Mother Ferocity

Being a mom changes you, and in more ways than just expanding your hips and making your boobs more pendulous. It can soften you, and at the same time give you an edge. I’ve been thinking about this for a while. First, with my kids, I felt this supreme tenderness and I cried a lot. It could have been hormones, but I like to think it was just my heart expanding.

Over the years, I’ve gotten better at being a parent, and I’ve felt a curious change come over me. My softening has been counterbalanced by…this…Mother Ferocity. At first, it was just with my kids. Like, if another kid was bullying them on the playground, I felt this rumble in my soul that erupted not as a roar, but as a lowered razor-sharp voice and the slow pronouncement of the words “No! That is not appropriate!”

But when did this ferocity translate from the playground to the grocery store, restaurants, a walk around the block, business, and the dentist’s office? When did I start telling random strangers to be careful, don’t act that way, keep your fingers to yourself, stop doing that…and when….when did I start giving THE LOOK to anyone whose behavior I disapprove of? When did I become a stone cold, controlling, mofo?

I gave THE LOOK to the pimply-faced hotel clerk yesterday when I was having trouble logging in to the Wi-Fi. This was our conversation:

ME: Wi-Fi was included in my room, but it won’t let me sign in.

CLERK: Oh! Yeah. You have to log on to the Club site and then enter in the password.

ME: Yes. I get that. But what’s the password?

CLERK: Huh. I’m not sure.

(Here is where I gave her THE LOOK and let silence vibrate between us.)

CLERK: Uhm…maybe I should go find out?

ME: Good thinking.

Hello, Mother Fierce! I’ve really got to rein it in. I am not everyone’s mother, nor do I need to educate or train or guide. I need to breathe, soften, and replace the steel edge with a…spork? Spoon? Whatever. I need to maybe be a little nicer.

I’m convinced of this because I think my ferocity is rubbing off on my kids. The other day, my nine-year old was working on his Legos and a group of neighborhood kids was playing outside our house. He ran to the door in his underwear, threw it open and yelled “Keep it down out there! I’m trying to concentrate!” Then he gave them THE LOOK, waited in the silence, then shut the door.

I shouldn’t be proud of that, but I sorta am.

Deep breaths. Deep. Breaths.

Not Just Any Ice Cream--Flashback 1995

In the car today while driving my kids to Skyzone—a trampoline park-- I heard this Journey song on the radio. Immediately, the kids went into conniption fits and started frothing at the mouths so I had to turn it off…but not before it spurred a memory.

I remembered flipping the collar on my jean jacket with the cross-stitched American flag on its back, and how I secretly liked Bon Jovi and Journey and Lionel Richie, though I pretended Depeche Mode was far superior.

The specific memory from that Journey song, was this:

It was a gorgeous summer day in 1995ish…(and not 1980ish when the song first came out). My college boyfriend and I were walking in Eastown and having a fight. I wanted ice cream. He thought we’d had enough pizza and crap already. But by god, I wanted ice cream and I was going to have it.

I told him to just stop being so negative and live a little. “See,” I said, “Here’s an ice cream shop right here.”

“This is a Chinese restaurant.”

“Not anymore,” I said, and pointed to the hand-painted sign that now covered I Ching with I ceCream.

“I don’t know about this,” Paul said, but Paul was from Detroit and was negative about everything…except (ironically) Detroit. Whatever.

“Ice cream. Now.” I huffed and pushed open the door. It creaked. It actually creaked and I think I knew then that I had made a bad choice. A. Bad. Choice.

Dust covered the red booths. It was eerily quiet.

“I don’t think it’s op…” Paul started.

“Of course it’s open!” I snarled, because I knew everything. “Hello! Anyone here?” I called. The ice cream cooler was in the back of the restaurant. Like the coolers had been bought at an auction and squeezed in among old takeout containers and a fake-jade Buddha. We peered at the ice cream. There were twelve flavors but you couldn’t tell what they were because they were covered with a thin skin of freezer burn. “Uh…” I started…but by then it was too late.

“You want some ice cream?” A man barked. He pretty much just appeared and scared the hell out of me. I should’ve turned away then, but I was determined to prove a point to Paul. It wasn’t even about ice cream. I just wanted to prove that even though he was brilliant, I was also smart. I mattered.

“Yes!” I said cheerily. “How about chocolate.”

I heard Paul chuckle. Then I looked at the man with a stained apron and a slightly ripped white paper hat. He held the ice cream scoop like a hook. But that didn’t bother me. What bothered me was his weeping eye.

His red…weeping…eye.

“Chocolate,” I whispered and gulped.

The man nodded and shoved the door to the cooler open. He scraped for about five minutes while Paul silently smirked. I could hear his thoughts. I shouldn’t have pushed for the ice cream.

While the Weepy Eye dude scraped my ice cream, I imagined infection dribbling down onto the cone. I couldn’t breathe. He handed me the cone. I thrust a wad of bills at him and ran out of the restaurant. Paul followed me. “That ice cream looks pretty good,” he said, all proud of himself.

I dumped it in the trash. “I’m not hungry,” I said.

A week later, the ice cream shop was back to a Chinese restaurant with new owners. I have never eaten there.

This is the kind of thing I think about when I listen to the radio. Huh.

What I Learned at APAC

I decided to attend the Audio Publishers Association Conference in New York this year…a big ol’ conference where the narrators of the nation descend on New York for awkward networking/socializing and frantic attempts to ‘be heard’. It’s lovely. Here’s what I learned at yesterday’s conference (in no particular order):  

* When in an awkward group photo, assume the friendly gentleman narrator behind you is pressing a water bottle against your backside and not…well. Don’t even finish that thought.

*Imagine networking is sorta like old-fashioned courting (i.e. no touching, but weird body language). Remember, if they’re truly interested in you, they’ll let you know. If they turn and walk away when you’re mid-sentence, they’re probably afraid of you.

*Your voice is unique. No one does exactly what you do. Your vocalizations of a burp/giggle/muttering of ‘shit’ is truly unique to you. No one can take that away from you. No one would want to.

*When meeting a casting director for the first time and they say “Ah! I’ve seen your name everywhere!”…DO NOT respond with “I know! It’s written all over the bathroom walls!” What is funny in your brain is not necessarily funny in the real world.

*Have colleagues/friends go with you. When you are mid-panic attack, they’ll step up and introduce you and say how talented you are and you have hundreds of books to your credit. You will step up for them when they are mid-panic attack. You will all love each other because of this.

*If you say “Awww, fuck it!” and stay at a swanky hotel and pay a ridiculous amount of money, when they hail a cab for you, the will STOP TRAFFIC for you and your friends with a whistle and a hand gesture so you can walk across the street to the waiting cab. You will get free drinks at an Italian restaurant served to you by a gentle and diminutive Bruno. You will have a hotel room with a doorbell and soap that makes you smell like a clean, sophisticated man.

*Always…ALWAYS say “Awww, fuck it!”

##

My Awkward Pizza Delivery Man Encounter

Now, maybe the title of this blog is misleading. I mean, I’m *pretty* sure there is some soft porn, late-night-on-Cinemax movie where a woman orders pizza, and is delivered a HOT LOAF with some creative camera angles and 1970s jazz playing. Not that I’ve ever SEEN one of those movies, mind you, just…you know…I can imagine.

Ahem.

This is not that story.

Here's the real story:

Kealoha is off on a business trip (for real!) and I’ve been on my own with the kids. So tonight, deciding on a dinner that meant little to no effort on my part, I ordered pizza. They’d deliver the food to us and I could just focus on getting the kids to do homework. I could also drink a glass of wine. Brilliant!

And who should the pizza boy be…but…my ex-next-door neighbor back when I was a stay-at-home mom trying desperately to be so perfect that I even made crackers from scratch. (I’d have made the wheat from scratch too, but it failed in the garden.)

This was back when I gave up writing and acting and decided that I could totally be a housewife and talk about running and marathons and whatever was important to my husband. (I know. I know. BIG mistake.) Anyway. I knew on some level that to be a perfect stay-at-home wife, I needed to be friendly. And I hate being friendly. I just suck at it. I should have a t-shirt that says “I’m not a bitch. I’m just a recluse.” But I was determined.

So. On one weekend, I noticed that my next-door neighbor was on his own and his wife was gone. When his wife returned, I saw her in her back yard and I tried to talk to her. Here is that conversation:

ME: So your husband has been moping around all weekend without you.

HER: Really?

ME: Yep. He just seems so lost without you. He just sat in the backyard all weekend. He must be so happy to have you home!

HER: Huh. Interesting.

That was the conversation. It felt weird. And awkward. And OFF somehow. The next week, the wife packed up all his bags and threw him out. Later, I found out that on that weekend she was gone, she’d given him an ultimatum to find a new job. He wasn’t supposed to be home at all. In fact, he’d told her he’d been to a job fair, and I, essentially, blew his cover. This is what happens when I try to talk to people. I make their marriages implode.

Of course, my own marriage imploded a year later when I realized I hated making crackers from scratch and I hated running and I wanted a career and I was empty without writing, so maybe this is just the way the world works.

It is also how MY world works. I order pizza to make things easier and come face-to-face with the man whose marriage I feel responsible for ending. I didn’t try to make small talk with him. I just thanked him for the pizza, gave him a nice tip, and quickly shut and locked the door.

It’s better if I don’t talk to anyone. Trust me.

I'm Reading On May 10th for Midwestern Gothic

I'm reading on May 10th for Midwestern Gothic at Commonwealth of Letters at 6:30PM(ish). By 'reading' I mean I'm giving a reading or performing or reading out loud or what have you. So. Yeah. Me. In the flesh (but not naked flesh) standing fully clothed and reading out loud for whoever shows up. Hopefully, it'll be a full house instead of just a creepy guy wearing thick glasses and eating corn nuts. They graciously published an excerpt from my memoir in their Issue #11, and I'll be reading from that. If you're in Grand Rapids, Michigan on May 10th, why not show up and listen to some Midwestern writers read to you? It's lovely, comforting, and only mildly chafing. Here's the info that I shamelessly lifted from the Facebook post, because, well, I'm lazy. We all know this. I'm lazy and I'm tired and I'm crabby...but I promise for the reading, I'll be perky and upbeat. I'll be reading about my childhood so I might also be slightly tranquilized. Just, you know, FYI.

INFO SHAMELESSLY LIFTED FROM FACEBOOK:

We’re excited to be hosting a reading at the Great Lakes Commonwealth of Letters space in Grand Rapids, Michigan, featuring the following Midwestern Gothic contributors:

Katie Booms is a writer, visual artist, and advocate for community-building. She welcomes collaboration of all kinds—find her on Twitter as @ka_booms and say hello! She earned her MFA in poetry at the University of Wyoming, served for a year with AmeriCorps at the Freret Neighborhood Center in New Orleans, and currently teaches at Grand Valley State University in good 'ole Grand Rapids.

Tanya Eby is an audiobook narrator and novelist. She’s recorded over 300 novels for NY Times and USA Today’s Bestsellers and was nominated for an Audie Award in 2013. She has published several novels including “Blunder Woman”, “Easy Does It” and “Foodies Rush In”. Her novella “Tunnel Vision And Other Stories From The Edge” takes place at the Grand Traverse Insane Asylum in the 1930s, and will be released soon in audio. Her nonfiction piece for Midwestern Gothic is from her current memoir-in-progress Popsicle Toes.

Michael Lambert lives and works in Wisconsin. In 2012 his work received the Thomas Hickey Creative Writing Award from the University of Wisconsin—Platteville and was nominated for the Carson Prize. Recent work has appeared in Driftless Review, Midwestern Gothic, and Mixed Fruit. His first collection, Circumnavigation (Red Bird Chapbooks, 2014), is dedicated to self-propelled travel in North America as it relates to the perpetual phenomenon of ending where one begins. http://michaelvaughnlambert.tumblr.com/

Besides Midwestern Gothic, Hadley Moore's work has appeared or is forthcoming in Newsweek, Witness, December, The Indiana Review, Confrontation, The Drum, Ascent, Redux, Knee-Jerk Magazine, and other publications. She is at work on a novel and a collection of stories, and is an alumna of the MFA Program for Writers at Warren Wilson College.

Adam Schuitema is the author of the short-story collection Freshwater Boys, which was named a Michigan Notable Book by the Library of Michigan. His stories have appeared in numerous magazines, including Glimmer Train, North American Review, Indiana Review, TriQuarterly, Black Warrior Review, and Crazyhorse. Adam earned his MFA and Ph.D. from Western Michigan University. He's an associate professor of English at Kendall College of Art and Design and lives in Grand Rapids, Michigan with his wife and daughter.

There will be issues of Midwestern Gothic for sale, as well as personal swag from each of the authors reading. Hope to see you there!

###

That Time I Impregnated My Husband With An Enchilada

A NOTE: Before posting this, I asked my husband if it was okay with him, and you can rest assured that he approved of it—or at least didn’t disapprove strongly enough for me NOT to post it.

Kealoha’s birthday was Wednesday. I’d already accidentally given him his present early: a nice outdoor tiki-bar starter kit with the actual tiki bar. (He’ll have to supply the booze, tiki mugs, and make it look tropical.) The bar arrived three weeks earlier than I thought it would and came in a box so huge and immovable, I couldn’t move it. Anyway. His birthday. I was narrating all week and he was travelling all over the state, so celebrating on the actual DAY didn’t look very hopeful. Then, by some stroke of luck, I finished narrating early and ran home to make him a special “Happy Birthday” meal: Enchiladas and homemade coconut pie. This was not an easy request. It would take me the entire afternoon, but I love him that much.

Here is what happened:

ME:I’m surprised you wanted enchiladas. I thought you didn’t like enchiladas cuz that last time I made these you said you were more of a Burrito Man.

K: No. I said I thought I was a Burrito Man. But these are great. I love these.

ME: Please turn up The Following. And give me that guac.

(Intense enchilada/tortilla/salsa/guacamole eating.)

(Five minutes later…)

ME: Oh my god.

K: I feel so STUFFED. I mean, I feel so full!

ME: Me too. I actually feel pretty awful. I ate waaaay too much. Want some pie?

K: Okay.

(Two minutes later...)

ME: I can’t move. I mean, seriously, I’m like a beached whale.

K: Ugggghhhhhh…

ME: Kealoha!

K: What?

ME: Lookit!

I pointed to his stomach. He looked at least ten, maybe eleven months pregnant.

ME: Are you okay?

K: Ugggghhh. My belly….You. You! YOU! YOU DID THIS TO ME!!! THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT! LOOK AT MY BELLY! WHAT WILL PEOPLE SAY! HOW DO I SHOW MYSELF IN PUBLIC! THEY’LL THINK I’M HAVING A BABY! I CAN’T MOVE! I CAN’T EVEN GET OFF THE COUCH TO SHOW MYSELF IN PUBLIC! LOOK AT MY SHIRT! IT’S LIKE I’M WEARING A CROP TOP! GROWN MEN DO NOT WEAR CROP TOPS! NOT EVEN IN THE 80s!! IT’S ALL BECAUSE OF THE ENCHILADAS AND THE PIE! THE ENCHILLLLAAAAAADAS!!! And. The. pie.

ME: It IS my fault. It is. I’m sorry. Don’t panic! It’s okay. It’ll totally be okay by tomorrow. We won’t discuss why it’ll be okay. It just WILL. And just think. At least you don’t need an epidural.

K: Uggggghhhh.

ME: Uhm. Happy birthday? Happy birthday!

K: That was totally worth it.

ME: I sorta want more.

K: I know. Me too. Give me a minute.

ME: Uggghhhh.

And that was how we celebrated Kealoha’s birthday.

##

Parenting Win?

It’s Spring Break and we’re on a staycation. Kealoha has to work and the kids’ biodad is off in Sedona with his wife. Their step-siblings are off on a cruise with their dad and their friends have been whisked away by very wealthy parents to Disney World, California, Italy, and I’m pretty sure someone is flying in a private jet to an island somewhere. (This is what happens when your kids go to East Grand Rapids.) I told my kids if they want an island, build one out of Legos and take a bath. I’ve been trying to do fun things with the kids to pass the time. First, I gave them a ball of cheese and said that they could watch the mold grow on it. It would be hours of entertainment! HOURS! My daughter glared at me, popped the cheese ball in her mouth and made that idea disappear.

Plan two. We took them to the Van Andel Museum to see the dinosaur and Lego exhibits. We leaned back in the planetarium and learned about constellations from a very sweet and energetic college-aged student.

Yesterday, I decided to take them to a hotel for the night. I figured if they fell asleep in the car, I’d tell them we were really in Florida. Alas, they didn’t fall asleep during the ten-minute drive, so I lost out on that. We got to the hotel, they put on their suits and spent the next four hours in the pool while I read The Maze Runner.

Kids seem to lack any sort of fear with other people. They see another kid, they walk up to them and start playing. They don’t even bother with names. They just move right on to insta-play. One of the kids swam over to me. Here is what she said while wearing goggles and bobbing in the water:

“That’s my sister over there. She’s being a real you-know-what and all pretending she doesn’t know me.”

“She’s talking to those boys?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“Well, that’s why. When they’re gone, you’ll be friends again.”

“I’m twelve and she’s seventeen.”

“That’s a big age difference. It’ll get better as you get older. You’ll probably like each other when you’re in your twenties.” (The girl seemed to need some comfort. I was trying.)

The girl continued: “We’re five years apart. My mom didn’t even know I was going to happen until she went to get her tubes tied and the doctor said that he wouldn’t do it because there was a baby in there and it was too late so she had to have me.”

I blinked a couple of times. Wiped the sweat from my brow. “Uhh…well…I guess that makes you pretty lucky then. To have, uhm, made…it…here.”

Luckily the kids started fighting then and I could go intervene.

That night, Kealoha joined us for dinner and we went for Mexican food. On the way back to the hotel we stopped at a comic book store, where my son Franz immediately fell in love with a stuffed sperm. He thought it was hilarious. “I can have my very own pet sperm!” he cried, squeezing Spermy close to his heart.

Kealoha said: “Kid, you’ve already got plenty of pet sperm.”

Actually, I’m not sure he said that, but I sorta wish he did.

We compromised and Franz chose a friendly stuffed red blood cell.

Kealoha had to go home (work and all) and I shuffled with the kids back to the hotel for another two-hour swim. At night we snuggled in to watch TV. All we could find was Family Guy. I remember watching that and finding it really funny, so I gave them the thumbs up.

It ended up being an episode where the dad wins a golf excursion with OJ Simpson. I couldn’t stop the episode because, well, it was awfully funny, the kids were laughing, and I was just too tired to worry about if this was an appropriate thing to watch. There was a line where they called a woman a stupid beaver and I gasped. Then the camera panned to show an actual beaver who was very offended being called stupid. We all laughed and then high-fived.

Today it’s Meijer Gardens, walking outside, and me telling the kids to use their imagination or they’ll send me to the crazy house. I’m not quite sure if this staycation is a Parenting WIN but maybe it’s a Parenting GOOD-ENOUGH.

I’m okay with that.

Open Mic--Presented by the All You Can Eat Waffles Writing Group

I wrote this piece and submitted it to a local theater, but, alas, they didn't want it. I'm hoping they didn't want it because it just didn't fit and not because it sucks. Who knows? This piece was designed to be broken up into three sections and presented during an evening of one act plays. Sooo....if anyone out there ever wants to perform some of these for real, or needs some material for short films, let me know. You can read all the Open Mic Scenes here.

CHARACTERS 

CONNIE—in her 60s or so. Still connected with the hippie generation. Believes words have the power to heal and transform.

CARL –30-?? A burly truck driver. A man’s man. Likes to write inappropriate haiku while he drives his big rig.

MELODY— Connie’s teen granddaughter who is being forced to live with Connie while her mom’s in rehab.

PART ONE

CONNIE: Hello. Hello, everyone and welcome! Now, I know you’re here to see some plays and that’s great, but I’m not actually a part of that. No. I’m here with my troupe of writers from the Open Mic And All You Can Eat Waffle Night Writing Group. Sadly, due to some errors in pyrotechnics the last time, iHop will no longer allow us to present our poems there. So we have been forced to make a desperate move of our own, in the hopes that we can continue our soirée with words, and each other. Thankfully, this theater was presenting some work tonight and said we could squeeze in here when the stagehands were resetting with a few readings…as long as there were no fireworks involved. Or drugs. Fireworks and drugs are strictly for the after party.

Tonight, we have a few readers for you to illuminate your minds and transform your spirit. My granddaughter Melody is in the audience and will perform a piece she has written about recovery. She is thrilled…

MELODY (offstage): Fuck you grandma!

CONNIE: (collecting herself)…to be here and I am thrilled to have her with me. All the time. Under my constant supervision. We were supposed to have Mabel with us as well, but Mabel was attacked by her precious tomcat and is recovering at home. However, I will read one of her pieces. First though, I’d like to begin by introducing Carl. Please welcome Carl.

(Carl enters. He’s not a great performer. He’s wearing jeans, boots, a flannel shirt, and an inappropriate baseball cap. He takes the mic, while Connie watches uncomfortably from the sidelines.)

CARL: Hi. Hi there. Hi. I’m Carl. I’m a big man and I drive a big rig, but I’ve got poetry in my soul. I like to write words, haiku mostly, while I travel the country. I’m inspired by beauty, hookers, and pancake buffets. I’m self-publishing a book of haiku and you can buy that on my website. Here’s my poem. It’s a poem from Spring to Winter.

From Spring To Winter Winter, I want to Lick your cold cleft with my tongue Til your waters gush

That there was a hai-ku. I like hai-ku most of all because it really gets my thoughts across. Here’s another one. This one is about one of them there roses or the like.

To One Of Them Roses Your moist petals … I want to nestle my nose In your bloom and breathe

And then I have one about a peach. A nice ripe peach. I call it Peach.

Peach Your pink succulence- Warm juice dribbling down my chin- My tongue lives in you

I’ve got bout a hundred more or so of these. When I’m on the road, this is what I like to think about. You know. Nature. Womany nature. I could go on and on…

CONNIE: Uhm. Thank you. Thank you Carl. That is quite enough. We will leave you momentarily and be back with more poetry to take you to the edge and transform you.

PART TWO

CONNIE: Well. That was certainly a play with notes of sadness, and desperation. My favorite notes of all. While we take this interlude, I would like to introduce my lovely granddaughter, Melody. Like her name, her words are a song. Melody?

MELODY: (offstage) No!

CONNIE: Come on, now, Melody. We agreed.

MELODY: I didn’t agree to shit, Grand-ma.

CONNIE: (containing her anger) You did agree to this.

MELODY: Give me twenty bucks.

CONNIE: What?

MELODY: Twenty bucks. This bird doesn’t sing without some seed.

(Connie tries to pay her quickly without making a scene. Melody approaches the mic reluctantly. She is wearing all black, dark makeup, and looks generally disgruntled. Piercings would be a plus.)

MELODY: I’m Melody. But you can call me Pain. Here’s my ‘whatever’ poem. You think you know pain? You don’t know shit. Pain is me on the bathroom floor crying my eyes out The wind whipping through the busted-in window While mom is passed out on the couch. Too much booze and blow Too much hope snorted and released into the ether Too much regret and oblivion. I have regret too. You want to think life is poetry? There is no poetry here. Poetry is for the dreamers, the believers, the Justin Biebers. Poetry is for the demented, the escapers, the matinee crowd. I’ve got my boots firmly planted In the dung heap of reality. And when I’m old enough, When I can get out on my own I will climb this dung heap and make reality My Be-otch.

(She crumples her poem up and raises a fist then tosses it in the air and stomps off.)

CONNIE: Well. Okay. That was…just…lovely. I liked…the part…about the dreamers? The, uhm, idea, that poetry…can transform? And make…er…people…dedicated. Yes. We will return in a few moments with a final piece. Uhm. Thank you. Thanks.

PART THREE

CONNIE: (somewhat harried and downtrodden at this point)

Wonderful! Wonderful! I am so inspired by all of these words that your playwrights have penned. It’s, well, why I started my little poetry group in the first place. To inspire and encourage people to use words to express their soul…out loud!

CONNIE: And now, the piece from Mabel, who unfortunately was attacked by her Tom Cat when she was holding him and he scratched her retina. Both retinas. With his demon claws. Ah. And, ironically I guess, her poem is TO her Tom Cat. Here it is:

(Connie reads dramatically as if savoring every word.)

TO TOM, MY CAT

Tom Cat, Tom Cat Sit on my lap fat I love you so much That I have a hunch We will be Together Forever.

Tom Cat, Tom Cat Sit on the front mat And I will…

(Connie looks at the paper, half of which is shredded.)

Ah. It appears this is where the attack occurred and frankly…frankly it’s not a very good poem. There! I’ve said it. That was a terrible poem. I would’ve scratched her eyes out too! And you know…most of the poems people read at our Open Mic nights are awful. In fact, they’re so awful that I question the very validity of reading anything out loud. I question the whole point of any of this. I mean, Carl, and his cunnilinguist haiku is just…absurb! And Mabel! Your poem of despair is so…so…common! I could write a better poem without any words at all. In fact, I’ll do it right now. Here is my poem to every one who has given me such crap over the years, who’s made me work so hard to get words out there, who’s ignored my poems and books and collection of essays on the feminine spirit, who’s closed your eyes and ears to me and my words and my passion. Here’s my poem to you!

(She victoriously holds up her middle finger.)

In fact, here’s another poem!

(She holds up her other finger. Freezes for a moment. Withdraws her hands. Looks around. Collects herself.)

(Melody approaches Connie and does a slow clap, encouraging the audience to join in.)

MELODY: Grandma, that was…

CARL: Cunnalovely.

MELODY: Amazing. Just fuckin’…like…wind beneath my wings worthy. I’m sorta proud we share DNA.

CARL: (to Connie) It makes me want to share DNA with you too.

CONNIE: Well. Okay then. Thank you. (Realizes the audience is still there). So. All right. Even though we only have three members, one of which is forced to be there, we will be holding an Open Mic night at Pal’s Indian Lunch Buffet next month. I hope…I hope you’ll join me there. Thank you.

#

Conversation in the Car Post Wizard of Oz Performance

Cast: Franz, 9 Moxie, 7 Kealoha, 40s Me, ageless

FRANZ: So that was much better than I thought. I mean, I felt like the production level was really high.

ME: It was. And they had great sets and costumes. Moxie, you did a great job. You totally held that spear with such authority!

MOXIE: I know.

ME: I mean, there were some real…moments…in the performance that were just great.

MOXIE: Yeah. They forgot a bunch of stuff though.

KEALOHA: They kept going though. Eventually. And that’s what you do in theater. If something goes wrong, you just keep going.

FRANZ: Not always.

ME: Always, Franz. That’s what people in theater do. When something goes wrong, you just suck it up and push forward.

FRANZ: Not if someone DIED on stage. Like right in the middle had a HEART ATTACK and COLLAPSED, then they wouldn’t keep going. I mean, that would be RUDE.

ME: Okay, but we’re not talking about that…we mean…

FRANZ: Or if a bunch of ASSASSINS stormed the theater and were like dropping down from the rafters, they wouldn’t keep going THEN would they?

ME: Uhhh….

FRANZ: Or if there was this giant fireball and people caught on fire and were screaming and catching each other on fire and….

KEALOHA: Okay. No. You’re right. They wouldn’t keep going then. They’d lower the curtain and the stage manager would politely ask if there was anyone in the house who was a doctor, a medic, or a paratrooper.

FRANZ: Paratrooper. Heh. That’s a good one.

ME: Okay, okay. But THAT didn’t happen tonight. In THIS play. That we’re talking about right NOW. Moxie, again, you did a great job. I really liked how you marched and looked so fierce with that spear.

MOXIE: Well, I didn’t look fierce actually. They just put giant eyebrows on us to make all of us look angry.

ME: Good to know. Big eyebrows make you look angry. See? Theater teaches you stuff.

Embarrassed By Me And Other Random Thoughts

If my life right now were a Lifetime movie—which I would be totally okay with—it’d be that part where there’s a musical montage of a disheveled woman with bad hair stumbling, walking a dog alone, getting tangled in the leash, tripping outside, being unable to zip up her pants, etc. And it would be sad-yet-hopeful music playing like this:

And I would be looking out a window with my hand pressed to the glass AND IT WOULD BE RAINING.

I totally feel like that right now. Most days, I really do try to look on the bright side, but right now, looking at the bright side is sort of like staring into a red, puckered, cat’s anus. Yes. That is the appropriate simile. Cat’s. Anus.

I’ve just had…a long few weeks. I’ve been doing really good with yoga, and walking and eating well, but then I had this little twinge (for over two weeks) that turned out to be a stress facture (AKA sprain) on my foot, which means no more walking or yoga for four to six weeks soooo….fuck it…bring on the brownie ice cream. I’m actually really, really mad about this. I was doing so well!

And my narrating gigs are sort of drying up. Like I feel like I’m the girl in high school and it’s prom and suddenly everyone’s whispering that I have chlamydia or something and not only is no one asking me to dance, but I can’t even get friends to rent a bad limo with me. (Side note: I never went to prom or any fancy dress dances.) The desperate emails I send to companies of “Hey! I’m available for hire, sailor!” are getting a little old. And it’s hard on the old ego to see so many narrator friends getting great books and reviews while I sit back, feeling invisible. Or worse for a narrator, feeling silent.

What else can I whine about?

Oh. My vagina.

So. It hasn’t TOTALLY dried up.

(pause pause pause)

I mean my WORK hasn’t totally dried up. (Not my vagina. My vagina is fine and it’s…well. Enough said.) So. I am narrating a terrific book called “Love Sex Again” by Lauren Streicher and it’s reminded me that I really know nothing about my own body, and I’ve spent most of my life being embarrassed by myself. And I don't think I'm alone in that. It’s only been recently that I’ve even been able to SAY the word vagina, and I’m pretty sure that’s because I’m forty and I just don’t care anymore. Why does my vagina make me sad? It doesn’t…it’s just…I wish I’d given myself more credit, more love, more understanding over the years. I wish I could do all of that now, but I’m still embarrassed…by everything about...me.

Which brings me back to my lack of confidence with my career, and my weight, and my appearance and…and…don’t even ask me about my writing and creative work.

When…when…WHEN…am I going to stop being that whiny woman looking out a window where it’s raining and become that free, curvy woman in a sundress who is sexy and lovable and quirky…even if she’s wearing a wooden shoe? Where's my uplifting ending to a Lifetime movie?

Any minute. Any minute now I’m going to stop…what? Staring at this cat’s anus, and go outside, and PLAY.

. ###

Bonus:

Here are the tweets I did not post while narrating today, mostly because I was afraid I might seem unprofessional:

TWEET 1)

I’m learning so much about my vagina!!!

TWEET 2)

Apparently, I should run out immediately to buy a vaginal silicone lubricant. It may turn my atheist husband into a believer in the almighty. Maybe.

TWEET 3)

Women should feel more comfortable to tweet about their twat.

TWEET 4)

There are pelvic physical therapists who will manually work your pelvic floor muscles for you…and light your cigarette afterward.

Umbrella Love

Here is the second piece I wrote working with an amazing photographer Justin Leveque. I had the privilege of having Justin in a writing class where he wrote pieces that were acerbically witty and filled with heart. He's a cartoonist, artist in general, writer, and photographer and I was so glad he was willing to give me a couple of images to write a story around. Here are his images and the words I wrote around them:

UMBRELLA LOVE by Tanya Eby Images by Justin Leveque

The umbrella waited for him in the rain-kissed street, as if a movie had been filming nearby and had wetted the pavement just to enhance the moment for him. When Brent saw the umbrella, he felt drawn to it. If he’d had an umbrella when he’d run out to order a burrito from Señor Loco, he’d have had one of those sturdy black umbrellas with the sharp point at the end. Actually, he’d have had one of those cheap umbrellas that they sell on the corner for five bucks. The blue kind. The kind that tatters and flips in the first strong breeze. If Brent had been an umbrella, that’s the kind of umbrella he’d have been: easily flipped and torn apart.

This umbrella was different. See-through, spotted, feminine, delicate. It rocked in the middle of Fulton by the corner of Fuller, the corner where bistros sat across from the Veteran’s park where they lined up for free tacos on Tuesday. This umbrella called to him and before he knew what he was doing, he was crossing the busy street to rescue her.

This was an umbrella that belonged to someone and Brent knew in his gut that something bigger than himself and Señor Loco was happening tonight. Something that could possibly be love.

He scooped up the umbrella, held it above his head even though it was no longer raining, and ran across the street as an angry driver in a Cadillac laid on the horn and flipped him the bird. Brent turned his back to it.

Now what? What did he do? His hunger was momentarily forgotten, as love and burritos did not mix, and he scanned the street. This was one of those moments that happened in the movies. Those cute-meet moments. He would find the quirky girl that this umbrella belonged to. She would be wearing a red rain coat and a beret. He would say “Hey, I think I have your umbrella,” and she would say, “Yeah, that’s mine. It doesn’t go with your outfit,” and they would laugh and there would be a close-up of her red lips, of his hand running through his messy hair, and this would be the start of love.

Men thought of love too. Not just in the movies. Just this morning, Brent had stood under the lukewarm stream of his apartment’s shower, imagining a woman with curly brown hair in the shower with him, her red lips parting, a smirk on her mouth as she wiped a bead of water from her chin and then said “I want to taste you,” and he closed his eyes and knew that was love. Real love. Love you could hold in your hand, or in your mouth. Love that fit in your palm like the weight of a handle.

But where was she?

That was the question.

He would look for her and find her on the corner of Fulton and Fuller. He would hand her the umbrella. “This must be yours,” he’d say, and they would laugh as it started to rain again.

But how do you find love on the corner of Fulton and Fuller when it is no longer raining? When the homeless across the street look to you and hold up signs asking for money and food? Do you run to the library and cry out your longing? Do you go into the dress shops in Monroe Plaza and scare half-dressed women trying on clothes that don’t suit them? “Is this yours?” do you call, knowing that you sound desperate, and sad, and hollow?

An umbrella in the road is not a mistake. An umbrella in the road has been abandoned.

After a few moments of searching, Brent closed the umbrella up, and crossed the street again to Señor Loco. He ordered the burrito that promised to be bigger than his head and was, in actuality, exactly the same size as his noggin. He sat in the cold booth, letting the air conditioning chill his skin. He cut into the burrito, sprinkled it with hot sauce, and clutched the closed umbrella between his closed thighs to keep it from falling.

What he wanted was more than a moment. He wanted words against his skin, and laughter, and those ridiculous inside jokes. He wanted beers with her on the porch, and hungry kisses at a party while the music pounded in their blood and in their hearts. He wanted her thighs wrapped around him. He wanted to look into her blue eyes or dark eyes or hazel eyes and he wanted her to see him and be okay with that. He wanted to say “You know what I mean,” and have her laugh a little and say “I know exactly what you’re talking about.”

The burrito sat in his stomach like a weight. He left it on the table, half-eaten, grabbed the umbrella and walked outside where the sun was shining.

He began to walk.

A man was not supposed to want love so much, but a man did. A man dreamed just like women did. A man noticed couples everywhere, happiness everywhere, balance, perfection, kindness. A man held an umbrella even though it wasn’t raining and waited for the moment when he would be needed.

He walked for a long time. And when the day blended into night and he walked down an abandoned alley, the umbrella nestled against his shoulder instead of using it like a cane, Brent thought that maybe it was time to do something with his life.

He didn’t know what that something was, but he was sure it had something to do with being a better person, a fuller person, a person who had some kind of purpose. He could’ve set the umbrella next to a dumpster and it would’ve blended in with the shadows and the detritus of the alley. Instead, he walked home, the see-through, polka-dotted umbrella still in his hand, waiting for the time when it would be needed. Maybe that time would come. Brent would be ready for it. It would rain again, someday.

-END-

Follow Justin on Twitter @levequejustin

That One Time In Yoga Class

I’ve been trying really hard to lose weight. I mean, REALLY hard. I’ve stopped complaining and I’m just doing it. First thing I did, starting about two months ago, is I got a Fitbit from my hubby for Christmas. I’ve been walking about 5 miles a day consistently, and while my legs are a little stronger, I haven’t lost a bit of weight. So, I’ve also added in actual yoga classes twice a week and the dreaded idea of counting calories. It’s all very annoying, BUT I’m feeling good about things, and eventually, something’s gotta give. Hopefully, my weight will drop and not my sanity. On Monday, I attended a Vinyasa Yoga class. I’m still pretty new to the whole idea of deep breathing without expecting an orgasm, so I sometimes get a little lost. I was doing well in the class and have even mastered Downward Dog, and then dropping to the floor in a push up (Plank), and then pretending I’m a snake (though I’ve been told I don’t actually have to hiss).

I was feeling really proud of myself on Monday for keeping up with the mostly 60 and 70-year-old retirees, until the yoga instructor had us all sit down and then she said something in Sanskrit or something and all the 70-year-olds suddenly flipped their legs over their heads and planted their feet on the wall. My face flushed with heat and I actually had a mini-panic attack. I mean, it sorta looked like they were trying to put their face where it had no right to be.

Here is the quick conversation that happened as the class held their position and breathed deeply:

INSTRUCTOR:

Are you okay, Tanya?

ME:

Yes. It’s just…

INSTRUCTOR:

Just flip over. You can totally do this.

ME:

I’m pretty sure I haven’t done THAT since I was like ten, and it was probably an accident.

INSTRUCTOR:

I’ll help you. One…two…See! You’re doing it!

ME: (strangled voice)

I. You know? I’m not. Supposed. To do this.

INSTRUCTOR:

Are you okay? Your face is kinda red.

ME: (whispered) I’m stuck.

INSTRUCTOR:

Hmm? What was that?

ME:

I’m stuck! Stuck!!!

Then she patted my lower back that was pretzeled over my head and said “That’s okay. You can just rest for a while.”

I couldn’t rest until she awkwardly helped me flip back over and then helped me into a fetal position so I could hide my shame.

For the rest of the class I rested. And dreamed of drinking a martini.

Maybe I’m just meant to be the way my body is right now without the aerodynamics. Unless I start losing weight, then I’m totally doing that again.

The Absence of Me

Some time ago, I asked a couple of friends to give me some of their photos and I would write a story around them. I tried to get them published in literary journals, but, alas, no luck there. I still feel like these are interesting stories, and the photos are beautiful. Here's the piece that I wrote around the beautiful work of Alana Morosky. Also...please note...she is not the woman in this story. Alana's one of the warmest and nicest people on the planet. 

The Absence of Me

Written by Tanya Eby

Photography by Alana Morosky

I didn’t really understand how Elena thought about me until I saw the pictures.

Looking at it now, a tightening happens in my chest. There’s something hopeful about the piece, the way the sun bounces off the yellow sculpture, hits the van, and then blinds the viewer. There’s the coolness of the shadows at the bottom of the picture, and the bright blue sky. There’s something weightless in here, but there’s also an emptiness. It’s the emptiness I notice the most. The absence. I am not in this picture.

“Go stand over there,” she said. We were tooling around Portland. She said she wanted to take some pictures and I could help her. I’d be her mule. She’d laughed when I said I’d make a great mule and I picked up her bag of gear. It was heavy and I pretended it wasn’t. “Go stand over there,” she said, and I did. Awkwardly. I didn’t know what to do with my hands. My arms felt impossibly long. I crossed my legs, wondered if that would make me look like I had to pee. I uncrossed them. The wind ruffled my hair. I heard the camera’s shutter blink. “Move a little that way,” she said and pointed. I shifted. “A little more,” she said. I smiled into the sun and couldn’t see Elena fully. She was just a dark shadow in front of me, focused on the pictures she was taking. I stood tall. Brave. I spoke my feelings with my expression, with the tilt of my head.

I am not in this picture. She wasn’t taking a picture of me at all. She had wanted me out of the light.

Cue the sad love songs. Cue the heartache, the bottle of gin that later will make me throw up and wish I’d had more control. Cue the long hours of realizing I never mattered to her at all.

***

There are more pictures. Of course there are. She was an artist. I liked books. We dated for nearly a year. I thought it was turning into something real, but really, I was just filling space for her. I was a warm hand on her thigh my fingers inching slowly upward. I was a kiss on the back of her neck, when her hair was in a haphazard ponytail, exposing her gentle slope. I was someone who sometimes made her shiver, but maybe more from her own effort than mine.

We spent the day in my truck, me driving, following her instructions. “Take that exit,” she said and laughed.

“Do you even know where we’re going?”

“I know where we’ve been,” she said and I thought she was clever. We were going on gut instinct, she’d said. We’d find art and beauty in the most unlikely of places.

We stopped at an empty road. It was dirty and brown and dull. I was hungry—for lunch, and for Elena. I was tired of being a mule, but I couldn’t let her know I’d grown bored. It was a road. Just a road. What could she possibly see in a road? She had me pull off to the side. “Stop!” she’d cried, as if she’d just spotted a unicorn. I don’t know. Maybe she had. I pulled over. I saw dullness. She saw this:

I can’t stop staring at it. At the time, I saw this in sepia, but not the cool images you see on blogs and Facebook. I saw a road that was dirty. She saw history. She saw questions. She saw wind and a trail that leads somewhere and draws you to the top of the hill. Pulls you to want to see what’s around the bend, but you can’t see it, because you’re not part of this place. You’re just an observer. She saw contrast and possibility and hope and pain and the wistfulness of clouds. I saw a need for a sandwich and some sex. Her smooth thighs. Her laugh. Her kiss.

I don’t know why it took me so long to see the truth of things. You never know what you need to know until you’re ready.

***

All the pictures from that day break my heart. There is an absence of me in every one. I carried her gear, I drove her around, but in the end, I was just a vehicle. A week later, over Thai food, she would look at me and she would say “It just isn’t working”. She would hold her hands up in the air for a moment and I would see our relationship as smoke and watch it dissipate before me. I should have been more interesting. I should have had more to say. I should have been meaner, maybe.

She sent me the pictures. “Thanks for your help,” she said. There’d be a small show in the gallery. I could come, if I wanted. There’d be cheap wine and bad appetizers and she knew I was a sucker for both. “Mini-sandwiches,” she said in her email. “Bring a date.”

Maybe I’ll go. Maybe I’ll go and I’ll stand by the final photo. I’ll stand by the empty house at the end of the day, at the beginning of night, with the flowers dying around it. As passersby look at the picture, I’ll point to it with my hand holding a plastic glass filled with red wine. I’ll say, “Look. In that window? The bottom right? That person who looks like they’re trying to get out? That’s me. I’m there.” To everyone who passes I’ll say I’m in that picture, it’s me, until someone believes it’s true.

In Which I Give Up Yoga Pants

I just can't think of the words on how to write about this, and so I posted a video instead. Maybe, maybe I'm part of the problem:

To The Women I Have Loved And Lost--A Blog Of Friendship

Kaly was my first love. Our Barbies humped in her room upstairs, her house slouching next to a gas station. We made them dresses and they were fashion queens and then when Ken came in, everything went to hell. I didn’t know then that I was creating a pattern in my life. Ken, the bastard, would always tear friendships apart. Then there was Katie. She had blonde hair like Sally in Charlie Brown. She wore plastic bangle bracelets, slouchy shirts, and puffy skirts. She played the piano while I sang Barry Manilow. We watched Madonna on MTV. We sang so loud we had to open the windows so our song could escape.

Missy lived across the street and we felt pressure to be friends because our moms were friends. I sat in her room and we listened to 45s. She played “I’m Your Venus” but I thought it was “I’m Your Penis” and I refused to sing it out loud, but wouldn’t tell her why.

I moved and my friends could not come with me. They slipped silently underwater.

At my new school and now living with my dad and his wife and my new stepsiblings, I fumbled around for a good friend. My stepsister would become my life’s greatest love, and one of the most complicated. We went through everything together: our first period, first crushes, first heartbreaks. We snuck out once in the middle of summer to meet a couple of boys at the basketball court, but it was boring and we snuck home. We shared a bed and sometimes we’d kick each other, trying to hurt the other one. She lit her bangs on fire and we laughed and laughed at how fast Aqua Net could ignite. Boys loved her. Boys thought I was her brother. I dreamed of being beautiful, like her. (I still dream this.)

High school friends were on the outside of my life, but in my senior year, there was Kim and Cheryl, the Cheerleader and the Brain.  We took an independent study with Mr. Messing. One day, we spread out a blanket on the front lawn and I made them listen to Crosby, Still, and Nash even though this was our parents’ music. We listened and we talked of all the places we would go. How we were unlikely friends, but our lives would be magical.

In college, I had roommates. Amy with the wild hair, so curly it seemed like it was trying to escape from her head. And Jill, who was eight years older, a returning student. She drank her coffee with a straw because she didn’t want to have yellow teeth. Shannon wanted to be a doctor. I didn’t understand her. She ate weird things like bread so sour that it made my lips pucker. She said it was that way intentionally and I didn’t believe her. She was obsessed with the human body, constantly amazed by it. She once called me into the bathroom to see her enormous poop and how it snaked around the bowl three times. “I did that!” she cried, proud. “Isn’t that amazing?” It sorta was.

But they were on the outside because I met Paul. He was from Detroit. He would be my Ken, but a tougher Ken. A Ken raised in an all black neighborhood in the heart of Detroit, even though he was white and Italian and Catholic. He was a genius and I loved his family and he made me feel like the world was safe and comfortable as long as I was near him. I ditched hanging out with my girlfriends so we could drive around in his Iroc, windows rolled down, Guns N Roses blaring, singing at the top of our lungs, even though I thought the band sucked. I liked jazz, but you can’t sound angry while singing to jazz.

When we broke up, I moved in with three women who would transform me: Kim, the artist; Rachel, the singer and attorney; Sarah, the director. We wore red lipstick. We ate pot roast. We talked about heart break. When Paul came over asking for me to come back to him, they supported me silently but blared “I’m a Creep” through their rooms. Sarah directed a play I wrote and Rachel starred in it and Kim helped with the posters. The friendship I had with Sarah was intense and confusing. We fought over the play. I told her I was embarrassed and wanted to know how she was directing it. She thought I didn’t trust her, that I thought her work was crap. Really, I didn’t trust myself. I was embarrassed by my words. I wasn’t good enough. I dated an actor, and then I went back to Paul. Sarah dated someone out East, but still loved her high school sweetheart. I told her that you don’t marry your high school sweetheart. That’s what our mothers did. But what did I know? I didn’t know anything. In the end, she married him, proving how wrong I was. About everything.

Paul and I moved to Miami so he could go to grad school and I could be a waitress.  I met women who wanted more than life offered them. In the Beverly Hills Café, there were women who wanted to act, be a stewardess, find love. Women, like Gina, who was warm and from Georgia and had a laugh that could melt butter. I should’ve spent more time with them, but I was always with Paul. I should’ve asked them more questions. I should’ve been more present. Instead, I was always looking out the window, wondering how my boyfriend was.

When I left Paul, I taped the engagement ring to his computer. I said goodbye to him and I felt cruel. I did not get to say goodbye to his Italian mother. I missed her pragmatism. Her strength. The way she’d push the grocery cart in Kroger’s as if she was ready to run anyone down. She taught me the secret to her family’s Italian pasta sauce, and I still feel guilty. I have never cooked it. I did not get to say goodbye to Paul’s sister, Beth. We laughed together, curled up on the couch, eating Ben & Jerry’s from little Dixie cups. We watched Anne of Green Gables over and over, though we were in college. I had red hair and she had brown hair and secretly, I pretended I was Anne and she was Diana and Paul was Gilbert and we would all live happily ever together. We did not.

On my own, in Grand Rapids, Michigan, I began to do theater. Community shows where I was in Assassins, and played Squeaky Fromme. I was in Angels in America, and I played Harper and I felt like I knew her because she was just as lost as I was. I became friends with Shelly and Tracey. We were called the Triumvirate, and I didn’t know what that meant though I thought it was religious. We had big boobs. We laughed a lot. We drank more. At night, we’d meet up at the Cottage restaurant and we would pass around lemon drops. We’d flirt with men. We’d flirt with each other. We told secrets. We kept secrets. The friendships felt intense and like we would never be without each other. Then I moved to New York, and the friendships could not come with me.

There were others. Of course there were. Dionne and Ann and Vicki and Arnie and Jeannie and Shayne. Women I envied for their beauty and their strength, for their intellect and creativity. Women I could’ve learned more from, and grown up with, and cared for. But I was jealous of them And angry. And petty. They were women that I put second and third and fourth because what was important wasn’t friendships, but finding a man, getting married, having kids before my womb dried up at thirty.

I found a man. I had kids. I said goodbye to all my friends. Not consciously, but they slowly fell away, like leaves dropping. And now that I’m forty, and remarried, and my kids are past the stage of needing me for every moment, it’s not the ‘wild years’ of my twenties that I look back at with longing. It’s all the women that have fluttered into my life. How they changed me. How they influenced me. And how I was never brave enough to hold on to them, to put friendship before dating, to give them the time and energy they deserve.

I wish I could have them back. All of them. I wish that the girlfriends I have managed to keep over the years (Keeley and Rachel and Kim) I wish that we could be closer. I wish I was the kind of person that could talk on the phone for hours. I was I had a Sisterhood or something. Potlucks, maybe. Book clubs. Something. But it’s hard to manage. It’s hard to reach out. I wish I had my sister back. I wish it was summer and we could sneak out of our houses, not to meet boys again…but to hang out under the stars and the moon. To look for fireflies. To laugh at each other. To say "Does this make me look fat?" and have the other say "God yes, but who the fuck cares?"

I wonder what they’re doing now, these women I have loved and lost. All of them. I wonder, are they happy? Do they laugh? Do they ever think of me? And if they do, I hope it’s with fondness. I hope it’s with understanding. I should’ve been a better friend. I should’ve been a better person. But you do the best you can, even when the best you can isn’t good enough.

One Word Week: Incandescent

Today’s word is: Incandescent. Now, the first definition is for a type of light bulb, but I like the other definition of something that emits light, something that is brilliant. While thinking of things that are made of light, I realized that pictures would do a better job than words. Here, then, are things that are incandescent. I hope it brightens up your cold, winter day. (The last picture is my favorite.)

INCANDESCENT

One Word Week: Chalupa

Today’s word: Chalupa. Since I’m running a little short on time, I thought I’d write a bad ode to the Chalupa. Honestly, the poem works better if you read it out loud with a dramatic pause or two, adding weight to the words, and then record it and post it on Youtube so you can make my year. Thanks.

CHALUPA

Oh, crispy flour tortilla cradling a meaty center snuggled with cheese and sour cream... You turn me on But only when I’m really, really drunk And everything is beautiful And everything sounds like a good idea Especially you, (And sending out text messages at 3am To old boyfriends Who are now married and have orders for me not to contact them.)

Chalupa! I call your name from the bottom of my spirit. You are a warrior call! A hunter’s call! I’m on a hunt. For you.

You make my loins Quiver… … …. Okay. Actually, that’s the alcohol. But you, Chalupa, you feed my soul. You are there for me when I need you. You will enter my mouth and I will lick you And then swallow you whole And then totally regret it later when I have the spins and I’m on the floor of my bathroom sobbing about all the mistakes I’ve made in life and wishing I wasn’t as old and chubby and dream-broken as I am.

But right now, Chalupa, You are my everything. I love you. Let me unwrap you with my teeth. I can totally do that because someone else is driving. I don’t know who but… Ah. It’s my mom. Whatever. Chalupa, become one with me. Dance the spirit dance. Make me buoyant. Light. Fill the emptiness in my stomach But also in my soul. Be my thirty-second boyfriend. Ole.

***

One Word Week: Flaccid

This post continues my idea of blogging about single-word suggestions. Today's suggestion: flaccid. I don't mention the word specifically in here, but you can feel the word there, lingering. This is actually an excerpt from my unpublished memoir, the one that agents keep rejecting. Whatever. I have a story to tell. Here's part of it.

FLACCID

In a small town, when you are fourteen, and it’s 1987, and your stepmom is in the crazy house and your dad is all depressed, there isn’t a whole lot to do. The boys play sports or hang out with their friends. My sister Sookie hangs out with her friends too, or meets her boyfriend when no one knows. She cheers at football games, but Sookie is skipping this one to hang out with me. I don’t really have any friends besides Sookie to hang out with. I’m still too new here. I’m a freshman now and have been put in the smart classes with all the other social misfits, but it’s lonely.

Sookie takes pity on me and says we should go for a walk. Our brothers have already taken off and we don’t want to be in the house where it’s dark and smells of cigarettes. We can walk and shake off our visit to Pine Rest where we saw my stepmom and the bandages on her arms.

Sookie and I start our walk, even though it’s slipping into night. We walk downtown (two blocks) and stop at the Quick Stop. Larry is behind the counter. Lisa, my stepmom, sends us down a few times a week to put cigarettes and sometimes milk on account. Today, we decide to be rebels and ask to put what we want on the tab. We grab two of everything: pink Charleston Chews (because they are the biggest candy bar out there even though they are just made of marshmallows), Mountain Dew, Corn Nuts, and Rocket Pops. “Just put it on the charge,” Sookie says. She doesn’t look at me or Larry and I try to study the videos in the new section they’ve just opened. We aren’t looking at him because we both know Mom and Dad haven’t paid the bill in a while.

Larry coughs and then says, “Okay, kiddos. This time. But tell your parents that…” Then he just stops. Maybe he sees that our eyes are red and tired looking. Maybe he can just feel the pain coming off us in waves. Maybe he knows where we’ve been. Whatever the reason, he bags all our treasures and hands them to us.

We shuffle out the door, into the thick Coopersville air. Sounds from the football game echo in the air. It’s only half a mile away and I think I can smell hot dogs and testosterone.

You’d think we’d talk about Lisa and our fears and how we both know things are changing, but we don’t. Instead, Sookie says, “You’re going to have to get a boyfriend eventually or everyone will think you’re a lesbian.” I choke a little on the strawberry flavored marshmallow. “But I’m not a lesbian. I’m not anything,” I say. Romance makes me mad. I don’t want to end up like my mom, dating one guy after another after another. And I don’t want to end up like my dad, where you’re so in love with someone and so desperate to hump them that you forget about good things in life, like your children. I have this crazy idea that I need to get through the next four years and get a scholarship to college. If I can get a scholarship to college, I can have a good life…and a guy isn’t going to get me there.

“Well,” she says, “I’m just saying. If you were a lesbian, I’d still love you. I mean, it wouldn’t be a big deal.”

“Oh. Okay. But I’m not.”

I imagine for a minute there’s a movie camera right in front of us and I see us the way it does: there’s Sookie in her tight pants rolled at the bottom, with the white shirt that shows off her budding breasts. Her hair is brown and thick and wavy, her eyes a deep brown. She’s part Native American and you can tell by the soft glow of her skin. She’s exotic and beautiful. I am wearing clothes three sizes too big, my t-shirt to my knees. My hair is shaved on one side because I want to look cool, but really I just look like the dude from Simply Red. I have breasts and hips and there is hair where I don’t want it and I don’t want anyone to know.

We pass the funeral home, heading towards the football game, before she asks me if I’ve ever even seen a penis. Immediately I think of my mom’s old boyfriend, sitting on the toilet, his flesh hanging over itself, his tiny penis poking out from between his legs, like a tiny depressed gopher. “Yeah,” I say, all confident like. “They look sort of like an alien creature or something.”

Sookie laughs. “They are. And when you touch them, they grow. Thank god they don’t have teeth. When you’re ready, when you get a boyfriend or whatever, I’ll tell you how to hold them and go down on a guy. That’ll keep him happy.”

I feel nauseous. I can’t breathe. The thought of touching one of those things, of putting one in my mouth, makes me break out in a cold sweat. And, frankly, I’m a little mad. Anne of Green Gables never talked to Diana about giving a blowjob to Gilbert, and I really thought my life in Coopersville would be like that Canadian fairy tale.

Sookie unwraps the Rocket Pop and looks at me and I know. She’s going to teach me right now, as we walk to the football game. She works slowly on her popsicle, but I take big bites out of it. That’ll teach ‘em, I think.

One Word Week: Overwhelmed

This week(ish) I'm blogging based on single word suggestions people have made to my Facebook or Twitter. I asked for a single word, and then I'll see where the blog takes me. Today, it's

OVERWHELMED

Last September, I knew that I was feeling pretty overwhelmed when I started burping a lot. I was burping because I felt like there was a knot in my throat, like a big old shipping-knot made out frayed rope stuck right in my throat. And I was pretty sure that knot was cancer. I didn’t have time to slow down and check it out, though. My husband was still looking for a job so supporting the family (and our mortgages and our car payment and student loans and groceries) rested squarely on me. I felt like I was carrying a Sumo Wrestler on my shoulders, like he was playing chicken with God or something, and it all pissed me off.

I’d teach my writing classes at the college, drive an hour or so to the studio, narrate, drive home, cook, take care of the kiddos, obsess, grade papers, lesson plan, prep the next book, all the while carrying a Sumo Wrestler and burping burping burping. I couldn’t sleep at night and when I did sleep, my legs twitched.

Then I found a lump on my clavicle. I’ve always liked my clavicles. I think that slender bone at the base of the neck is sexy, and I’ve always liked my neck. I also like my ankles and sometimes wish I was born in another century. My ankles would’ve been a Centerfold.

So I took some time out of my schedule to go to the doctor (even though it cost $195) and tell him about the cancer growing in my throat and the bump on my clavicle, all while carrying the weight of my family’s future with me. I couldn’t be sick! We didn’t have insurance! How would I handle chemo? We would lose the house. The kids would have to live with their dad full time. I’d be in a wheelchair and bald and puffy and my husband would have to take care of me and I’d tell him to please have an affair because I couldn’t love him anymore and the whole thing just broke me. Into a bunch of little shards. I tried so hard not to cry that I was choking. Myself.

The doctor listened to my symptoms. Then he told me to feel his clavicles. “What?” I asked. He loosened his tie and unbuttoned his top two buttons and said: “Here. Feel.” Well, I thought that was a little weird and intimate but I reached out with my cold fingers and felt his clavicles. (It wasn’t sexy.) Sure enough, he had a bump just like mine. He smiled, kindly, albeit with a little fatigue, and said: “Is there any chance you might be stressed?”

I said, “Hello! See the Sumo Wrestler. The dude is straddling me and wearing a diaper. YES! I’m STRESSED!!!”

I got a prescription for anti-anxiety meds and then something else I could take when I felt like I couldn’t breathe or couldn’t swallow.

It was enough to get me through the short term.

When things settled, I had the conversation with my husband when I told him I couldn’t handle the pressure anymore and I needed him to find a job. My health needed him to. My sanity. Our relationship. There were lots of reasons why he couldn’t get work and hadn’t found anything, and I understood that, but I needed something to change.

And then it did.

I gave up teaching. I focused just on narrating. Hubby found a job. We sold his house and reduced our expenses to one mortgage. We paid off his car. And that stinky Sumo Wrestler finally left my shoulders.

And I stopped burping.

Overwhelmed? Yes. But eventually, I got out from under all of that stress. I don’t take the meds anymore. I don’t need them. I have time to exercise and do yoga classes now.

I’m reading this book called “Tiny Beautiful Things: Advice on Love and Life from Dear Sugar” by Cheryl Strayed and she says in there “How do you get out of a hole? You climb.” Simple advice, but it resonates with me.

You can always change your life. It sucks sometimes and it’s really hard, and it takes being honest and vulnerable to other people, but you can climb out of that hole. And you can bitch slap that Sumo Wrestler. I know because I did.

I Haven't Been Writing And The World Keeps Spinning

I haven’t been writing. This isn’t tragic or earth-shattering, and there’s no weeping or dramatics going on with me. I’ve just decided that, well, I need a break. I’ve been pretty much writing every day since I was…seven? Eight? And over the years I’ve developed quite the ego that my work is so great and that the world just hasn’t noticed my greatness.

And then…it dawned on. Holy crap! Maybe I’m like one of those contestants on American Idol who is shocked, SHOCKED to hear that I’m tone deaf and I have no future in the arts. Maybe, just maybe I need a reality check.

I’ve been working so furiously and a bit maniacally, that I’ve never slowed down enough to really look at my work and see what bits are working, and what bits need work. It’s hard to do that when you’re constantly producing. And that’s been me. I’ve been a writing machine. A factory. And there’s no beauty in a factory. In fact, most factories smell like boiled eggs.

So last month I quietly stepped back from my writing group to take a breath. I stopped sending out the endless queries to agents and publishers that have thus far been a constant source of “no” and the self-doubt and self-loathing that comes with every rejection.

I’ve started watching more movies. I’ve started reading for pleasure. I’m blogging still, but just a bit. You know, when I have something important to say about Bigfoot or my kids, or magic or something.

What I’m not doing is working on a new novel. I’ve toyed with it, flirted with the idea, but it’s bored flirting.

This is not to say I’ve given up. I haven’t. I’m just taking some time to breathe. To reflect. And to really, really listen to myself and figure out if I am, indeed, tone deaf, or if there is a way to reshape my words so that they have more impact.

I still have stories to tell…but the next one I tell…I want it to have a real purpose. I want it to mean something—not just to the reader but (perhaps more importantly) to me.

Maybe when all this snow melts and it’s spring again, maybe then I’ll sit down and begin to type. Until then, I’m narrating and working hard to bring other people’s stories to life, while I hope my own stories will wait until I can do them justice.