Franz is dramatic and hates art.

My son, Franz, is turning out to be a little bit dramatic. He’s eight, but already he knows, accepts and embraces his identity as an actor. I’d like to take credit (blame?) but I’m pretty sure he was born this way.  

Example, Scene One:

ME: So, Franz, there’s a school play coming up. The Jungle Book. Why don’t you audition?

FRANZ: Are you crazy?

ME: Why? You like acting and stuff.

FRANZ: Because the only thing that second graders can do is this ridiculous singing and dancing.

ME: Well, you’re good at singing and dancing.

FRANZ: I know I’m good at it. But my heart is with ACTING.

KEALOHA: Too bad they’re not doing “Death of a Salesman”.

Example, Scene Two:

Yesterday, Kealoha and I decided to take the kids out on a Family Date. We had lunch at Red Lobster where the kids said the ambiance was nice, and they liked the lobsters in the fish tank waiting for their death, but the food was just okay.

Then we took them to Meijer Gardens to look at Christmas tree lights and sculptures and their train set.

The kids took off like they were teenagers and desperate to get away from Kealoha and I. We followed them like good parent-stalkers.

After looking at all the trees and claiming which tree was ours (Moxie went with the Canadian one because of all the owls; Franz chose the Scandinavian one because of the ships on it; I got the Victorian one because it was behind glass and had old-fashioned stuff; Kealoha chose the African one because of the weird ornaments on a baobab tree)…

Wait. That was a long parenthetical. What the hell was I saying?

Oh! After looking at the trees and walking through the green house area in search of birds, we finished off the day by checking out the sculptures in their special room.

I guess this was an Art Prize exhibit. As soon as we walked in, we were greeted by a plaster of Paris sculpture of a pair of legs with another pair of legs fused on top so it looked like a giant X. Franz was incensed and said the following REALLY LOUD, so a group of parents could overhear.

FRANZ: Oh, Jeez. Oh, come on!

ME: What’s the problem?

FRANZ: Man, I hate art! They’re always showing naked people and I really don’t want to see that. I mean, it’s not appropriate!

ME: It is appropriate. The artists are trying to get you to think and to see that the human body is beautiful and a work of art. It’ll expand your brain.

FRANZ: No. I don’t WANT my brain expanded or whatever. Arrrrgh!

He pointed to a naked man hanging upside down here. I noticed the man’s penis seemed to defy gravity. I sorta wanted to look at it a little longer. I mean, wouldn't the penis flop the other way? Like pointing to his head? I needed time to figure that out. Art really gets you thinking, I guess.

FRANZ: I don’t want to see that! Oh, Jeez. Look at that! Man. It’s like...I don’t want to see naked people. I especially don’t want to see YOU naked, Ma.

I turned fifty shades of red on that one. I can’t blame him. I don’t really want to see me naked either. I once saw my mom naked, back in the seventies, when women were ‘natural’. And the sight of all that hair… * shiver *

Anyway. We made it through the exhibit. Franz was emotionally scarred, but I figure it’s good for him. Moxie said she liked art and naked people because she wants to be a photographer and you have to like that stuff.

Kealoha and I walked with our kids through the drizzle of a late December day. We held their hands. We laughed. We embarrassed them. They embarrassed us. And I’ve never felt so grateful to have all of them with me.

On a lighter note, I would pay big money to see the 2^nd Grade class put on “Death of a Salesman”. I mean, now, THAT would be art.

On The Way To The Family Christmas Party...

We had the Eby/Kolenda/Knaggs/Sirois/Ogle Christmas Family Party last weekend, or EKKSO. It was at my sister’s house, and I can’t tell you where she lives because I never remember the name of the town. Basically, she’s about forty minutes from us and tucked in the woods by a lake. There’s, like, bait shops and churches, and farms with horses on the way there, so it’s like travelling to the moon.We were going to take two cars, but my niece was sick, so instead me, Kealoha, Franz, Moxie and Nana all piled into one car. Moxie was upset by this.

MOXIE: Nana! You’re not supposed to be in the car!

NANA: (gently) But we’re all driving together.

MOXIE: Mommy says you’re supposed to go on the roof!

(Pause)

Did I say that? Yes. Yes I did, but it was taken out of context. Kealoha said it first that if Romney could carry a dog on the roof, then we could put Nana up there, and I said it would be like National Lampoon Vacation and Nana would have a great time, so, yes, TECHINICALLY I said she should go on the roof.

But she didn’t. And I wedged my enormous hips sideways between the two kids’ car seats in the back and wished that I didn’t have such birthin’ hips OR that I could resist cheese and logs and balls and dips.

It was cold out. I was giving Kealoha directions. I could feel his blood pressure rising. That’s because he’s used to GPS systems. Essentially, I was the GPS system, but it went sorta like this:

ME: So, okay, I’m not sure where or when you turn, but I’m pretty sure it’s by a grocery store and you probably turn right. Oh, in a mile or so. A country mil…TURN! TURN NOW!

And then:

ME: Now we’re looking for a church with one of those big steeple like things and then we’re either going to turn left or right or go past it a bit. Just be on the lookout for a church. Or a barn.

FRANZ: This road is curvy.

ME: I know.

MOXIE: You look weird, Mom.

ME: That is because I drive really slow on this road. But Kealoha is doing a good job. I did not even notice that he’s going 57 and I usually go 40. He’s very good at driving.

KEALOHA: Ha! Am I making you nervous?

MOXIE: You don’t seem nervous, Mom.

ME: Not on the outside. INTERNALLY, I’m pretty much screaming. Turn! TURN NOW!

We made it there in one piece, physically. Maybe not psychologically.

And then we were wrapped up in the chaos of my family. All the good stuff that happens at family gatherings was there: awkward conversations until the drinks kicked in, duos sneaking off to smoke and get caught up (Kealoha and I avoided this), jokes, performing children, undercurrents of past hurts that everyone tries to pretend aren’t there but you can feel them vibrating….you know….Christmas.

Then it started to snow giant fluffy flakes and we dove into presents.

We laughed. We got good gifts. We hugged. Nana was thrilled with her gigantic box of chocolates and iPod and asked if the iPod had “Fifty Shades Of Gray” on it. We were all uncomfortable. My nephew loved his purple unicorn shirt and immediately put it on. The kids got toys (including Kealoha), and I got a very cool wallet. And then it was over.

The only thing left was a forty-minute ride home through near-blizzard slush/sleet/rain/snow, but I tried to keep my eyes closed. Nana stayed in the car on the way back too instead of the roof. We’re considerate like that.

Meet Franz and Moxie

Well, the time has come in my blogging life where my kids have grown old enough to know that I’m talking about them, and to hate it. It’s a dilemma bloggers eventually face: To Blog or Not To Blog. To share deep, personal stories that may also serve as ammunition when the kids are older and dating, or respect their privacy and talk only about your own life? This would mean I couldn't write any more dialogues or conversations, and I would talk mostly about narration prep and intestinal discomfort.  

Fuck that! I carried those puppies for nine months each, threw up three to four times every day with them, had gestational diabetes with both and that means I couldn’t have a sandwich (or keep it down) for EIGHTEEN MONTHS. I have earned embarrassing them. I’ve earned it!!!

Still.

I am a compassionate, caring mother. So I am now and forevermore renaming my children on this blog, so that when they say “Ma? Are you writing about me? I can truthfully say “Nope. I’m writing about some kids named Moxie and Franz”.

Moxie. And FRANZ.

These are my blog-children.

You will hear more from them soon. In my blog-world, my son Franz wears lederhosen and is pissed off about it, and Moxie wears a 1920s flapper-style dress and a cute hat. She’s sewn sparkles all over it. Franz is 8; Moxie is 6.

And while we’re in fantasy-blog land, please imagine me as 29, a size 8 again, with long auburn hair.

Scratch that. Imagine me in lederhosen too, only I look like this:

Kealoha you can imagine as he usually is: Hawaiian shirt, jeans, mai tai in hand, because really. You can’t improve on perfection.

I have a Christmas scene with Moxie, Franz, Me, Kealoha and Nana coming soon.

BEWARE

This is a slightly INtoxcited Blog.

December 8l , 2012  

I HAVE SURVIVED THE SEMWTER AND AM CELEBRATING WITH A FLLASS IF…

Oh. Sorry. Had the Caps on. I have finished with my classes, survived the hardest semester EVER, and have had two days to get caught up on audionbooks and prep and etc. and am now celebrating with my 2^nd glass of wine. Actually, it's only ONE glass of wine. (But it's HUGE.)

Kealoha is off working. Not on the street corner or anything. He’s working a GIG. It involves frozen food and special lighting. I don’t know what the hell he’s doing but I know it involves driving, and VIP people, and possible frozen prawns. PRAWNS.

I miss him. Gone three days and home is just not the same without him. I mean, my husband fills the house with bad polka music and I an hear him laughinf gfrom random rooms when he looks at cat picture memes or whatr have you.

But still. I needed me some Tanya Time. Seriously. It’s been ages since I’ve had time to do nothing, and I needed to do nothing and answer to no one because my stress level has been off the charts.

Whatever.

Today…I had the house to myself. The kidas are at their dad’s so I worked all morning and recorded some saucy stories in my home studio. I mean SAUCY. Steampunk Erotica. It’s true. ME! Narrating stories about heaving bosoms and pink things and mechanical devises built just for pleasure. And I used an ENGLISH accent. And what I think may have possibly been Austrialian. Occasionally. Just for the Hobbits.

Then I got all worked up and walked on the treadmill for an hour or so. Then I made BALLS. Olive cheese balls! Then I went to World Market! (Maybe not int hat odred). I contemplated buying a bag od yellow candy called Pee On Snow candy, but decided not to. I mean, it was funny, but it wasn’t $1.99 funny. And now I’m drinking wine BECAUSE I CAN.

This blog documents the dange r of drinking wine, alone, unwatcherd and unprotected, while your husband hels people with PRAWNS. Or whatever.

Gosh, I feel nice. I miss wine. I don’t do this often, but even middle-aged married moms need to kick back once in a while. And that’s what I’m doing I’m kick.in…

Shit.

Just fell over.

Maybe more than two glasses of wine. Should probably switch to smaller glasses.

Merry Christmas everyone! Love and Kisses,

Tanya

PS Buy some of my books for presnets. Because I need the money and they’re funny. Ish.

Just Some Good Old Fashioned Bitching.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but lately I’m like a big slug of emotion. That’s right. A SLUG. Of emotion. I’ve cried while watching Glee, Alfred Hitchcock presents, and even the weather. (Global warming is freaking me out.) I know I’m stressed out.  I mean, clearly, I’m STRESSED.  

I look in the mirror and I see a pudgy, middle-aged woman staring blankly at me and I think “Who are you?”  and “Why do you keep looking at me?” and “Stop pointing your finger at me!” and “You’re creeping me out!” Then I realize that I’M the pudgy middle-aged woman and if I want to stop staring at me, then I need to turn a light off or something.

I know how this happened. All of it. The stress, and the pudge, and even the middle-age-ness. What I want to know is how do I make it stop? I mean, yes, I’m not going to stop aging, but something has happened where all this stress is making me not very likeable. And it suddenly occurs to me that people aren’t liking me all that much. I mean, when did people get so polite around me? When did I inspire kid-glove handling?

Maybe it’s because they can feel the stress pouring off me like AXE deodorant.

***

I had this nightmare last night where I was dead. Really. D E A D. It was horrifying. I walked into a hospital-like room and I knew I was there to see my body. Then I thought, no, I’m fine. I’m not dead. And then I saw the page stapled to a blackboard: TANYA EBY’S BODY IS TO YOUR RIGHT. I went to the right, and sure enough, there I was. Thankfully, I was covered with a sheet, but I knew I was beneath that sheet. Kealoha and my two kids were there and so was my mom, and I thought, this sucks, and…why aren’t I hysterical? But I felt nothing. Then I hugged my son and said “I’m sorry this happened to you”. “I’m not” he said and that’s when I woke up, covered in sweat, heart racing, and absolutely terrified.

I quickly analyzed the dream and most sites said “Maybe you are stressed about something” or “Death in a dream usually symbolizes the end of something and the start of something new”. Yeah. Okay. Fuck you. Ugh. Sorry. That was the stress talking, not me.

So then. What am I stressed about? Hmmmm. Cue Jeopardy music:

STRESSES

1. Finals at the college and 90 final papers to grade in one week
2. Still working two full-time jobs
3. Narrating constantly
4. Kid troubles
5. No time to exercise
6. Pants getting ever increasingly tighter
7. No time for friends
8. People seem to dislike me more and more
9. Kealoha is currently job-less
10. I need to bring in enough money to support my family
11. Two mortgages
12. Holidays
13. My books = WTF?
14. PMS so bad that I’m folded origami style trying to battle cramps and chocolate cravings
15.  Teaching ends in two weeks and then I’m full-time freelance
16. Terrified of freelancing full time. See 9, 10, and 11
17. No time to write
18. No time to breathe
19. Chocolate makes me feel good as does Chex mix but then see #6
20. I never get invited out to dinner but I wouldn’t be good company anyway
21. I think I’m depressed
22. Where's the fucking snow and cold weather?

Stress? I’ll say. I don’t even have time to be funny, although I do have time to chafe. Stupid cheap razors.

So maybe I have a little time to ATTEMPT to be funny.

Remember when I said I was a slug? Yep. Merry Christmas. I feel like a big old slug in a pair of yoga pants and a t-shirt that is too tight because I can’t step away from a fucking giant burrito. Just cut it in half, Tanya, and have leftovers for crying out loud! STEP AWAY FROM THE FUCKING BURRITO!!!!

I told my students that blogs are excellent ways to practice nonfiction writing and to connect with your readers. I wasn’t necessarily talking about this blog. This blog is just plain old-fashioned bitching.

I need to get through the next two weeks. Change is a-coming and I hope it’s good. And I hope with going down to one job, I can have time for friends again, because I’d really like to go out with a group of people, have some food and conversation, and get out of my little slug brain and my tight yoga pants and put something on with sparkles on it.

But first I’m going to have a big old cry and hug a pillow, probably while watching The Voice, because if I wasn’t feeling pathetic at the start of this blog, I certainly am now. Wah.

Nothing Says Merry Christmas Like Bigfoot And Elvis (Misadventures in decorating the tree)

When I envisioned having kids, I think I thought it would be something like the song Somewhere That’s Green and I’d be all Betty Crocker/Marilyn Monroe, and hubby would smoke a pipe, and our kids would be perfectly coiffed and say things like “Yes, Mummy. I love you with all my heart.” (In my fantasy, we were all English.)  

The reality of my family life is more like Animal House. We’re all like drunk college students wearing togas and screaming about farts. Except the kids aren’t drunk. (Fingers crossed.)

Here are excerpts from putting up the tree with the kiddos last night. Simone is 6, and Louis is 8.

SCENE ONE

Simone is unwrapping Christmas ornaments.

SIMONE

Elvis. Elvis. Another Elvis. A Moai. Kealoha, a Moai! Oh! And here’s Bigfoot. Mom? MOM! I found BIGFOOT! I put Bigfoot on the tree because I know he’s your favorite.

ME

Well, nothing says Merry Christmas like a Sasquatch.

SIMONE Bigfoot says “Merry Christmas and GRrrrrrrr!”

SCENE TWO

Louis holding onto a glass pickle that you are supposed to hide in the tree and whoever finds it has good luck. I am in the kitchen when I hear:

LOUIS

 I get to hide the pickle! I’m hiding the pickle! I’m going to hide that pickle so hard!!

My face flushes red as I think about hiding the pickle. I look at Kealoha. He doesn’t even say it, but I know he’s  thinking “I want to hide the pickle hard too.”

SCENE THREE

Kids are setting up two manger scenes. One from my childhood and one that’s a Charlie Brown nativity. We’re not religious, but I always liked setting up the manger.

LOUIS

Uhm…Mom…Jesus Doesn’t have an arm.

ME

Yeah. I know. He doesn’t need an arm. He’s like holy and stuff.

Five minutes later. I’m in the kitchen and Louis calls to me.

LOUIS

Mom? Can we make a baby?

Long. Pause.

Me: Uh…What?

LOUIS

You know for the Charlie Brown manger set cuz there’s no baby Jesus.

ME

Oh! Make Jesus…you mean…like…out of…Legos?

LOUIS

How would I make Jesus out of Legos?

ME

You know. Use one of your Lego guys. They’re small enough to be a baby.

LOUIS:

Okay.

Sound of frantic rummaging through Lego box looking for random Lego heads and bodies. Five minutes later.

LOUIS

Does this work?

ME

 Sure. If you want baby Jesus to have a mustache.

Louis goes back to Lego box and more frantic rummaging. Five minutes later.

LOUIS

 Here. This is better. Only write a sign that says This Is Baby Jesus at 3 Years Old. And I put some weapons in the manager for the Wisemen dudes in case they get attacked.

ME

Smart thinking. Better make sure they have a bazooka or something, cuz you never know if there’s going to be like a coup or something. In Bethlehem. On Jesus’s birthday. With the little Drummer Boy.

LOUIS Stop it.

 

SCENE FOUR

LOUIS

 Simone, you better be nice or Santa’s going to give you coal.

SIMONE

That’s okay. I like coal. Kealoha! Mom! Add coal to my list. You can draw with it and stuff. Coal is great.

Kealoha adds coal to her list, along with the turkey baster request, microscope, pink DSI, bouncy ball, horse, and an owl stuffed animal, though we’re not sure which animal to stuff the owl into.

It’s going to be an interesting holiday.

You Can Be In The Acknowledgments of "Tunnel Vision" If...

You can be in the acknowledgements of "Tunnel Vision" if you give me one hundred dollars!!! Naw. I'm just kidding. You won't need to give me one penny. Unless you really want to, then, okay. I'll take it. Here's the backstory:

Way back in the summer of 2010, I asked readers to vote on what kind of blovel (blog/novel) I should write. They chose a gothic story set in the 30s, and it eventually became “Tunnel Vision”, the story of twisted love in The Northern Michigan Insane Asylum.

I’m writing the acknowledgements and I need your help. Please let me know if you did any of the following so I can include your name in the book (if that’s okay with you):

• You read the blovel, even if you never told me or anyone else
• You commented on a post or on my Facebook page
• You gave a character name suggestion
• You encouraged me in any way to keep on going

I’d love to include your name in the acknowledgments, so let me know who you are either by commenting here with how you’d like your name to appear, on my Facebook page, or send me an email to Tanya@tanyaeby.com.

And if you have to give me a name like Ben Dover, I’ll put it in there too, because I’m a teenager at heart and that stuff makes me laugh. But your real name would be good too.

And in case you’re wondering: here are the characters that made it into the book:

Eliot Kinney

Bill Pepperidge

Mallie Lyn Peters

Lilliana

Dr. Christopher Grooms

Margaret Grooms

Harvey Briggart

Rose Kinney

Alma

Charlie Young

Lynnie Grant

Tim Beeler

Robert Kostic

Alma

Nurse Kolenda

I Thought It Was A Typical Thanksgiving But Kealoha Begs To Differ

A lot has happened this last week, which is why I really haven’t been blogging. One day, Kealoha had a  full-time job with insurance, and the next he didn’t. Don’t worry. It’s good. It’ll be great. He needed to get out of there and he was entirely justified in quitting (I even encouraged him), but let’s just say it’s been a week of trying to figure things out. We’re both now ‘transitioning’ to a new lifestyle where I’ll be freelancing full-time and Kealoha will also freelance until he finds a steady gig. We still have two mortgages and now both of us are without insurance, but…well, we’re still okay. It’s just a teeny bit of stress. Then add on the holidays, and voila! Stress flambéed.  

It ended up being a small Thanksgiving. My mom, my friend K, my two kids, me and Kealoha. The morning started with me waking up at 5AM to start cooking. (Kids had to be at their dad’s by 2 so we had an early turkey day.) Louis (my 8 year old) was in a BAD temper. Black smoke followed him in every room. He was grumpy, and pinch-faced, and tantrum-throwing. I forced him outside but that didn’t help. Then we put him in his room with a plate of food and "Tom & Jerry" cartoons. 45 minutes later, he emerged like a peaceful butterfly. So. Mental note. Son has some blood sugar issues. When he’s hungry, he’s Mr. Hyde. Or is it Jeckle? Whatever. He’s the crazy mean one.

Kealoha relaxed with a rum and Coke and I poured a glass of wine. And then another. Even though it was only 11. I justified this by knowing that you’re supposed to have festive drinks on the holidays, especially after suffering through your kid’s meltdown(s).

We pulled the turkey out from the brine and got that bastard cooking. I made about twelve dishes, and I’ll spare you the pictures and recap. Suffice it to say: it was awesome. Julia Child would’ve been proud, especially when I dropped the turkey and just kept on going. (Not really. It never touched the floor.)

Mom came over. The kids call her Nana and she is now fully embracing the eccentric grandmother role. “Come here, Simone, and give Nana a big ass hug!” she said. Kealoha and I died laughing. Mom said, “What? I said give me your biggest hug. What’s wrong with that?”

There was a swirl of activity and chaos. Simone cried because she couldn’t find her favorite toy Puffy (the baster she carries around and sleeps with). She also cried at the grocery store with Kealoha because she found a new Puffy in the shape of a turkey, but he wouldn’t buy it for her. I guess his thought was a girl only needs one baster. She also cried when she asked him who was the prettiest girl and he said “Your mom”. Then he had to explain to her that she was the prettiest girl that he was not married to, and that he had to say I was the prettiest because otherwise he’d get in trouble. Simone cried harder.

Back to dinner. While putting dishes on the table, Louis helped himself to a ton of mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce and turkey. He said, “Hey, Ma! Come look at my White River Of Blood.”

Simone cried because I purchased a ½ pound of butter shaped like a turkey and every time someone wanted to butter their roll, they had to slice into the butter-turkey and she said “You’re killing it” so I sliced off the turkey’s head and said that it would no longer suffer.

Nana then said she was laughing so hard that tears ran down her leg.

I about choked.

We ate in about five minutes. Waited five more and then had pumpkin pie, cheesecake and chocolate roulade.

Five  minutes after that, K and mom packed up leftovers, I feel asleep on the couch, slept for half an hour, and then we walked the kids to their dad’s. Kealoha and I walked home quietly, listening to the wind and the crunch of leaves. We retreated to the basement for Dexter, leftovers, and the movie “Drive”.

And I didn’t freak out or think about the future or anything all day long. I was too happy with the food, wine, and the quirky chaos of my family.

That's something to be thankful for.

****

In Which I Get Therapy From The Russian Pedicurist

The horror of my daily work schedule continues. I’m so busy that I don’t even have time to poop.  

(Actually, that’s not true, but I thought I’d write it because Kealoha installed a new toilet in our house this week and I have tried to avoid talking about anything scatological because it makes me curl up in the fetal position. I have a bathroom phobia…and let me tell you the bathrooms in Paris…NOT a romance. More like a nightmare. But I digress.)

Anyway. So last week I finally had a day to get caught up on grading, narration prep, housework, etc., and realized I had a two-hour block of time so I called up the local salon and went for a pedicure. My hobbit-feet needed desperate tending. Even my seven-year old son told me that maybe I needed to do something about my toes.

So I went in and was delighted to be assigned the Russian pedicurist. I envisioned our conversation and how I could maybe talk to her about all my stress and work load and she could offer pragmatic Russian advice in a thick accent like: Get over yourself. You are not important.

It was not to be. She worked on my feet but ignored me entirely. It was okay. This is part of her charm. She doesn’t give her clients what they want. She does what she wants.

When the pedicure was almost done and I’d stopped squirming from her touching my feet (I don’t actually like getting a pedicure. I find it weird and awkward.) she said in her thick accent: “It is gray outside today.”

I wondered if she was quoting a Hemingway story. Then I said, “I actually like gray days.”

She breathed heavily. “You do? Thank you. I like gray days too, but I never tell my clients that because they like the sun. Me? Not so much. On gray days you can…” She gestured in the air and I said, “On gray days you can relax.”

“Yes,” she said. “Exactly.” She smiled then. Or maybe it was a facial tic. Anyway she said, “You know, they aren’t exactly gray days.”

“No?”

“No. They are silver.”

I nodded and sat back in my chair. I think there’s something profound about that statement and I think I fell a little bit in love with her right then. And then she told me that she wasn’t actually Russian but Armenian which, she said, is similar to Greek. I didn’t know what to say to that so I said “Cool” and I hope she understood that what I was really saying was “Thank you for saying that gray days are silver and for having an accent and for being just plain interesting.”

I also wanted to thank her for not making fun of my freakishly long second toes, but I thought maybe that would be too intimate.

I hobbled out of the salon back into the chaos of my current work life. At least while I’m running from the university to the studio, I know I’m running with sparkling toes under a silver sky. That’s a comfort.

For Once I'm Not Depressed -- Just Busy

Soooo, I’ve been woefully neglectful of my blog. Don’t worry. It doesn’t signify that I’m depressed or giving up on writing or any of that nonsense. I’ve just been incredibly busy. Insanely busy. Busy as in I’m-lucky-if-I-take-a-shower busy.  

But it’s all going to calm down in another month.

See, I’m transitioning from teaching and narrating to just narrating. But that means that for the past month and for one more month to come, I’m doing both jobs, so I’m caught in a whirlwind of activity. When I have time to rest, I cuddle the kiddos and Kealoha, usually while prepping the next class or audiobook.

To top it off, I got sick last week. Of course. My body has a way of slowing me down by getting sick when I’ve taken on too much. It started with a voice-crack here and there and then that congestion and the sultry voice that started to change into a smoker’s hack. (Even though I don’t smoke.) So I went the weekend without speaking, had to postpone a recording, had to readjust my schedule, cancel a class, and try not to lose my mind.

Two days of pretty much sleeping followed, and now, I’ve got my voice back and one more month of frenetic activity before teaching is done and…I…can…breathe again.

Breathing is nice. I’m really looking forward to it.

So, in short. I’m here. I haven’t disappeared. And as soon as I have some Tanya-time again, I’ll start posting blogs more frequently. And maybe finally get “Tunnel Vision” out there, and work on my food blog, and all the other things I’ve been neglecting for so long.

I’m hoping I’ll have time for a pedicure and to visit that mean Russian lady who insisted I take better care of myself. I sorta wish I could carry her in my pocket to remind me to slow down every now and then.

In a month. One more month. One more month and then I’m just a simple narrator. Ahhhhh. I can totally do this.

Open Mic Night at La Cantina Pt 5

(If you've missed the earlier sections in this blog/story, please click on the "Open Mic Night" tab at the bottom of this post.)  

MELODY tries to stand up in the little adobe, but hits her head on the ceiling.

MELODY

It’s like being trapped in a Mexican womb.

CONNIE Now, Melody…

MELODY I’m just saying.

Melody sits down at the table.

MELODY Okay. I didn’t want to write a poem because I’m sixteen and Grandma C over there thinks I haven’t had sex yet and I don’t want to give her a heart attack because she feeds me and shit and all of your poems were like, hello, sex in words.

CONNIE

Uhm….Thank you.

MELODY

So here’s a short story.

Melody clear her throat and begins to read, loudly, so that everyone in the restaurant can hear her, even over the sound of crunching tortilla chips.

MELODY

I’ve made an intricate plan to kill my grandmother. She takes care of me because my mom is all hopped up on meth and is now residing in the local penitentiary where she gets free dental care.

CRICKET Excuse me? I thought this was supposed to be a story.

MELODY

It is.

CONNIE (growing nervous.) Of course it’s a story. Rule #1 is that we must assume it’s made up. Melody has a very active imagination.

MELODY So anyway. Killing my grandma, whose name is Constance Carol Calhoun…

Cricket turns to Connie.

CRICKET: But isn’t that your name?

MELODY …involves a lot of deception and intrigue. First, I had to research poisons online. I found you could grow certain plants and then put them in tea. I’ve been poisoning my grandma for three weeks now, and tonight I gave her the final dose in a margarita. In about half an hour, she’ll start sweating and will die, probably face first into a gigantic burrito. I ordered one to cushion her fall. When she bites it, literally, I’ll inherit everything and I can throw porn parties and move to Alaska if I want to. But first I’ll sell off her Hummel figurine collection. The End.

MABEL I like Hummel figurines. They’re so cute. Sorta liked they dipped a bunch of miniature children in wax.

 

CARL You okay, Connie?

CONNIE I’m fine. Just…fine.

CARL You look like you’re sweating. And your face is all red. How long ago did you drink that margarita?

CONNIE Now, don’t be ridiculous. Clearly, Melody is using real details from her life, but enhancing them. All writers do this. In fact, I think it’s a strength of the piece. What else is working in it?

MELODY That you die in it.

CONNIE You’re not supposed to comment on your own work. We’re supposed to give you feedback and you just sit there and listen.

The Waiter appears.

THE WAITER: Okay, four combos and a gigantic burrito. Who gets the burrito?

MELODY She does.

CONNIE No, no. Really. I’m fine.

CARL: Well, I liked the piece but I think you’re one twisted little punk. You need therapy. Or a good ass-kicking.

CRICKET There isn’t anything about God or Jesus in it. I think that would help. Maybe God and/or Jesus could talk to you and encourage you to kill your grandmother.

CONNIE Now, I’m not sure that’s a good idea. Maybe the ‘character’ shouldn’t kill the grandmother because the grandmother clearly adores the granddaughter and has given up everything to take care of the ungrateful child, even the hot house yoga, and swing night with the over sixties club, and dating on Sexy Seniors. So maybe the protagonist should try to back off a little bit and recognize the grandmother is pretty much a saint.

MABEL The grandmother sounds annoying. Now, when I killed my grandmother, I just got a sharp knife from the kitchen drawer and I went in when she was sleeping and…

CONNIE Bean dip! Who needs bean dip!

They all raise their hands.

CONNIE Good. I’ll go get some. When I get back, why don’t I read a poem to you? Let’s just focus on our meals for now.

Connie gets up and exits.

MABEL

I’m just saying that I liked your story and I know lots about killing so just come to me with any questions.

Open Mic Night at La Cantina Pt. 4

La Cantina is a Mexican restaurant off of 28^th street. It smells of deep fat fryer, salsa, and bean dip. The walls are decorated with assorted paraphernalia like Sombreros and pictures with glitter. No one thinks this place is authentic Mexico, but it is authentic, cheap Mexican food.

In the back of the restaurant is a table tucked into a fake adobe house. The house is curved and rounded like a giant single breast. A place that Georgia O’Keef might like.

Connie, dressed in a long Spanish-looking frock and with her hennaed hair held up with a Spanish comb, addresses the table. On Connie, this outfit definitely suggests dime-store costume.

CONNIE:

Well, I’d like to begin by welcoming you here. I thought we were going to have an Open Mic night, but it looks like they weren’t able to set up a PA system without interrupting the mariachi singers. It’s a shame that iHop asked us to relocate. But, when life hands you lemons, make a margarita!

MABEL VANDERSTEEN: You use limes for margaritas. I say if someone gives you lemons, punch them in the face.

CONNIE:

Okay. Anyway. So since there’s no microphone and there are only a few of us here tonight, I thought perhaps we’d turn this into a workshop. You know, go over your pieces and we can all offer suggestions on how you can improve your work. Sound good?

CONNIE looks around the table. Mabel, in her wheelchair, has already slugged back one giant margarita. CARL is wearing a tshirt with an American flag, an eagle, and a wolf. He adjusts his red suspenders and then begins biting at a cuticle. CRICKET is saying a prayer. MELODY, Connie’s goth-grandaughter, sticks a chip in the bean dip and probes at it, as if she’s about to conduct an autopsy.

CONNIE:

Okay! Great! I’m glad you’re all excited. Let’s begin by reviewing the ground rules. 1^st, we assume everything the writer writes is fiction. 2^nd….anyone?

Cricket raises her hand.

CONNIE:

You don’t have to raise your hand, Cricket. Just talk.

CRICKET:

We don’t judge. We leave judgment to those who know best. Like God. And the Republican party.

CONNIE:

Great. And the third rule?

CARL:

We don’t talk about Fight Club.

MELODY:

(laughs). That’s the first rule.

CONNIE:

No. We’re not fighting, here. We’re supporting and loving. The 3^rd rule is to use I statements, like we’re all in therapy together. Melody, why don’t you begin.

MELODY:

No.

CONNIE:

Now, Melody, you promised that you’d…

A waiter appears to take their order. He is tall and thin and speckled with acne.

WAITER:

Hey! I’m Billy! I’m your waiter! You know what you want, tell me and I’ll make it happen.

MELODY:

I want a burrito the size of his head.

She points to Carl.

WAITER:

Why his head? The menu says the burrito is the size of your head.

MELODY:

I have an unusually petite head. Carl, on the other hand, has a big head. I want a burrito that’s huge.

WAITER:

Okay. Gotcha.

CONNIE:

Why don’t you just bring all of us Combo #4 and I’ll pick up the tab.

MELODY:

Except something on my plate better be the size of a noggin, or I’ll stab you with this fork.

WAITER:

Okay! Cool! Thanks.

CONNIE:

Melody, please?

MELODY:

Whatever. I’ll read.

Melody clears her throat and begins to read.

TO BE CONTINUED

Goodbye Classroom

I made a big decision this week: I won’t be teaching next semester. I love teaching. I LOVE it…but I’m learning that sometimes even if you love something, it may not be meant to be. I lost my full-time teaching contract at the art college, and then my alma mater picked me up as an adjunct for three classes. Even though I was just an adjunct, in my MIND I was still full-time. So when they offered me just one class in the winter, I was sort of shocked. To teach there, I’d already taken a pay cut of about 2/3 what I was making with a full-time contract, but I wanted to do it because, again, I love teaching and there was a slight possibility that it could turn into a full-time gig.  

But.

But. With only one class, it was certainly not enough to live on, even at the poverty level, and it would cut my narration availability by half. So…what could I do? Take the one class and hold on for dear life hoping that maybe I might be able to get a full-time teaching contract if and when it happens…or take a leap and decide to narrate full time?

Enter leap-taking.

I have a mix of emotions about this. I think I’m a good professor. I try to engage and inspire my students, and for the most part, I think I’m successful. But, honestly, I don’t fit with academia. I’m too creative for it. And to offset the cut in pay, I've been narrating around teaching and my stress level is atmospheric. But to just narrate? Narrating full-time is terrifying. What if I stop getting gigs? What if my voice gives out? What if no one wants audiobooks anymore? What if they stop hiring ‘regular’ talent and continue with the trend of hiring Hollywood stars?

Well, sometimes you just have to leap.

So. Goodbye classroom. Hello studio.

I don’t know if this is the right decision, but it feels right, especially financially. It does make me sad, though.

Funny thing…I wrote a letter to the department head. Sort of an emotional letter saying things like I’m so disappointed I can’t take on the class, and please keep me in mind for future classes, and I hope a full-time position will become available. Basically, I put my heart in an emo email. His response: You’re on our list!

Then I realized, yeah. I forgot. I’m just an adjunct here. I’m not a ‘real’ professor at all. And I’m easily replaced. It’s a little bit embarrassing.

Boo.

This is okay though. Things are going to be okay. I’m going to narrate and hopefully have a little more time to write and read and exercise and…you know…live a little bit better, a little less rushed. But hopefully still make a decent living.

Who Needs White Water Rafting When You Can Take The Kids To Applebees?

Last week, the kids were supposed to go to their dad’s on Wednesday, but his house was attacked by the dreaded Stomach Flu, so we got to keep the kids for an extra couple of days. Since the kids are growing and may secretly be Gremlins, they’ve been eating NONSTOP. Dinner on Wednesday night was either stale crackers and Twizzlers or Applebees.  

We chose Applebees.

Tuesday Night is Family Night there. We’d already experienced the depressed Balloon-Animal Maker. Thankfully, he wasn’t there when we showed up since it was Wednesday and not Tuesday, but there was an assortment of slowly shrinking balloons at the front where the kids were told they could take one. These, I guess, were the rejected balloons from the night before. I’m pretty certain there’s nothing worse than rejected animal balloons.

My son took one that looked like this (except without the stickers):

I said.... “Uh”….and our waiter quickly said: “Uhm. That’s a Poodle that got untwisted. See? It’s half a poodle. It’s a poodle. I swear to god.”

“But it looks like a…”

Then my son started shooting with it. “Look, Ma!” he said happily. “A bazooka!”

Thank you, Applebees.

We then sat down. The kids crawled all over us like puppies. I’d once told them this and said “I’m really glad you’re not puppies.” They asked me why. “Because puppies eat their own poop, and I just can’t handle that.”

Anyway.

The waiter came and took our drink orders. I’d had a particularly stressful day of dealing with students who couldn’t write papers because of panic disorders, third-degree burns, and video game carpal tunnel, followed by narrating at a studio where I read a sex scene and the engineer was all “You sound so sexy” and I was all “Uhhh…I’m just reading what’s on the page”… and so the kids got Sprite and Lemonade and Kealoha got a diet Coke and I said “Mommy wants a gin and tonic. A big one.”

I’m pretty sure the bartender saw my son shooting a gigantic dick-bazooka and my frazzled expression and hair and decided to skip the tonic. It was a blessing from the gods. Thank you, Applebees.

I don’t know what happened next. I do remember that my son tried to shoot at me and I told him, “Do not shoot at your mother!” I paused, took a sip of my drink, then said, “Shoot at your sister.”

Then I PROMPTLY apologized and explained to the waiter that I didn’t mean any of that, it was just an irresistible joke-plum, and when they dangle on the tree in front of you, you just have to go for it.

The kids ate fish-n-chips and Kealoha and I devoured some kind of appetizer platter with forty different things on it and then I ate a Cowboy Burger where, I’ll note, I did NOT say “Yippe-ki-yay, mutherfucker” in a nod to Bruce Willis.

I thought it though.

The kids were charming and entertaining. Kealoha was sweet and supportive. Our waiter was cracking up over what a nutball I was, and when the meal was over and I unbuttoned the top of my jeans, we all drove home together (except the waiter stayed at Applebees) in a cloud of happy post-meal endorphins.

And when my son was asleep, I let the air out of the dick-bazooka. No one should get shot with that thing. I mean, NO ONE.

Parenting Fail 1,345,723

I was trying to get my daughter ready for school. She’s six and was playing on the iPad. I was running late for work and she refused to get dressed with something about hating school and wanting to stay home all day and she shouldn’t have to go to school and why was I sending her and why did I have to work. I tried to pull on her pants when suddenly, she went boneless. It was like trying to dress a fish in leggings. Then she started doing this moaning thing. “Eeerhhhhh” “Errrrhhhh”. “Oh, come on! Get dressed. You’re not retarded!” I said. And then my brain started firing in my head: Tanya, you can’t say that! We don’t call people retarded anymore. That’s something you used to hear when you were a kid and it’s just WRONG. Or, technically, it’s right, but it’s the wrong word.

So I listened to my brain and then fixed the problem by saying: “I mean, come on! Get dressed. It’s not like you’re Special.”

My daughter said: “I’m not special?”

Then my brain said: Shit! You just told her she’s not Special. She thinks you mean that she’s ordinary instead of referring to someone who is disabled. Not disabled. They’re not call disabled. What the fuck are they called? Challenged. No, not CHALLENGED. Handi-able. Whatever. FIX THIS!

“No! You’re special. You’re just not special.  You’re not all eeerrggg,-I-don’t-have-any-legs and…”

My brain couldn’t even process that line fast enough.

I recovered by saying: “Just. Stand. Up. Get your pants on. And pretend this conversation never happened.”

Then I added 25 dollars into her savings account for when she goes to college and needs therapy.

In Which I Admit To Being A Hobbit

  This happened Sunday.

ME: Soooo…dinner’s ready.

KEALOHA: It’s 4 o’clock.

ME: I know. I’m just saying. It’s ready. For…you know…whenever we want to eat. Like later. Or now. If we’re hungry we could just eat…now.

KEALOHA: Okay.

ME: Can we really eat now because I’m starving.

KEALOHA: Sure.

We sit down to the chicken tikka masala even though it’s only 4PM and not even grandmothers and churchgoers eat at 4PM. They wait until at least 5.

ME: You’re aware that we’ll be eating again in three hours.

KEALOHA: I’m okay with that.

ME: Check Hobbits online. They eat, like, all day long.

Kealhoa talks to Suri.

KEALOHA: How many times do Hobbits eat?

SURI: Let me find out for you How Many Times Do Hobbits Eat.

We wait and then find a webpage.

KEALOHA: Hobbits eat seven times a day. Breakfast, Second Breakfast, Elevensees, Lunch, Afternoon Tea, Supper, Dinner.

ME: That explains it. This is Supper. Dinner is later. I always knew I was a Hobbit.

KEALOHA: You’re not a Hobbit.

ME: I’m short. I eat all day long. And I have hairy feet.

KEALOHA: I’ve seen your feet. Your feet are fine. There’s not one single hair on your feet.

ME: That’s because I shave them.

Pause. Pause. Pause. Sound of awkward eating.

KEALOHA: I wish I didn’t know that.

ME: Well, now you do. And you married me so you’re stuck with a Hobbit wife. Happy anniversary.

Open Mic Night At The iHop On East Beltline: Cricket PT 3

If you missed the 1st two installments, you can read them here: #1 Open Mic Night 

#2 Open Mic NIght: Carl

-----

CONNIE: Thank you, Carl. That was…inspiring? Now, if we could quickly move on and…I have to ask…is there anyone who’s brought something that isn’t, uhm, of a…

She leans in and whispers

CONNIE: “sexual” nature? You know, something that’s a little more suited to this fine family establishment?

Silence

CONNIE: Surely there’s someone who has a poem that isn’t…licentious? Cricket, do you have something you’d like to share?

CRICKET: Me? Well, golly beans. Okay.

Cricket slowly makes her way to the stage. She is carrying a journal with a bedazzled cross on it. She is very petite, fragile almost, and wearing a sack. On closer inspection one can see that it isn’t a sack at all, but a homemade dress, one probably sewn without a pattern.

CRICKET: First of all, I’d like to thank all of you wonderful people out there and all the support you’ve given me over the years. You’re like my second church. And secondly, I’d like to thank my personal savior, Jesus Christ, and the love he shows me every single day.

She pulls a handerkerchief from a voluminous pocket and dabs at her eyes.

 

CRICKET: You know sometimes I think, God…why do you have to put me, your faithful servant through so much? I mean, there have been times where I have wondered. I have wondered! I’ve thought, oh, yoooouuu!

She shakes her fist.

CRICKET: But then I pray about it and I realize that God has chosen to make me incredibly lonely and poor and plain because that is part of His plan and I will find glory soon. Hopefully before I’m dead. But God is good! God is great! And so I’d like to share my poem with you about the love of my life. Not Jesus. Though he is the LOVE of my life. No. This is a poem about my cat. Actually this whole book is filled with poems about my cat and I’m just going to let God’s hand guide me and choose one randomly.

She closes her eyes and flips through the pages.

CRICKET: Here we go.

She looks for Connie who is sitting in the back with her disgruntled granddaughter.

CRICKET: It’s family friendly, I assure you!

CONNIE: That’s great, Cricket. You just go ahead.

Cricket leans in super close to the mic, as if she’s eating it, and her voice deepens and resonates in the iHop.

CRICKET: My poem. To My Pussy.

My Pussy is always with me.

Wherever I go, there she is.

She keeps loneliness and sorrow at bay

Away.

Away!

When she is hungry, I feed her.

I feed her with love.

My Pussy is covered in silky dark

Fur

And I stroke her up and down

And sometimes in circles

Because God is infinite,

God is good.

My Pussy has teeth and sometimes

If you make her angry

She will bite! But that’s okay, because I forgive her.

And to forgive is divine.

My Pussy and I share

Everything

But especially the love of God

Because what is more divine

Than a creature who only

Needs to be stroked and loved

To love you back?

My Pussy. I love you.

MELODY, the goth-like teenager in the back row giggles and says “Amen!”

CRICKET: That’s it. Can I go now?

Connie covers her face with her hands 

Bud, the manager of iHop, quickly steps in front of the mic, allowing Cricket to slip away silently in the shadows.

BUD: Now, that’s enough folks! That’s all the Open Mic we can handle. Do you people want to get me fired? Do you? We’re ending this session, now, and I want you all to think long and hard about your poetry. It’s just not decent. Where’s the decent poetry? Huh? What happened to poetry about good, fine things like our country, and the flag, and pancakes? Jesus Crimminy, where are the poems about pancakes?

CARL: I have a haiku about pancakes!

BUD: No. You don’t. We’re done here tonight. Eat your bacon and your Senior Specials and then get out. Just…get out. But come back and buy food, but just come back separately. And don’t write anymore. Just stop it.

He pulls the cord on the mic and turns the house lights back onto full. “Bridge Over Troubled Water” plays over the sound system.

MELODY: Grandma, that was awesome. You’re right. Poetry readings are so much better than drugs.

***

Will there be more "Open Mic Night" or is this the end of the world for the Women's Writing Group? I don't know. I do know some regular blogs are coming...but I think it's highly likely Open Mic night will be back.

Open Mic Night At iHop On East Beltline: Carl PT 2

BUD: Well, okay. Welcome back to our 2^nd Open Mic and All You Can Eat Waffle Night hosted by us, your iHop, and the Women’s Writing Group. Sorry about the abrupt end to the poetry reading last week, but things were getting hot. In the kitchen that is.  Before we start, just a reminder to keep it clean, folks. We’re a family establishment. And tip your servers! Polite applause.

Connie takes over the mic. She’s in her late sixties and is wearing a long velvet dress, Renaissance Fair style. Her long, clearly hennaed hair falls down her back. She wears a crown of plastic flowers.

CONNIE: Welcome back everyone! Tonight we have an assortment of interesting people to read. I’m pleased to say my granddaughter Melody is going to read some of her poems.

MELODY: Fuck you, grandma!

CONNIE: (Pause.) My sweet  granddaughter is staying with me for a while while her mother finishes up her sent...her vacation...and Melody will read some of her work once she gets some food in her system and spikes her blood sugar a bit. Until then we have Carmen…

She looks at her sheet again.

CONNIE: Excuse me. We have Carl who wants to share something he’s written.

Connie exits the stage as CARL approaches. Carl is huge. He’s wearing big boots, big jeans, a t-shirt with wolves howling at the moon, and red suspenders. He has a big beard and a bald head. His voice is deep and sounds like he either drinks a lot of whiskey or swallowed a porcupine. Maybe both.

CARL: Hey. I’m Carl.

AUDIENCE: Hi, Carl!

CARL: I’m a trucker. That big rig out there in the parking lot, she’s mine. And we’ve seen some long roads, let me tell you. I’ve been all over this country and, sheesh, I’ve seen things that should be in books or movies or something, but then maybe not because you’d want to poke your eyes out. Yeah. Anywho. I’ve seen the love days of the sixties, the sexual freedom of the seventies, and I was fiscally irresponsible in the eighties. I repented in the nineties. And now I’m nearing retirement, but I’ve still got a few thousand miles of hard road before me.

Life is hard on the road, and it gets mighty lonely. So some days after I’ve listened to some audiobooks where people get murdered and such, well, I turn off my iPod and I like to write poems. Mostly I write them in my head, because if I wrote them down in a book while I’m driving, I’d probably jackknife or something. Or run over things like squirrels. Deer. Moose. Hitchhikers. What have you. At any rate, I forgot most of my poems on account of all the uppers I take to stay awake. It can make you sorta hazy like, but this poem I’ve got for you is real special. It’s part of a series. It’ll make you think. It might even change your life. And I guess maybe I’ve said enough about it. Now I’ll read to you. This is my poem. It’s one of them haiku things. I call it “Springtime”.

Carl clears his throat.

CARL:

Springtime. A Haiku.

You sit on my face.

I ponder hummingbird wings

And flutter my tongue.

Silence. Carl nods his head and then sits down.

Silence.

Somebody coughs.

Mabel VanderSteen, in her wheelchair, claps.

WAITRESS: Anybody here order the Senior Sampler?

MABEL: I’d rather sample some of that.

***

Stay tuned for more scenes from Open Mic Night. And some 'real' blogs too.

Open Mic Night at the IHOP on East Beltline Pt. 1

BUD:

Is this on? Is it? Anyone? Okay. Great. Welcome to our first Open Mic and All You Can Eat Waffle Night hosted by us, your IHOP. But before that I need to remind you that in honor of this new endeavor, you can get our Poet Stack of Pancakes. That’s four pancakes and you dress it the way you like it—or heck. Leave ‘em naked. Anywho. Welcome to our first Open Mic Night. The Senior Women’s Writing Group that meets here asked if we’d set up a mic and such and we agreed. So, you’ve got half an hour or so here to be all poetical, and then we’ve got to shut it down to get ready for the bar rush. Allrighty then. Remember to tip your servers!

(Bud turns the mic over to Connie, a four-foot tall woman in her late sixties wearing a tie-dyed shirt and a long flowing skirt. It is not evident if she’s wearing shoes, or even has any feet, as the skirt glides over the carpet.)

CONNIE:

Thank you, Bud. Our first reader tonight is Mable VanderSteen. She’s seventy-five, has four grandchildren…what’s that? Okay…five grandchildren and believes that through writing world peace is possible.

(Long transition as Mable is wheeled up to the microphone and the microphone is adjusted.)

MABLE:

My poem. It’s an Ode.

Ode To The O

by Mabel VanderSteen. That's me. Okay then.

(MABEL raises her hand dramatically and makes her voice sound all poet-like)

MABEL:

I thought I knew what you were, oh mighty O.

I’d read about you

and in the 60s I told everyone I knew

how to find you

but I lied.

I lied like the demon spawn I am.

(Demon Spawn--

a shadow shivering behind the outhouse.)

I lied because fear clutched my heart,

but it never clutched my clitoris.

Now I’m seventy-five and I found you,

my love,

and I thank those late night TV commercials

and their sweet spring promise

of a package sent in plain paper

so that the eyes at Whispering Pines wouldn’t know.

But now, now, Oh, sweet music,

sweet dancer on a silvery lake of passion,

I know you, Orgasm. You shiver my soul.

And now I can read my erotica fiction

and I can understand

truly understand

what it means

to be complete.

The end.

Thank you.

That’s the end of my ode. If anyone wants a coupon for the Mighty Tingler, I have…

(Sound of applause and then strangely, the fire alarm is set and the IHOP on East Beltline erupts in chaos.)

Stay tuned for more scenes from "Open Mic Night at the iHop on East Beltline".

It's Not A Tumor. It's Just A Panic Attack.

A month ago, I found a large bump on my clavicle. Did it freak me out? Yes. Did I immediately begin searching the Internet for everything I could find? Yes. Did the Internet help alleviate any anxiety? NO. I was convinced I had bone cancer. (I don’t. I’m fine.)Did I call my doctor and schedule an appointment? No.

Why?

Because I don’t have insurance. I teach three classes at the college level and narrate audio books. On a good week, I work about 50 hours. On a bad week, it’s closer to 60 hours. When I’m home, I’m grading papers, prepping for the next class, and reading the next manuscript. But I’m not insured because I’m not considered full-time at the university (a common problem for adjuncts) and I’m a freelance narrator.

So it’s kinda funny that the doctor felt my clavicles and then had me feel HIS clavicles and said: “Welcome to your body. You’re fine. You’re just asymmetrical.” (I know I have a blog about being off-center and something else weird with me. I just can’t remember what.)

Then he asked me if I was stressed and I started crying.

Stressed. ME? WHAT? YES I’M FUCKING STRESSED!!! I said quietly, “Maybe a little.”

So I was having a prolonged panic attack. I’ve had them before, but this one felt like my throat was closing off, my chest hurt and I was convinced cancer cells were streaming through my body. (I’m actually still feeling like this, except without the cancer cells. I feel like I can’t breathe and my whole body is thrumming. Not in a good way.)

But what if something HAD been wrong? I waited a whole month to call the doctor. I’ve had a month of constant anxiety and stress because I didn’t want to spend the money to go to the doctor. Either it’d be nothing, and I’d waste a couple hundred dollars; or I’d have cancer and I wouldn’t be able to pay for treatment and it’d send us directly into poverty. If’ I had insurance, I’d have called right away, alleviated my worry OR if I needed treatment for something, I’d get treatment instead of waiting and making the problem worse.

It’s a ridiculous system. I’m glad, of course, it turned out to be nothing, but now I have that constant anxiety of what if I do get sick? Like, when I broke my foot, if I didn’t have insurance, I’d have spent $5K. It’s just another thing to worry about along with work stresses and weight stresses and writing stresses and just plain LIFE stresses.

The doctors’ appointment wasn’t a total loss. I now have a prescription for an anti-anxiety medication so I can stop eating ice cream. He said I could do a few things to rush my body with endorphins to counterattack the high level of cortisol surging through me. I could take a pill, or run until I pass out, or get in a fight. I said, “Hmmm. Maybe I’ll take the Ativan.” (He didn’t mention ice cream.)

The doctors’ visit cost me $190, and the prescription will probably cost a hundred dollars, which will stress me out more, but hey. At least it’s not a tumor. I’m just asymmetrical. Literally. And apparently, spiritually too.