. (Remember “Joe”?) I’m her daughter. You’d think I’d be like her and be comforted by having stuff around me, like piles and piles of it. I’m the opposite of my mom. Too much stuff makes me feel chaotic and crazy. I thought my daughter would be just like me. That a love of ‘stuff’ is just a quality of my mom’s. WRONG. I’m the opposite of my mom and my daughter is the opposite of me…which means….my daughter is just like my mom. Egads! She’s a little mini-hoarder! I try to throw her things out so I feel calm and comforted; and she freaks out because she NEEDS stuff to feel calm and comforted.

Honestly. She NEEDS stuff around her. She sleeps with a dozen or so stuffed animals, books, Squinkies, etc; but it’s not just stuffed animals she has a personal connection with. She connects with boxes, pieces of papers, catalogues…and now…her favorite toy is…a baster. I’m not joking.

On Thanksgiving, I bought a new baster. It’s a pretty nice one. Red, squeezable, and able to suck up juices and baste away. I couldn’t find it on Thanksgiving until I heard my daughter playing with “Puffy”. “Oh, Puffy,” she’d say. “I love you!” I snuck around the corner and sure enough, Simone was squeezing that baster with as much love as she’d give a kitten.

I took it from her and she screamed and was horrified that I immediately filled Puffy with burning hot turkey juice. Simone cried big tears. “NooOOoOooO!” It was like I was torturing her friend. To calm her down, I promised I’d buy her her very own baster and thought she’d forget about it.

She didn’t. She’s now had her very own Puffy for about a week. I’m a little horrified that she’s so attached to this baster. I mean, I do want her to be an independent woman, but I’m worried she’s already given up on finding a mate and Puffy is (in the future) going to inseminate her. But maybe I’m 0ver-thinking this.

Whatever. My daughter loves her baster. Who am I to criticize? I have a fondness for sausage logs and sasquatches. So, I guess in that sense, my daughter is exactly like me. Maybe we both have issues.

admin 12/1/11 admin 12/1/11

Why I Regret Teaching My Kids Anatomical Words

Sometimes, I regret having taught my kids the ‘anatomical’ words for well, anatomy. It all goes with the theory that you don’t want your kids to be ashamed of their bodies, so don’t give them silly words for their body parts. An arm is an arm and a penis is not a willy or nicky but a penis. And hopefully a penis is NEVER an arm. Because that would be freaky. I felt regret for this ‘naming’ when I had the following conversation with my 5-year-old daughter and 7-year-old son last night. My 5-yr-old was sitting on my lap and sort of punching/kneading my boobs. (We do call them boobs, and not breasts. Mostly because we eat chicken breasts and that freaks me out. One would never eat a chicken boob.)

ME: Simone. Simone. Simone! Could you please stop pushing on my boobs?

SIMONE: Why? I like them. They’re fun.

ME: They’re not fun. They’re just boobs.

SIMONE: They’re soft. I want to put my head on them. (Then she starts kneading them again and making little ‘boing boing’ sounds.)

ME: You’re making me uncomfortable. Where are the boundaries? This family needs boundaries! When you were a baby you wanted nothing to do with my boobs.

SIMONE: I like them now.

LOUIS: You’ll get some of your own later. Like when you’re eighteen.

ME: Probably fourteen, Louis. Maybe even twelve or thirteen. (Simone is still kneading me.) And then I’ll grab YOUR boobs and you’ll be MORTIFIED.

LOUIS: Yeah. Mortified. Hey, Simone. Did you know girls have vaginas?

SIMONE: (Giving him a ‘duh’ expression.) Yes, Louis. I know all about baginas.

ME: Not buh-ginas, honey, vuh-ginas.

LOUIS: Yep. You’ve got a vagina. Mom’s got a vagina. All women have vaginas! Even I have a vagina. (pause. pause. pause.) Naw. I don’t have a vagina because that would just be awkward. Like, REALLY awkward.

What could I do? I just shook my head and then tried to deftly change the conversation by saying “Hey! Anybody want dessert?”

admin 11/29/11 admin 11/29/11

What The Muppets Taught Me

Kealoha and I went to see the new Muppet movie last night. A curious thing happened to me while watching it. I felt like a little, tiny, young Tanya woke up inside me, stretched, and started laughing again. It was very peculiar and delightful. The movie is terrific. It’s cute, funny, a bit nostalgic, and filled with…well…hope. Anyone from my generation who grew up with the Muppets will understand this: I could watch the movie as an adult and enjoy it, but it’s that little girl in me that absolutely rejoiced.

The movie reminded me of a couple of things. First, how so much of modern living is fast-paced and sarcastic. It’s like we’ve all grown up and become more cynical and jaded. “Hope” has become something to laugh at ironically. Like, we’re all hipsters now or something. The movie reminded me that when I was a girl, I’d watch the Muppets and no matter what was going on in my household, for a while, I could laugh. And as cheesy as it sounds, the song Rainbow Connection really did make me believe that if I just held on long enough, some day I’d find it…whatever IT was. (And I did.)

The movie also reminded me of other things the Muppets have taught me. They taught me how to write, and how to write comedy. I remember a book I had of the Muppets. It was unlike any other book I’d seen because it was a book of sketches from the actual show. There were illustrations, but the dialogue was written out in script form. I’d re-enact my favorite scenes and try to do the Muppet voices (poorly). But really, when I look back on it, the Muppets taught me comedic pacing and how to write a sketch that didn’t go on too long. In a sense, I learned dialogue from the Muppets (which might explain a lot).

Now, the Muppets are still teaching me…and it’s that cheesy idea of Hope again. In the movie, they say that the Muppets have given the world the third greatest gift: laughter. But for me, it’s deeper than that. It’s the idea that everything will work out. Everything will be okay. And the deeper idea that no matter how weird you are (if you’re a chicken, or a frog, or whatever Gonzo is) you can still have love and connection and family, whether it’s the family you’re born into, or the family you choose.

So. Yes. The Muppets taught me how to write, how to laugh, how to hope, and maybe…just maybe…how to love.

I know it’s cheesy. I know that. But I’m okay with that. Maybe with all the crap that goes on in the world, the daily stresses of family life and finances, and then the bigger, global stresses…maybe we need to just slow down a little and rejoice in the little things a bit more. The Muppets reminded me of that too.

My inner-little-Tanya is very grateful; so is the outer-older-Tanya. Both of us are smiling.

admin 11/28/11 admin 11/28/11

Our Super! Exciting! Weekend! (aka Filling Our Deep Freezer)

I made it through the long weekend! Phew! Funny thing is, after I posted my heart-is-heavy blog, my kids’ grandmamma (my ex-mother-in-law) stopped by for a visit. She wants to continue our friendship, but she tries to be considerate of my ex and his feelings, so she treads carefully. I respect that. Hopefully, in time, it will get easier. I was delighted that I got to see her for a bit and visit while the kiddos played, and I have to say it did a lot for my heavy heart.

The rest of the weekend was basically me and Kealoha taking random naps, and then I watched “Breaking Bad” (Season One), read, prepped the next audiobook narration (the charming “Rainshadow Road” by Lisa Kleypas), cooked here and there, and then we did a truly exciting thing: Kealoha and I filled our new deep freeze. That’s right. The most exciting part of the weekend was a mini-shopping spree at Gordon Foods and then Costco to buy frozen meat and veggies IN BULK! and then put them in our new deep freezer. AND Kealoha built new shelves for me in a side closet.

It was a thrilling time at the Blunder Lair/Tiki House. I could go on and on but I will spare you the dialogue scenes that would sound like this:

ME: Oh my god. Kealoha. Look! It’s seven pounds of pork loin! Pork loin! We could have seven POUNDS of it frozen! I could defrost it whenever I want, just, like randomly, and then we’d have pork loin!

KEALOHA: Uhm. Okay.

ME: You do not sound excited enough about this. Think of the possibilities!

KEALOHA: I don’t really like pork loin. I mean, it’s okay, but it doesn’t change my life or anything.

ME: (sadly) Really? Even if I stuff it? With bacon?

KEALOHA: Hmmm….

Yes. I will spare you those details.

Until next time, readers. Let’s hope I have some more interesting stories to tell. I do have a couple left in my brain wiggling around.

That sounds worm-like and gross. I assure you the stories are not worm-like or gross.

PS: Shameless plug. If you like my blog and my books, please consider buying a book for a friend. You can buy them directly from ME. (I have leftovers from the book fair and I need to get them out of my house.) I'll sign whatever books you buy (if you want) and make it purty. All books are $10. Check it out HERE: splash page on tanyaeby.com.

admin 11/26/11 admin 11/26/11

A Heavy Heart

I think I’ve got post-holiday blues. Well, that, and some serious cramps. Blugh.

I woke up this morning with a really heavy heart. You know, that sort of sadness that sits on your chest the way a cat does, only without the lovely comfort and purring? That sadness that just lingers; a heavy weight on you.

It’s about my kids. I miss them. I miss that I only get to spend half their lives with them. (They’re at my house for one week, and then at their dad’s and we alternate holidays.) I’m sad that my son has so much anger in him, and I can’t seem to help him express it or let go of it. My daughter seems to have adjusted better, but I worry about her too.

I’m sad that I’ve somehow become this monster in the eyes of my ex and his wife, when really all I’ve tried to do is be business-like in my approach to them. I spend a lot of time trying to ‘soften’ the language in my emails (it involves smiley faces, lots of questions about how they’re doing, and remaining vulnerable and open) but their emails and correspondence haven’t changed toward me. They’re still succinct and business-like. I guess the language thing only applies to me.

I’m sad that his parents have stopped responding to my emails, and for the first time his mom didn’t contact me to have lunch and catch up when she was in town for the holidays (They live in Canada; a twelve-hour drive). I’m not sure if this was her choice, or pressure from my ex, or pressure from her husband, or maybe even my ex’s wife. They think that my having a friendship with my ex-mother-in-law is wrong. It was never about trying to manipulate or even talk about my ex with her. I genuinely like her, care about her, and wanted to continue a relationship with her. She is, and always will be, my kids’ grandmother.

A couple of a weeks ago my ex was yelling at me and saying “When you left, you said the kids would be fine, and they’re not.” Essentially, he was saying “Look what you’ve done!” I honestly don’t understand. My ex is so much happier in his new life. I am so much happier in mine, and I truly have the perfect partner for me now. I don’t believe for a second that the kids would’ve been better off if I’d stayed, because I would not have been better off. They need a stable mom, and that’s who I am now.

I do the best I can. I’ve never claimed to be perfect. I do try very hard to be loving, supportive, understanding, open. I try to listen and support, not just my kids, but my family, the kids’ dad and stepmom, friends. And it saddens me that I can’t have a relationship with my ex’s parents, even though they’re the kids’ grandparents. And it saddens me that there is half the time when I can’t be there to help my kids. I chose co-parenting thinking the kids needed their dad as much as possible. (My dad was not present until I was thirteen, and even then, not very much.) Part of me wishes I’d fought for more time, like 75/25. But I didn’t want to put the kids through a custody battle.

I wish I had the power to fix this. I wish I could make transitioning between the two houses easy for my son. I try to talk to him, get him to name his emotions, but it doesn’t work. I wish he and my daughter could understand that I made all of the choices I did with them in mind FIRST, not last. I wish that my ex’s family had a wider understanding of family. That you don’t have to choose sides. My mom says that “Love is something you don’t take away from people. It just grows.” There’s plenty to share.

So. Heavy heart. I know I’ll get through this. Kealoha helps. Having the kids here for a week at a time helps. We’ll get my son counseling. And some day I’ll be able to explain so that they’ll understand.

But right now, I really wish they could be with me and Kealoha all the time, and the whole trying to parent 50/50 is breaking my heart. And I think maybe that’s what the heaviness is.

admin 11/25/11 admin 11/25/11

A Blunderful Thanksgiving

I have to say that yesterday’s Thanksgiving was a great success. The only near disaster came when I dropped 1/3 of the pan drippings on the floor, but rescued the hot pan before dumping the whole thing. I made the traditional stuff, including this coma-inducing cake:

I woke up at 5:30AM and made apple pie, then I called Kealoha to help the turkey give birth. Seriously. That bag stuffed in the turkey’s belly just makes me think of birthing. It didn’t help that Kealoha massaged the turkey, calming it down saying, “Who’s the yummy turkey? YOU are” and then he pulled the bag out. We didn’t stuff the bird so the cooking time would be reduced. Also, I didn’t want to put my hand in the turkey’s ‘private area’. It just makes me uncomfortable.

Then the kids’ dad dropped them off for a few hours (even though he officially had them for the holiday). That ended up being a mixed blessing. My daughter (5) was super excited about all the activity, but my son (7) just can’t handle quick transitions, and he gets overwhelmed with too many people. He’s like this big bundle of emotion that he can’t control. He threw a gigantic fit, got a time-out, punched the wall, called me a Fat Bitch, and then peed in his bedroom. It’s like dealing with an angry puppy that happens to know English. Obviously, we need to help him with these feelings. We’re just trying to figure out how. For now, I know that even a quick transition from his dad’s house to ours just isn’t possible. He needs time to cool down. So, poor guy spent the day in the basement…and just as he’d acclimated to all the commotion, it was time for him to go to his dad’s.

Kealoha’s family (mom, dad, grandma, brother and sister-in-law) joined us, as did my mom. Since half of those in attendance were hard of hearing and/or full of much-needed wine, there was a lot of loud talking. My cooking started out great (moist turkey, allowed to rest for ½ an hour) but as Kealoha’s brother kept filling my wine glass, I sorta started on the slippery slope of drunken cooking. (Hence the dropped drippings.)

Dinner conversation began with memories, and then slipped into several people giving very detailed information about surgeries and infections. (Kealoha’s dad just had back surgery and is stapled-up.) I get freaked out by discussions of illness, especially when they begin with things like “It was the worst infection I’ve ever had! I mean, you wouldn’t BELIEVE what it looked like!”

I wanted to change the conversation so I started to say “Well, when I gave birth”….but STOPPED myself from adding “And my vagina split open”. I figured that might cross the humor-line.

Then the kids went back to their dad’s (my son did come out of the basement eventually, apologize, and give hugs and high-fives), then my mom and Kealoha’s family left. We had twenty minutes of silence before the next shift arrived. In came my sister, wearing scrubs. She’s a nurse working in a super-stressful trauma/recovery ward. (Anyone know of a less-stressful job opening in Grand Rapids for a nurse?) She shared with us some gruesome stories of infections also, and then we made her change her clothes, and drink some much-needed-wine also (in the form of mai tais.)

And if I can remember the conversations we had, I’ll write it down. It involved my sister doing a creepy imitation of Arnold Schwarzenegger crossed with Christopher Walken, and something about turkey balls that involved a crude gesture and the gobble-gobble sound.

Kealoha and I are now recovering.

Actually, to be perfectly honest, this was one of the best Thanksgivings I’ve ever had.

Ahhhh, family.

admin 11/22/11 admin 11/22/11

Balancing My Brain Through TO DO Lists

I’ve started reading this great book recommended by my super-smart Aunt who’s also a therapist. It’s called “The Whole Brain Child” and it talks about parenting techniques, but also gives insight into how the brain grows and develops, and what you need to have a ‘balanced’ brain. That is, a well-adjusted personality.

There was this great quote where it talked about storytelling and that storytelling allows the logical left-brain to organize the creative right-brain’s emotions. Hence, telling a story actually has a healing effect because you’re BALANCING YOUR BRAIN.

Whoa.

I have taken the next leap and now have justified my need to write To Do Lists. It is my super logical left-side of my brain trying to organize my overly-sensitive/neurotic/anxious right-brain into some kind of order. I’ve always made lists, but now I can rejoice in the fact that I’m not just being neurotic, I’m actually BALANCING MY BRAIN.

Here is my To Do list for today. Before I wrote it, I felt all disjointed and anxious. After I wrote it, I felt amazing rejuvenated with a defined purpose. I now know that I’m super stressed out and anxious and I need to clean my entire house, and possibly take a Valium. See? Before I wrote the list, I was just a mess of feeling. Now I have purpose.

Here is my list:

I probably should add on there: Read More of That Brain Book…you know…in case I’m jumping ahead and applying theories to my own behavior that don’t actually make sense.

My Favorite Awkward Christmas Present (AKA I'm A Muppet!)

Top Ten Books I Read, Narrated Or Listened To in 2011

**Top 10 List for Books* I Read, Narrated, or Listened to in 2011.**

(The books aren’t all written in 2011; that’s just when I read them.)*

It just FEELS like forever.

On that note, then, my wish for you:

May you have a New Year with unexpected surprises and delight and joy in the small things, and may change come to you and make you stronger and happier.

The Holiday Party (a festive story)

The Holiday Party

On Scrotal Sacs & Anal Probing (Happy Festivus!!!)

Another "Wah is me" blog

An Entirely Different Rudolph

Blog Slacker Right Here

True Story.

Updates I didn't put on Twitter or Facebook, for good reason.

Bring On The Food Allergy Mumbojumbo Testing, and Rub My Chakras

So…Uhm…Where’s Christmas?

Chapter One of "Foodies Rush In"

Puffy

Why I Regret Teaching My Kids Anatomical Words

What The Muppets Taught Me

Our Super! Exciting! Weekend! (aka Filling Our Deep Freezer)

A Heavy Heart

A Blunderful Thanksgiving

Balancing My Brain Through TO DO Lists

Top 10 List for Books* I Read, Narrated, or Listened to in 2011.

(*The books aren’t all written in 2011; that’s just when I read them.)

On that note, then, my wish for you:

May you have a New Year with unexpected surprises and delight and joy in the small things, and may change come to you and make you stronger and happier.

The Holiday Party

**Top 10 List for Books* I Read, Narrated, or Listened to in 2011.**

(The books aren’t all written in 2011; that’s just when I read them.)*