First Day In New York And I Don't Have Any Blisters
And now, coming to you straight from the hotel lobby of the Marriott Marquis in Times Square where weird Zen music is burbling from seventy speakers…I bring you…(drumroll) My Blog!!!
I really wish you could hear this music. There are harps and water sounds, a little bass, and what sounds like auto-tuned farting. Any minute a cherub is going to float by. It just isn’t my thing.
So. Okay.
My flight left yesterday at 6AM, so poor Kealoha drove me to the airport a little after 4AM. That’s fucking early. I was nervous and anxious and then I saw the new Time Magazine cover. Now I know Time is trying to be all edgy and whatnot and get you to buy their magazine, BUT THIS IS NOT THE PICTURE YOU WANT TO SEE WHEN YOU’RE AFRAID OF FLYING AND ABOUT TO GET ON A PLANE:
Sorry for shouting. But seriously. I hate your face, Time Magazine.
I took a Valium. (Thank you unused-portion of medicine from my root canal. I love you, Root Canal. )
Took a leisurely cab ride into the city and I felt relaxed and calm. Usually when I come to New York, I’m all freaking out and “I’m in New York! Look at the building! Look at all the people! I like puppies!” This time I was laid back and real coolio-man. Just like an old-time beatnik. Of course, I was wearing all black and a beret, so that helped.
Walked around the Upper West side for a while, and found my favorite ‘secret spot’ which me and about 1.5 million other people know about it. Ate a salad. Relaxed.
My friend Rae joined me around 2 and we were off for wine, food and conversation.
There’s a lot I can and will say about this, but I don’t want this to be the longest blog ever, so I’ll write another blog later. In short, it’s good to be in the city, good to have some time here on my own, even better to have some time with my two closest, oldest friends. There’s something intensely refreshing about spending time with people who know you so well they can say: “You know Tanya is going to crash around 9, so let’s go out now before we lose her.” And there’s no judgment there.
I made it until 11:30 and then Kim and Rae tucked me in and went off to Times Square without me. They’re upstairs sleeping now.
Today, we’re off to do whatever we want. We have no plans, except to hopefully see “Ghost”.
Later I’ll blog about what happened with Rae and I last night. It involved the Scariest Cab Ride ever, and pasta so good that I actually moaned a little bit.
And I’ll post some actual pictures once I find the cord to my camera. It’s lost in the black abyss of my luggage.
F***ing Pajama Day
My kids’ school sometimes has Theme Days. You get these emails where it’s like “Today is Sports Day! Wear your sports clothes!” or “Today is School Spirit Day! Wear Blue and Gold!” There are all sorts of Days: Crazy Hat, Crazy Hair, Cowboy, Superhero, Glitter, Carnival, Jean, T-shirt, and Flesh Eating Zombie. (I might’ve made that last one up. I keep freaking out over that Miami Zombie.) So on the calendar for Tuesday was PJ Day. “Wear your favorite PJs and snuggle in for an afternoon of fun!” I put it on the calendar; got a reminder email from the school; double-checked with the kids’ biodad and stepmom. Fine. Fucking PJ Day. Okay.
Yesterday morning was nice. I didn’t even make the kids get dressed. They just stayed in their PJs. Louis wore a too-tight SpongeBob shirt exposing his round belly and super long shorts with guys on skateboards doing flips. Simone wore a cute but slightly-too-big nightgown that kept slipping off her shoulder. She also has a red little chin with four stitches. We drove to school.
As we neared the school, a wave of unease swept over me. There were all the happy kids streaming into school…wearing…sundresses and shorts and tank tops…BUT NO PAJAMAS! What? Was I seeing things! It was PJ Day! I had an email! Where were all the fucking PJs? We got closer. I tried to ignore it. Maybe kids wore full outfits to bed. Then I heard Simone’s voice, edged with fear say “Mom?” and then “MOM?” and then “MMMMOMMMMMM!!!” Panic was thick.
I couldn’t deny it. No one was wearing PJs! Not one fucking kid! I suddenly had this vision of Simone going in to Kindergarten and her teacher looking at her with the stitches on her chin and an old nightgown and saying “Just a minute, honey. I need to call Child Protective Services”.
I mean, just imagine the HORROR. You show up to school one day just randomly wearing pajamas. Your MOM makes you wear PJs! I mean, it’s awful!
Louis said, “Huh. No one’s in pajamas.”
I said, “Uhhh….” panicking on the inside.
“Okay. See ya, Ma,” Louis said and then jumped out of the car. (We were parked of course.)
I took one look at Simone, sitting terrified and shivering in her car seat and I said: “Okay. We’re out of here.” We squealed out of the parking lot, rushed home, I ran inside, grabbed a sundress, tore off the muther fucking nightgown, put her in the sundress, floored the car in reverse, dodged a baby carriage, careened over steps, throttled the car through rush hour traffic, and five minutes later, Simone stepped into her Kindergarten class as if nothing had happened.
Turns out it WAS Pajama Day, but only in Louis’s class. He said a couple kids wore PJS but mostly everyone just looked like they needed a bath.
Thank god the school year is almost over.
***
And I’ll be in New York through the 12th. Look for blogs from the Big Apple. Anything you want me to blog about, let me know.
Small, Manageable Goals
I was clobbered yesterday by the flu: aches, shakes, fever, and a general malaise. About the only thing good about it was that I was just able to use the word 'malaise'. Kealoha took care of the kids and they gave me stuffed animals to cuddle with. I woke up this morning feeling about 82% better (I like to be specific). Maybe the whole flu-thing was just another way of my body saying "Dude, slow down". (My body is a stoner and talks like a Californian.) "Take it easy, man. Reee-laaax."
Today, then, instead of being overly obsessive and over-achieving, I'm going to keep it simple. I'm going to slow down, dude. It's all about small, manageable goals. Here then is my to do list:
I'll get right on that. After I take a nap.
PS: You still have today and tomorrow to win a coffee from Starbucks from me worth five whole dollars. I know. The prize package is overwhelming. Add one of my books to your Goodreads list. Click on THIS LINE RIGHT HERE for details.
Win A Latte On Me (but not literally ON me)
Since I'm just swimming in dough... Oh, wait. That was how I'd start this blog if I wrote "Fifty Shades Of Grey". I didn't. Let me start again.
I want to have a giveaway so I went through my couch cushions and came up with a super exciting prize! Cookie crumbs, an empty Doritos bag, and a weird hairy Squinkie! YAY!!!
No. Actually. The real contest is as follows:
Add one of my books to your Goodreads queue by June 5th and I'll add you into a drawing for your very own coffee from Starbucks!
That's right! A WHOLE COFFEE! Or whatever you can get for $5.00, because that's what the gift card is for.
That's all you have to do. Goodreads. You. One of my books. The books eligible are "Blunder Woman", "Easy Does It", "Foodies Rush In" or "Pepper Wellington and the Case of the Missing Sausage". You don't actually have to BUY any of the books. Just add it to your queue. You could win a prize! A real prize! Wohoooo!
Visit me at Goodreads here: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/2926031.Tanya_Eby
Enter up to four times*. Your dream of a free coffee is within reach. Really. Wishes can come true.
But not if you wish for a unicorn. They're not real. Sorry.
*If you've already added one of my books to your queue, then you're ALREADY in the contest! High five!
Growing Older Hurts A Little, Doesn't It?
I started rereading “House of Leaves” by Danielewski. I read it when it first came out and it scared the crap out of me. I guess I want to repeat that experience again. So in the first few pages he mentions the wife of the protagonist and says that she’s nearing her forties and struggling with staying trim and aging and living a suburban life. And in another book I'm listening to ("The Bedlam Detective") there's another female character who's nearing her forties, struggling with staying trim and aging and living a provincial life.
I had to set the book aside for a few minutes after that and think for awhile.
Two totally different novels and the women characters are struggling with exactly the same things I'm struggling with! You mean I'm not unique in this? AWESOME!!!
It suddenly struck me that all my complaining and whining about my weight isn’t really about my weight at all; it’s about my AGE. I'm having growing pains again, only they're psychological pains.
I’m about seven pounds heavier than I was at my thinnest, so I’m about normal. It’s not the weight that gets to me, but a general THICKENING. Like I’m just more SOLID or something. I look in the mirror and I see pretty much what I am: A middle-aged wife and mother of two. It’s so weird! I mean, I think: Holy cow! That’s YOU in the mirror, Tanya. You with graying hair and a few wrinkles and…you’re like…A WOMAN. And a MOM. When people see you on the street they probably think "She looks like she bakes really good cookies".
I’m actually really good with that, but still some of it is hard.
I look at pictures of myself when I was in my twenties and I think: Holy crap. You were really cute! Why were you so hard on yourself?
Don’t you just sorta wish that you could go back to your younger self, but have the confidence and self-esteem of your older self? I do. And I’m sure twenty years from now I’ll look at my 38-year-old-self and see someone who is curvy and youthful and still cute.
I just wish I could see that NOW.
In Which I Add More Explosions To My Writing
My son says more people would buy my books if I wrote stuff people actually wanted to read. You know, stuff with EXPLOSIONS. So I decided to do a little experiment. What would it look like if my books had more explosions and violence and stuff in it? I mean, my little dude could be on to something. Here then is an excerpt from “Easy Does It”, the first book I wrote which is essentially a comedy about online nerdy dating. I’ve taken the text and did some Pride & Prejudice & Zombies to it. (And now when I even mention ‘zombies’ I think of that recent story about the real zombie in Miami eating a guys FACE. I’m totally traumatized.)
Here, then, I present in Technicolor “Easy Does It While Carrying A Bazooka”.
Chapter 4
She laughed. She cried. She was drunk.
That night, Julie logged onto CoupleMe.com and began typing in her personal ad. She considered it again. What exactly did she want? Posting for a mate was sort of like ordering a pizza. Did she want another vegetarian, or something with a little meat?
Meat, she thought. This time I want meat.
She typed. Took a sip of wine. Thought: Mmmmm. Merlot is yummy. Took another sip of wine.
Suddenly, there was a gigantic explosion outside! Julie ran to the window and looked out. Giant fireballs were raining from the sky! What the hell is going on? she thought.
She opened the window. There were people running around and screaming. A giant orange fireball hit Mrs. Tiber, the old crank who lived in apartment B downstairs and went through Julie’s mail. Mrs. Tiber and her walker went flying! Served her right.
Julie saw a newspaper kid running across the street. Another fireball landed just in front of him, but luckily the kid maneuvered around it. “Hey, kid!” Julie called. “What the hell is going on?”
The kid turned around and looked at her. He adjusted his ball cap and said in a tiny voice “Oh, jeez, lady! Haven’t you heard? We’re under attack from aliens from the planet Nezbar! You’ve got to take cover! They’re going to kill us! They’re going to kill us a…” Just then a tentacle reached down from the sky and impaled the kid, sending a spiky green arm straight through the top of his baseball cap.
“Thanks for the info!” Julie said, thought the poor kid was beyond hearing.
She shut the window. It was really loud out. She went back to her computer.
What was she supposed to say? The truth? I’m lonely. I’m in love with my ex-boyfriend. I’m totally dependable and predictable, which means…I’m boring. You could feel those things, but you couldn’t write them. She sipped her wine.
The house shook with another explosion! She could hear death screams outside and then a computerized announcement seemed to fill her brain. “We are from the planet Nezbar! We have come to EAT YOU!”
Julie went to her closet, took off her robe, revealing her camo shorts and tight tank top. She grabbed the bazooka she kept just in case aliens attacked Earth, and carried the gun back to her computer.
She looked at the picture of Ronny she still kept by her computer. It was her favorite shot of him on the night they met nearly five years ago. He was playing piano for his band, The Two Wets. He stood in a spotlight, head tilted up, his face pinched. It was a familiar expression to Julie since it was the same pose he struck when he had an orgasm, except without the spotlight.
Julie toasted the picture and gulped. Usually, she’d stop at one glass, because wine tended to make her loopy, but tonight was a special night. She was in search of loopy…and was possibly about to save the world. She poured another glass, stuck her tongue out at Ronny, and slammed his smug orgasm-face on the table. She couldn’t look at him any more especially since she hadn’t had an orgasm-face in months.
If she were being honest, and drinking an entire bottle of wine led her to be pretty honest, Julie admitted she felt like that miscellaneous sock at the bottom of the laundry basket, the one you keep washing in hopes that its second half would eventually show up. “Thass me,” she slurred to the computer screen. “I’m a sock. A hole filled socky-sock-sock.”
Julie tried to pick up her cell phone and call Eve but she was having trouble seeing the buttons clearly. No need. She could post this ad on her own. She didn’t need Eve to hold her hand with everything. She would post this ad!
She grabbed her personal ad and began typing. Maybe she would change her ad. Cheer it up a bit, like Eve said.
She wrote so quickly she barely knew what she was typing. Her words flew from her in a torrent. She laughed. She cried. She was drunk. She hit “submit”, and then slunk back in her chair for a very quick nap.
A tentacle smashed threw the window, nearly missing Julie. She woke up suddenly, grabbed her Bazooka and decided that while she waited for a response to her personal ad, while she kept searching for the love of her life, she could also save the world. “MUTHER FUCKERSSSSS!” she screamed and leapt out of the window, shooting that bazooka like the mofo she was. It wasn’t right that aliens wanted to take over the Earth. And it wasn’t right that she was single.
TO BE CONTINUED--BUT PROBABLY NOT
Dammit. I sorta like it. You can read the REAL novel here: CLICK ON THIS. It's free on Amazon if you have a Prime membership. There aren't any explosions in it though, and now I'm wondering if my son was right and maybe I should go back and add more KABLAM into my romantic comedies. Huh.
Conversation with Kealoha, Exploding Sausages, and 9 Other Random Things
ME: What should I blog about? (Kealoha stretches and makes an ‘errr’ sound.)
KEALOHA: Write about how awesome your husband is.
ME: Nah. No one wants to read that.
(Pause)
ME: I mean, I don’t want to make anyone JEALOUS.
***
I really am searching for blog topics, but what’s currently on my mind are things that are frequently on my mind and hence probably boring and repetitive to anyone who reads this blog even semi-frequently:
1) I’m turning 39 next month and am having a prolonged panic attack of: “I’m Middle-Aged With A 40-Year-Old Paunch, Graying Hair And I Look Matronly”.
2) The above paranoia is enhanced because I’m going to New York in less than two weeks to spend a weekend with two of my college roommates and they still look lithe and perky and, well, hot. I sorta just look sweaty. Maybe I’ll be the designated picture taker or just take pictures of my feet.
3) Because of the above two things, I’m probably going to go to Kohls for some Spanx that will hold in my 40-Year-Old stomach. When I wear Spanx, I feel like a sausage, and not breakfast links either. I feel like I'm a giant KIELBASA. I’m afraid I’ll bust out of the seams and then on the streets of New York, someone will scream “Oh my god! It’s an exploding almost-40-year-old sausage-woman!!” Then they’ll make a SyFy movie based on me.
4) “Foodies Rush In” just came out. I think some people are actually reading it. Kealoha formatted everything and he tells me not to just give it away because it has value. But I still might smuggle some books to NY and see if I can get my still-hot former roommates to hand them out to people.
5) We go to Paris in July (hence 1, 2, and 3) and I haven’t learned a single phrase of French yet. I’m considering pretending I’m deaf, but I don’t know sign language either.
6) I’ve got one more book to narrate and then no further gigs booked for the rest of the summer. Massive, massive panic attack.
7) I’m now polishing my asylum story. I love it. After this, it’s time for a literary collection of short stories tentatively called “Seven Sarahs”.
8 ) I really wish I could just be okay with who I am, how much I weigh, what I write, etc. etc. If they invent a pill for that, let me know. I’m not opposed to medication.
9) My husband really is awesome.
10 ) I don’t have a 10, but you can’t have a list of 9 things, especially if you’re OCD. So for my OCD readers, I filled in the space here so you don’t have to.
Yeah. Those are my potential blog topics. I’m not going to write about any of them.
Instead, I’m going for a walk, and then I’m going to make salmon dip.
"Foodies Rush In" is now available! Read an excerpt here:
I'm thrilled to announce that "Foodies Rush In" is now available as an ebook! The paperback version will be ready soon. Look for it on Amazon, Smashwords, and soon on Barnes & Noble. Click on links below. The price is only $2.99.
You can't even get a latte for $2.99!
Here's the first chapter of the book to get you started. It's a quick summer read featuring awkward characters, food, and some sauciness. Apparently I cuss in it a lot, but I didn't even notice that.
******
CHAPTER ONE
Even before Dana set her bags on the wooden floor of her 1950s era cookie cutter house, she could hear her kids calling her name and running over themselves to get to her.
“Mommy! Mommy!” they cried. Were there two more beautiful words in the English language? Maybe “Eat Chocolate” but “Mommy! Mommy!” came a close second.
She set her bags down, kneeled, opened her arms and was promptly tackled by her four-year-old daughter dressed in layers of pink tulle, and her six-year-old son dressed as a zombie. “I thought Halloween was over. It’s supposed to be Thanksgiving in a week!” she said amidst the kisses and elbows and general head butting that represented the love-fest greeting from her kids.
“Don’t you know?” she heard her sister Valerie say. “They’re not dressed up. This is how they are, like all the time.”
Dana peeled her daughter Ruby from her neck, and lifted her son Zach off her stomach and sat up. “Should I have warned you before I left?” she asked.
Her sister smiled. “To tell you the truth, I sorta already knew. Come on kiddos, give your mom some space to settle in before you maul her to death. You’d think she’d been gone for a year and not just five days.”
“Hey! Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom? Mom,” Ruby chanted. “Ma? Mommy. Mom. Hey. Mom.”
Dana shook her head and smiled. “What, sweetie?”
“You bring me something?” Ruby shot her that smile that melted icebergs.
Her son stared at her intently. For a brief moment Dana thought he was going to ask her for brains—it must’ve been the makeup. Instead, he said, “What I’d really like is some more Clone Troopers. They have any Clone Troopers in Vegas?”
“Not exactly. But they did have these.” Dana pulled two plastic jars of M&Ms from her bag. She’d had them printed with the kids’ names on them. She had tons of swag from the conference, but most of it related to her new canning venture and was being shipped to her. The t-shirts, mugs, necklaces, and small velvet painting of Elvis for her sister, waited in her bag.
The kids grabbed the M&Ms and scampered off to sort colors and devour the candy mercilessly.
Valerie stared at her, arms crossed over her gigantic boobs—thanks to lactating for twins. Dana gave her sister some credit. She at least waited until the kids were out of earshot before she said, “Okay, dish. Who’s the guy and are you pregnant?”
“No, I’m not pregnant! Don’t be ridiculous! We didn’t even…” Dana lowered her voice to a whisper, “sleep together.”
“You’re not supposed to sleep. That’s not how I got pregnant. I sure as heck wasn’t sleeping.”
“It was nothing,” Dana said, trying to sound as if it really was nothing. She scooped up her bag, opened it and handed her sister the 5x7 portrait of Elvis. When you put him on the wall and walked back and forth in front of him, his eyes seemed to follow you everywhere. It was creepy, yet comforting at the same time.
“Oh, no,” Valerie said. “You are not distracting me with artistic genius. I want his name, his height, his income level, and when are you seeing him again.”
“Theodore Drimmel.” Dana waited to see her sister’s reaction. It took Valerie a moment to think it over and then her nose crinkled as if she smelled something bad.
“I like the Theodore part,” she said, “but that Drimmel has got to go. Maybe he can take your name when you get married.”
“Valerie! Don’t be ridiculous. It was a fling. I’m not going to…” Suddenly, Dana saw herself standing next to a punked-out Theo and both of them giggling, right after they’d said “I do” and “Oy”.
Dana continued, “Look, do you want the vital statistics or not? I can give you age, height, and income level, but not much else. And…is there any coffee? I’m in need of a serious jolt of caffeine. I know it was only five days, but there’s a three hour time difference.”
Valerie nodded and walked into Dana’s kitchen. Dana loved her kitchen. Sure, it could be a little bigger, but it had all the earth tones she loved. Green cabinets, creamy brown counters flecked with golds and greens, easy-to-clean linoleum. It hardly sounded romantic, but when her then-husband Paul had said she could do anything she wanted to the kitchen—within a budget—she’d thought she’d won a trip to France. Of course, she realized he’d given her free reign of the kitchen around the same time he’d started seeing his new wife. Best not to think about that.
Valerie grabbed two mugs, poured equal amounts of cream into both and topped it off with hazelnut coffee. “Yes,” she said before Dana could question her. “I’m back to drinking caffeine. The twins aren’t sleeping through the night yet, so that means I’m pretty much constantly wired. His name is Theodore,” she transitioned from one thought to the next so quickly that Dana had trouble noticing they were on two different subjects.
“Yes. And he’s opening a gourmet food store somewhere in the Midwest, so he’s employed and gets some kind of paycheck. He paid for things for me without hesitation, and I haven’t experienced that since…well, never. He’s a few inches taller than me, so I can still wear heels. He’s nice. Funny. Cute in a TV CSI scientist kind of way. What else? He’s a great kisser. But that’s all I know. Nothing else.”
“You forgot to say when you’re seeing each other again.”
“We’re not. Ever.” Dana sipped her coffee, reveling the warmth it gave her, and then became aware that the warmth was actually from the glare her sister was giving her. “Don’t give me that look, Val. It’s not a big deal. It’s a small deal. A good deal actually. It’s ridiculous to even think that I’d see him again. I’m a mom. I’m busy. I haven’t dated since The Culture Club was considered edgy. And everyone says what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.”
“Yeah…well, everyone is stupid. Are stupid. Everyone are stupid.” Valerie looked confused. “Seriously. I have baby momma brain. Don’t listen to everyone is what I’m trying to say.”
“I’m not ready to date.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not.”
Valerie set her mug down on the countertop. They listened to the kids shouting out random colors. Zach was trying to trade Ruby one blue for four purple and Ruby wasn’t allowing it. Smart girl, Dana thought.
Valerie yelled at the top of her lungs “Knock it off, kiddos, or you’ll wake the twins!” then immediately said, “Paul’s been gone a year. You’ve been divorced since June. The holidays are breathing down your neck. You. Are. Ready. To. Date.” Then she sipped her coffee in an “enough said” sort of way.
Dana felt the familiar plum rise in her throat any time she thought of her ex. It was true that she’d been devastated when he left, but honestly, she wasn’t shocked. They weren’t right for each other. They liked each other, married each other because they’d thought the other one was “good enough”. Truthfully, they’d both had biological clocks that were not only ticking, but booming. And they’d had five years together. Five years of coexisting together, but not really living. Not fully. So when he’d met and fallen in love with someone else—Dana had been devastated and hurt, but not at all surprised. And she’d never seen Paul happier.
That might’ve been what hurt the most. That and Paul seemed content to see the kids only occasionally, especially now that Alyssa was expecting.
Dana had tried to imagine herself going out on dates again. How did one do that? Dating was a horrible experience in her twenties. She couldn’t imagine doing it now in her late thirties, with two kids. And what would she do? How would she even approach the topic of who she was and what she offered now? She could just imagine walking up to an attractive man and saying, “Hey, I’m Dana! I’m a single mom with two kids. Do you want to be an instant dad? Do you want to have frenzied sex when the kids are at their dad’s and secret sex once every month while the kids are sleeping? Because that’s probably what we’ll do. Oh! And are you willing to go through a police check and probably an anal probe just to make sure you’re not hiding anything, because I’ve watched a lot of America’s Most Wanted over the years, and I am not letting any freaks near my children.”
Dana had a few issues.
“I’m not ready to date, Val,” she said, this time using her End of Discussion tone. “Besides,” she finished, “he’s already married.” She just didn’t say that technically, if you didn’t think of paperwork, he was married to her.
Meet Fandoodle The Depressed Balloon Animal Maker
Yesterday, we took the kids to Applebee’s. I’ve been cooking a lot, and had two longs days of narrating so we thought, fuck it. We’re not cooking. Convincing the kids to go was like trying to convince them to get shots. But Kealoha and I were determined that we were going to go out as a family and they were going to enjoy it dammit! I think we both had low blood sugar.
When we got there, there were all these balloons and stuff. Simone asked: “What’s this about”? The hostess said: “Oh, it’s Kids’ Night. You can get a balloon animal and your face painted.”
Louis thought about it and then nodded. “Nice work, guys,” he said to me and Kealoha.
We sat down. After a while a big guy wearing a tye-dyed shirt came over. (He had pants on too, thank god.) He looked sorta depressed, and I could see why. Making balloon animals at an Applebees probably isn’t all that exciting for a clown-wannabe. “Hi. I’m Fandoodle,” he said almost apologetically. Then he looked at the card that he was wearing as a necklace and read in a monotone: “I can make squirrels, dogs, cats, hearts, swords, flowers, dinosaurs, and apples. What would you like?” Why did he have to read off of a card what animals he could make? Maybe they just picked the guy up off the street and forced him to blow up balloons and twist them. Maybe he was supporting a coke habit or something.
Simone immediately said “Squirrel!”
“What color?” He looked at his card. “I have blue, purple, pink, yellow, red, black, white…”
“Brown!”
“What?”
Simone said again, “Brown!” (She did want a squirrel after all.) “I want a brown and light brown.”
“No, only one color.”
“Okay. Brown.”
“I don’t have brown. I have blue, purple, pink...” They settled on yellow. Then he proceeded to pop two balloons, giving me a heart attack, and then handed Simone a squirrel. It was the worst squirrel I’ve ever seen. It looked like a poodle. I wondered if all of the animals looked like poodles, but then he made a decent dinosaur for Louis.
Later, Kealoha and I did impersonations of the Depressed Balloon Maker Fandoodle. We came up with a comedy sketch that went like this.
(Read in a monotone) FRANDOODLE: Hi. I’m Fandoodle. You want a squirrel? Here. (Fandoodle hands over a straight balloon to a kid.) KID: But that’s just a plain balloon. It’s not a squirrel at all. FANDOODLE: Use your imagination, kid.
Then the kids wanted to get their faces painted. They ate fast and then I walked them to the teenager doing stick figures on kids’ faces. Kealoha sat at the booth surrounded by food happily eating away. Simone wanted a flower and I have never seen her sit so still. Then Louis hopped up. “What do you want little boy?” The teenager asked. I think she thought Louis was a puppy.
LOUIS: Hmmm. I dunno. Can you paint a murder?
TEENAGER: Huh?
LOUIS: Yeah. You know. MURDER.
(pause)
ME: He wants you to paint a murder on his face, but no. Don’t do that. That's not appropriate for school. How about a skull? Louis, a skull is like a murder only it’s after the body has decomposed for a while and then the CSI dudes investigate it.
LOUIS: Oh. Okay.
TEENAGER: I can do a skull.
According to the kids, this was the Best Night Ever.
I wonder if Fandoodle can say the same.
My Gift To You
In case you don't follow me on Facebook or Twitter, here's a little picture that I will now share with you. It began as two of my favorite things that I own: a simple stuffed buffalo and an action figure of Number One (Riker) from Star Trek. My hubby (Kealoha) combined them on my dresser for PURE MAGIC and then I took a picture and posted it to Facebook, because that's the kind of stuff we do in our modern age.
Then hubby added the rainbows and clouds because, really, Number One should be flying, and I'm sure every bison has wanted to. And then Kealoha made another wish come true and turned it into a painting. Sheer GENIUS. I now share this with you, dear reader.
May your day be filled with goodness. Make it so.
What My Moment Of Zen Ended Up Being
I had a moment this weekend where I was like “Wow. Life is really beautiful, you know?” And I wasn’t drunk. Or on valium for the dentist. No. This was au natural…except I was clothed.
I was sitting in the playroom, which is also my office. Kealoha was running errands and the kids were playing downstairs. I sat at my desk and just breathed for a while and noticed as I sat in my stillness, I could hear the most beautiful birdsong out the window. I mean, it was really melodic and it sounded like it was from a Disney movie or something. Like somewhere, somehow some ugly chick was getting a gown made of berries JUST FOR HER and I could listen to it.
I breathed. I reveled in the moment of knowing I was exactly where I should be.
Then my son came upstairs. “Hey, ma,” he said. “Can I finish my game on the computer?”
“What?” I said, still in a half-daze. “Sure. Whatever. Go ahead.”
He sat at the computer and I looked over and noticed that the beautiful birdsong I was basking in was actually from this cute-monster video game and my son’s monster was in this freakish garden where plants had eyes and stuff. The actual sounds coming from outside were a car alarm and some distant lawn mowers and somebody nearby who was, I’m pretty sure, farting the national anthem.
So. Yeah. That was my moment of beauty. If you know me at all, you know that the actual genesis of the birdsong makes so much more sense than the one I had in my head. I was still happy, though. And mildly embarrassed.
A state in which I’m very comfortable.
My Son Solves My Artistic Problems
Here is a conversation I had with my son (7 years old) last night. He was looking at the proof copy “Foodies Rush In”.
SON: Ma. Ma! So…are you famous?
ME: Famous? No. Why?
SON: But you have books, right?
ME: Yeah…
SON: Do a lot of people buy your books?
ME: Not really.
SON: How many have you sold?
ME: All together?
SON: Yeah.
ME: About 50.
SON: Wow. That’s a lot.
ME: (smiles)
SON: Why aren’t more people buying your books? ME: Well….
SON: Maybe if you wrote something that people WANT to read then they’d buy your books.
ME: (blink blink)
SON: Let me think about this. Maybe I could come up with an idea of something people would actually want to read.
ME: Okay. That would be really helpful.
A few minutes later, he told me that perhaps I should ‘write something with a lot of battles and explosions and stuff’ because that’s what he’d like to read, and he’s pretty sure there are like a million other people out there would like to read that too. And maybe then I’ll be famous.
What Happens When I Start A Shake Diet AKA How I Ended Up Dancing Naked In My Backyard
Blah blah blah I’m trying to lose weight blah blah blah. I’ve been trying to lose weight for about two years. It’s stupid. It’s my own fault, but I can say that being extremely busy—it’s just hard to focus on exercising and eating healthy when everything else takes priority. I’d grab a lunch at work. I’d snack when I could. I’d de-stress with chocolate. Whatever. It’s been awful.
So now that I’m not teaching and have some time off, I decided it’s the prime time to be good to myself. So every day I try to exercise, eat well, write, and read. It hasn’t been even a week yet but so far so good.
I also decided I’d kick start my diet with a little help from a gigantic pyramid that’s sweeping the nation. I will keep it Unamed because I’m not promoting it.
First off, I should say that I’m super sensitive to drugs. Like, I can get all “I am the walrus!” on just a single cough drop. It’s just how I’m wired. I remember when they gave me Valium for my tooth (see previous blog post) and my sister asked the dosage and she said “Do they even KNOW you? That’s fucking insane! You’ll be so high you’ll float away.”
Keep that in the back of your mind. Add this to it: I also have a dastardly, sometimes uncontrollable imagination.
I am ashamed to say I spent over $200 on a “Core Kit” that promised if I followed the regime for 30 days, I could lose 5 pounds. I’m desperate right now. I want those 5 pounds GONE so when I go to NYC and Paris that people don’t look at me and say “Oh, she looks like she has a nice personality”. This Core Kit comes with two bags of shake mix, drink mix, and two bottles of pills that don’t really say what they are, but they promise I’ll have more Omega and less, I don’t know, Alpha.
Day 1
I popped the 2 pills and unzipped the bag of shake mix and I knew I was in trouble. Immediately, my throat felt…HAIRY. I kid you not. And my heart started beating really fast. Then I looked at the drink powder and my devil brain kicked into overdrive: DEVIL BRAIN: That powder looks like baby formula. You’re going to drink BABY FORMULA.
ANGEL BRAIN: Shut up. It looks like balanced Omegas and Fat Burning Power to make me lose weight.
DEVIL BRAIN: You’re going to lose weight because you’ll be drinking lactating boob milk. That shake is BOOB MILK. Warm boob milk.
ANGEL BRAIN: Shut the fuck up! This is good for me! It's a milkshake! A DELIGHTFUL, CREAMY MILKSHAKE!!!
DEVIL BRAIN: Whatev. It’s a chemical maelstrom.
I immediately shook the shake, dissolving the powder and then put the nice warm, nipple to my mouth.
Wait! Not a nipple! I was not drinking boob milk! This was not formula! This was HEALTHY.
Then I threw up.
And my heart started to gallop like mad.
DAY 2
I passed on the boob milk. I can’t drink it. It’s baby formula and every time I bring it to my mouth I think of an areole with a little ring of hair around it. Just to be sure, I took the two pills to jumpstart my metabolism.
I then saw dancing teddy bears and had a twenty-four hour black out in which I emerged wearing nothing but a bandana and a sandal. IN the middle of the desert.
DAY 3
To be triple sure, I took the pills again. I had a panic attack.
DAY 4
TANYA: Fuck you, Devil Brain.
DEVIL BRAIN: I love you, Tatiana.
****
The Core Kit is now sitting under my desk, in its nice little box. It’s a reminder that I guess I have to do this the old fashioned way: with a lot of sweat and plenty of swearing.
Muther fucker. I’m off for my walk.
My Conversation With The Bad Ass Russian Pedicurist
I am trying to look at my next couple of months without work not as a time of unemployment, but as an ‘opportunity to focus on my health and my writing’. It’s the Zen way to keep myself from freaking out and screaming Why can’t I get more narrating gigs? Why didn’t I teach summer classes? When will Tim Burton and Johnny Depp break up? So. Ahhhh. Back to my meditative state.
To stay sane, I need a schedule, so my basic schedule is (after I’ve taken the kids to school when I have them): work out, write, read. Those are the three things I need to accomplish every day. Today I added one more: Get Pedicure. It’s not wholly self-indulgent. Last week my son pointed at my feet and said “Your feet look really weird, Mom.” And I realized, yeah, my soles needed some buffing because they were sorta looking like I had some weird creature that was going to hatch from my heel. Ew.
I decided not to go to the cheap Korean pedicure place because I always get this one guy and he’s really rough. Plus I feel a little creeped out with a dude manipulating my toes. It just doesn’t seem NATURAL.
So I went to a bonafide salon. Instead of a Korean working on me, this time I got someone from what used to be called Russia (and I just don’t know what it’s called anymore, maybe it's Republic of Fear or something.)
She was nice, but very…strict. It began like this (and you should read her with a thick Slavic accent.)
LADY WITH SLAVIC ACCENT PUTTING OUT ASSORTMENT OF TOWELS AND GYNECOLOGICAL-LOOKING INSTRUMENTS: I see your name. Tanya. What is that?
ME: What do you mean? It’s my name.
LADY SCRUBBING MY FEET: Yes. I know. But what are you? You Greek? I know a lot of Greek Tanyas.
ME: Really? I’ve never met a Greek Tanya. I don’t think I’ve actually met a Greek anyone. Some people think I’m Russian.
LADY USING SHARP TINY TONGS ON MY CUTICLES: If you were Russian, your name would be Tatiana. But it’s not. What? Your mom just like the name?
ME: Yep. I think she was obsessed with Dr. Zhivago or something.
LADY RUBBING MY LEGS LIKE TRYING TO ERASE BLOOD STAINS: My name is Isabella. Not a Russian name. Everyone call me Bella. My mom, she just like the name, so. Here I am.
ME: Oh? You’re Russian? Cool.
We then had a few minutes of awkward silence and as she aggressively worked on my feet I started to sweat a little. I sat a little straighter in my chair. I mean, she was RUSSIAN and they have like gulags there. Then I started thinking about goulash and I wondered if they were related semantically, and then I just wanted to go to Coney Island and have chili fries. That’s how my mind works.
BELLA: Pick a color.
ME: Oh? Okay. From here?
BELLA: Yeah. Just tell me the number. I don’t need the color. Just the number.
ME: Oh. Okay? Uhm….how about…I dunno…9? She looked at me and I felt a bead of sweat dribble between my boobs. I HATE when that happens.
BELLA: You sure? She stared at me. Holy shit? WAS I sure? Did I pick the wrong number? Would she break my toes because I didn’t choose 11? I mean, 9 was pink and I’m not really a pink person, but I wanted something cute and feminine…and shit….I should have gone with 17. BLACK!
ME: Sure? I mean, yeah? 9?
Suddenly, I was that annoying person that speaks only in question marks.
Bella didn’t say anything, just nodded curtly as if to say: dah.
BELLA: You come here before?
ME: No. I usually go to a cheap place…but…I uh…live close to here…
BELLA: You live close and you no come here? You come here from now on.
It wasn’t a question.
ME: Okay.
She then worked on my feet and I tried to behave and read my book quietly. She did a mint rub on my toes and wrapped them in towels. When she was finished, I sorta felt like I’d been dipped in Christmas I was so minty.
She smiled kindly and helped me waddle to the dryer for my toes.
Then she disappeared. I don’t think she defected or anything. I mean, she’s probably got family here and stuff.
I dried my toes. I breathed a sigh of relief.
And now I’m writing this with deliciously girly-cute pink toes, and I feel like I have a new friend. Next time I’ll try to ask her for emotional advice because I’m pretty sure Bella is pragmatic as hell and she’ll tell me to stop being such a pussy and man up. I like that in a person. It’s something I’ve been yearning for. I’m pretty sure that if you’re raised in Russia, you learn how to bite nails and stuff when you’re a toddler.
That’s what I like to think anyway.
And I’m now contemplating changing my name to Tatiana. It’s just damned sexy and tough sounding, especially when I say it with a bad Russian accent.
The Kids Are Probably Not Ready For Comedy Central Yet
Last week we were sitting at the table with the kids. I’m pretty sure we eating as it seems to be the only time we can get the kids to sit with us, and then only for a few minutes. So, there’s Kealoha and me and our 6 and 7 year-olds. I don’t know how it happened, but I’m pretty sure Simone started it.
She’s 6 and is pretty feisty. She'll randomly start singing songs and cluck her tongue and then pretend like nothing happened. She just does that. She’s also just learned a bunch of knock-knock jokes at school and she’s starting to understand puns.
Simone asked Kealoha if he knew any knock-knock jokes, and then it started.
KEALOHA: Knock knock.
SIMONE: Who’s there?
KEALOHA: Cash.
SIMONE: Cash who?
KEALOHA: No, I don’t like cashews but I’ll take a peanut.
SIMONE: (Pause. pause) Oh! I get it. CashEW. Hahahaaha!
Now, I don’t know how it started exactly, but I knew that once they started telling Why Did The Chicken Cross The Road jokes, that the Bob jokes were next. Kealoha looked at me and I saw that evil sparkle in his eyes. I just shook my head in the way that acknowledged this was inevitable so please just get it over with.
KEALOHA: So what do you call a guy with no arms and no legs in a swimming pool?
SIMONE: Why hasn’t he got any arms or legs?
KEALOHA: That’s not the point. What do you call him?
KIDS: (silence)
KEALOHA: Bob!
I grimaced here because it’s a stupid joke and it always makes me laugh and then I feel guilty about laughing because there are people out there who don’t have any arms or legs and some of them are veterans and they probably wouldn’t bob in a pool of water but sink straight down, and some of them might even be glad about it. That’s what I was thinking. But back to the conversation.
SIMONE: Oh! I get it! Ha!
KEALOHA: What do you call a guy with no arms and no legs lying outside your door?
KIDS: What?
KEALOHA: Matt.
This went on and on and I did struggle with the whole “is this appropriate” and then I thought, “fuck it”. Then Kealoha started making up his own jokes and I even joined in. You could see the kids thinking about them and trying to get why they were funny. Sometimes they’d laugh; sometimes not. Simone got really excited. She made up one of her own “Bob” jokes.
SIMONE: Okay! Okay! So, uhm, what do you call a man with no arms and no legs standing…
KEALOHA: He can’t stand. He doesn’t have any legs.
SIMONE: (blink blink) Okay. So. What do you call a man with no arms and no legs standing on broken glass? Kealoha’s eyes got really big here and I sort of gasped.
SIMONE: Mirror!
There was silence in the room for a good ten seconds and then I started laughing uncontrollably. It was so completely surreal, so NOT funny, that every time I think about it (even now), I just lose it.
Kealoha cleared the tears from his eyes, and I tried to gently explain why an armless and legless man standing on broken glass isn’t funny, but an armless and legless man lying in front of your door IS. The kids didn’t get it.
Kealoha then started to tell a leper joke, but even I have limits. I changed the subject to “What kind of ice cream do you want for dessert?”
I do believe there’s a time and a place to teach children about the intricacies of humor, and I’m thinking that maybe the time isn’t quite right yet.
And I’m still thinking about the poor guy named Mirror sitting out in the cold on a pile of broken glass. Dude. That’s not funny.
Except it sort of is. So maybe Simone is a surrealist comic genius or something. Or she needs therapy already. We're still trying to figure that out.
Summer Reading ORGY! Okay. I said that to get your attention.
I decided not to teach this summer, so I could narrate full time. And…uh…well…it looks like I’ll have some extra time to write and read. Yay! (Fingers crossed that I get some more narration gigs soon.) So I’m kicking off my Slow Down And Read summer campaign. This is year two. YEAR TWO! I can’t believe a year has passed. Crazy. Anyway. I have a stack of books I’ve been meaning to read. Okay. Probably closer to three stacks if you add all the titles I have on my Kindle. But here’s the physical stack:
So? What’s on my Summer Reading List? Here it is in no particular order because that requires effort. Oh. And I'll put links up if you want to read more about the books:
“Kushiel’s Dart” by Jacqueline Carey
I picked this one up at my writing group’s conference. I don’t really know much about it except it’s fantasy, and the lady on the cover isn’t wearing a shirt, so she’s either a sorceress or a temptress or maybe both.
“The Princess Bride” by William Goldman
I’ve seen the movie a hundred times. In fact, the first time I saw it I went with a group of friends when I was in high school. I didn’t get to do a lot of social things when I was a teenager, and this has always been a highlight. I’ve seen the movie so much, I didn’t really feel the need to read the book. A shocker, I know. But Kealoha swears it’s wonderful and I’m betting it probably is.
“The Table Comes First—Family, France, and the Meaning of Food” by Adam Gopnik
Kealoha got this for me for Christmas. Since we’re going to Paris in July, I should probably crack this puppy open and get reading.
“Bossypants” by Tina Fey
My mother-in-law loaned this to me, so I’ll try to read this first. Sometimes, I think Tina Fey has the life I’d have had if I made two or three significantly different choices in my life like, I dunno, stay in New York and perform more. Not that I’d be famous or anything. Whatever. Tina Fey, she funny. I like funny.
“Catch Me” by Lisa Gardner
I actually got this book by mistake. I THOUGHT I was grabbing a book by Lisa Unger, a suspense writer whose work I really dig. I guess I blanked on her name. So I’ll give this one a try.
“Aegean Intrigue” by Patricia Kiyono
This is written by a woman in my writer’s group. I’m really curious to check out her work. It sounds like a lot of fun.
“The Marriage Plot” by Jeffrey Eugenides.
I pre-ordered this when it first came out and am ashamed I still haven’t read it. Eugenides is a master and I’m curious about this plot of marriage and English majors.
“Checker and the Derailleurs” by Lionel Shriver
I’ve read two books by Shriver and they both destroyed me. You know, destroyed me in a good way. She’s emotionally complex and an intense storyteller. I got to narrate one of her books, and read “We Should Talk About Kevin” last year. I’ve vowed to read everything she’s written. I know nothing about this book, but I’m excited to read it.
“Let’s Pretend This Never Happened” by Jenny Lawson
If you don’t read The Bloggess’s blog, you should. She’s quirky, twisted, dark, swears all the time, and comes up with tshirts that are so wrong, they seem perfect. AND I give her the award for best cover.
Finally, I asked for some suggestions, and this is what people wrote in on my FB page:
“The Dovekeepers” by Alice Hoffman (I love Hoffman. Good pick) “The Flight of Gemma Hardy” by Margot Livesey “King Solomon’s Mines” by H. Rider Haggard “Trajectories” by Tess Grant “The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks” by Rebecca Skloot “Trouble in Mudbug” by Jana DeLeon
I’ll choose one more from the suggestions above, or comments posted, and I probably need to read a classic. Feel free to join me in my summer reading bacchanal. Actually, that’s probably a better name for my campaign: Slow Down And Read is now my Book Bacchanal. Because books are better with wine. Oh! And I'm on Goodreads too, and will occasionally post reviews.
What are you reading?
Coming Soon....
I'm narrating all week, so I won't be able to write as much as I'd like to. Never fear though! The blog will return shortly with my "Slow Down and Read" summer 2012 campaign, as well as what happens when you try to explain the rules of joke telling to a 6 and 7 year old. Humor is a lot more complicated than you think. I'm also toying with doing a little backstage blog on narrating. A really great book is releasing soon that I narrated and I thought I might tell a little more about that. Or maybe I won't do any of that. Who knows? More blog is coming soon...
Until then, enjoy these videos:
What a difference a week (and a bottle of wine) makes
You may have noticed that I took a few days off from the blog. If you follow me on Facebook you’ll know that after the horrendous conference experience where I felt whipped and pummeled (but not in an erotic SM way---not that I’m into that anyway), I went straight to narrating for two days, then came home to a letter from my college talking about how to sign up for COBRA. (COBRA is overpriced insurance you can pay for on your own for a while when your employer fires you and you’ve lost your benefits.) My heart sank. Cancelled insurance is NOT a good sign. Then I checked my email and found out it was confirmed: my teaching contract wasn’t being renewed. What a shitty way to find out though. Through the mail. In a not-nice letter.
There are lots of reasons for my job being cut, and I justified everything. It’s university-wide; it’s not just me so it’s not personal; the contract could still be renewed in July when the new president takes over. And I thought I was doing really okay with it. Kealoha and I were going to go out to a pizza dinner and I’d be fine…I just wouldn’t be employed.
As soon as Kealoha walked in the door, he immediately hugged me, opened a bottle of wine, and then rushed out to pick up some takeout. I started crying and didn’t stop for about sixteen hours, or until I passed out from too much wine and swollen eyelids.
I kept thinking of a couple of things: 1) This sucks and 2) I don’t want to stop teaching.
Anyway. This is a long and slightly depressing story, but the point is, after the writing conference and finding out I lost my teaching job, I started to feel…I don’t know…free somehow. That now I could do anything (except move--I’ve got my kiddos here and a home).
I had a dream where Kealoha wanted to become a drag queen and sell Tupperware in New York and I was really supportive of that. (I didn’t have the heart to tell him someone already does that. See the bottom of this post for proof.) In that same dream, Kealoha asked me what I wanted to do and I said I want to teach and narrate and write. Which is what I WAS doing. And I want to KEEP doing it. That’s what I took from the dream. Well, that, and Kealoha would make a really unattractive woman, especially when he wears fake pearls.
So I think I’ve figured out a way to keep doing what I love. It means a big change, a new school, a leap into the unknown…but all of this could be really great. I’ll still be doing what I love, just in a different way.
Maybe that’s what I needed anyway. I’m ready to try some new writing; I have some sci-fi and scary stories I’ve been working on. So. After a horrible week, getting really drunk over that COBRA letter, feeling crushed and beaten, I have to say…I’m coming through this okay.
Now I can get back to the important stuff on my blog, like discussing random conversations where people tell me I look deformed, and posting thoughtful reveries on the importance of appetizers. This is my WORK, people. This is what I DO. And all is well.
And now...as promised...Aunt Barbara:
Well. That Sucked.
I had high hopes for the Spring Fling Conference, but it was also a last ditch effort. I’m sure this attitude played into the Perfect Maelstrom that Saturday became.
I was tired to begin with. It was a long semester and I still haven’t had my teaching contract renewed. I’m narrating, but I never know if they’re going to call again. And you all know how hard I’ve been trying to promote my work. So I think coming in to the conference, I had a little bit of that Desperation Sheen, which doesn’t make me shine so much as make me seem oily. I don’t know what’s happening in my career right now. Not at all. And everywhere I turn it feels like I’m just not quite good enough. It’s a really heavy weight to carry around.
The workshops offered little new information to me. I’ve heard it all before. Some of it I’ve even taught. And somehow people were coming to me and asking for advice: “How do I pitch?”, “What if I say…”, “How do I finish my book”... and then after finding out I narrate “Oh! I’d be a great narrator! How do I get into that?” Sigh. (One woman even wanted the company's name and contact information and I just said "Good luck to you".)
I got crabby. It’s true. I got really crabby and I got tired of talking about writing and craft and how to get published because I DON’T KNOW. They say write what you love, don’t write to industry trends, but when I take in my work, they say it sounds great, you have a great voice, but this doesn’t really fit our market right now.
Whatever.
After crying in my pitch session…
Wait. Let me backup.
I pitched to Harlequin because it’s a big house and Foodies would fit as a soft romance (I thought). So I pitched to an editor there and knew almost as soon as I started reading, that she wasn’t clicking. Then she said: “I mean, it sounds like something I would read personally. It sounds very indie. It’s not a fit for us but…have you considered an online publisher?” The castle within me closed shut fast, but not before the tears started flowing. She tried to give me her card saying “If you have anything else…” but she was being nice, and the point is THIS IS IT. “Foodies” is it. There are no more romcoms after this one. This pitch was THE LAST PITCH. I’m not doing this again.
So. After crying in my pitch session, I rushed off to the author book signing while doing one of those things where you try to force the tears back in your head with the palms of your hands. I was late because my pitch was at the same time as the signing. By this time, all my free swag was gone, so I just sat down at my table with my three titles. I was sharing a table with a woman who wrote a cute looking book (big publisher and shiny) called something like “The Real Mr. Darcy” and how can “Pepper Wellington and The Case of the Missing Sausage” compete with that?
What was humiliating was that she had a line of people to buy her book, in fact, she was about to sell out. And I was sitting there with nothing and no one. The final straw for me was when a woman I talked to quite a bit about my work and she’d said “Oh, I can’t wait to buy your book! I’ll see you at the signing!” bought the Darcy woman’s and not mine. And then she gave me one of those soft, sad smiles.
Okay. I’m probably projecting. Anyaway. I can’t really blame anyone, except maybe myself. My book covers aren’t the quality I’d like. Or maybe it’s the titles themselves. Or maybe it’s just my writing. And maybe it’s that the books LOOK like what they are: self-published or from a small online press. Choosing between that and a slick shirtless Darcy? I’d pick Darcy every time too.
After the woman left with her stack of books, I just thought “I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to do this anymore.” So I left. I left my books there, I got out of the conference, packed my bags and I left the hotel. By 8:30 I was home. By 9, having a drink with Kealoha and friends. By 10, I was snuggled in Kealoha’s arms and felt safe again.
The experts can say write what you love, but if no one wants to read what you love to write, and your goal is also to actually BE read…then it doesn’t make much sense. And I'm just plain tired of fighting to get noticed. I'm not cut out for it.
I’m not throwing a tantrum here. I’m really not. Yesterday was just a turning point in my career. Or my hobby. Whatever. Something snapped. Right now it feels broken, but this could be a good thing. Because I learned a few things:
1) I don’t write romance. I thought I wrote romance but my books don’t follow the formula. I hate those plots with the two characters separated by insurmountable odds (they hate each other; she’s a virgin and he’s a player; she’s a pregnant widow and he’s a lawmaker who signed an order to start the war). Those plots drive me INSANE. So I don’t use them.
2) I don’t read romance. I narrate romance, but when I read what I want to read, it’s usually literary fiction or book-club type stuff. I also read mysteries. But I don’t read romances.
3) My characters are aging with me. In romance, they’re all in their twenties and early thirties FOREVER. Every character. And they’re all beautiful. My characters are awkward, broken, and sometimes not even attractive.
4) I want to branch out. Everything you write is a BRAND they say, and I tried that route. Now, fuck it. I’ll write what I want when I want.
I still want to be published by a big publisher, but it’s possible that I’m like a million hopefuls out there who want the same thing. So I’ll just keep wanting.
“Foodies Rush In” is still going to be published, but we’ll probably do it ourselves. I’ll get it out there and offer it for as little as I can (or free if possible) just to get it out there. I loved writing it and while it’s not a typical romance, it was a story that made me feel good to write…because the main characters aren’t perfect and the only real conflict they have in finding a good partner is the truest conflict I know: they don’t believe in themselves.
It’s something I’ve struggled with much of my life, and this whole road to being published has pushed on that tender spot of “Am I Good Enough” a little too hard and too long. It’s pretty much a deep bruise.
I do believe in myself, but I just don’t have the energy anymore to try to push my work on people. You’ll either come to it, or you won’t. It will be published, or it won’t.
I’ll keep on writing. I always do.
So. Sucky experience but big epiphanies, and I’m home now. That’s a good thing.
Today, Kealoha and I will go out for breakfast. We’ll see a movie. Maybe the kids will come over. I’ll prep the next audiobook. I’ll cook. It will be a nice day.
On the Spring Fling Conference, Erotica, and Being Awkward
First off I should say that I love conferences. I love conferences the way that I love gift baskets. You get all these little surprises and trinkets. Except a conference isn’t wrapped in cellophane….although….after attending a workshop called Erotica For Beginners, I’m pretty sure several of the ladies here have cellophane wrap in their rooms. And giant plastic arms for ‘fisting’.
God, I hope my mom and mother-in-law don’t read this.
Not that there’s anything wrong with fisting, if that’s your thing.
Oh god! Someone stop me from talking about fisting! I can’t handle it! I can’t handle even IMAGINING it! It makes me do this:
Ahem.
Where was I?
Ah, yes. Fisting. I mean CONFERENCES! Conferences. I love conferences. I’m also supremely bad at them. I like to think of myself as a well-adjusted, likeable person. I can walk in to a room of strangers and give a lecture or a collaborative exercise to write bad poetry. I can read to a room filled with hungry zombies about brain recipes or something, and I’m fine.
But stick me in a room with 200 other women writers and I suddenly freeze. Pure panic.
Suddenly, I was thrust head-first into all my phobias about making friends and not being cool enough for the cool clique and all those unnavigable (is that a word?) rules for making friends: don’t seem desperate, ask questions, if you’re shy they’ll think you’re a bitch, look busy but open…blah blah blah. The truth is, I don’t know how to talk to women. Actually, I’m pretty awful talking to anyone. I’m just plain AWKWARD. I wish I could wear a tshirt that says “Don’t take anything I say personally. I’m just awkward.”
Still….I’m managing to do it, and the women here are really nice and everyone’s trying to figure out the same thing: how to get their work out there.
It amazes me how many writers there are. Some women here haven’t finished a book yet, and they’re here and I just think “Wow. How cool is that? They’re so brave!” Others are relaxed and open. Others are just as awkward as me.
At dinner last night I told the table that yes, I’m published, but it’s just romantic comedies and one is self-published and the other two are put out by just a small press. One of the women looked at me wide-eyed and said “But you’re published?”
“Yeah, I guess.” I said.
“You have books and stuff?”
“Yeah. They’re here. I’ll be at the signing.”
“Then why are you apologizing? This is GREAT! You are published! You should be telling us to get our asses to the signing and buy your books!”
That made me cry a little bit, and it made me like her instantly. I’ve felt a little pummeled lately with writing. I feel like I have to qualify it wherever I go. It still hurts that my writing isn’t really taken seriously (nod to my alma mater who told me I couldn’t give a reading there because my type of writing doesn’t offer anything to their students). And I feel like I’m constantly having to convince people that “Yes. I’m a real writer, even though it’s not literary fiction. It’s quirky fiction. That doesn’t mean shit fiction.”
So I guess what I’m taking from this so far is a bag full of swag, talking awkwardly with some really wonderful and brave writers who are just like me (working moms trying to balance everything), the idea that I should be proud of my work…and some really fascinating information I learned in the Erotica for Beginners presentation. Tiffany Reisz did scare me a little bit, but also convinced me that I could read her book on my Kindle AND NO ONE WOULD KNOW. It could be our little secret.
I may never, ever write erotica, but I could certainly read up on it. You know, for research. Yep. Research.*
*Except that fisting thing. I’m still terrified about that. There are some things I’m just better off NOT knowing. That’s one of them.