As Soon As My Son Can Fully Read And Use The Internet, He’ll Kill Me For This
My son—who shall remain nameless—is almost eight, and he has a wicked sense of humor. I mean ‘wicked’ both ways, as in ‘terrific’ and ‘slightly evil’. He just makes me laugh. Last night, I about lost it. My mom had come over for dinner. She started updating us on everything and my son ran from the table. I thought, huh, guess he doesn’t want to listen to Nana. Then I heard “Oh, man, oh, MAN!” coming from the bathroom.
When you hear that, it’s never good. Apparently, women say that when they have a baby in the bathroom and didn’t know they were pregnant. (Though, thankfully, I knew this would not be the case with my son.)
I knocked on the door.
SON: (frantic whisper) Get in here, ma.
I entered, and quickly shut the door behind me to find my son sitting on the toilet, looking depressed. Sort of like that thinker on the stone sculpture.
ME: Are you okay?
SON: Yeah. I’m fine. I mean, all things considering, yeah but…oh, man…ma…I…I did a poop fart.
ME: (pause) Huh?
SON: A. Poop. Fart. I thought I had to fart so I did, but it wasn’t a fart. Man, it wasn’t a fart AT ALL. I did a poop fart! A POOP FART!
ME: Well, sheesh, relax. It’s fine. I mean it’s hard to tell the difference sometimes.
SON: Have YOU ever done a poop fart?
ME: (silence)
SON: Mom?
ME: Okay. Let’s get you cleaned up. Take everything off, I’ll run a bath. This will be fine.
Meanwhile, my mom was still talking at the dinner table. I ran the bath, my son sprinted naked through the house saying: “Oh man, oh man”, and then I washed him down.
Then I went back to eating dinner while my mom still chatted on. When you’re a parent, you develop an iron stomach, so I was able to go back and eat crab legs as if nothing had ever happened. I ate those crab legs up even after my daughter said: “You’re breaking its bones!!”
Kealoha said: “It’s an exoskeleton, sweetie.” And then dipped his crab in butter.
Another Conversation with Kealoha
Okay. I’ve been a little bit stressed out. Like, CONTINUOUSLY.
So here’s a conversation with Kealoha that I had last night after pacing around and hovering by him while he tried to fix things on my computer so I could work on some recording stuff. At one point, I was like a big buffalo, right behind him, breathing hotly. Not sexy breathing, just MOIST breathing. I was trying to ‘encourage’ him to fix the problem faster. I could just FEEL myself being annoying, but I couldn’t stop it.
Later, when he fixed the computer issues, I apologized for being so impatient. I mean, you can’t make a computer work faster. It works at its own pace.
ME: I’m sorry I’ve been acting crazy.
KEALOHA: Well, it’s an endearing crazy, and not full-blown crazy.
ME: Yeah. It’s a temporary crazy. And at least I’m AWARE that I’m being ridiculous. I’m sorry I annoyed you.
KEALOHA: It’s okay.
ME: I was annoying myself. I even tried to get away from myself but everywhere I walked, there I was, right with me.
KEALOHA: Maybe you should start to actually DO yoga instead of just wear the pants.
ME: Don’t be ridiculous.
Well, I might’ve just thought that last line.
I’m starting to think that being stressed out might not be temporary. Maybe it’s my default. Maybe it’s where I start from.
Sheesh. Breathe in. Breathe out. Downward dog pose. Lift leg. Whatever.
I’m actually starting to consider giving up coffee or doing yoga. Surely there’s a better way to handle stress then doing either of those things! I mean, I don’t want to be so deeply drastic about it, I just want to relax a little and stop freaking out all the time.
I know the answer is probably anti-anxiety medication, but right now, I’d take a cake pop over that. It’ll taste great with coffee.
It's Been One Of Those Weeks
So last week, my website was hacked. Don’t worry. It didn’t do anything totally evil, just mildly evil. Like, chafing-ly evil. When I’d try to promote the blog on Facebook, instead of quoting from the blog I wrote, there’d be random quotes about Viagra. Not even with a link or anything, just random words. Why would someone do that? What’s the point? Because of that, I haven’t been blogging. I didn’t want someone to ‘like’ a post and then have my blog look like it was some Erectile Dysfunction hotspot. (Although maybe my blog would get a lot more action then. Har har.) But I’ve missed blogging. Really.
And then I was teaching and narrating this week. It was, as expected, exhausting. Thursday I left the house at 7:15 AM and after driving, narrating all day, and then teaching a night class, I didn’t get home until 9:30 PM. I guess I know how lawyers feel now.
Then I had classes where the students seemed not only not interested and invested in the class, but as if they were mildly stoned. Actually, that would’ve been better, because then they would ‘ve at least been laughing. There’s nothing worse then presenting material to a class, trying to engage them in discussion, and hearing pure silence coming back to you—though actually, it wasn’t PURE silence. I might’ve heard them blinking. It was awful.
Then I spiraled into the whole “Oh, why am I even teaching?” As an adjunct, I’m making a third of what I made before…and I’m spending so much time and energy trying to ‘inspire’ and ‘educate’ that I don’t have time to ‘inspire’ and ‘educate’ myself.
That sorta sounds like a euphemism for masturbation. It’s not. Though I don’t even have the energy for THAT. It’s too much of a commitment.
What I mean is, I’m spending so much time reading, prepping, driving, trying to entertain/educate/inspire my students, that I don’t have any Writing Juju left.
I wanted to be working on my literary novel now. I wanted to work on some short stories and get those submitted. But…
…But….
I sit down at the computer and all I want to do is nap, then cry, then eat, then try to do all three at once. There’s no creativity flowing in me right now. No inspiration.
There’s just a general sense of unease. Maybe even gas.
Add to that some family stresses…and…you can see why I’m gorging on X Factor, The Voice, and American Horror Story re-runs. That’s been my week. The last three weeks actually.
Here’s hoping I can find some kind of routine in all of this chaos. I love teaching; I do. It’s just starting to feel like I’m trying to connect with ghosts, and I am no Medium.
I’m not even feeling much like a Writer right now.
I sorta just feel like a middle-aged mom/wife sitting in a pink bathrobe drinking coffee…and who wants to read about that?
Boo.
This is not an actual post. It's a picture of a cat looking at you.
We've been tweaking some internal stuff with the website, so this isn't an ACTUAL post. It's a temporary post. A trial post if you will. While I test this out, here is a picture of a cat looking at you. Feel free to stare at each other until you feel that this not-actual-post has given you what you'd hoped to get from an actual-post. Thank you.
-The Blunder Team-
It Was All Just A Misunderstanding
Here is a transcript between me and my 6-year-old daughter. It was recorded by secret devices I have planted around the house. (Actually, it was recorded by my brain.)
Simone: Mom, I really want a toy hearse to play with. I'll have a special box with it and I'll play with it and all my animals and I'll move it around and stuff.
(slight pause while I process that my daughter wants a toy hearse.)
Me: Okay. I guess. Sure! Why not. We could paint a Barbie car black and put little ribbons on it and you can have funerals and stuff.
Simone: What?
Me: You know. For your dead animals. The other animals can mourn them and you can put them in the hearse and move it around. We could even build you a burial site out of felt and playdough or something.
Simone: Mom! What are you TALKING about? I want a HEARSE not a HEARSE.
(Pause. Pause. Pause.)
Me: Oh! You want a HORSE. A toy HORSE.
Simone: That’s what I said. A hearse.
Me: Okay. Then just forget everything I just said.
-End Scene-
Meet My Nephew The Evil Comedic Genius (I'm Pretty Sure)
If I had my way, I’d blog about everyone in my life and post entire transcripts of our conversations BUT apparently sometimes people get uppity if you post their private lives publicly. Huh. Weird. Which is why before I blogged about my nephew (who is 20 and sometimes wears ironic t-shirts un-ironically), I asked him for his permission. Consider the following:
See? You can get a sense of this dude’s wicked sense of humor. It’s dry. Real dry. Like martini dry. And just about as cool. Unless he's actually concerned that people get attacked on my blog. Anyway. If you listen to him, you’ll realize the dude is fucking FUNNY. Kealoha pretty much hangs on his every word. I think it’s a man-crush for sure.
So when I went up to my brother and sister-in-law’s cabin last weekend, I took a few notes. Here, then, are actual lines of dialogue that I captured in the wild, in my nephew’s (Nick) natural habitat. Consider, it’s 80 degrees, we’re all in the back of the cabin surrounded by woods like this:
We’re having a conversation, my brother, sister-in-law, me and Kealoha. I think it’s about the camera my brother got and how it miraculaously caught deer humping in the woods. And I’m pretty sure we’re drinking mai tais at this point. Nick is kinda lurking in the background. Finally my sister-in-law says “Nick, why are you being all creepy?”
Nick: “I just like to see how long it takes people to notice.” See? SEE? That’s humor right there. Or a psychological disorder. Maybe both.
Then Nick says to my niece: “Hey. You wanna whack the old shuttlecock around?” He was talking in code, really, and wanted to know if she wanted to play badminton. Shuttlecock. SHUTTLECOCK! I love that word. We should use it every day. We should go all namby-pamby using the word shuttlecock. (Or something. I don't even know what that means.)
Nick has that quiet kind of humor. The kind of person who kicks back, listens, nods and then zings you with a joke that’s hilarious and possibly mildly disturbing.
I think humor must run in our family. Or it’s not humor but a weird form of rash that displays itself verbally. I don’t know.
At any rate, I think he should be on Twitter. And t-shirts. And coffee mugs. In fact he WAS, when he was a baby. Here’s a picture of him:
We’ll see how long he lets me keep this blog up before he hacks into it and changes everything around. I’m pretty sure he’s also some kind of twisted computer genius. I’d bet a dollar. That’s right. A DOLLAR.
Dealing with Heart Hurt. You just...do it.
My heart hurts. Not in the way that you call the ER or anything. I mean, I don’t have ANGINA (nod to my nephew who seems fascinated by this word). I mean…well…it hurts.
There are things in my life that I try to deal with and I’ve refrained from blogging about. I keep thinking about what my brother said on the phone this weekend to my nephew (he blew out his tire and was waiting for someone to come and help him on the side of the road): “Well, you deal with what you’ve got. There’s nothing we can do to make this part go faster. You just get through it.”
I feel that way about the tender parts in life. The parts that maybe I’m not proud of or saddened by or embarrassed by. I mean, what can you do? You deal with what you’ve got.
I deal with being a part-time mom, not because it’s what I want, but because I love my kids enough that I thought they should have half their time with their dad. I don’t like being a part-time mom. It feels like a copout. But if I’d had more time with my dad, maybe I’d have some kind of connection/relationship with him.
But actually, that’s probably just a fantasy too, because there are truths about my dad that also make my heart hurt. Big truths about choices and being a parent, even if you don’t want to be.
There are things about my mom that make my heart hurt. Ways that she’s changed. The way I have to talk to her to be ‘heard’. The way our relationship has changed.
My heart hurts for my friends and family who are struggling with financial issues, and health, and money problems. I wish I could rescue them all, but I can’t, and that hurts too.
I used to take walks with my friend L before she moved to a new place for a fantastic job, and we’d often comment that life is rarely all good. At the same time, it’s rarely all awful. You deal with what you’ve got. Some days are easier than others. (But some days are, admittedly, pretty terrific too.)
At the grocery store, my sister called and we chatted for a few minutes while I looked at the fruit on sale and decided it all looked too plastic. “You know,” she said, “I think you should write a memoir. You’re so fucking funny that you could tell our story and make people get it.”
It’s been one of the things I haven’t been able to write about. When you try to be funny-- especially when you try to be funny--it’s really hard to write about those things that make your heart hurt: loss, poverty, neglect, sadness, mistakes, etc.
Every day I try really, really hard to be kind and open. To laugh. To be a good mom and partner. To be a good daughter and sister. But there are days, like today, when dealing with what you’ve got seems to be a heavy burden, and one you can’t seem to lift. Where’s the funny in that? I’m not sure.
I miss the kids. It’s sunny out and I just saw pictures of them at the beach and they look so happy. These pictures are both wonderful and hard for me to see because I’m not in them. I want the kids with me and Kealoha all the time, and not just part of the time. I want my kids to have a better start in life than I did, and some days I worry that I’ve failed them.
Heart. Hurt. Heavy.
These “h” words seems to be weighted with sadness.
You can see why I try to resist writing these kind of blogs, and why I think writing a memoir would be really difficult.
I think I need a good cry, a back rub, and a couple of pretty pots of mums for the front of my house. Little things help sometimes in dealing with ‘what you’ve got’.
On Back To Teaching
(I wrote this on the 1st, but forgot to post it.) I made it through the first week of teaching at my alma mater, and I celebrated last night by drinking wine and having a friend over for dinner and “The Newsroom”. I think I might still be slightly drunk. I know this because here is the paragraph you’re reading now, before I fixed it and cleaned it up of errors:
Imadi throu week face and I’m NAKED! I’M NAAAAAKED.
Ahem.
No terrific blunders—unless you count the L sticker stuck above my boob on my new sweater that I didn’t discover until our break.
It all went pretty smoothly. I’m going to like it there. The campus is lovely and smells like fresh cut grass and everyone is preppy and pretty and…hold on a second…the place is so perfect it might actually be a campus for the progeny of The Stepford Wives. I think I might be the scariest thing on campus with my brightly colored dresses and thick glasses and random jokes that I sometimes end with “Now, come on. That’s funny. If you think about it later, you’ll see the humor in that.” I’m okay with that.
In all honesty, I’m thrilled I get to teach again. I could’ve walked away from it, but I’m giving it one more shot at becoming a ‘full’ professor. Fingers crossed that this little wish can come true.
My Dear John Letter To Summer
Dear Summer, I’m writing to tell you that I’m breaking up with you. I’m serious. We’re done. And I know I’ve told you that before, but you never seem to listen, so maybe you will when you have these concrete words in front of you. I don’t love you. Maybe I never have.
I don’t mean to be cruel, but you’re not LISTENING to me. You keep coming back around with your 90-degree hotness and humid breath. We are not an item. WE ARE NOT. Do you get that? There’s a reason why I hide from you in my house with the AC cranked. You make me uncomfortable. You make me sweat. We’re done. D-O-N-E.
You’re not a bad person, exactly. I mean, I know you’re right for SOMEONE. Go hang out in the jungle or in Miami beach…you know, places where people like to wear bikinis or banana leaves and stuff. If I wore a bikini, the brightness of my skin would cause planes to crash and upset the migratory patterns of Canada geese, and I hate those fuckers with their man-sized droppings.
I need more from a relationship. I need warmth in the form of clothing I pick out for myself and wear in LAYERS. I don’t need warmth automatically provided for me. I do not want your Hothouse of Love. I want legwarmers. There. I said it. Now you know. I. Want. Legwarmers.
You and I both know who I’m talking about. I’m talking about Autumn. God, I can’t get enough of her. She’s so brightly colored in hues I find pleasing and calming. Sometimes she cries buckets of rain, and I’m good with that. I understand MOODS. I understand DARKNESS. I want to cook Autumn a pot roast and season it with bacon. You, Summer, you’re all “Oh, I’m a Farmer’s Market. Look at my bounty! I’m a vegan!” Well, Autumn’s got bounty too. PLENTY of it. She’s stacked. Apples, squash, potatoes…and then later….TURKEY.
You can’t compete with turkey. And, you know, I’ve heard there are turkeys who eat VEGANS. (Just sayin’.)
I know this is harsh. I know that and I apologize, but you just don’t seem to hear me. I need you to go away.
That means NOW. Right now. Go away. For a while. A long while. We need some space. Autumn is going to be here any moment and it’s going to be awkward for all of us if you’re still, you know, hanging around, fluttering around the backyard and shining on stuff. Just, stop it. Stop.
We can still be friends. I mean, you’re a perfectly nice person and all. It’s just like in that Gotye song “Somebody That I Used To Know”. Now you’re just a somebody to me because Autumn—man, AUTUMN—she’s got me hooked. I’m counting the days until she gets here. I’m sorry, but that’s the truth.
Go make someone else happy with your splendor. Someone who lives really far away, like in the South…or Australia. Yeah. Go to Australia. There are hobbits there who need you.
Sincerely,
Your friend,
Tanya
Adventures in Momming: The Beard Episode
The kids have been fighting a lot. I shouldn’t be surprised. They’re six and seven, girl and a boy, extrovert and introvert…and they’ve been stuck in the house together and with each other nearly every moment all summer long. So when Simone was crying on the swingset yesterday, I went outside to referee yet again. I was prepared with “Louis, stop touching/tasering/poking/teasing her.” I was not prepared for what I got.
Simone had big tears streaming down her face, and took deep cry-breaths. (She's very cute even crying.) She sat on the swing with her smirking brother next to her. I wanted to scoop her up and hug her, but it WAS possible that she’d kicked him first and then he called her something, so I had to investigate first, dole out some kind of punishment, and then comfort.
Me: Okay, what happened?
Simone: (cry cry choke gasp cry and then:) Louis is imagining me with a BEARD!
Simone then followed that little statement with HUGE crying while I…stood there, trying desperately not to laugh because all of a sudden I was imagining her with a beard. She’d look like a dwarf dressed up for Snow White. Her beard would be strawberry blonde and long. She’d HATE having a beard. She’d keep scratching it. Louis with a beard would probably look like Freud.
I TRIED to stop imagining it and be all Mom Dictator.
But, I mean, honestly, how are you supposed to chastise someone for 1) Using their imagination and 2) Imagining a beard on a cute 6-year-old girl? There’s a little bit of evil-brother-genius in that.
I instantly imagined me dealing with this:
ME: Louis, stop imagining your sister with a beard.
LOUIS: Fine.
SIMONE: He’s still imagining it!
LOUIS: Am not.
SIMONE: You are too!
LOUIS: So what.
ME: Louis, stop imagining a beard on your sister right now or I’ll imagine you without legs.
I mean, this could not happen.
So I did what any other parent with a strong sense of humor and appreciation for the surreal would do. I said “Stop It” and then quickly walked into the house where I told Kealoha all abut it, stopped myself from laughing, grabbed something to drink, and then glanced at the calendar. School for them starts in one week.
One more week. We can do this.
On Something New Becoming Something Wonderful And Crickets
It’s Sunday morning and my windows are open. There’s a cool breeze tickling in and the sound of crickets. I’d like to say how peaceful it is, but those crickets get a little annoying, especially if you think about just how many legs are currently rubbing together frantically to produce that sound…which of course leads me to wonder if any crickets have actually spontaneously combusted. Like, okay, I’m a cricket and goddammit I’m going to produce MUSIC and I’ll rub my legs together like there’s no tomorrow and SEE! There’s some sound…and…what’s that? A puff of smoke! And then BLAMMO! I’m a little flame. Poor cricket.
I bet that’s how most forest fires get started. Damn crickets rubbing their legs together so fast that they just combust.
Anyway. There was a point to this blog.
Ah, yes. Peaceful Sunday morning. I’m sitting in shorts and a tank top and I’m thinking about how scary New Things are. I start my new teaching gig on Monday and I have that nervous anticipation that happens with New Things. I could’ve stayed at Kendall, maybe, but I think this new adventure is a good fit. And it’s all just made me think about how New ANYTHING stretches you as a person. How it can scare the crap out of you, but whenever you’re doing something new and/or challenging, it also makes you feel more alive, and maybe it changes you and makes you a better person. And if not a better person, then hopefully at least a more interesting person.
Maybe it’s not even the NEWNESS of something that is exciting. Maybe it’s that you’re vulnerable and open and instead of staying in your little cave, you’re like, fuck it, I’m going to go out there and show the world who I am. It’s a little bit like walking around naked and not caring what people think. (Although I would NEVER do that because I care way too much about what people think, and I’m afraid to walk around naked now because what if my thighs rub together and I spontaneously combust?)
Anyway. I’m hoping this is the start to something good. I’m counting on it.
That’s about as in-depth and philosophical I can be this morning. In short: I admire people who take risks and try new and scary things in the hopes that something wonderful happens. I’m good with this New Stuff happening, especially because I have some pretty amazing people in my life that allow me to walk around naked. Metaphorically. I’m METAPHORICALLY naked. Actually, Sam the Eagle once pointed out that we’re all naked under our clothes…so I guess I am walking around naked ALL THE TIME.
This is not my best blog. I realize that. I’m giving myself credit for sitting down and doing it anyway. And now I’m going to turn on the sprinkler. This will accomplish two things: 1) quiet the crickets and 2) protect my lawn from any sudden bursts of flames.
It’s possible I think too much.
Musical Interlude: Guy On A Buffalo
This is courtesy of Kealoha (as in, he found it somewhere. It's by The Possum Posse or something). This is the kind of crap he plays for me and the kids and then we all end up around a campfire with tiki drinks and singing. It's ridiculous. And BEAUTIFUL.
Adventures in Momming #42
Last weekend the kids came over with their stepsiblings. I’d promised my daughter that she and her stepsister could have a sleepover here. (One of the things I’m trying to do is build a strong relationship with my kids’ stepfamily. My stepsister has been a huge influence on my life.) Anyway. So I decided to do tie-dye with them, and I roped Kealoha into helping. Now, I like to think of myself as a crafty person. After all, my mom taught me how to weave (not jut potholders but on a 1970s wooden LOOM), dye Ukrainian eggs, tin punch, make paper from scratch, and basically create an entire house from popsicle sticks. (I ate A LOT of popsicles growing up.) So I thought tie-dyeing would be easy. A piece of cake.
What was I thinking? My cheap little project ended up costing me almost a hundred dollars. I bought a kit to make it "easier". It came with a tube and cute little dye bottles. I thought “Great! No mixing! No children dyeing their faces purple.”
What I didn’t realize was that I had to mix the dyes before putting them in the tiny squeeze bottles, and I had to start the project 48 hours in advance and use some kind of ‘fixing solution’ which sounded mighty dangerous, and the tube just created a huge mess. Total fail. I went back to the craft store.
I bought another kit with pre-mixed dyes and no fixing solution. Kealoha and I covered our backyard porch with plastic, donned surgical gloves and tried to figure out how the hell to put rubber bands around the shirts and then do you dye them wet or dry and then how does the dye get on there without the kids turning colors. It was a mess.
I’d also bought two kits. One had army camouflage colors and since my son is into that right now, I got that for him. The other had pink, purple and light blue which I knew my daughter would love. As we were choosing colors I grabbed the army ones and my son said “What about the others?” And I said “Oh, you don’t want the pink one, do you?” I didn’t even think. I just spoke. My mind was like “Pink isn’t really good camouflage.” And you know what my 7 year old said? “Ma, yeah, I’m not really into that whole boy/girl color thing. I like pink. There’s nothing wrong with pink.” Proud mama right here.
Kealoha looked kinda shell-shocked as we ‘guided’ the kids to squirting colors on the shirts. “What made you think two geeks could conquer this?” he asked me. I think I’d been drinking wine at the time I decided this.
Still. We managed to create four shirts that looked pretty cool. And the kids only dyed their hands which, if anything, just meant they couldn’t vote in the next election or something, so I thought we were in pretty good shape.
The girls stayed over. Had a great time. I cooked them homemade crepes with fresh whipped cream and strawberries. When I dropped them back off at their dad’s house, my daughter hugged me and ran inside, her stepsister followed, then turned back and gave me a big old warm wave and smile. It was a good weekend.
I'm here! I'm here!
I swear to you, I'm here, and I'm still blogging. I've just been swept up in that tornado of back-to-school activity. First, buying stuff for the kids and trying to encourage them that "School will be great!" all the while thinking: "Yeah. School pretty much sucks until you're in college. Then it's fun." And I start my new teaching gig at a new college, which just happens to be my alma mater.
I'm seeing the ghost of my twenty-year-old self EVERYWHERE. She's breathing down my neck. She is thinner and has better skin than I do, but I dress better because she's so poor that she considers breadsticks a meal. Actually, I consider breadsticks a meal too. It’s weird, though, seeing who you were and remembering who you THOUGHT you’d be, and comparing that to who you ARE. I really thought I’d be a Famous Author. Instead, I wear mom jeans (when I wear pants at all. Not that I’m PANTLESS, but you know how I feel about dressing like I’m going to do yoga even though I never do.)
Anyway. Teaching at a new place has required me to analyze everything I do in my approach to talking about writing…and everything about who I am as a person. There are definite drawbacks to being sensitive and neurotic. Your brain and self-doubt never shut up. (My brain says: “You need to read more!” and “Seriously? You want to do THAT as an exercise?” and “Who do you think you are?”) Still, I got those mofo-ing syllabi done, and I have some new ideas…so if the students will just go along with me a bit, maybe it’ll work out.
Stress makes me ugly. Not like I’m all hunchbacky and witch-like, but I feel that way. Kealoha is doing a great job of dealing with me. I don’t even SEE him drinking a lot of mai tais to allow him to deal with me; he just naturally endures it, or gets drunk in private. We’re both hoping my mood will pass. I’m just…stressed.
So. Blugh. I’m here. I’m a little annoying right now. But pretty soon, I’ll be back with ridiculous scenes and other things. I have evil plans for the blog. Hopefully, plans that will take it in a little more of a creative direction. I still have some creative juices left flowing in me. Wait. Did I just say “creative juices flowing in me”? Ew. That sounds gross and dirty and makes me want to take a shower. I’ll go do that now.
You Too Can Do The Handshake Of The Gods
While I’ve been posting deep, philosophical blogs in which I tout my political beliefs, I thought I should also tout: How We Should Greet Each Other. I think it’s time we threw out the following: awkward hugs with light little pats on the back; deep hugs where you can’t breathe and wonder if the other person will ever let you go; that man-hug where you start with a shake, pull in , and then slap each other’s shoulders; kissing each other’s cheeks (hello! intimate!); and/or awkwardly just acknowledge each other and then pretend you don’t feel pressure to hug the person even though you do feel pressure.
Kealoha and I have been watching Spartacus. Yep. The one on Starz. It’s actually really good. If you liked 300, you’ll like the show. If you like seeing half-naked men wrestling, you’ll like the show. If you like boobies, you’ll like the show. If you like gladiators and faces getting chopped off, you’ll love the show, and you should probably talk to someone about your issues.
Anyway. Whenever I watch the show I think two things:
1) Man! There’s so much testosterone in Spartacus that I can feel it coursing through my own body and now I want to eat a giant turkey leg and just RIP INTO that bastard.
AND
2) Why don’t we do that forearm shake? It’s so cool and tough AND you don’t have to touch too much of the other person.
Consider this video on Youtube. I am particularly grateful for the music in it.
So the forearm shake is the Handshake of the Gods, and so manly that you might sprout a hair or two. I know I did.
Instead of going for touching palms, you wrap your hand around the other person’s forearm, clasp it for a second, maybe grunt, and then you’re done. You’ve said hello, asserted your bad-ass-ness, and you’ve moved on.
Actually, now that I think about it, I wish I could just point at people when I greet them and not touch them at all. Not that I’m afraid of germs or anything; I just don’t like rubbing against someone. When I rub against someone, wine is usually involved.
That’s my deep thought for the day. And now my brain hurts.
I leave you with The Forearm Handshake quickly captured in the wild:
May the Gods be with you.
What The World Needs Now Is Empathy, Sweet Empathy
Now that Romney has announced his VP choice, the Facebook posts have really started coming on strong. Whichever side they’re ‘for’, the posts seem to stem from the same place: a place called Anger. I think much of our politics (and policies) are housed here. And we know why.
An angry person is fueled by a burning energy that propels them into action, namely: to vote.
I think that this core starting point of Anger is the root of our problems in the States. We, as a community, are fueled by an emotion that is essentially destructive, prohibits change, fights logic, and resists compromise. Ever try to rationalize with a toddler having a tantrum? You can’t. That’s the problem. We’re a country of tantrum-throwing toddlers.
So. Okay. What if we DIDN’T try to rationalize anymore? What if we didn’t even try to ‘change the conversation’? What if, instead, everyone tried to change the starting point of the conversation?
What if politics were not based on FEAR but on EMPATHY.
Empathy is a skill that allows one person to sympathize with another, to imagine their life story for a moment and understand their choices. I call empathy a ‘skill’ and not an emotion. An emotion is something you feel in your gut. Empathy is a deeper understanding that is taught. This ability to imagine and connect with another’s experience can be explained, practiced, and encouraged to grow.
In my life, both writing and acting have enhanced my ability to empathize (one of the reasons I think it’s essential that we fund the arts. It makes us better people.). But why is empathy important?
Okay. Imagine instead of saying “Gays can’t marry because God says it’s wrong. Because of this, I hate gays”…What if a person instead could find a quiet place within themselves that resists judging and instead says “It must be hard to love someone so much that you want to marry them and you’re told you can’t. Love IS love, and it must hurt to be told it isn’t.”
Any debate can be reduced to a quiet center, a story whispered into hearts.
I’ve tried to do this with gun control. I can understand why people want to protect our right to ‘bear arms’. When I go to my quiet center, I think “Okay. A right to bear arms is important and guaranteed by our Constitution. What is a compromise that honors this right, yet protects our people? Why can’t there be an over-the-counter gun, a gun that allows for hunting and is simple and can be licensed. One standard gun to honor the Constitution. Why can’t other guns be treated as prescription-only guns, that is, given to police officers and the military under special license only?”
I can imagine how desperate it must feel like to want to go to college and not be able to afford it. I can know that it must be hard for those who are wealthy to understand poverty, true poverty. I can feel how awful it must be to have to choose between buying insulin and paying a mortgage, when you are so sick you can’t work and your insurance is maxed out. I, myself, am a very hard worker, but I have no insurance. Not for lack of trying or wanting, but because my part-time work (though I work two jobs) won’t cover me. I can imagine being someone other than me.
If our politicians could practice real acts of empathy instead of playing to Anger and spouting attack ads and angry memes, maybe we could all feel a little more inspired to take care of each other, to build a community of support, instead of a nation of angry individuals.
We can start with ourselves. Before you post that Facebook picture, or send that forwarded email, ask yourself "Does this come from a place of anger? Have I tried to consider how others feel about this issue? Am I responding from a place of kindness?"
I’m teaching my kids how to empathize. It begins with this: “Imagine how you would feel if…” and it grows from there.
The following account is 100% true, although enhanced 86% with false information.
I woke up and I knew I was going to save the world. Some days are like that. I was going to save the world, but first I’d have to make sure that the kids were dressed and didn’t stink. If aliens are coming to take over the world, you want to make sure you’re at least a little appealing so they don’t laser your ass right away.
I began to prep for my mission as World Savior by reading the next book I’m going to narrate. Nothing prepares you for battle more than reading a book where nipples are randomly popping out all over the place.
Then I did a kick ass training routine where I balanced the kids on my shoulders while jumping through hoops and over barrels and around land mines in my backyard. Kealoha timed me. I ran my best yet 1:53 minutes, and I only dropped the kids once. No worries. They’ll heal. It was just a flesh wound.
After my training session, I left Kealoha in charge of the kids while I ran to the grocery story. Literally. I RAN. It’s easy. It’s only five miles away. In the busy D&W, I pushed that mofo cart as if being chased by tentacles. I took down a lithe woman in a yoga outfit with matching pink sneakers and sunglasses, and figured she was worth fifty points at least.
Got home. Gave the kids guns, ammo, and strapped sharp knives to their legs. Told them to go practice outside. We’ve got lots of squirrels and bunnies. Kealoha rode his unicycle for a while and made balloon animals. I’m pretty sure when the aliens get here, he’s going to entertain them TO DEATH.
Then I started cooking. I made some amazing jalapeño popper dip for my lonely dip blog. (Aliens are lactose intolerant.) I butchered a cow for the beef burgundy I’m going to make today. Not my favorite thing to do, but World Saviors aren’t vegetarians. I’m sorry. They’re just not.
After that I took a nap to rest up for the oncoming onslaught. Ate some Borsin cheese.
Our friend Debbie came over and she talked about military strategy and showed us her homemade laser gun. It had a lot of rubber bands and vaporized the neighbor’s cat. (Sorry about that.)
Then it was time to save the world…which I did…right after watching the first episode of “News Room” which inspired me to be honest and vulnerable and, goddammit, NOBLE.
After the kids were in bed, Kealoha and I busted out an arsenal of weapons and I put that jalapeño dip on a PLATTER. “Come to Momma,” I called to the heavens.
And then war busted out.
Had a great sleep. There’s nothing like killing alien invaders to make a woman sleep well…except maybe an orgasm and/or ice cream.
I’m Pretty Sure If I Had Balls That They’re Gone Now
Something really peculiar happened this summer. I started to relax; once I started, I just couldn’t seem to stop. I’m pretty sure I know what happened: I’ve been neutered.I don’t know who took my balls and if it involved a tribe scooping me up in the middle of the night and using two ceremonial rocks, or it was a quickie neutering by my Primary Care Physician…but something happened to me. I’m so entirely ball-less right now that I DON’T EVEN CARE that my balls are gone.
Actually, now that I think about it, I think Kealoha did it. That’s right! It’s all Kealoha’s fault. The bastard has made me so content and happy that I no longer want to prowl the neighborhood at night. No. I just want to sit home and purr and lick myself.
I may have just taken that metaphor a step too far.
WAY too far.
Ahem. Okay.
Here’s the thing: my whole life I’ve been running. Running to get out of Coopersville, running to finish college, running to figure out my identity, running to have kids before my womb dried up, running to start over, blah blah blah.
But this summer I just STOPPED. I really did. I haven’t been working as much since my teaching contract wasn’t renewed (turned out to be a mixed-blessing. I’m narrating more). I’ve slowed down. I’m not obsessively online anymore. I’m spending more time with the kids. I spend a lot of time just hanging out with Kealoha and then I think the trip to Paris was the final kicker: I have now been overseas and it was great, but it reminded me how much I love my home and my life and my PEOPLE.
So I’m like one fat, middle-aged, ball-less, contented cat…and I don’t even care anymore that I’m thicker in the middle and I need to dye my hair and I’m not writing as much as I should be because…well…life is pretty good. And sometimes you just need to acknowledge that.
I guess the price of being happy is that you become kind of boring. After a lifetime of running, Boring ends up being a pretty beautiful place. It’s got flowers and everything.
Now back to making dinner: crock pot ribs, coleslaw, and corn on the cob. God, I’m so domesticated now that—forgot the cat metaphor—I’ve turned into a dairy cow. A ball-less, happy dairy cow. Mooooo.
Moo.
Cordarone Sinequan
The Movies And Shows That Shaped My Twisted Sense Of Self
I’m narrating all week this week and still thinking over some stuff that I might blog about later. Until then, here are movies that shaped my childhood and pretty much my entire identity. I'm posting the lesser-known movies, and there's more I could add to the list. I can see I already left out “Ladyhawke” and “War Games” and “The Last Starfighter” and pretty much a bunch of others. Shit. “Time Bandits”, Muppet movies, "Willow", etc. Why am I posting this? I don’t know. Mostly cuz I feel tired and a little lazy and I don’t feel like being all writerly this morning.
So. I present The Movies That Shaped My Twisted Sense Of Self. Thank you, Hollywood. Really.
DRAGONSLAYER: The movie that showed me that women could be pretty and virgins and sacrificed to giant beasts OR they could lower their voice, wear bad clothes and collect shells in dark caves.
ICE PIRATES--After I was done with Time Bandits, I watched Ice Pirates. I repost it here because it's a ridiculously bad movie that I still have a fondness for.
DUNE--I didn't understand this as a kid, and I probably still don't, but even now I still think about The Spice (especially when making gingerbread cookies). And I thank Dune for being the birth mother to Tremors.
KRULL--What the hell WAS this movie? I was totally obsessed with it. I had the board game and used to go on adventure walks where I basically just walked around the block and imagined I was talking to a cyclops. (I still do this. Shhh.)
And can you guess my all-time favorite movie as a kid? I still reference it on the blog all the time. It's "Clash of the Titans". OF COURSE.
COUNT ZAPPULA
Then there was the great "Count Zappula" AKA Deputy Don. This was a local TV personality in Traverse City. (We moved into his neighborhood and I was shocked to see him mowing his lawn in his boxer shorts and nothing else.) He did a bad western show for kids in the morning, and then in the afternoon would put on makeup and use a Transylvanian accent to host a show where he played horror flicks from the 50s. (Think: Fall of the House of Usher, Wax Museum, The Blob.) It's why I love Vincent Price movies, and I give Deputy Don credit for educating me on classic horror flicks.
And I have to give a nod to a series I first discovered as books around the age of 14, when there was nothing in the house to read because I'd already read all the Stephen King books twice. (My favorites: The Talisman and The Stand.) It's "Anne of Green Gables". Mix Anne Shirley in with all the above movies and you can see why I am the way I am. It all makes sense.
What movies shaped you?