So I decided to see what I look like upside down...

I’m not exactly sure WHY it occurred to me that I should see what I looked like upside down. I was taking a shower and I sorta just wondered I wonder what I’d look like upside down. Maybe because on The Voice they had freaky aerialists or something. Or maybe because of all the random bungee jumping I do. Whatever. I wanted to know, and so when I was done with my shower, I decided to find out. I went to the mirror.

(Just so this visual isn’t particularly horrendous, you need to know I WAS NOT NAKED while attempting this. No. I had on my yoga pants and a t-shirt. Just so we’re CLEAR.)

Anyway. I turned around, bent over, and sure enough, there’s what I would look like upside down. This is really the first and only time I've done yoga. I sorta did this, only without the good balance and firm tummy:

I gasped. And then I started choking a little bit because it turns out when you’re upside down, it’s easy to choke ESPECIALLY if you gasp.

I looked, how do I put this? HORRIBLE. I mean, like a bloated sea creature. It was like the extra weight around my belly and even my ankles crept up into my cheeks. My face sort of slid and my cheeks looked huge and puffy and then I started turning all RED (of course I was sort of choking at the time).

Anyone who tells you that gravity isn’t your friend is a LIAR. Gravity is a beautiful thing. It keeps your face in place. Put that on a t-shirt.

In closing, I don’t recommend doing this.

On second thought, if you look even half as bad as I did upside down, you will feel absolutely GORGEOUS when right side up. It actually was an exercise that did wonders for my self-esteem.  It’s probably good for your safety too, because there is no way in hell I will now ever be an aerialist, a bungee jumper, or install one of those weird swings in my bedroom (sorry Kealoha).

From here on out, everything is looking up. Exactly where it should be.

Kealoha's Magic Worcestershire Sauce

Now, I promised all of you that I would enumerate on all the ways I was Super Bitch last week, but I’m sorta bored with that idea. It involves being in the studio and fighting with the director over the subtleties on where to put an accent on Helene: He thought I was saying ELLen and I assured him I was saying elLEN. It was annoying.Anyway.

I’ve decided to change the topic and instead talk about my wonderful, quirky, expiration-date-mindless husband: Kealoha.

When Kealoha moved in here, I was really excited. Excited to have him here, yes, but also excited because we could COMBINE CUPBOARDS. I could benefit from all his trips to Costco and all the strange tiki inspired recipes he collects. He had all these sauces and marinades that were particularly exciting. And then I started checking expiration dates. Most of them expired AROUND THE TURN OF THE CENTURY. I’m not kidding. So I quietly put them into the trash.

A couple must have made it past me. I wanted to marinate some chicken and Kealoha said “Oh! I have this great marinade. It’s like an island marinade. Use that.” Sounded good. I grabbed it, opened it and just before I poured it I realized that it expired in 2009. * sigh *

But the worst is The Worcestershire Sauce. Now, I’ve seen Kealoha use this a hundred times in burgers he cooks. I’ve used it in the Chex Mix I make only once a year, because I eat so much of it I make myself sick. I used it last week when I was making Crabbie Patties for the kids. (Mini hamburgers.) I don’t know what possessed me but I decided to check the expiration date. This is what I saw:

Yes. It expired in 2007. 2007! In 2007, Bush was still president, there was no Facebook, and the iPad was something in science fiction films.

As soon as Kealoha came home I was like “Dude! Look at this!!” I shoved the sauce in his face. “This expired 5 years ago! Simone was one year old! That sauce could KILL US.”

He said, “Now, relax. Breathe. Expiration dates are just a SUGGESTION. It says it’s BEST by that date. It doesn’t say it will kill you.”

When he went to work the next day, I quietly threw the bottle out and replaced it with a new bottle that gives us two years of relative safety.

Although, I will  admit, Kealoha makes really good burgers. I just hope his secret ingredient wasn’t mold. I’m trying not to think about it.

Give Me A Cape. I Am Super Bitch.

When I’m really stressed out you can tell in a couple of ways: 1) I lose my sense of humor. 2) My face gets all constipated looking. 3) I start storming around shouting out commands and 4) I randomly shout out “I AM SO STRESSED”!  

That was pretty much my week. Now, granted, I did it to myself. I waaaaay overscheduled things, but sometimes you just can’t say no. Seriously. It’s like imagine you love bacon, I mean you LOVE it, and you haven’t had bacon in ten months and the thing you dream about more than anything is a slice of bacon, but you’ve randomly told yourself “I’m not going to have bacon for a year”, and then some bastard sets a whole plate of FREE BACON in front of you and tells you this could be the last of All The Bacon In The World and if you don’t take your bacon now you may NEVER EVER HAVE BACON AGAIN. EVER. Not ever. (ever)

Would you have a slice of bacon?

Not if you’re a vegetarian.

But if you’re a NORMAL person? Would you? (Not the VegHeads aren’t normal. This is just an elaborate extended metaphor.)

You’d have the fucking bacon. And you wouldn’t stop at one slice. You’d eat the whole plate of bacon just because it might be the last bit of bacon you’ll ever see, and then you’d moan and regret and complain because you feel sick over all that bacon and you’d say that you hate bacon and bacon makes you bloated and…

What the hell am I writing about? I’ve totally forgotten my whole story.

Oh. Right. Stress.

So this month I’ve been narrating a whole lot, putting up a mini-recording studio in my basement, running to teach blah blah blah. It’s the same story. But these last two weeks I sort of had a collision of stress so intense it actually turned me into an awkward super hero: Super Bitch. I even wore boots. I’m not kidding.

As I see I’ve taken up this entire blog with a pointless metaphor of eating bacon, I’ve now run out of space. I’ll continue this in another blog and tell you just how I have exhibited my supreme Bitch Powers this week. It’s not pretty, but at the same time I feel sort of proud about it.

I don’t know. I’m pretty sure I have issues. And now, dammit, I want bacon.

According To The Passport Office, I Look Deformed

I made a little trip to the post office today to update my passport and return to my maiden name, which even though I’m remarried is still my maiden name: Eby. Stupid name change. Why do they make it so complicated?  

You can’t just drop in at the post office anymore for your passport. You have to schedule an appointment. Last week I called three times and was trapped in a phone-circle-of-hell for a good half hour. I needed a drink after that. Finally, I found the right number to call, left a message, and (miracle of miracles!) they called me back.

I got there early and was the first one in line. At 8:02, a postal worker schlepped to unlock the door. It was Monday morning, and he already looked fatigued. I got in line and said I needed a passport. One of the workers said “Sheesh. Already? Okay…” Stepped up to the counter, and told the woman that I needed pictures. She shrugged, and then took me over to this area to take pictures. Here’s our conversation:

ME: So are you glad that people have to make appointments now? Does it make it easier?

(She unlocked one of two gates and lets me in to the Picture Taking Area)

HER: No. We lost a ton of income. People say they can’t get ahold of us and we can’t tell them they’re lying. They’re probably not. They probably can’t.

ME: Yeah. It took me a while to figure out. I called three times. And I speak English. Think of the people who don’t.

HER: It’s ridiculous. Okay. Now smile.

ME: I can smile? I thought I couldn’t smile. I thought that was like illegal.

HER: No. That’s old school. You can smile. Are you smiling? Is that your smile? (I smiled at her and tried not to blink. I grunted an affirmative that yes, this is my smile. She clicked the picture.)

HER: You look crooked.

ME: What do you mean I look crooked?

HER: See?

(She held the digital camera out to me and I did look crooked. One shoulder was up and the other was significantly lower.)

ME: Huh. Maybe I have one leg that’s shorter than the other.

(She looked me up and down.)

HER: No. Your legs look all right. You just look WEIRD.

ME: Ah. Okay. Thanks.

(Then she handed me a bunch of paper I had to re-fill out because I used blue ink instead of black and I scribbled out my mom as an emergency contact and wrote my brother in instead. No offense to my mom, but if something happened, my bro would be better at handling it. Apparently, there is no scribbling allowed on applications.)

I then took twenty minutes trying to figure out all the things I was supposed to do and what forms to attach and how much money and who to address the fucking thing to. Then she called me back to the counter.

SHE: Well, you still look weird but my coworker says it’s okay because they’ll chop your picture off at your neck so they won’t see your crooked shoulders.

ME: Ah.

I was thinking, well, leave it to the post office to crop out people’s deformities. Thank you, Uncle Sam.

SHE: You didn’t sign this or date it.

I did as I was told.

I left the Post Office feeling overjoyed that my delayed honeymoon with Kealoha to Paris is one step closer…and I’m also wondering if I need an orthopedic lift in my shoe.

My Son And Circle Theatre

My son is 7 with this astounding vocabulary and sense of humor. He’s mentioned lately that at his dad’s house he gets a lot of pressure to play sports and do things that “just aren’t my thing”. Kealoha and I have tried to tell him that he doesn’t have to be a sports person; that there are (indeed) a lot of other options. (This could lead me down a dark blog road of the differences in our house vs. his dad’s house, but I won’t go there. Some things I can’t write about.) Anyway. So last night Kealoha and I decided to take Louis to Circle Theatre’s Woodstock Concert. Kealoha did the video for the program and we wanted Louis to see it, and to see another world beyond sports. One of the things I love about theater is that it’s all-inclusive. No matter what age or shape or background, you can find a home in theatre, and not just in performing but in any area from creating a set, to running the show, to designing how the show looks. Slight side-track.

Anyway. When we got there he immediately asked “Why is everyone here so old?” We told him that a lot of them probably were at Woodstock and remembered it. “Or maybe they don’t remember it,” I said, but kept this comment to myself “They were probably stoned.”

Louis was super excited, and tired, and just on the border of misbehaving. He was laughing in this old man voice, a 1930s type hard-nosed character he does, but if you don’t know that he’s doing this, you’d think that maybe he had a speech impediment. Kealoha went up to the booth and Louis and I sat down to watch the show. It started with a rocking guitar solo of the national anthem. Louis immediately started playing air guitar and he was pretty good.

The 1st song was a little loud for him and I asked him if he wanted to leave. He pulled me to him and screamed in my ear: “No! I’m being good!” and he was. He made me laugh through the performance. 7 year olds are not very good at hiding their thoughts on songs. He liked the rock-out songs, but struggled with the slow songs. I saw him making this weird hand motion during the song “You Make Me So Very Happy” and then I realized he was miming pulling out a pin on a grenade and tossing it at the stage. I promptly grabbed his hands and threatened him with mom-type-punishments.

On “Bad Moon Rising” he loved the song, but was really confused by the lyrics. “Is this song about a bad moon or the weather?” he hollered. “It’s a metaphor!” I said. “WHAT?” he screamed. “A METAPHOR!” Then I realized he was 7. “It’s just a song about telling people to be careful.” He still didn’t get it. “It’s a song about the WEATHER.”

Then the Janis Joplin music came on. He did good with half of the first song, but then he pulled out an imaginary machine gun. If we were watching like a Hunger Games American Idol type competition, that singer would have been permanently OUT.

The next Joplin song went over better with him. He was dancing in his seat. He sang a little bit with the band and audience on one song but got confused by some long solos. He liked the drum solo and then as it went on, he sort of rolled around in his seat as if someone were burning him. “That was awkward,” he said, after the drum solo ended. I said, “Babe, all drum solos are awkward.” And they are. Even when they’re good.

Then came “We Shall Overcome” and I got a little emotional. It’s the song, yes, but the singers too. Louis said “Why is everything so serious right now?” And I tried to say because it was a song about hope for things to change, but that change can take a long time. And I knew a lot of the performers on stage and could tell how time has changed them and then I just got all weepy.

Then it was intermission and it was too late for Louis to stay up for the second act. I took him home. (Side track again: the show is filled with toe-tapping numbers and that kind of joy that happens when a group of people get together and perform. Go see it tonight if you can.)

He said he liked the backstage tour and the music and wanted to know if one day he could be onstage or work backstage like Kealoha, and if he did do that, could he get a cupcake like the performers had in the Green Room. I said yes, he could.

I tried to make it a teachable moment. “You know, there are so many things you can do once you figure out what you’re interested in or talented in.”

“But I don’t know my talent, Ma.”

I said, “Honey. You’re only seven. You’ll figure it out. If it’s sports, great. If it’s performing, great. If it’s something else, that’s great too. We’ll figure it out.”

Then he farted and said: “When you gotta go…you gotta go.”

I just hope that whatever his talent IS, it’s not farting. But if it IS, then we’ll figure out a way to help him explore that. Ugh.

Momzilla

Last night, Louis watched “Godzilla” the 1998 film with Matthew Broderick. I’ve always had a thing for Broderick, but even I have to admit pairing him with the mother of all lizards was a little more than awkward. While I got Louis settled in with his movie, I ran upstairs and tucked my daughter in. Kealoha was working late at the theater so I was a single mom for a night. (I don’t miss being a single mom again AT ALL.) By 9:30 PM and after about 100 times running up and down the stairs, I was exhausted. I started getting really crabby. Then I started growling. Then I went all Momzilla on the toys the kids abandoned. With my little lizard hands I pounded my chest and screamed. I stepped on Squinkies, not even caring to blink. If the Lego characters were trying to take me down, they’d need more power than just their piddly plastic weapons. I went BALLISTIC on those toys. I didn’t destroy them though. I just put them in a huge pile. In fact, here's a video of me freaking out over the toys:

On the way to the grocery store, I asked Louis what he thought of the film. He said it was “pretty great. It was real actiony and I just know there’s going to be another one.” I didn’t have the heart to tell him that the film was made in 1998, and while it was set up for a sequel, it bombed so colossally that they never made it. (Though it looks like another Godzilla film is slated for this year. Who knew?)

Louis then explained to his sister that one of the Godzillas was a Mommy Godzilla and she was all mean because she was protecting her babies. I told Louis this “I’d totally turn into Godzilla if anyone tried to hurt you guys. I’d be all ROOOAAAARRR!!”

Louis said: “Ma, you’re not an amphibian.”

I said: “How do you know?”

Louis rolled his eyes. I was driving so I don’t know for SURE that he did, but he sounded like he did. “You’re NOT an amphibian!”

“I don’t know…” I said. “I’m awfully cold in the winter. You should feel my feet.”

Louis said no.

All day I’ve been a bit of a Momzilla but I’m not protecting the kids or anything. I’m just crabby. I didn’t get much sleep last night and I’m stressed out with Kealoha working at the theater and all the recording I have to do in the next week.

It’ll pass though. I mean, hey, Easter’s coming and that will be a riot! I love holidays! And nothing says par-tay like the resurrection of…

Uh…

I just need a nap. A really big, giant-lizard sized NAP. That should make me turn back into the slightly-well-adjusted-mother-wife-and-artist that I usually am. Maybe.

Inspiration. A Kiss From The Gods.

I’ve been waiting for Blog Inspiration to strike, and the only thing that’s striking is lightning. Thankfully it’s not striking me. It’s outside, where it belongs. Now that I think about it, I’ve been waiting for inspiration to strike in a number of places. I need inspiration to transform “Tunnel Vision” from a wimpy novella to a kick ass novel. I need inspiration to figure out what project to work on next. I need inspiration to figure out what I’m going to cook for dinner. I need inspiration to get me to exercise and stick to eating healthier even though it’s such a pain sometimes. I need inspiration to clean my house.

I remember learning in college what ‘inspiration’ actually means, or at least the etymology of it. The dictionary says it’s the quality of  “being so stimulated that one chooses to create” etc. etc. I can’t read much further than that because the teenager that resides in my brain says “Hehehe. Stimulated. Like stimulated A LOT. I could go for some serious STIMULATION right now.” Then I just get sidetracked.

Anyway. We all know what inspiration means.

The word originally was Latin. Of course. Inspirare. “To breathe into”. The idea was that a God would breathe into a person, thus granting them with some kind of divine idea. Sort of a mouth to mouth resuscitation for the creatively dead.

That’s what I need right now. I need some hardcore godly resuscitation. Preferably with tongue.

You can’t rely on inspiration though. You can’t DEMAND it. If you demand to be filled up with the breath of god, you sort of open your mouth, tilt your head back and….well…open yourself up to all sort of things. I mean, birds fly overhead, man, and that could be dangerous.

I prefer to plow forward and hope that if a god is going to kiss me, they’ll take me unawares, and do so tenderly, when I least expect it and need it the most. Maybe that’s what you need to do to attract inspiration. What god would want to inspire someone with their head tilted back and mouth open? No. Certainly a god would go for someone who’s motivated and seems confident. Just like in dating.

So. Onward I go. Mouth closed, but ready for that soft kiss of air and divine ideas.

Breathe in. Breathe in.

What If vs. What Is

Our cars were broken into last night. On the surface, it’s not really a big deal. Kealoha lost his iPod and some spare change. The thief (or thieves) didn’t break anything or damage anything. Ten years ago, I had my car broken into at work in the middle of the day. They smashed the window with a brick, grabbed my CD player and CDs and no one notice. I felt angry and violated then. I don’t feel angry now. I feel sad.

Maybe it’s the writer in me. Maybe it’s the mom in me. I don’t know. But I can’t stop thinking about WHO would do this, and more importantly WHY?

Here are the scenarios my brain comes up with:

THEY’RE JUST KIDS

Maybe it’s a couple of teenagers who go from car to car and collect stuff because there’s a rush to stealing. Okay. Fine. But then my mind goes further. What kind of family do they have when they can be out in the middle of the night? Why do they want this rush?  Why don’t they have other things that can fill their time? Do they have anyone who cares about them? Why is this act even an option for them? It makes me sad.

THEY’RE ADDICTS IN NEED OF MONEY

Maybe it’s someone who’s some kind of addict and needs money so desperately that they’re grabbing stuff they can exchange so they can get what they REALLY want. Again, this makes me sad. I’ve seen how addiction changes people. I’ve had friends when I was in my twenties who drank a lot, maybe did some “soft” drugs to party, but flash forward a decade and their bodies are worn, their spirits are broken, and getting high becomes THE most important thing. Again, it makes me sad. To have a need so deep that you take from others.

THEY’RE POOR

Maybe it’s someone who just doesn’t have any money. Maybe they’re poor. Maybe they can’t get a good job. Maybe they’re hungry. Maybe they have kids who want gadgets and there’s no way they can afford it. Maybe they ARE kids and they’re mad at everyone else who has MORE. This makes me saddest of all. I remember being poor. Really poor. Poor enough that we lived in unsafe neighborhoods (where, again, a lot of people got high). Poor enough that I know what real hunger is, and fear, and a deeper fear of not being safe. I’ve pulled myself out of that, but it’s been through sheer force of will and heavy helping of luck. Sometimes, you can’t pull yourself out of poverty no matter how hard you try.

THEY’RE ME

What I’m thinking more about is what would it take for ME to steal? Would I ever do it?

Well, the truth is, I HAVE done it. Once I took $20 from a roommate because I had no money and I was hungry. I later told her and returned the money, but something broke in our friendship. And it broke something in me. I could justify it: I was hungry; She had stacks of money. It didn’t seem fair. So I took it from her.

I guess I can understand and empathize with people who steal. I should’ve just waited another day or so until I was paid instead of taking my roommate’s money. I could have asked her for a loan. I could’ve waited. I was HUNGRY but not STARVING. I was too embarrassed to ask for a loan. I took the $20 bill, and I still feel bad about it.

A decade later, haven’t I changed? Sure. $20 isn’t a ton of money to me anymore. If I’m hungry, I eat. In fact, I eat so much I’m now trying to lose weight. Would I steal again? NEVER!

But wait…

Would I steal if there wasn’t enough food in our house? I’d try not to. I’d try anything I could until there was no other choice, but then, yes I would. Would I steal if my kids were hungry and by taking $5 off of a waitress’s table, I could get my kids a meal? Yes.

Would I steal if I couldn’t pay the mortgage and I knew that if I only had $100 it would mean the difference between shelter for my family and being homeless? Some people have to make that choice. What if the difference between being moral and trustworthy was just $100? What if on one side of that $100 you go homeless; on the other side, you have one more month of security. One more month to get your life together. Would I steal? In my mind, I’m already opening the car door and slipping my hands inside.

I know I’m being overdramatic. They’re probably just kids goofing off. But it’s the What If questions that haunt me. What If someone broke into our house? What If we lost our jobs? What If circumstances change, and my kids are forced to have the kind of childhood I had? What would I do?

My answer kind of scares me: I’d do anything to protect my family and make sure they have enough to eat. Anything. If pushed hard enough, I’d probably even kill.

This is why I’m sad about whoever broke into our cars. It’s not about the theft, but whatever place of desperation it comes from to cross the line from What If to What Is.

I hope I never have to make that choice in the real world.

My Son Finally Asked Me The TWO DREADED QUESTIONS

Well. It finally happened. The conversation I’ve been dreading having with my son. Actually, TWO conversations. I’ve worried and obsessed about if this would ever happen, and then it did. I was giving Louis (7) a bath and changed into my pjs: a tank top and a pair of shorts. While he splashed around, I washed my face, he studied my profile for a bit…and then he asked one of the dreaded questions:

LOUIS:

Mom, are you pregnant?

ME:

What? No! Why? Do I look pregnant?

(LOUIS pointed at me and seemed regretful)

LOUIS:

Well, your belly is pretty big. Like, I was sort of wondering if you guys were going to try to sneak in a baby on me on the sly.

ME:

On the sly? Ha! No. No! I’m not pregnant. If we were pregnant, we’d tell you. We’re not planning on any more babies. You kiddos are enough. So. Nope. Not pregnant. I’m just, you know, trying to lose weight.

LOUIS:

Well, you gotta get serious about it. You look like a fatty.

ME:

Louis! That’s not nice! Don’t say that.

LOUIS

I didn’t mean it that way! I mean, Mom, you sort of don’t look like Mom anymore.

I got him out of the water and started to dry him off. Then he asked the second dreaded question.

LOUIS:

So how DO you get pregnant anyway? Does it just happen, like, randomly?

ME:

 No. What do you mean? Do you randomly get pregnant?

LOUIS:

Yeah. How does it happen? Is it random?

ME:

No, you sort of have to mean for it to happen. Or actually, you know, do stuff that would cause it to happened. I mean, you have to WISH for it to happen. Then again, some people wish and it doesn’t, and some people don’t wish and it still happens and…

LOUIS:

But how does the baby get IN there?

ME:

Uh…You know…the dad PUTS it in there.

LOUIS:

How?

I paused awkwardly. This was the second dreaded question, and I was really not ready for it. Plus, I was upset that he thought I looked pregnant. I thought for a second. Then it came to me: Planet Earth!!!

ME:

You know those documentaries you watch?

LOUIS:

No.

ME:

Yeah! Like the documentaries with like the animals and stuff and one animal starts attacking the other and gets on top of the other one and…and then…no…scratch that. A mom and a dad, well at the time they might not be a mon and a dad, they might just be dating, well, they make love. Actually, they don’t even have to be in love to…uh…Look. I’ll order a book. And I’m not pregnant. I just am having trouble losing weight.

Louis then pulled up my shirt and looked at my tummy.

LOUIS:

Mom, come on. You can do this.

He jiggled my tummy fat. I don’t know. I started freaking out. I felt like I needed to defend myself and I now had an image of angry lions fucking in my head.

So I said:

ME:

Look. I gained weight after breaking my foot and I couldn’t run. If I could run again I could maybe lose it. I’m really trying. I’m eating better and exercising and…oh…do you…just…oh…there’s an episode of Star Wars left. You want to watch that?

Luckily he did. And I’m now in the fetal position trying not to cry, even though it’s also sort of funny.

Bushy Squirrels and Wooddicks OR Springtime Conversation With Kealoha

Kealoha and I went for a lovely springtime walk after dinner. (I’m trying to get an hour’s worth of exercise a day. It’s part of my new ‘healthy diet and blah blah blah’ regimen.) If you’re not in Michigan, then I need to explain what’s going on with the weather. It’s like the poles have shifted, or maybe we switched places with Australia or something. A week ago it was freezing. There was an ice storm. Yesterday, people were barbequeing on the street and walking around in bikinis.

Actually, I didn’t see anyone in a bikini. In my MIND I was in a bikini and I looked AMAZING. In reality, I was wearing tight khaki pants with a high-waist. MOM pants. To hold in my puffy tummy.

Back to the story.

Kealoha and I went for a lovely springtime walk after dinner. The sun was shining (even at 6 at night) and we could hear squirrels scampering. It was pretty much a Disney movie, without the secret penises drawn in the sky.

We saw some squirrels scampering and I said: “Squirrels are so cute. I know that without their tails they’d look like rats, but WITH their tails, they’re super cute.” Kealoha agreed. In my MIND I thought: “Squirrels are cute because of their BUSH. It’s all because of the bush.” Then I thought “Good God, Tanya. You are so dirty.”

We walked. There was a curious knocking. Loud. Repetitive. Hollow. Echoing through the neighborhood.

“That’s a woodpecker,” I said, and pointed to an enormous tree. I don’t know why I felt like educating Kealoha. Maybe I was just making conversation.

Kealoha looked like he didn’t believe me. I said: “No. Seriously. THAT’S a woodpecker.”

Kealoha said: “It’s so loud.” He paused. “That’s not just a pecker, that’s a DICK.”

Yes. The sounds of spring: bushy squirrels and wooddicks.

It’s like both of us are teenagers. I guess this is what spring can do to you. Or maybe, maybe Kealoha and I just shouldn’t be let outside. It’s probably better for everyone if we just stay in the basement.

What Happens When You Narrate A Story Like Beaches While PMSing

 

I narrated two really fun (and very different) books this week. The first was an emotional story about mothers and daughters and sisters, and the second was an action story about a contaminated quarantined slightly futuristic society.

But let me talk about the first one.

I was PMSing. I know this FOR A FACT because I have an app that warns me when I’m PMSing. I find it helps me when I’m like “Why am I crying all the time?” or “Why did I just eat a bag of potato chips with a chaser of chocolate covered raisins?” or “Why does nobody love me?”. I check my app, and it reassures me that what I’m feeling isn’t necessarily REAL emotion but a surge of hormones.

Anyway. So I was seriously PMSing. SUPER emotional. And I’m narrating this book that’s about a woman who wants to have a baby but can’t. (I at one time really wanted to have a baby!) She has a complicated but loving relationship with her sister. (I do too!) She’s estranged from her father. (Check mark!) Her mother died from cancer when she was twelve. (Okay. My mom is alive and well, but we have a complicated and often exasperating relationship.) The main character is a pastry chef and is always talking about bread. (I’m a foodie who recently gave up bread so I could feel better. NO BREAD! NO SCONES! Jesus, I’m crying already.)

Well. The woman adopts a daughter from China, reconnects with her father, then finds out her SISTER has cancer and that sister DIES. NoooooOOOooo!

I lost it. I just started crying. I mean, tears were just flooding down my cheeks. Here’s what I was thinking: Oh my God. I love my kids so much but what if something happened to me, what if I DIED, then they’d just live with their dad and wouldn’t be able to see Kealoha again and they’d be so mad at me for leaving them and Kealoha would be entirely ALONE….maybe Kealoha and I should have a baby…I’d love a baby…but how on earth could we afford it and he doesn’t want to change diapers and I’m too old for that now anyway and we don’t’ have the space and how could I have two jobs AND a baby…and I need to call my sister…and my mom is making me crazy…and you can WANT to reconnect with an estranged father but he’ll never be your DAD, not the one in your fairytale imagination…and I miss having close girlfriends and it sucks that one of them is moving away…and I just want women I can hang out with and talk to and connect with but I don’t even have time because I’m working ALL THE TIME and when can I stop working two full-time jobs but I don’t want to give up teaching OR narrating…and maybe I should try to reconnect with friends I had in high school….but…back to the novel…okay…oh my god her sister just died and she is staying in the room with her, holding her hand and watching HER LAST BREATH FLOAT AWAY.

At this point I was just a basket case. My voice was cracking while reading and had that tight “I am holding back tears” sound to it.

I apologized to the director and the engineered for sobbing. I tried to explain to them that it was like narrating “Beaches”, and that’s just about impossible.

Funny thing was, they were crying too. And they were DUDES.

I really do need more girlfriends. Some bread would be nice too.

Brief Conversation With My Friend Lisa

A friend of mine, Lisa, and I have been walking around Reed's Lake every week-ish for over a year. It started out as exercise but has quickly become mutual therapy. We listen to each other vent, give each other advice, solve each other's problems. It's terrific. And somehow we've managed to have our many freak-outs on separate walks, so that when she's freaking out, I can therapist her. When I'm freaking out, she therapists me. Yeah. I just made 'therapist' into a verb.

Here's a sample of our conversation from this morning.

LISA: I don't know. I've just become so judgmental and angry lately that I really I think I should wear a tshirt that says "I'm God!"

ME: It's okay, Lisa. I don't think you're God.

LISA: But I do! That's just it!

Ahhhh. Then I told her that I should wear a t-shirt that says "I'm A Bitch" especially when I'm trying to 'set boundaries'. I waited for Lisa to say "I don't think you're a bitch"...which she DID...but after a very, very long pause.

Gosh, I love our walks. Really.

What Happened When I Found A Dead Woman In Panera's Parking Lot

On my way to the studio, I like to grab a coffee right before I start work. Narrating starts at 8:30AM so that’s pretty early, and the warm coffee and caffeine jolt helps me. So today, I swung by Panera for my $1.75 cuppa jo. The parking lot was pretty full, but I found a spot. As I got out of my car, I noticed there was a woman in the parking lot sitting in her car. Then I realized that she wasn’t really sitting, she was slouching. And her car was running. And she was slouching back with her mouth wide open. Like, WIDE open, like zombie open…and I thought…holy shit. That woman is dead. She is dead in the parking lot of Panera Bread and what am I supposed to do?

I briefly thought of moving my car to another spot, and getting my coffee, and pretending I hadn’t witnessed her there like that, but I just couldn’t do it. What if she wasn’t totally dead, but NEARLY dead? I’d be responsible if I didn’t do something.

But first I needed to find out if she was totally dead, nearly dead, or just taking a nap. I mean, she could be taking a nap. So I did the only thing I could think of at the time. I stared at her. I stared and stared and stared at her, just willing her to breathe. If I saw she was breathing then I’d be fine and get my coffee and no one would know. If she wasn’t breathing then I’d…I don’t know…run into Panera and scream “THERE’S A DEAD WOMAN IN YOUR PARKING LOT AND CAN I HAVE A TALL HAZLENUT TO GO?”

I stared at her. For a long time. Like a really long time. I couldn’t tell if she was breathing or not. She was wearing a big red sweater and I couldn’t see her stomach moving. It slowly dawned on me. She was NOT breathing. I just found a dead woman in Panera’s parking lot and I was somehow responsible for her passing and what was I supposed to do and what about…SUDDENLY the woman jerked awake, saw me staring at her and SCREAMED.

I mean, if she wasn’t dead at the beginning, I probably gave her a heart attack. Imagine, there you are taking a quick little nap, you wake up, and immediately notice there’s a crazy chick with her face pressed up against your window STARING at you.

It was horrible. What could I do? How could I explain to her that I was only trying to save her life or make sure her loved ones knew she’d expired? I was being a good Samaritan, and not a Peeping Tom. You can’t explain that to a perfect stranger, so I just immediately turned and ran into Panera for my coffee.

I’m still embarrassed. I might just give up drinking coffee because I don’t EVER want to repeat that experience again. EVER.

I have RSSCAD. It involves American Idol, X Factor, and The Voice.

I’m not really ashamed or closeted about what I’m going to write about. Everyone who knows me, knows this about me. (And as you’ll see from this super-long blog that I’ve spent way too much time thinking about all of this.) Okay. Here goes:

I have Reality Show Singing Competition Addiction Disorder.

Phew. I said it. Okay, I wrote it, but now I’ll whisper it, and that means it’s out in the universe.

It didn’t start with American Idol, though that’s where it started for many of us with RSSCAD. (I still remember watching that first night. I had just come home from living in New York and was living with my friends B&G. B and I were like ‘huh, that looks interesting’. He was a musical performer and I sometimes pretended I sang. So when American Idol started that year, I was hooked.)

But it goes deeper than this.

When I was a kid, I watched the Lawrence Welk show.

Now, I was too young to watch the original show. When it aired originally there wasn’t much else on TV so you HAD to watch it. No. I watched it in heavy rerun rotation. On PBS. In the 80s. When I was a tormented teenager with a shaved head. At that time, there was probably a thousand other things to watch but I CHOSE Lawrence Welk. There was, I don’t know, something about the frilly costumes, the non-threatening male singers, the big band in the background. It appealed to something primal in me.

Sometimes, I still watch the show and I laugh and laugh and laugh. It’s comfort food for me. It’s my tuna noodle casserole of TV.

So. I returned to my obsession with American Idol. Then I watched Dancing With The Stars until I suffered a severe quilting accident when I was cutting material and ran right over my finger. I was distracted by the Pasa Double. Then I started watching these new shows AND I CAN’T STOP. I watched Glee, and then X Factor, and now The Voice.

Why? Why do I do this? Why does anyone? Why are these shows so freaking popular?

I have theories.

AMERICAN IDOL

American Idol is like this generation’s Laurence Welk. It’s frothy and predictable and comforting as a casserole. It’s also getting really boring, but I still watch it because I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feeling.

X FACTOR

X Factor wants to be the hottest show on the planet, but mostly it’s just overeager. I was this way sometimes with crushes. I’d have a crush so fierce that I’d start to obsess over the guy and then I’d force him to have coffee and then I’d get all over eager and desperate and slightly creepy with the energy I was expending for him to Fall In Love With Me. Yeah. I think X Factor is a little desperate. They want to be loved SO MUCH that they’re trying to arm-wrestle the audience. “These are stars!” they bellow. “Suffer!”

You know, I think real stars have talent, but they also have a sense of mystery. With X Factor’s endless harping on contestant’s backstory, I get really tired. I don’t want endless backstory. I just want people in pretty outfits singing for their life.

In fact, sometimes I think X Factor wishes they could make singers sing for their life. Literally.

I’ll probably watch the 2nd season, because I’m a addict, but I’ll do it reluctantly. I don’t feel comforted when I watch X Factor. I feel slightly violated.

THE VOICE

Okay. It seems like one show has finally got it right. These singing competitions aren’t really about finding the Next Star. They’re about ENTERTAINING the audience. So far, The Voice to me is far more entertaining than Idol or X Factor. It’s actually FUN. They way that Laurence Welk was fun, except without all the creepy hair dos.

Actually, I take that back. There are some creepy hairdos on there.

***

This is probably waaaaaaay more than you wanted to read about RSSCAD, and I guess that just proves my point. I have an issue here. I should probably invest in more quality television, but I just can’t seem to step away. If only one of the shows would call me and I could help them out with all of my opinions. I’d be a super judge.

Actually, I’d probably be terrible. I’d be too busy giggling and laughing and being generally creepy, just like I was when I was a teenager.

And now, some classic Lawrence Welk. It's called "One Toke Over The Line". I'm not kidding. It has a line "I'm one toke over the line, sweet Jesus". I mean, it's so bad that it's brilliant. How can you NOT love this?

Old School Listening Music

Here's some old school music to listen to. I'm going to write a new blog soon, I promise, but until then...here's a little Bing Crosby.  

New Cover For "Foodies Rush In"

I asked a previous student of mine to design the cover for my new book "Foodies Rush In". We had a couple of meetings, she read the book, and here's what she came up with. I just love how warm and sweet it is. Let me know what you think!  

Stupid Mother F*&@ing Gluten

I’ve experimented a couple of times with going gluten free…or wheat free. The first time was for a day and I didn’t notice any change. Course, one day isn’t long enough to detox from two glasses of wine, let alone my late night binging on breadsticks. The second time was for a week and I felt pretty good.

The last experiment was a little over two weeks. Right around week one and a half I started to feel…weird. Like, a bit euphoric. And light. And four pounds lighter. Surely it was just in my head though. I mean, eating wheat couldn’t really change your entire outlook and mood and belly size. Could it? Really?

So this weekend I did another experiment. I gave myself free reign to eat whatever I wanted. I didn’t sit down and eat an entire loaf of French bread (although trust me, I was tempted). I just returned to eating how I usually eat. I made homemade pizza on Friday. I didn’t gorge. I had two small sensible pieces. That night I felt puffy but that’s pretty normal for me.

The next morning I made cookies for the kids and had one. I felt a little nauseous.

Then I made banana bread and as soon as it was out of the oven, I cut a hefty slice, slathered that in butter and entered Carb Heaven. Almost literally. A half an hour after eating the bread, I was exhausted and took an hour-long impromptu nap.

My little experiment has resulted in a three pound weight gain, a massive headache today, tight pants, mild nausea and a general blue-feeling.

All because of wheat? Really?

In a word: fuck.

I think it’s true. I think that for whatever reason, my body has trouble with gluten. I never really realized it because I was always eating something with wheat and was just used to feeling fatigued and bloated and moody etc. But to go off it and then re-introduce it back into my diet…well…shoot. I think there might be some truth in this. I’m not saying it’s true for everyone, but it might be for me. I had diabetes when I was pregnant (both times), my grandma was diabetic, and I have sugar crashes and spikes. So maybe it’s time for me to stop grumbling and start changing my diet for good.

I’m so not happy about this.

I’m going to try and go gluten free again for two more weeks. If I hit that same svelte-euphoria feeling, then I just might be a convert to trying to live without wheat, except for special occasions. Like the Dumpling Making Party I wanted to throw. Of course, now I have to postpone that dumpling-making idea. Maybe we’ll do a tamale making party, or a paella night instead. I might be going wheat-free, but a girl still wants to live a little.

I hope I don't end up being really annoying about this. You know, sort of like this:

Conversation with my daughter. It's clear we share DNA.

Simone, my sweet girl, is 5-almost-6. Here's a short conversation we had this morning. SIMONE: Mom, can you marry a clown?

ME: What do you mean? Like in general?

SIMONE: Yeah. In general. Can you marry a clown?

ME: I guess if you found a clown you were in love with then, yes, you could marry him. I mean, it's possible. Why? Do you want to marry a clown?

SIMONE: No. I hate clowns.

Demons, Betty Crocker, and Random Suckling

Last week I was complaining a bit to Kealoha that I was super overwhelmed and busy and I needed time to catch up on everything. I’m not sure how it happened EXACTLY, but that’s when he offered to hijack my blog. We made an agreement. “Okay,” I said, “You take it over for a week and don’t let me touch it. I mean, no matter what evil thing I say, don’t let me near it. I can’t blog and narrate and teach and parent and do all of that at once. One of these plates needs to stop spinning.” Maybe I didn’t say all of that OUT LOUD, but Kealoha got my drift. I didn’t think he’d actually listen to me.

You know how when people in movies go into a scary locked room to deal with a demon and they’re all like “No matter what, don’t open that door! No matter what I say or do, do not let me out of that room!” The person agrees. The nutjob goes into the demon room, shuts the door and then immediately they start screaming “Dear god! Open that door! I’m BEING ATTACKED! HOW CAN YOU BE SO HEARTLESS??? OPEN THE DOOR!!” and then: blood curdling scream and a hand clawing at the window.

Yeah. That happened to me with the blog after being locked out for only three hours.

I have real control issues.

Kealoha said he changed my password and posted two blogs. After many password attempts, I discovered he didn’t change my password at all and was just messing with me…and following my instructions to keep me off the blog and focused on the things I needed to do this week.

Dammit all. He’s so good to me.

I guess I needed that mini-break. I needed the illusion that I couldn’t blog because suddenly I WANTED to blog again and thought of a million things to talk about. Things like, oh, when I teach and wear a low-cut shirt I also wear a camisole to cover up my cleavage because I don’t want to give the students nightmares AND I also worry that freaky little children will want to suckle me. (This is a throwback to the horrors of nursing…which I wasn’t able to do thank god for more than a couple of days until the nurses said “Oh, honey. It just isn’t going to work for you. You don’t have the right nipples.” Who knew that was even possible?)

See? That’s what I haven’t had the opportunity to share with you all.

I took my blog back. And Kealoha is back to sleeping in the bed with me instead of on the couch.*

*Actually, he slept on the couch because of a sinus infection. It had nothing to do with me, but I’m trying to create the illusion here that I’m a fierce mo-fo, even if I’m actually more like Betty Crocker.

Tanya's Week Off - Pt 2

Kealoha here. Again. After yesterday's Mai Tai rant (it needed to be said), I thought I'd keep today's faux blog entry short.

A SHORT LIST OF THE FUNNY THINGS TANYA DOES WHEN SHE GOES TO SLEEP AND IS EMBARRASSED ABOUT, BUT THEY'RE ACTUALLY QUITE ENDEARING

1. Soft snoring (very sweet 'girly' snore)

2. Loud snore, which wakes her up and then she says "Was I snoring?"

3. Soft guttural "uh" sound. (very cute, makes me smile)

4. Loud grunting noise. This definitely makes her wake up and say, "I grunted, didn't I?" It's difficult for me to respond because I'm usually laughing.

Yes, I understand there will be payback for this.