Why Do I Have Such A Fascination With Sasquatch?
My friend K. gave me the topic for this blog, and I’ve been thinking long and hard all day about her question. Why, WHY do I have such a fascination/obsession with Bigfoot?
At first I thought the answer was simple, and Freudian. Bigfoot—and the search for him—symbolizes my search for an elusive father, a father who was always just on the outskirts of my life, but I could never fully have IN my life.
Sheesh. There’s an answer for you! Bartender! Another drink!
That’s a psychological POSSIBILITY but it’s bunk. Bigfoot has nothing to do with my dad.
Nope.
In all honesty, I think Bigfoot reminds me of the 70s and thus my childhood. I mean, really, what is Bigfoot but a tall dude in brown colors, walking around making sound? It’s a flashback to when I was little-Tanya, looking up at adults who wore fall colors, corduroys, and turtle necks. Ahhh comfort. This was a time when I had orange carpeting, listened to my transitor radio, slept cozily beneath Star Wars sheets, and played humping-Barbies with my friend Kaly. This was the time when I was clueless in the way that kids are. My favorite meal was a frozen Swanson Fried Chicken dinner with mashed potatoes, corn, and a brownie heated up slowly in our green oven. I mean, the seventies, man! Pure comfort!
That’s what Bigfoot is! A tall dude dressed in 1970s garb, walking around in the forest. Bigfoot IS my childhood.
OR
My fascination with Sasquatch could be…uhm…a little more sexual. Not that I want to have SEX with Bigfoot. I’m honestly a little afraid of that…but…okay. Back when I was little-Tanya and about nine years old, I found an old book on my mom’s bookshelf, right next to the macramé owl wall hanging, and stuffed between a Crystal Gayle album, and a book about some seagull. It was a big book. Hefty. And filled with dirty, hairy pictures of adults having sex. Yes. “The Joy Of Sex” 1972 edition. I looked at this book endlessly and was both drawn to and repulsed by the amount of body hair that I would one day sprout. It couldn’t be possible! The people were covered with small forests of hair! Hair so dense that they probably housed gnomes! GNOMES! It was terrifying. And titillating. And it was the seventies.
And check out the dude. I mean, LOOK AT HIM! He looks just like Bigfoot!
Then, add into all of this (absent dad, 1970s, corduroys, Swanson Dinners, Joy of Sex monstrosities) that every year, my family would get together and go mushroom hunting, all through Northern Michigan. Well, I tell you, that’s just a maelstrom of future-Tanya being mildly obsessed with actually seeing a tall hairy man in the woods surrounded by mushrooms that look like little penises peeking out of the moist earth.
Then toss in a little obsessive TV watching when I was a kid and the lulling voice of Leonard Nimoy going In Search Of…and…well…there you have it.
My fascination with Bigfoot is all about my childhood, innocence, sex, hair, mushrooms, Leonard Nimoy, and my desperate hope to have everything in my life come together in a way that means something.
Simple.
3 Conversations With Franz
Here are actual conversations with Franz, my 9-year-old son.
Scene One: Apocalypse Lego
FRANZ: (Playing with his Lego Castle set and setting up a battle) All right, troops, we’re going into battle. Many of you will not survive and may even be blown to bits. But we’re doing this. We’re. Doing. This.
ME: What are you doing?
FRANZ: Obviously, it’s a war, Ma.
Sound of various machine guns and explosions. Franz tears apart Lego characters, decapitating them and sprawling them over the living room carpet. Then the sound effects stop and he starts singing this slow, deep song with lots of Ahhhs.
ME: What are you singing?
FRANZ: It’s an intense moment in the battle. It deserves a song.
ME: Gotcha.
Scene Two: This Is How It Works
FRANZ: Ma, I lost a tooth.
ME: Okay. Good for you. Lemme see.
FRANZ: I’ll show you in a minute, but first, hand it over.
ME: Hand what over?
FRANZ: The DOLLAR. I know that parents are actually the tooth fairy so let’s just make this real simple. I lost a tooth. You give me a dollar. That’s how it works.
I hand him a dollar.
Scene Three: I Don’t Need To Know
MOXIE: Mom, so on TV someone asked what sex they are?
ME: Yeah. That means are they a boy or a girl.
FRANZ: No! No. No. You did not just say that.
ME: What’s the issue? That’s what you say. Like, what sex are you, Franz? You’re a boy. And Moxie’s sex is a girl.
FRANZ: That….that just isn’t right. I don’t like the image that it brings up in my mind. I mean, that WORD.
ME: What? Sex? There’s nothing wrong with that word. And it can have two meanings. There’s “having sex” and that means…
FRANZ: Whoa whoa whoa! Just stop right there. I don’t want to have this conversation.
ME: Why?
FRANZ: Because I’m too YOUNG. I don’t need to know this stuff.
ME: Aw, you’re not too young. You should know how things work.
FRANZ: Eventually, Ma. EVENTUALLY. Just…change the conversation, okay? Like, NOW.
(pause)
ME: So you don’t want to know where babies come from?
FRANZ: Ma!!!!!
ME: Okay, okay. Do you want crepes or leftover Chinese food for breakfast?
FRANZ: Chinese food. And, thank you.
ME: You’re welcome.
-END SCENES-
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The Holiday Update I Didn't Send
I sent out Christmas cards with happy holiday photos of our year in review, but I was so busy obsessing about the weather and driving on the ice-covered roads, that I never got around to our holiday update letter. Here it is then, from my family to you:
Kealoha got a new job. He now wears khakis and dress shirts five days a week and scares all of us. “Put on your REAL clothes,” Moxies cries. Kealoha awkwardly laughs. It’s a great job and he loves it. There are no mushrooms growing in the elevator and when it rains, he no longer has to empty kiddy pools filled with water. Plus, they give him free burritos and subs. A LOT.
Tanya was nominated for an Audie and went to New York with Kealoha. She got drunk on gin & tonics, didn’t win, but had lots of wonderful awkward networking conversations. It was her first year as a full-time narrator and she recorded a lot of books. Many of the books required her to breathe heavily and with sultry excitement. She also took a few yoga classes so now she can wear her yoga pants and say “I’m going to do yoga” and not sound sarcastic.
Franz put together so many Lego sets that they really should give him stock in the company. He’s also reading like a mofo. His sense of humor is so advanced that Tanya is awe of him. Franz tells her “Ma. Stop it.”
Moxie believes in fairies and has lots of friends at school. She likes animals and popcorn and she laughs if you touch her belly. She is very annoyed with us touching her belly and says “Go find yourself the Pillsbury Doughboy if you want cheap entertainment”.
We got a new roof, had a flood in the basement, ate too much food, went to Disney World, and published audio versions of Tanya’s books. Audiofile magazine even reviewed "Foodies Rush In". Tanya had a hangnail and cried about it for a while. Kealoha wore Hawaiian shirts. The kids grew so much we had to buy them new clothes.
Tanya had a tooth pulled and felt nauseous and thought she had a weird growth but it turned out to be a pimple. AND THEN….
I’m just kidding on that last part. I thought it would be fun if I detailed every little thing that happened, but I’ll spare you all the info.
That’s our year in review. We laughed a lot. We were annoyed much of the time. We didn’t understand highway drivers or why people are such dinks in grocery stores. We worked hard. We snuggled with our families. We embarrassed ourselves. We had fights. We made up. We grew another year older and another year wiser and realized that life is a mash-up of the beautiful and awful, the awkward and tender, the dark and the light.
Happy holidays to you.
Cheers and spontaneous high-five,
Tanya
PS I also published a new novella. YESTERDAY. I mean I published it yesterday, but it’s called “Synchronicity”. You can get it here, or if you can’t afford the .99 download or just don’t want to, send me an email and I’ll send you the download for free.
The World Needs More Live Musical Theater
In my previous post, I made fun of “The Sound Of Music” and my desire to see the live version. Let me just state, for the record, that I love this musical. I listened to it over and over when I was a kid, then moved on to “Oliver”, then “West Side Story”. I remember putting the slightly warped records on the player, lowering the needle and then singing along. I used to sing “Edelweiss” to anyone who would listen, from an appearance on the Deputy Don show, to the times I rode the Greyhound bus with my brother on my way to meet my dad, three hours away. I have a folksy kinda voice and I was never cast in any big musicals. Well, I did play Squeaky Fromme in Assassins, but I’m not sure that counts. What I love about musicals is…they’re earnest. They’re so unbelievably hopeful. And even when the musical is cynical, they still come off as ultimately...I don’t know…pure.
Seeing a live performance of a musical, where everyone is singing and dancing and acting their hearts out, never fails to move me to tears. Even when it’s very bad musical theater. ESPECIALLY when it’s bad musical theater because, by god, they’re going to go out there and they’re going to sing without fear, and they’re going to sing LOUD.
So I watched the Live version with Carrie Underwood and I am totally smitten. And I’m mad because people are being so mean and snarky about it. Was it a perfect performance? No. It was flawed. Parts of it hopelessly so…but watching it—because of those flaws—made me feel like I was watching something REAL. So much now is synthesized and Photoshopped and so damned polished that it’s mechanical. This was not. It felt like watching a soap opera crossed with the Laurence Welk show and I loved every minute of it.
When I watch the movie, I fast forward through the creepy goat song and the dialogue…but not with the live version. I liked the slight stumbles, the twitch of nerves. I liked when things sounded a little hollow. I liked the flaws because it was real. And there were moments of real beauty. The scene between Maria and the Abbess. Seeing actors (like Stephen Moyer) stretch themselves with song. Hearing Underwood use a different kind of voice than her superstar persona. Seeing people dance and twirl and spin in coordinated silk.
I write a fair amount of humor. I’ll tell you something with humor. It’s easy to be snarky. It’s easy to make fun of things or people and make people laugh. But it’s not genuine. So much of our connecting online is by being snarky, in place of being genuinely funny. Sometimes it’s just mean.
What’s wrong with watching a show that’s NOT cynical? What’s wrong with performers giving themselves over to a piece and not getting it 100% perfect? What’s wrong with watching something that’s earnest and hopeful?
There’s nothing wrong with it. In fact, it’s inspiring.
The world could use a few more musicals right now. It needs some lovely, hopeful, innocent songs. We need harmony and duets. We need notes that soar…to offset the notes that don’t.
In case you’re wondering, I didn’t force Kealoha to watch it. It’s not his thing, and I respect that. We’re going to watch a Sondheim special later and I’m great with that.
I think if you’re going to watch something like “The Sound of Music”, you need to watch it with an open mind and an open heart. Remember when it was written. Watch it with a child’s interest. That’s what I did.
And I turned the sound UP. Way. Way. Up.
Misadventures In Parenting: The Talent Show
Our kids had the annual Breton’s Got Talent show, which meant we inhaled dinner and rushed to the school where we would sit for two hours as two hundred kids plodded through piano songs, four different dance versions of Katy Perry’s ROAR, two acts singing “Call Me Maybe” and making everyone uncomfortable, and boys playing basketball while wearing sunglasses and 1970s porn-style mustaches. We’re talking HIGH entertainment here.
Kealoha and I sat on the hard wooden bleachers waiting for the show to start. Moxie was singing “Just The Way You Are” by Bruno Mars and Franz was doing a dance number with his 3rd grade class. I’m pretty sure they were going to twerk and I felt mild chafing at the thought.
We watched the kids file in. Here is our brief conversation:
ME: Oh my gosh! They’re wearing lederhosen! You know what that means!
KEALOHA: God, no.
ME: The Sound of Music! Score! Which reminds me, I want you to record something. On December 5th there’s a live version of The Sound of Music and it’s either gonna be mildly entertaining or colossally bad. It stars Carrie Underwood and the dude from True Blood who impregnated the girl from The X-Men.
KEALOHA: I’ll record it but I’m not watching it with you.
ME: Aw, come on! Why not! It’s good for you.
KEALOHA: I’ve made it this far in my life without ever seeing The Sound Of Music and I don’t want to break that streak.
ME: I’ll sing you the Billy Goat song.
KEALOHA: No.
ME: Have I ever done my Julie Andrews impression for you?
KEALOHA: Yes.
ME: I did? Really?
KEALOHA: Yes.
ME: Was I drunk?
KEALOHA: No. You did it for the kids to annoy them.
ME: Oh! Okay. Then I haven’t done it for you PROPERLY.
KEALOHA: When I listen to The Sound Of Music, it’s the only time I actually root for the Nazis.
(PAUSE)
(PAUSE)
ME: If there is a hell, mister, you have a one-way-ticket.
Then the lights dimmed and we hunkered down to endure the off-key singing, the amazingly anti-rhythmic clapping of the audience, an array of hula-hoopers, and a dramatic sister-dance that included a long blue scarf and awkward twirling.
It was truly wonderful.
A Brief Conversation On Walking Dead Episodes Season 4
ME: Oh, lookit!
KEALOHA: What?
ME: Look at the DVR list for the Walking Dead episodes we have left! They’re all I Words. See? Infected, Isolation, Indifference…
KEALOHA: Ooookay.
ME: I can guess the next ones.
KEALOHA: Really?
ME: Yep! Intolerance…Indigestion…Incontinence…
KEALOHA: Irritation?
ME: Oh! That’s a good one!
KEALOHA: No. I mean IRRITATION. With you.
ME: Ah. Yeah. I get that. Just press play.
KEALOHA: Okay.
Why I Shouldn't Be Allowed To Grocery Shop
It’s a blustery Sunday morning and I just got back from walking two miles to the grocery store. I love walking because I get to calm my brain without the pressure of parking or hitting people on bikes. I meander the aisles in the grocery store slowly and then I call my hubby and he comes and picks me up. After this morning, though, I’m thinking maybe I shouldn’t be allowed to shop. Or if I do, maybe I should just keep my mouth shut.
First, I looked at Benadryl. I wanted kids’ size, and in a pill form. I read that if you go on a flight and give your kids Benadryl they’ll sleep the whole way. Then after I couldn’t find it, I rationalized that drugging the kids to get them to sleep on the flight may not be the best parenting. A BETTER parenting strategy is for me to call my doctor, get a prescription for a couple of Valium, and then Mommy can be relaxed and gentle and well-adjusted all the way to Disney.
I found an end-cap display of single serving bottles of wine. I got twelve. I rationalized this because they’re great for cooking and then I can use the crap wine in the food instead of my good wine. Plus, when I open my GOOD wine, I end up drinking it all. Not all at once, I’m not like guzzling it. I drink one glass a day. If it were the fifties, I’d have two martinis, a Valium, a glass of sherry, a pack of smokes, and then one glass of wine. This is progress then.
Since I got all the wine, I texted hubby to come inside and get me. I forgot my license and while I wasn’t wearing makeup and probably looked like I was pushing menopause, I didn’t want to get carded and then have to go “Come on. Really? Do you see how far my boobs hang? These are not twenty-year-old boobs” to the cashier. I didn’t want to put either one of us through that.
Kealoha (hubby) came to get me. I handed him his mocha and sipped on my cappuccino from Starbucks, which I paid for with my credit card but then couldn’t leave a tip because I’d forgotten my wallet along with my license.
In the checkout lane, a giant helium dinosaur ass bobbed in my face. “What the…?” I exclaimed. And then I saw a stack of round papers that were for sale for $1. They were signs to Save Our Herpes. “What? They’ve got a ribbon for everything! Who wants to save herpes?” I cried. I couldn’t believe it.
Kealoha looked at the sign I was pointing at. “Heroes. It says Save Our Heroes.”
Oh. Guess I should’ve worn my glasses.
Then the cashier asked if we were doing anything else exciting for the weekend. “This is it,” I said, nodding to the cupcake mix and twelve mini bottles of wine.
“No football games or anything?”
“God, no. We don’t believe in that sort of thing.”
The cashier’s face flushed red, either because of the herpes or my being a football-atheist.
Kealoha grabbed the bags and while he put them in the back of the car, I crawled into the passenger seat and smiled, content with the world. Still, I probably shouldn’t be allowed to shop unsupervised.
I Promised I Wouldn't Whine...
Wait. What? WHAT? I went almost a whole month without a blog? What is going on here? What kind of insanity is this? Is this another dimension? Is this another dimension where people wear shiny unitards and talk into their watches? No. All is well. All is very steady and well and slightly boring. I also made a promise to myself to stop whining so much and, uh, you can see the effect of that on the blog…or lack thereof. I mean, I THOUGHT of plenty of topics. I wanted to whine about trying to lose weight and seeing a dietician, and the new yoga classes I’m taking, and trying to cook healthy foods like quinoa and hating it…but in all those blogs, I just sound sorta douchey.
Then I wanted to blog about being rejected for the seventy-sixth time for my memoir and be all “What? My childhood isn’t painful or interesting enough for you?” and “Why are all the agents mutherfuckers!” and “Why won’t someone just give me a CHANCE?” But that just made me want to punch myself in the face.
Then I thought of blogging about everyday issues with the kids, and why bread makes me feel bloaty, and the trouble I’m having with this new book I wrote. It’s great. I love it. But it’s only 20,000 words and if I want to be published ‘for real’, like a ‘real’ girl and not Pinocchio (aka self-publishing), then I need to add 60,000 words to it. And. I. Don’t. Want. To.
See, though? See? Even my blog about not whining has turned into a massive whine of the old SNL skit Pat variety!
In short, I’ve lost the focus or point of this blog. I don’t like pushing my fiction because I feel like a bully when I do it. And I don’t like writing too much about narrating, because I don’t want to get in trouble for saying too much or not enough. And I don’t want to whine. And I don’t want to be a dink. And I just want everyone to get along and be happy.
So. Ehm. Maybe it’s time to revamp my Dip Blog. Maybe I should put all my angst into THAT. MMmmm. Angst Dip. Good with gluten-free crackers.
If you have any input here, let me know. Why do you read this blog? Do you like train-wreck Tanya, or slightly-mal-adjusted-Tanya, or bloated-Tanya the best?
I’m trying to figure everything out. It’s making me tired. But I’m not WHINING. I’m really not. That high-pitched sound is just a mother fucking LEAF BLOWER.
Ahem.
I mean, amen.
New Audiobooks, New Perspective, Same Desire For Potato Chips
I've been lax with the blog, but for a very good reason. I wish the very good reason was that I was too busy watching Netflix while eating potato chips, but the actual reason is I've been working. Working on writing, on narrating, on producing audiobooks, and working on getting healthy and having a kinder perspective on life in general. The last one included a session with a nutritionist where a dude with Hobbit bare feet welcomed me to the office and then I broke down in tears in the nutritionist's office and moaned "How many rice cakes do I have to eat before I start to lose weight?" But that's another story. For now, here are some of the crazy projects I've been working on and producing. If you need a new listen or you want to get your grandmother an audiobook where two to four cowboys play 'horsey' in a barn...
I can't even finish that last sentence. I just can't. Deeeeep breaths.
Here are some of my projects:
1) "Foodies Rush In", narrated by Kate Rudd, written by Tanya Eby. GENRE: Contemporary Romance.
This time I went with a new narrator to see how my words worked when someone else read them. Kate gives heart and warmth to this sweet little love story. Rated PG-13, maybe R if you don't like some swearing. Click on the picture to go to Audible:
2) "Two to Mango", narrated by Tanya Eby, written by Jill Marie Landis. GENRE: Comedic Mystery.
I loved this book. It's book 2 in a series and is a delightful mystery set in Hawaii. Rated PG. The 1st book "Mai Tai One On" is also available. Funny, quirky characters.
3) "Briar's Cowboys: Daly Way Series Book 5", narrated by Tatiana Sokolov, written by Brynn Paulin. GENRE: Erotica.
Tatiana is my evil twin who narrates erotica titles so that I don't give heart attacks to listeners who are expecting, well, less hotness. This one is super hot. Certainly an R rating and one you should listen to in the privacy of your home, or maybe with a partner, or, uh, more. There are cowboys and sultry scenes AND an actual storyline and real characters.
Those are just a few projects I've been working on. Plus, I finished the 1st draft of a new novel that's action packed and mind bending. More on that, and some other stories from my awkward life, to come. Until then, happy listening. Be good to yourself.
How To Freak Out Your Kids And Make Them Happy AT THE SAME TIME
Yesterday, I picked up the kids (Franz and Moxie) and their stepsister (Lilly) at school and drove them home. I blame my sudden inspiration on Stephen King and "Christine". I've been reading a lot of his work lately, and it's got me all twisted.
Here is what happened during that drive.
ME: Weird.
FRANZ: What?
ME: I was supposed to turn there but I didn’t.
MOXIE: Why didn’t you?
ME: I don’t know. I feel like the car doesn’t want to go home. It wants…
MOXIE: What’s it want, Ma?
ME: It wants me to go foreward. It’s like there’s a giant magnet and I’m being pulled.
LILLY: Whoa.
ME: I know. Oh! Wait. It wants…
FRANZ: Mom…come on. I don’t like this.
ME: It wants me to go down this street.
MOXIE: This isn’t the way home!
ME: Nope. It’s okay though. Don’t freak out. I feel like this is okay. Like I’m putting on my blinker now because I feel like I should turn here.
FRANZ: Ma, I’m freaking out here.
ME: Nope. Don’t freak. I feel like…yes. Yes! The car wants to park!
LILLY: Whoa.
ME: Okay then. We’ll park. And then…I feel like…
FRANZ: What, Ma? What’s HAPPENING?
ME: I feel like we should park here and then walk across the street and get ice cream at Jersey Junction.
(Pause. Pause.)
LILLY: Oh, I get it! You were messing with us! The car didn’t want anything.
MOXIE: Mommy! Come on!
FRANZ: You totally freaked me out.
ME: I’m sorry. I’m sorry! I just…you got to admit…that was kinda cool.
FRANZ: Kinda.
ME: And now you get ice cream.
FRANZ: Fine okay. Just don’t do that again.
MOXIE: Like EVER. Don’t ever do that again, Mommy.
ME: Okay. Fine. Sheesh.
What Happens When I Try To Sign Up For Yoga
After years of wearing yoga pants, I thought it was time to finally take a yoga class. A friend and I walk around Reed’s Lake (4.5 miles) every weekend, but the winds are a blowing and winter is coming. A nice, relaxing yoga class indoors sounded perfect. Plus, I can be a teeny, tiny bit high strung, so finding my Zen might be really nice. I called to sign up. Here is the conversation:
ME: So, I’m looking for an intro-level yoga class either on Saturday or Sunday that me and a friend could take. Do you have anything like that?
RELAXD YOGA MAN (or REYMA): Sure!
ME: Uhhhh…
REYMA: We have one on Saturdays at 9 AM.
ME: Okay. Sure. Okay. Sounds good. How do I sign up?
REYMA: Oh, there’s no need for that. Just stop on by and you can join the class. It’s for all levels.
ME: But what if it’s full?
REYMA: We’ll work you in. No worries.
ME: No. But wait. What if…like…the class is FULL. Shouldn’t I, like, sign up to make sure it’s not full? I don’t want it to be full and be all ready to do yoga and then have you tell me I can’t do it.
REYMA: No worries. It’ll be fine. You can just stop on by. Or not. Whatever. However you want to work it.
ME: Well, I want to sign up for the yoga class and I’ll plan on being there next Saturday at 9AM with my friend.
REYMA: Sure. Maybe we’ll see you then.
ME: No. No! Uhm, no. It’s on my calendar. I’ll be there. I’m signed up. This is me, signing me up.
(Pause. Sound of the guy doing deep breathing techniques.) ME: Okay. Thanks. See you then. Thanks.
I think this dialogue pretty much shows why I need to take a yoga class and why I’m probably going to be really horrible at it. I just felt like...you know...there are RULES, and you have to follow rules. Plus there was that one time when I was seven or eight and got up to the movie theater to get the tickets to see The Muppet Movie and they sold out. The kid right before me got the last ticket. And I just don't want to feel that way again.
I wish I could take a yoga class with the Muppets. *sigh*
Conversation With My Husband While His Hand Is On My Thigh
It was nighttime. By night time, I mean just shy of 9PM, and Kealoha and I crawled into bed. I’d say we were spooning, but we’re solid people, so we were ladle-ing. He curled around me and put his hand on my thigh, just beyond the line of my shorts. Here is our conversation:
ME: Aw, now, dammit!
K: What?
ME: I shaved my legs tonight. I tell you, I did!
K: Really? Uh….
ME: I just, okay, I missed that one place. That one place where your hand is right now. I swear to god. See? Move your hand here. SEE! Smooth! SMOOTH!
K: But…how did you miss this one spot? Everything else is smooth except for here?
ME: I don’t know. I’m Nordic. My hair is invisible. I have shaving issues. What’s important here is why does your hand automatically zero in on like the one place I don’t want it to go?
K: Maybe that little patch is like the Bermuda Triangle or something.
ME: Oh, sheesh. Now I have to worry about my leg hair causing plane crashes. I can’t even talk about it. I’ll shave it tomorrow. It’s exhausting being a woman.
I quietly obsessed about causing plane crashes and shipwrecks with the gravitational pull of my leg hair. Then Kealoha kissed my shoulder, told me to sleep well, and eventually…I did.
Giveaway and Interview on AudioGals
If you're looking for a new post from me, sorry. I've been so busy staring into empty corners and eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, I haven't had a chance to blog! Okay. You got me. That's an excuse. I've been working. A lot. And also using my blogging-energy to put into the new book I'm working on. I figure I'll finish it in November, and return to regularly blogging then.
Until then...here's an interview that Audio Gals did with me. They also have a giveaway going on. I'm not sure how long, so check it out soon. If you don't want to read the whole interview, scroll down to enter the contest. Good luck!
Here's the link:
They're giving away a copy of "Run To You" by Rachel Gibson:
Blogs I Wanted To Write But Haven't Gotten Around To
I've been pretty overwhelming busy and also working on my memoir and new piece of fiction. Here, then, are the blogs I wanted to write, but haven't gotten around to. I just have the titles. You can imagine the actual blog posts:
Conversation With My Husband While His Hand Is On My Thigh
Why Is My Hair Burgundy
That Time When I Dropped My Taco Salad And Cried
When I Lived In Detroit And Everyone At Kroger Thought I Was Deaf
I Think I’m Becoming A Stout Hunchback and All I Need Is A Bell To Ring
The Truth About Narrating Erotica
I’ve been lucky to narrate all sorts of things in my career, and I thought I’d pull back the curtain on what it’s like to narrate erotica.
I drink a scotch, put on a bustier and tiny silk panties, pull on my garters and stockings and then I…
Are you kidding? I’m wearing a stained t-shirt, yoga pants, and no makeup! I do this because it’s A) comfortable and B) the characters are so attractive that I don’t feel like I have to be.
At the first sex scene, I think “Oh, okay. That’s hot. Wow. Sure. Okay.”
At the second scene, I think, “Wow. They have a lot of energy. And appetite. I don’t have an appetite like that. Maybe I need to take a pill or something. Okay. Here we go…”
By the third, I think, “Don’t these people have jobs? Don’t they have stuff to do? Who’s buying groceries? How can she bend over like that without taking an Advil?”
By the fourth, I think, “Oh come on! You’re being teenagers! Do something productive like watch Newsroom and eat popcorn with your man-hunk. That’s what I’d do!”
Actually, now that I think about it, this is pretty much my thought process for narrating in general. I love storytelling in all its forms; I really do. But every once in a while, I am exhausted by characters’ boundless energy and superhuman abilities. Or...this is a possibility...maybe I’m a little bit jealous.
New Commandments for Modern Living
Weird thing, but last night, I went outside and there was a crack of thunder and then from the heavens dropped a tablet! Not a stone tablet; that’s old school, but, like, an actual tablet. An iPad to be exact. (Thank you, heavens. Now I can play Candy Crush.) On said tablet was the following. New Commandments! They just fell into my lap! So weird. I’m sharing them now with you because I’m like a prophet or whatever. Also, because if I share them, someone up in the clouds promised me a donut, even though I’m gluten free now.
THE NEW COMMANDMENTS FOR MODERN LIVING
1) Don’t hurt people. 2) Don’t be a dick. 3) Use your turn signal. 4) Drink responsibly and don’t do harmful drugs. * 5) Stop posting mean comments on the Internet. (see #1 and #2) 6) Try to change your mind before you try to change someone else. 7) Love someone who makes you laugh. 8) Eat mindfully and with gratitude. 9) Dream and then take action towards those dreams. 10) Tip 20%. 11) Give random high-fives. 12) Dance. Especially if you have no rhythm.
* Drugs that are delivered via a needle ARE HARMFUL.
Then I asked the heavens if they could also drop down a charger because the iPad was out of juice, but the only thing that dropped down was a cricket. Can't have everything I guess.
I'll go get my donut now.
A Gripping Conversation to Rival Dialogue in Newsroom
We’ve been watching "The Newsroom" and I sat there and I thought, “I’m not quite smart enough for this show” and “These characters have the best dialogue exchanges ever. Does anyone really talk like this?” Then I thought what would life be like if Kealoha and I had rapid-fire conversations that twisted and turned and then slapped you in the face. (After all of this thinking, I had to ask Kealoha to go back a minute in Newsroom so I could re-watch where I’d drifted.)
On Thursday, I made Kealoha walk with me around Reed’s Lake. It’s a 4.5-mile walk and I knew we’d have great conversations, and possibly dialogue sequences that would rival the smart characters on Newsroom, West Wing, and, heck, even NPR!
Errr……
Not so much.
Kealoha sang snatches of “Under Pressure”. He said it should be our ‘thing’, the couple thing that we do at parties in front of people. He said I could be Freddie Mercury, but then he sang all the Freddie Mercury parts and I told him maybe he should do the duet by himself.
Then we talked about having a Taco dinner night and I said I didn’t want to smell like a taco and then we both giggled because I repeated, “I smell like taco”.
Our heart to heart rapid-fire conversation continued when we discussed the millionaire who moved his mansion two hundred feet so he could break the property up into three portions and sell it. I said “He’s smart”, and Kealoha answered with the bee-doh-bee-dohm part of the “Under Pressure” song.
At the end of our walk, mile 4.2, a group of running boys came right at us. High schoolers or college-age kids, running, without shirts, all washboard stomachs and testosterone. I said “Uh…” and pulled over to a driveway to check my phone so I wouldn’t notice shirtless boys. NOT APPROPRIATE. “They can run around me. I’m not moving,” Kealoha said, and walked straight into the River of Boy. I checked frantically for emails.
When the thudding feet and panting breaths passed, Kealoha looked at me. “Did you see that?” he asked, vaguely excited.
“See what? I was checking important messages.” I could not admit I was purposefully not-seeing half-naked man-boys running.
“That guy held out his hand to high-five me and I high-fived him!”
“That’s ridiculous,” I said. “You did not just have a random high-five with a stranger. Those things don’t happen in the wild.”
“I did! I did it! He held out his hand like this and I high-fived it! I high-fived a stranger!”
I was mad that I missed this high-five miracle. “If that really happened, if you really had a random high-five in the wild, then you know what that means.”
Kealoha looked down at me. (He’s taller than me.) “What?”
“It means you have to make a wish.”
He didn’t even pause. “I wish for more high-fives.”
“That’s against the rules,” I said as we continued walking. Then we stopped at D&W and got stuff to make stir-fry and Kealoha sang more of Freddie Mercury’s lines that were supposed to be mine.
Well, I guess there’s a reason that I don’t write to television, although I think our dialogue is just gripping and filled with drama. Aaron Sorkin, feel free to give me a call.
WTF I've Been Up To
I promised myself I would try to stop posting whiny woe-is-me blogs. In fact, I did post one last week, but then I pulled it. I forget sometimes that my blog shouldn’t be a dumping ground. No one wants to hear me sit in a corner and complain…unless I’m complaining while drinking a bottle of wine, then even I admit I can be humorous. It’s all the drooling that makes it funny. So here’s what’s happening and why my blog might be a little more sporadic for a while:
1) I had a tooth emergency and some ‘oral surgery’. It sucked. But the plus side is I got a whole day off to watch TV. I mean, that’s all I did. I sprawled on the couch (upright, cuz I couldn’t lie down) and moaned and groaned and watched True Blood, Orange Is The New Black, Nigella Lawson, MasterChef, and Newsroom. All. Day. Long. It was so glorious that angels sang! (Or it was taking me a while to come down from the laughing gas at the dentist.)
2) I had an excerpt from my memoir accepted for publication. I need exclamation marks for that. Here: !!!!! The excerpt called “The Friendship Camp” will be published in the fall literary journal of Midwestern Gothic. I was so excited when I found out that I whooped and then I said ow and then I whooped again. And then I said ow. It was a vicious cycle for a bit.
3) I’ve joined a writer’s group. Two, actually. One online and one I’ll meet with in person every week. The groups are forcing me to work on my next novel and I’m 15 pages in. Not much, but it’s a start.
4) I’ve been gluten free for two weeks. It’s not as annoying as I thought. I’m now addicted to polenta, which is okay, because I can only eat soft food. And my food-belly seems to be a little smaller.
5) I’m ready to send the kids back to school. I’ve become the ultimate lazy parent, and I’m pretty sure I’m not alone. I mean, there’s only so many crafts, outings, and ‘adventures’ a parent can realistically have before saying “Aw, fuck it!” Now when the kids ask if they can do experiments with the toaster and a fork I say, “Sure” and then “Call me if anyone’s bleeding” and then I go back to playing BananaKing on my iPad. School better start soon or the kiddos will be building a homemade methlab to earn money for Legos.
6) For the last two days, I’ve been talking like I’m wearing those cheap, plastic vampire fangs. This morning, I did a recording, and I sounded just fine. My mouth is good. My voice is good. And my jaw only hurts when I open really wide, so I have stopped opening my jaw really wide. (There’s a joke in there about Kealoha, but I will not stoop to that. It’s simply TMI.)
7) All is well.
So, look for my blog periodically. I’ll try to post only important stuff like, you know, things about chafing and when we go to Applebee’s and my upcoming trip with Kealoha to a tiki bar in Chicago. You know, stuff that matters.
But if you really, really miss me, check out one of my books that you haven’t read, or force your friends to read one. And stay tuned. We’ll be releasing some free stories soon, and “Foodies Rush In” will be released as an audiobook in October narrated by the fabulous, Audie-award-winning Kate Rudd.
Happy, happy, me.
(I mean that sincerely. The laughing gas has totally worn off now.)
Hello, Panic Attack AKA Thar She Blows!
If you ever have panic attacks, you know that they can sorta build up. It’s like a snowball rolling down a hill. At first, it’s a wee little ball and then it gets bigger and bigger and so mammoth that it runs over unsuspecting trees, skiers, and picnic tables. You can’t unroll a snowball going downhill; you just wait for it to go over a cliff and be done already. A panic attack feels sorta like that, only when it’s building, the snowball is rolling UPHILL. It takes a force of energy and circumstances, but something pushes that f’ing snowball up the hill until…well, I’m sure the metaphor goes somewhere, but I’m too stressed to figure it out.
Anyway.
I’ve been waiting for about a week for this panic attack to hit, and it finally did. Actually, it didn’t HIT. It CRACKED. Right in the parking lot of the studio where I was due to narrate.
I actually heard the crack because it resonated from inside my mouth while I was chewing a piece of gum. One chew of the gum and I heard it: crrrrak. And then there was a bite of pain. And I knew. Panic Attack was mammoth and ready to fly off the cliff, with thanks to Cracked Molar.
A cracked molar. Big deal, right? I mean, it HAPPENS. But here’s what happened in my brain:
1. I have a cracked molar. I’m terrified of dentists. They’re going to do a root canal. It’s going to cost thousands of dollars.
2. Kealoha hasn’t been able to find a job for 8 months, and I support the family via narrating. If there’s something wrong with my mouth and I can’t narrate, we don’t get income, and it’s all my fault. This is all my fault.
3. I have to get my shit together and go in and narrate and finish this book. If I cancel this book or leave, they won’t hire me again. And they’ve got to hire me again. Don’t think about my tooth, or the pain. Don’t let anyone know. This is all my fault.
4. I’m terrified of dentists.
And then I just started crying. All the pressure and stress I’ve been carrying around for weeks released in a gush of tears. How scared I am of being the soul income for the house, how in freelance you can never say no to a project even if you want to take a little vacation up north to relax, how my job doesn’t offer insurance so I joined SAG/AFTRA to get insurance but the companies I work for don’t pay SAG/AFTRA wages so still no insurance, how any time I get sick or need a break, it means I don’t make income. How we need a new roof, and I want to take the kids to Disney, and I’d love to have a pretty kitchen that’s big and sparkly, but everything comes out of my paycheck. Everything. How I’d like to stay home with the kids more but I have to work and I can never say no.
And now a cracked tooth.
See? It’s not just a cracked tooth. It’s a panic attack.
My director sent me home. I’m going to the dentist. I have money in the bank to cover this, and the company assured me we could reschedule today’s narration. And Kealoha will eventually find a job that he loves and eventually I won’t have to carry the household and be terrified of getting a cough or losing my voice.
I just need to breathe.
I also need a gin&tonic, but I’ll wait until after the dentist. Or maybe just before. Yeah. Just before I go to the dentist, I’ll drink that gin&tonic. I’ve earned it.
When Your Heart Went Boom
I was searching through my old documents for a novel I abandoned. The characters still talk to me, and I'm disappointed that I haven't been able to write the novel for them that I think they deserve. I'm trying to decide whether to commit to this YA Suspense title, or return to this little abandoned novel. So, that's what I was doing when I found an old file of stories and monologues I've written over the years and have never done anything with. Some are pretty bad, of course, but this one still makes me laugh. And there are some lines in it that I like. Mostly, I like this Julie character and I hope that she found a man to make her as happy as I am with Kealoha. Here, then is that old monologue, from my younger self:
When Your Heart Went Boom by Tanya Eby
My Dearest Victor,
As dates go, on a scale of one to five, you were definitely a three and well on your way to a four. I was telling some joke, something about a fireman and a priest and a hose, not a great joke, not hysterical, but you were laughing and while I was telling it and feeling charming…I thought…just for a moment…how life might be with you if we happened. If it happened. If love happened between you and I.
And then, suddenly, you clutched your heart and stopped laughing and I looked in your eyes that were remarkably blue and I thought you sensed it too. This kismet. This cosmic connection, and that’s when, very clearly, the date was turning from a three to a four, on a scale of one to five. I smiled and you looked like you were smiling, or maybe that was just the muscles in your face tensing because then you passed out and then, you know, you passed on.
There was a bit of commotion at first, but don’t be embarrassed. I helped them sit you up and I wiped the chive butter from your forehead and then loosened your tie. It would have been one of those sweet, tender moments that happen when two people just start dating and realize there’s something more going on beneath the surface. It would have been one of those moments, us staring into each other’s eyes, if it hadn’t been for your dying and all. I thought, for a moment, that there was still a chance. I thought about it especially when our waiter (his name was Pedro and did you know he was pre-med? How lucky!) ripped open your shirt and started pumping on your chest and breathing in your mouth. I thought there still might be a chance for us and how terrific a story it would make at our wedding.
Your best man, Bob, would raise his glass to us and tell our friends that when we met on our blind date, you fell instantly in love with me and it happened so fast and so hard that your heart exploded. And everyone would laugh then and tink their glasses with their forks so that we would kiss. And we would kiss. Long and slow and with real love, so much love I would feel it in my belly, in my toes, this love of wanting you. Then I would wipe the chive butter from your forehead because all good things in life come round full circle.
But that didn’t happen because somewhere in the middle of my joke, you stopped. You just, stopped. And sometimes, mostly at night, right before I fall asleep, I see Pedro shaking his head and I see you on that burgundy carpet with your shirt open, and I see the open napkin on the floor next to you, and the roll you dropped when your heart went boom. It’s the roll I think about mostly, though you did have a magnificent chest, with just the right amount of hair, but it’s the roll I think about. There was a bite out of it. The last thing to touch your lips was a hard sourdough roll and to tell you the truth, no life should have to end like that.
I was sad to see you go, and, well, a little embarrassed. I didn’t even know your last name. All those emails and photos we sent each other, the phone calls we made, all the planning of finally meeting and when and where and how soon, and I never did catch your last name.
I thought about writing a note to your parents, but how would I find them? You said they were in their seventies and lived in Florida and I thought of going to Florida with your picture but, to tell you the truth, most of the people in Florida are in their seventies so how could I ever find them? I wouldn’t really know what to tell your parents anyway. I could say it was quick and painless (though I think there was some pain), but what’s it matter? I would like to tell them that the last thing you did (besides eat that roll) was laugh, and when I think about life and fate and how everything happens for a reason…I think maybe the whole reason I met you was to tell you that dumb joke about the fireman and the priest and the hose.
I was there with you in your final moment and you were laughing at something I told you and you clutched your heart and we looked at each other and when we looked at each other, my soul reached out to yours and wrapped around your heart too so that you were also, by extension, holding onto the tender part of me.
The more I think about that date, before your dying and all, the more I think it was a four on its way to a five. I’m sure it would have ended as a five. Maybe that night was on its way to being the best night of my life because maybe, just maybe, you were the one and destiny finally brought us together.
Destiny was late, true, and it was the shortest relationship I’ve ever had (we didn’t even make it through the first course), but I want you to know that I’ll never forget that night. We shared something most couples never do. We shared a moment so deep your eyes sparked blue with life.
Thank you for that, at the very least.
All my love,
Julie