Here is a conversation I had with my son (7 years old) last night. He was looking at the proof copy “Foodies Rush In”.

SON: Ma. Ma! So…are you famous?

ME: Famous? No. Why?

SON: But you have books, right?

ME: Yeah…

SON: Do a lot of people buy your books?

ME: Not really.

SON: How many have you sold?

ME: All together?

SON: Yeah.

ME: About 50.

SON: Wow. That’s a lot.

ME: (smiles)

SON: Why aren’t more people buying your books?
ME: Well….

SON: Maybe if you wrote something that people WANT to read then they’d buy your books.

ME: (blink blink)

SON: Let me think about this. Maybe I could come up with an idea of something people would actually want to read.

ME: Okay. That would be really helpful.

A few minutes later, he told me that perhaps I should ‘write something with a lot of battles and explosions and stuff’ because that’s what he’d like to read, and he’s pretty sure there are like a million other people out there would like to read that too. And maybe then I’ll be famous.

Blah blah blah I’m trying to lose weight blah blah blah.

I’ve been trying to lose weight for about two years. It’s stupid. It’s my own fault, but I can say that being extremely busy—it’s just hard to focus on exercising and eating healthy when everything else takes priority. I’d grab a lunch at work. I’d snack when I could. I’d de-stress with chocolate. Whatever. It’s been awful.

So now that I’m not teaching and have some time off, I decided it’s the prime time to be good to myself. So every day I try to exercise, eat well, write, and read. It hasn’t been even a week yet but so far so good.

I also decided I’d kick start my diet with a little help from a gigantic pyramid that’s sweeping the nation. I will keep it Unamed because I’m not promoting it.

First off, I should say that I’m super sensitive to drugs. Like, I can get all “I am the walrus!” on just a single cough drop. It’s just how I’m wired. I remember when they gave me Valium for my tooth (see previous blog post) and my sister asked the dosage and she said “Do they even KNOW you? That’s fucking insane! You’ll be so high you’ll float away.”

Keep that in the back of your mind. Add this to it: I also have a dastardly, sometimes uncontrollable imagination.

I am ashamed to say I spent over $200 on a “Core Kit” that promised if I followed the regime for 30 days, I could lose 5 pounds. I’m desperate right now. I want those 5 pounds GONE so when I go to NYC and Paris that people don’t look at me and say “Oh, she looks like she has a nice personality”.  This Core Kit comes with two bags of shake mix, drink mix, and two bottles of pills that don’t really say what they are, but they promise I’ll have more Omega and less, I don’t know, Alpha.

Day 1

I popped the 2 pills and unzipped the bag of shake mix and I knew I was in trouble. Immediately, my throat felt…HAIRY. I kid you not. And my heart started beating really fast. Then I looked at the drink powder and my devil brain kicked into overdrive:
DEVIL BRAIN: That powder looks like baby formula. You’re going to drink BABY FORMULA.

ANGEL BRAIN: Shut up. It looks like balanced Omegas and Fat Burning Power to make me lose weight.

DEVIL BRAIN: You’re going to lose weight because you’ll be drinking lactating boob milk. That shake is BOOB MILK. Warm boob milk.

ANGEL BRAIN: Shut the fuck up! This is good for me! It’s a milkshake! A DELIGHTFUL, CREAMY MILKSHAKE!!!

DEVIL BRAIN: Whatev. It’s a chemical maelstrom.

I immediately shook the shake, dissolving the powder and then put the nice warm, nipple to my mouth.

Wait! Not a nipple! I was not drinking boob milk! This was not formula! This was HEALTHY.

Then I threw up.

And my heart started to gallop like mad.

DAY 2

I passed on the boob milk. I can’t drink it. It’s baby formula and every time I bring it to my mouth I think of an areole with a little ring of hair around it. Just to be sure, I took the two pills to jumpstart my metabolism.

I then saw dancing teddy bears and had a twenty-four hour black out in which I emerged wearing nothing but a bandana and a sandal. IN the middle of the desert.

DAY 3

To be triple sure, I took the pills again. I had a panic attack.

DAY 4

TANYA: Fuck you, Devil Brain.

DEVIL BRAIN: I love you, Tatiana.

****

The Core Kit is now sitting under my desk, in its nice little box. It’s a reminder that I guess I have to do this the old fashioned way: with a lot of sweat and plenty of swearing.

Muther fucker. I’m off for my walk.

I am trying to look at my next couple of months without work not as a time of unemployment, but as an ‘opportunity to focus on my health and my writing’. It’s the Zen way to keep myself from freaking out and screaming Why can’t I get more narrating gigs? Why didn’t I teach summer classes? When will Tim Burton and Johnny Depp break up?

So. Ahhhh. Back to my meditative state.

To stay sane, I need a schedule, so my basic schedule is (after I’ve taken the kids to school when I have them): work out, write, read. Those are the three things I need to accomplish every day. Today I added one more: Get Pedicure. It’s not wholly self-indulgent. Last week my son pointed at my feet and said “Your feet look really weird, Mom.” And I realized, yeah, my soles needed some buffing because they were sorta looking like I had some weird creature that was going to hatch from my heel. Ew.

I decided not to go to the cheap Korean pedicure place because I always get this one guy and he’s really rough. Plus I feel a little creeped out with a dude manipulating my toes. It just doesn’t seem NATURAL.

So I went to a bonafide salon. Instead of a Korean working on me, this time I got someone from what used to be called Russia (and I just don’t know what it’s called anymore, maybe it’s Republic of Fear or something.)

She was nice, but very…strict. It began like this (and you should read her with a thick Slavic accent.)

LADY WITH SLAVIC ACCENT PUTTING OUT ASSORTMENT OF TOWELS AND GYNECOLOGICAL-LOOKING INSTRUMENTS: I see your name. Tanya. What is that?

ME: What do you mean? It’s my name.

LADY SCRUBBING MY FEET: Yes. I know. But what are you? You Greek? I know a lot of Greek Tanyas.

ME: Really? I’ve never met a Greek Tanya. I don’t think I’ve actually met a Greek anyone. Some people think I’m Russian.

LADY USING SHARP TINY TONGS ON MY CUTICLES: If you were Russian, your name would be Tatiana. But it’s not. What? Your mom just like the name?

ME: Yep. I think she was obsessed with Dr. Zhivago or something.

LADY RUBBING MY LEGS LIKE TRYING TO ERASE BLOOD STAINS: My name is Isabella. Not a Russian name. Everyone call me Bella. My mom, she just like the name, so. Here I am.

ME: Oh? You’re Russian? Cool.

We then had a few minutes of awkward silence and as she aggressively worked on my feet I started to sweat a little. I sat a little straighter in my chair. I mean, she was RUSSIAN and they have like gulags there. Then I started thinking about goulash and I wondered if they were related semantically, and then I just wanted to go to Coney Island and have chili fries. That’s how my mind works.

BELLA: Pick a color.

ME: Oh? Okay. From here?

BELLA: Yeah. Just tell me the number. I don’t need the color. Just the number.

ME: Oh. Okay? Uhm….how about…I dunno…9?
She looked at me and I felt a bead of sweat dribble between my boobs. I HATE when that happens.

BELLA: You sure?
She stared at me. Holy shit? WAS I sure? Did I pick the wrong number? Would she break my toes because I didn’t choose 11? I mean, 9 was pink and I’m not really a pink person, but I wanted something cute and feminine…and shit….I should have gone with 17. BLACK!

ME: Sure? I mean, yeah? 9?

Suddenly, I was that annoying person that speaks only in question marks.

Bella didn’t say anything, just nodded curtly as if to say: dah.

BELLA: You come here before?

ME: No. I usually go to a cheap place…but…I uh…live close to here…

BELLA: You live close and you no come here? You come here from now on.

It wasn’t a question.

ME: Okay.

She then worked on my feet and I tried to behave and read my book quietly. She did a mint rub on my toes and wrapped them in towels. When she was finished, I sorta felt like I’d been dipped in Christmas I was so minty.

She smiled kindly and helped me waddle to the dryer for my toes.

Then she disappeared. I don’t think she defected or anything. I mean, she’s probably got family here and stuff.

I dried my toes. I breathed a sigh of relief.

And now I’m writing this with deliciously girly-cute pink toes, and I feel like I have a new friend. Next time I’ll try to ask her for emotional advice because I’m pretty sure Bella is pragmatic as hell and she’ll tell me to stop being such a pussy and man up. I like that in a person. It’s something I’ve been yearning for. I’m pretty sure that if you’re raised in Russia, you learn how to bite nails and stuff when you’re a toddler.

That’s what I like to think anyway.

And I’m now contemplating changing my name to Tatiana. It’s just damned sexy and tough sounding, especially when I say it with a bad Russian accent.

Last week we were sitting at the table with the kids. I’m pretty sure we eating as it seems to be the only time we can get the kids to sit with us, and then only for a few minutes.

So, there’s Kealoha and me and our 6 and 7 year-olds. I don’t know how it happened, but I’m pretty sure Simone started it.

She’s 6 and is pretty feisty. She’ll randomly start singing songs and cluck her tongue and then pretend like nothing happened. She just does that. She’s also just learned a bunch of knock-knock jokes at school and she’s starting to understand puns.

Simone asked Kealoha if he knew any knock-knock jokes, and then it started.

KEALOHA: Knock knock.

SIMONE: Who’s there?

KEALOHA: Cash.

SIMONE: Cash who?

KEALOHA: No, I don’t like cashews but I’ll take a peanut.

SIMONE: (Pause. pause) Oh! I get it. CashEW. Hahahaaha!

Now, I don’t know how it started exactly, but I knew that once they started telling Why Did The Chicken Cross The Road jokes, that the Bob jokes were next. Kealoha looked at me and I saw that evil sparkle in his eyes. I just shook my head in the way that acknowledged this was inevitable so please just get it over with.

KEALOHA: So what do you call a guy with no arms and no legs in a swimming pool?

SIMONE: Why hasn’t he got any arms or legs?

KEALOHA: That’s not the point. What do you call him?

KIDS: (silence)

KEALOHA: Bob!

I grimaced here because it’s a stupid joke and it always makes me laugh and then I feel guilty about laughing because there are people out there who don’t have any arms or legs and some of them are veterans and they probably wouldn’t bob in a pool of water but sink straight down, and some of them might even be glad about it. That’s what I was thinking. But back to the conversation.

SIMONE: Oh! I get it! Ha!

KEALOHA: What do you call a guy with no arms and no legs lying outside your door?

KIDS: What?

KEALOHA: Matt.

This went on and on and I did struggle with the whole “is this appropriate” and then I thought, “fuck it”. Then Kealoha started making up his own jokes and I even joined in. You could see the kids thinking about them and trying to get why they were funny. Sometimes they’d laugh; sometimes not. Simone got really excited. She made up one of her own “Bob” jokes.

SIMONE: Okay! Okay! So, uhm, what do you call a man with no arms and no legs standing…

KEALOHA: He can’t stand. He doesn’t have any legs.

SIMONE: (blink blink) Okay. So. What do you call a man with no arms and no legs standing on broken glass?
Kealoha’s eyes got really big here and I sort of gasped.

SIMONE: Mirror!

There was silence in the room for a good ten seconds and then I started laughing uncontrollably. It was so completely surreal, so NOT funny, that every time I think about it (even now), I just lose it.

Kealoha cleared the tears from his eyes, and I tried to gently explain why an armless and legless man standing on broken glass isn’t funny, but an armless and legless man lying in front of your door IS. The kids didn’t get it.

Kealoha then started to tell a leper joke, but even I have limits. I changed the subject to “What kind of ice cream do you want for dessert?”

I do believe there’s a time and a place to teach children about the intricacies of humor, and I’m thinking that maybe the time isn’t quite right yet.

And I’m still thinking about the poor guy named Mirror sitting out in the cold on a pile of broken glass. Dude. That’s not funny.

Except it sort of is. So maybe Simone is a surrealist comic genius or something. Or she needs therapy already. We’re still trying to figure that out.

You may have noticed that I took a few days off from the blog. If you follow me on Facebook you’ll know that after the horrendous conference experience where I felt whipped and pummeled (but not in an erotic SM way—not that I’m into that anyway), I went straight to narrating for two days, then came home to a letter from my college talking about how to sign up for COBRA. (COBRA is overpriced insurance you can pay for on your own for a while when your employer fires you and you’ve lost your benefits.) My heart sank. Cancelled insurance is NOT a good sign. Then I checked my email and found out it was confirmed: my teaching contract wasn’t being renewed. What a shitty way to find out though. Through the mail. In a not-nice letter.

There are lots of reasons for my job being cut, and I justified everything. It’s university-wide; it’s not just me so it’s not personal; the contract could still be renewed in July when the new president takes over. And I thought I was doing really okay with it. Kealoha and I were going to go out to a pizza dinner and I’d be fine…I just wouldn’t be employed.

As soon as Kealoha walked in the door, he immediately hugged me, opened a bottle of wine, and then rushed out to pick up some takeout. I started crying and didn’t stop for about sixteen hours, or until I passed out from too much wine and swollen eyelids.

I kept thinking of a couple of things: 1) This sucks and 2) I don’t want to stop teaching.

Anyway. This is a long and slightly depressing story, but the point is, after the writing conference and finding out I lost my teaching job, I started to feel…I don’t know…free somehow. That now I could do anything (except move–I’ve got my kiddos here and a home).

I had a dream where Kealoha wanted to become a drag queen and sell Tupperware in New York and I was really supportive of that. (I didn’t have the heart to tell him someone already does that. See the bottom of this post for proof.) In that same dream, Kealoha asked me what I wanted to do and I said I want to teach and narrate and write. Which is what I WAS doing. And I want to KEEP doing it. That’s what I took from the dream. Well, that, and Kealoha would make a really unattractive woman, especially when he wears fake pearls.

So I think I’ve figured out a way to keep doing what I love. It means a big change, a new school, a leap into the unknown…but all of this could be really great. I’ll still be doing what I love, just in a different way.

Maybe that’s what I needed anyway. I’m ready to try some new writing; I have some sci-fi and scary stories I’ve been working on. So. After a horrible week, getting really drunk over that COBRA letter, feeling crushed and beaten, I have to say…I’m coming through this okay.

Now I can get back to the important stuff on my blog, like discussing random conversations where people tell me I look deformed, and posting thoughtful reveries on the importance of appetizers. This is my WORK, people. This is what I DO. And all is well.

And now…as promised…Aunt Barbara:

I had high hopes for the Spring Fling Conference, but it was also a last ditch effort. I’m sure this attitude played into the Perfect Maelstrom that Saturday became.

I was tired to begin with. It was a long semester and I still haven’t had my teaching contract renewed. I’m narrating, but I never know if they’re going to call again. And you all know how hard I’ve been trying to promote my work. So I think coming in to the conference, I had a little bit of that Desperation Sheen, which doesn’t make me shine so much as make me seem oily. I don’t know what’s happening in my career right now. Not at all. And everywhere I turn it feels like I’m just not quite good enough. It’s a really heavy weight to carry around.

The workshops offered little new information to me. I’ve heard it all before. Some of it I’ve even taught. And somehow people were coming to me and asking for advice: “How do I pitch?”, “What if I say…”, “How do I finish my book”… and then after finding out I narrate “Oh! I’d be a great narrator! How do I get into that?” Sigh. (One woman even wanted the company’s name and contact information and I just said “Good luck to you”.)

I got crabby. It’s true. I got really crabby and I got tired of talking about writing and craft and how to get published because I DON’T KNOW. They say write what you love, don’t write to industry trends, but when I take in my work, they say it sounds great, you have a great voice, but this doesn’t really fit our market right now.

Whatever.

After crying in my pitch session…

Wait. Let me backup.

I pitched to Harlequin because it’s a big house and Foodies would fit as a soft romance (I thought). So I pitched to an editor there and knew almost as soon as I started reading, that she wasn’t clicking. Then she said: “I mean, it sounds like something I would read personally. It sounds very indie. It’s not a fit for us but…have you considered an online publisher?” The castle within me closed shut fast, but not before the tears started flowing. She tried to give me her card saying “If you have anything else…” but she was being nice, and the point is THIS IS IT. “Foodies” is it. There are no more romcoms after this one. This pitch was THE LAST PITCH. I’m not doing this again.

So. After crying in my pitch session, I rushed off to the author book signing while doing one of those things where you try to force the tears back in your head with the palms of your hands. I was late because my pitch was at the same time as the signing. By this time, all my free swag was gone, so I just sat down at my table with my three titles. I was sharing a table with a woman who wrote a cute looking book (big publisher and shiny) called something like “The Real Mr. Darcy” and how can “Pepper Wellington and The Case of the Missing Sausage” compete with that?

What was humiliating was that she had a line of people to buy her book, in fact, she was about to sell out. And I was sitting there with nothing and no one. The final straw for me was when a woman I talked to quite a bit about my work and she’d said “Oh, I can’t wait to buy your book! I’ll see you at the signing!” bought the Darcy woman’s and not mine. And then she gave me one of those soft, sad smiles.

Okay. I’m probably projecting. Anyaway. I can’t really blame anyone, except maybe myself. My book covers aren’t the quality I’d like. Or maybe it’s the titles themselves. Or maybe it’s just my writing. And maybe it’s that the books LOOK like what they are: self-published or from a small online press. Choosing between that and a slick shirtless Darcy? I’d pick Darcy every time too.

After the woman left with her stack of books, I just thought “I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to do this anymore.” So I left. I left my books there, I got out of the conference, packed my bags and I left the hotel. By 8:30 I was home. By 9, having a drink with Kealoha and friends. By 10, I was snuggled in Kealoha’s arms and felt safe again.

The experts can say write what you love, but if no one wants to read what you love to write, and your goal is also to actually BE read…then it doesn’t make much sense. And I’m just plain tired of fighting to get noticed. I’m not cut out for it.

I’m not throwing a tantrum here. I’m really not. Yesterday was just a turning point in my career. Or my hobby. Whatever. Something snapped. Right now it feels broken, but this could be a good thing. Because I learned a few things:

1) I don’t write romance. I thought I wrote romance but my books don’t follow the formula. I hate those plots with the two characters separated by insurmountable odds (they hate each other; she’s a virgin and he’s a player; she’s a pregnant widow and he’s a lawmaker who signed an order to start the war). Those plots drive me INSANE. So I don’t use them.

2) I don’t read romance. I narrate romance, but when I read what I want to read, it’s usually literary fiction or book-club type stuff. I also read mysteries. But I don’t read romances.

3) My characters are aging with me. In romance, they’re all in their twenties and early thirties FOREVER. Every character. And they’re all beautiful. My characters are awkward, broken, and sometimes not even attractive.

4) I want to branch out. Everything you write is a BRAND they say, and I tried that route. Now, fuck it. I’ll write what I want when I want.

I still want to be published by a big publisher, but it’s possible that I’m like a million hopefuls out there who want the same thing. So I’ll just keep wanting.

“Foodies Rush In” is still going to be published, but we’ll probably do it ourselves. I’ll get it out there and offer it for as little as I can (or free if possible) just to get it out there. I loved writing it and while it’s not a typical romance, it was a story that made me feel good to write…because the main characters aren’t perfect and the only real conflict they have in finding a good partner is the truest conflict I know: they don’t believe in themselves.

It’s something I’ve struggled with much of my life, and this whole road to being published has pushed on that tender spot of “Am I Good Enough” a little too hard and too long. It’s pretty much a deep bruise.

I do believe in myself, but I just don’t have the energy anymore to try to push my work on people. You’ll either come to it, or you won’t. It will be published, or it won’t.

I’ll keep on writing. I always do.

So. Sucky experience but big epiphanies, and I’m home now. That’s a good thing.

Today, Kealoha and I will go out for breakfast. We’ll see a movie. Maybe the kids will come over. I’ll prep the next audiobook. I’ll cook. It will be a nice day.

I’m not exactly sure WHY it occurred to me that I should see what I looked like upside down. I was taking a shower and I sorta just wondered I wonder what I’d look like upside down. Maybe because on The Voice they had freaky aerialists or something. Or maybe because of all the random bungee jumping I do. Whatever. I wanted to know, and so when I was done with my shower, I decided to find out.

I went to the mirror.

(Just so this visual isn’t particularly horrendous, you need to know I WAS NOT NAKED while attempting this. No. I had on my yoga pants and a t-shirt. Just so we’re CLEAR.)

Anyway. I turned around, bent over, and sure enough, there’s what I would look like upside down. This is really the first and only time I’ve done yoga. I sorta did this, only without the good balance and firm tummy:

I gasped. And then I started choking a little bit because it turns out when you’re upside down, it’s easy to choke ESPECIALLY if you gasp.

I looked, how do I put this? HORRIBLE. I mean, like a bloated sea creature. It was like the extra weight around my belly and even my ankles crept up into my cheeks. My face sort of slid and my cheeks looked huge and puffy and then I started turning all RED (of course I was sort of choking at the time).

Anyone who tells you that gravity isn’t your friend is a LIAR. Gravity is a beautiful thing. It keeps your face in place. Put that on a t-shirt.

In closing, I don’t recommend doing this.

On second thought, if you look even half as bad as I did upside down, you will feel absolutely GORGEOUS when right side up. It actually was an exercise that did wonders for my self-esteem.  It’s probably good for your safety too, because there is no way in hell I will now ever be an aerialist, a bungee jumper, or install one of those weird swings in my bedroom (sorry Kealoha).

From here on out, everything is looking up. Exactly where it should be.