TanyaEby.com

Now, I promised all of you that I would enumerate on all the ways I was Super Bitch last week, but I’m sorta bored with that idea. It involves being in the studio and fighting with the director over the subtleties on where to put an accent on Helene: He thought I was saying ELLen and I assured him I was saying elLEN. It was annoying.
Anyway.

I’ve decided to change the topic and instead talk about my wonderful, quirky, expiration-date-mindless husband: Kealoha.

When Kealoha moved in here, I was really excited. Excited to have him here, yes, but also excited because we could COMBINE CUPBOARDS. I could benefit from all his trips to Costco and all the strange tiki inspired recipes he collects. He had all these sauces and marinades that were particularly exciting. And then I started checking expiration dates. Most of them expired AROUND THE TURN OF THE CENTURY. I’m not kidding. So I quietly put them into the trash.

A couple must have made it past me. I wanted to marinate some chicken and Kealoha said “Oh! I have this great marinade. It’s like an island marinade. Use that.” Sounded good. I grabbed it, opened it and just before I poured it I realized that it expired in 2009. * sigh *

But the worst is The Worcestershire Sauce. Now, I’ve seen Kealoha use this a hundred times in burgers he cooks. I’ve used it in the Chex Mix I make only once a year, because I eat so much of it I make myself sick. I used it last week when I was making Crabbie Patties for the kids. (Mini hamburgers.) I don’t know what possessed me but I decided to check the expiration date. This is what I saw:

Yes. It expired in 2007. 2007! In 2007, Bush was still president, there was no Facebook, and the iPad was something in science fiction films.

As soon as Kealoha came home I was like “Dude! Look at this!!” I shoved the sauce in his face. “This expired 5 years ago! Simone was one year old! That sauce could KILL US.”

He said, “Now, relax. Breathe. Expiration dates are just a SUGGESTION. It says it’s BEST by that date. It doesn’t say it will kill you.”

When he went to work the next day, I quietly threw the bottle out and replaced it with a new bottle that gives us two years of relative safety.

Although, I will  admit, Kealoha makes really good burgers. I just hope his secret ingredient wasn’t mold. I’m trying not to think about it.

When I’m really stressed out you can tell in a couple of ways: 1) I lose my sense of humor. 2) My face gets all constipated looking. 3) I start storming around shouting out commands and 4) I randomly shout out “I AM SO STRESSED”!

That was pretty much my week. Now, granted, I did it to myself. I waaaaay overscheduled things, but sometimes you just can’t say no. Seriously. It’s like imagine you love bacon, I mean you LOVE it, and you haven’t had bacon in ten months and the thing you dream about more than anything is a slice of bacon, but you’ve randomly told yourself “I’m not going to have bacon for a year”, and then some bastard sets a whole plate of FREE BACON in front of you and tells you this could be the last of All The Bacon In The World and if you don’t take your bacon now you may NEVER EVER HAVE BACON AGAIN. EVER. Not ever. (ever)

Would you have a slice of bacon?

Not if you’re a vegetarian.

But if you’re a NORMAL person? Would you? (Not the VegHeads aren’t normal. This is just an elaborate extended metaphor.)

You’d have the fucking bacon. And you wouldn’t stop at one slice. You’d eat the whole plate of bacon just because it might be the last bit of bacon you’ll ever see, and then you’d moan and regret and complain because you feel sick over all that bacon and you’d say that you hate bacon and bacon makes you bloated and…

What the hell am I writing about? I’ve totally forgotten my whole story.

Oh. Right. Stress.

So this month I’ve been narrating a whole lot, putting up a mini-recording studio in my basement, running to teach blah blah blah. It’s the same story. But these last two weeks I sort of had a collision of stress so intense it actually turned me into an awkward super hero: Super Bitch. I even wore boots. I’m not kidding.

As I see I’ve taken up this entire blog with a pointless metaphor of eating bacon, I’ve now run out of space. I’ll continue this in another blog and tell you just how I have exhibited my supreme Bitch Powers this week. It’s not pretty, but at the same time I feel sort of proud about it.

I don’t know. I’m pretty sure I have issues. And now, dammit, I want bacon.

I made a little trip to the post office today to update my passport and return to my maiden name, which even though I’m remarried is still my maiden name: Eby. Stupid name change. Why do they make it so complicated?

You can’t just drop in at the post office anymore for your passport. You have to schedule an appointment. Last week I called three times and was trapped in a phone-circle-of-hell for a good half hour. I needed a drink after that. Finally, I found the right number to call, left a message, and (miracle of miracles!) they called me back.

I got there early and was the first one in line. At 8:02, a postal worker schlepped to unlock the door. It was Monday morning, and he already looked fatigued. I got in line and said I needed a passport. One of the workers said “Sheesh. Already? Okay…” Stepped up to the counter, and told the woman that I needed pictures. She shrugged, and then took me over to this area to take pictures. Here’s our conversation:

ME: So are you glad that people have to make appointments now? Does it make it easier?

(She unlocked one of two gates and lets me in to the Picture Taking Area)

HER: No. We lost a ton of income. People say they can’t get ahold of us and we can’t tell them they’re lying. They’re probably not. They probably can’t.

ME: Yeah. It took me a while to figure out. I called three times. And I speak English. Think of the people who don’t.

HER: It’s ridiculous. Okay. Now smile.

ME: I can smile? I thought I couldn’t smile. I thought that was like illegal.

HER: No. That’s old school. You can smile. Are you smiling? Is that your smile?
(I smiled at her and tried not to blink. I grunted an affirmative that yes, this is my smile. She clicked the picture.)

HER: You look crooked.

ME: What do you mean I look crooked?

HER: See?

(She held the digital camera out to me and I did look crooked. One shoulder was up and the other was significantly lower.)

ME: Huh. Maybe I have one leg that’s shorter than the other.

(She looked me up and down.)

HER: No. Your legs look all right. You just look WEIRD.

ME: Ah. Okay. Thanks.

(Then she handed me a bunch of paper I had to re-fill out because I used blue ink instead of black and I scribbled out my mom as an emergency contact and wrote my brother in instead. No offense to my mom, but if something happened, my bro would be better at handling it. Apparently, there is no scribbling allowed on applications.)

I then took twenty minutes trying to figure out all the things I was supposed to do and what forms to attach and how much money and who to address the fucking thing to. Then she called me back to the counter.

SHE: Well, you still look weird but my coworker says it’s okay because they’ll chop your picture off at your neck so they won’t see your crooked shoulders.

ME: Ah.

I was thinking, well, leave it to the post office to crop out people’s deformities. Thank you, Uncle Sam.

SHE: You didn’t sign this or date it.

I did as I was told.

I left the Post Office feeling overjoyed that my delayed honeymoon with Kealoha to Paris is one step closer…and I’m also wondering if I need an orthopedic lift in my shoe.

My son is 7 with this astounding vocabulary and sense of humor. He’s mentioned lately that at his dad’s house he gets a lot of pressure to play sports and do things that “just aren’t my thing”. Kealoha and I have tried to tell him that he doesn’t have to be a sports person; that there are (indeed) a lot of other options. (This could lead me down a dark blog road of the differences in our house vs. his dad’s house, but I won’t go there. Some things I can’t write about.)

Anyway. So last night Kealoha and I decided to take Louis to Circle Theatre’s Woodstock Concert. Kealoha did the video for the program and we wanted Louis to see it, and to see another world beyond sports. One of the things I love about theater is that it’s all-inclusive. No matter what age or shape or background, you can find a home in theatre, and not just in performing but in any area from creating a set, to running the show, to designing how the show looks. Slight side-track.

Anyway. When we got there he immediately asked “Why is everyone here so old?” We told him that a lot of them probably were at Woodstock and remembered it. “Or maybe they don’t remember it,” I said, but kept this comment to myself “They were probably stoned.”

Louis was super excited, and tired, and just on the border of misbehaving. He was laughing in this old man voice, a 1930s type hard-nosed character he does, but if you don’t know that he’s doing this, you’d think that maybe he had a speech impediment. Kealoha went up to the booth and Louis and I sat down to watch the show. It started with a rocking guitar solo of the national anthem. Louis immediately started playing air guitar and he was pretty good.

The 1st song was a little loud for him and I asked him if he wanted to leave. He pulled me to him and screamed in my ear: “No! I’m being good!” and he was. He made me laugh through the performance. 7 year olds are not very good at hiding their thoughts on songs. He liked the rock-out songs, but struggled with the slow songs. I saw him making this weird hand motion during the song “You Make Me So Very Happy” and then I realized he was miming pulling out a pin on a grenade and tossing it at the stage. I promptly grabbed his hands and threatened him with mom-type-punishments.

On “Bad Moon Rising” he loved the song, but was really confused by the lyrics. “Is this song about a bad moon or the weather?” he hollered.
“It’s a metaphor!” I said.
“WHAT?” he screamed.
“A METAPHOR!” Then I realized he was 7. “It’s just a song about telling people to be careful.” He still didn’t get it. “It’s a song about the WEATHER.”

Then the Janis Joplin music came on. He did good with half of the first song, but then he pulled out an imaginary machine gun. If we were watching like a Hunger Games American Idol type competition, that singer would have been permanently OUT.

The next Joplin song went over better with him. He was dancing in his seat. He sang a little bit with the band and audience on one song but got confused by some long solos. He liked the drum solo and then as it went on, he sort of rolled around in his seat as if someone were burning him. “That was awkward,” he said, after the drum solo ended. I said, “Babe, all drum solos are awkward.” And they are. Even when they’re good.

Then came “We Shall Overcome” and I got a little emotional. It’s the song, yes, but the singers too. Louis said “Why is everything so serious right now?” And I tried to say because it was a song about hope for things to change, but that change can take a long time. And I knew a lot of the performers on stage and could tell how time has changed them and then I just got all weepy.

Then it was intermission and it was too late for Louis to stay up for the second act. I took him home. (Side track again: the show is filled with toe-tapping numbers and that kind of joy that happens when a group of people get together and perform. Go see it tonight if you can.)

He said he liked the backstage tour and the music and wanted to know if one day he could be onstage or work backstage like Kealoha, and if he did do that, could he get a cupcake like the performers had in the Green Room. I said yes, he could.

I tried to make it a teachable moment. “You know, there are so many things you can do once you figure out what you’re interested in or talented in.”

“But I don’t know my talent, Ma.”

I said, “Honey. You’re only seven. You’ll figure it out. If it’s sports, great. If it’s performing, great. If it’s something else, that’s great too. We’ll figure it out.”

Then he farted and said: “When you gotta go…you gotta go.”

I just hope that whatever his talent IS, it’s not farting. But if it IS, then we’ll figure out a way to help him explore that. Ugh.

Last night, Louis watched “Godzilla” the 1998 film with Matthew Broderick. I’ve always had a thing for Broderick, but even I have to admit pairing him with the mother of all lizards was a little more than awkward. While I got Louis settled in with his movie, I ran upstairs and tucked my daughter in. Kealoha was working late at the theater so I was a single mom for a night. (I don’t miss being a single mom again AT ALL.) By 9:30 PM and after about 100 times running up and down the stairs, I was exhausted. I started getting really crabby. Then I started growling. Then I went all Momzilla on the toys the kids abandoned.

With my little lizard hands I pounded my chest and screamed. I stepped on Squinkies, not even caring to blink. If the Lego characters were trying to take me down, they’d need more power than just their piddly plastic weapons. I went BALLISTIC on those toys. I didn’t destroy them though. I just put them in a huge pile. In fact, here’s a video of me freaking out over the toys:

On the way to the grocery store, I asked Louis what he thought of the film. He said it was “pretty great. It was real actiony and I just know there’s going to be another one.” I didn’t have the heart to tell him that the film was made in 1998, and while it was set up for a sequel, it bombed so colossally that they never made it. (Though it looks like another Godzilla film is slated for this year. Who knew?)

Louis then explained to his sister that one of the Godzillas was a Mommy Godzilla and she was all mean because she was protecting her babies. I told Louis this “I’d totally turn into Godzilla if anyone tried to hurt you guys. I’d be all ROOOAAAARRR!!”

Here I am running around naked outside. I was feeling antsy.

Louis said: “Ma, you’re not an amphibian.”

I said: “How do you know?”

Louis rolled his eyes. I was driving so I don’t know for SURE that he did, but he sounded like he did. “You’re NOT an amphibian!”

“I don’t know…” I said. “I’m awfully cold in the winter. You should feel my feet.”

Louis said no.

All day I’ve been a bit of a Momzilla but I’m not protecting the kids or anything. I’m just crabby. I didn’t get much sleep last night and I’m stressed out with Kealoha working at the theater and all the recording I have to do in the next week.

It’ll pass though. I mean, hey, Easter’s coming and that will be a riot! I love holidays! And nothing says par-tay like the resurrection of…

Uh…

I just need a nap. A really big, giant-lizard sized NAP. That should make me turn back into the slightly-well-adjusted-mother-wife-and-artist that I usually am. Maybe.

I’ve been waiting for Blog Inspiration to strike, and the only thing that’s striking is lightning. Thankfully it’s not striking me. It’s outside, where it belongs.

Now that I think about it, I’ve been waiting for inspiration to strike in a number of places. I need inspiration to transform “Tunnel Vision” from a wimpy novella to a kick ass novel. I need inspiration to figure out what project to work on next. I need inspiration to figure out what I’m going to cook for dinner. I need inspiration to get me to exercise and stick to eating healthier even though it’s such a pain sometimes. I need inspiration to clean my house.

I remember learning in college what ‘inspiration’ actually means, or at least the etymology of it. The dictionary says it’s the quality of  “being so stimulated that one chooses to create” etc. etc. I can’t read much further than that because the teenager that resides in my brain says “Hehehe. Stimulated. Like stimulated A LOT. I could go for some serious STIMULATION right now.” Then I just get sidetracked.

Anyway. We all know what inspiration means.

The word originally was Latin. Of course. Inspirare. “To breathe into”. The idea was that a God would breathe into a person, thus granting them with some kind of divine idea. Sort of a mouth to mouth resuscitation for the creatively dead.

That’s what I need right now. I need some hardcore godly resuscitation. Preferably with tongue.

You can’t rely on inspiration though. You can’t DEMAND it. If you demand to be filled up with the breath of god, you sort of open your mouth, tilt your head back and….well…open yourself up to all sort of things. I mean, birds fly overhead, man, and that could be dangerous.

I prefer to plow forward and hope that if a god is going to kiss me, they’ll take me unawares, and do so tenderly, when I least expect it and need it the most. Maybe that’s what you need to do to attract inspiration. What god would want to inspire someone with their head tilted back and mouth open? No. Certainly a god would go for someone who’s motivated and seems confident. Just like in dating.

So. Onward I go. Mouth closed, but ready for that soft kiss of air and divine ideas.

Breathe in. Breathe in.

Well. It finally happened. The conversation I’ve been dreading having with my son. Actually, TWO conversations. I’ve worried and obsessed about if this would ever happen, and then it did.

I was giving Louis (7) a bath and changed into my pjs: a tank top and a pair of shorts. While he splashed around, I washed my face, he studied my profile for a bit…and then he asked one of the dreaded questions:

LOUIS:

Mom, are you pregnant?

ME:

What? No! Why? Do I look pregnant?

(LOUIS pointed at me and seemed regretful)

LOUIS:

Well, your belly is pretty big. Like, I was sort of wondering if you guys were going to try to sneak in a baby on me on the sly.

ME:

On the sly? Ha! No. No! I’m not pregnant. If we were pregnant, we’d tell you. We’re not planning on any more babies. You kiddos are enough. So. Nope. Not pregnant. I’m just, you know, trying to lose weight.

LOUIS:

Well, you gotta get serious about it. You look like a fatty.

ME:

Louis! That’s not nice! Don’t say that.

LOUIS

I didn’t mean it that way! I mean, Mom, you sort of don’t look like Mom anymore.

I got him out of the water and started to dry him off. Then he asked the second dreaded question.

LOUIS:

So how DO you get pregnant anyway? Does it just happen, like, randomly?

ME:

 No. What do you mean? Do you randomly get pregnant?

LOUIS:

Yeah. How does it happen? Is it random?

ME:

No, you sort of have to mean for it to happen. Or actually, you know, do stuff that would cause it to happened. I mean, you have to WISH for it to happen. Then again, some people wish and it doesn’t, and some people don’t wish and it still happens and…

LOUIS:

But how does the baby get IN there?

ME:

Uh…You know…the dad PUTS it in there.

LOUIS:

How?

I paused awkwardly. This was the second dreaded question, and I was really not ready for it. Plus, I was upset that he thought I looked pregnant. I thought for a second. Then it came to me: Planet Earth!!!

ME:

You know those documentaries you watch?

LOUIS:

No.

ME:

Yeah! Like the documentaries with like the animals and stuff and one animal starts attacking the other and gets on top of the other one and…and then…no…scratch that. A mom and a dad, well at the time they might not be a mon and a dad, they might just be dating, well, they make love. Actually, they don’t even have to be in love to…uh…Look. I’ll order a book. And I’m not pregnant. I just am having trouble losing weight.

Louis then pulled up my shirt and looked at my tummy.

LOUIS:

Mom, come on. You can do this.

He jiggled my tummy fat. I don’t know. I started freaking out. I felt like I needed to defend myself and I now had an image of angry lions fucking in my head.

So I said:

ME:

Look. I gained weight after breaking my foot and I couldn’t run. If I could run again I could maybe lose it. I’m really trying. I’m eating better and exercising and…oh…do you…just…oh…there’s an episode of Star Wars left. You want to watch that?

Luckily he did. And I’m now in the fetal position trying not to cry, even though it’s also sort of funny.

Kealoha and I went for a lovely springtime walk after dinner. (I’m trying to get an hour’s worth of exercise a day. It’s part of my new ‘healthy diet and blah blah blah’ regimen.)

If you’re not in Michigan, then I need to explain what’s going on with the weather. It’s like the poles have shifted, or maybe we switched places with Australia or something. A week ago it was freezing. There was an ice storm. Yesterday, people were barbequeing on the street and walking around in bikinis.

Actually, I didn’t see anyone in a bikini. In my MIND I was in a bikini and I looked AMAZING. In reality, I was wearing tight khaki pants with a high-waist. MOM pants. To hold in my puffy tummy.

Back to the story.

Kealoha and I went for a lovely springtime walk after dinner. The sun was shining (even at 6 at night) and we could hear squirrels scampering. It was pretty much a Disney movie, without the secret penises drawn in the sky.

We saw some squirrels scampering and I said: “Squirrels are so cute. I know that without their tails they’d look like rats, but WITH their tails, they’re super cute.” Kealoha agreed. In my MIND I thought: “Squirrels are cute because of their BUSH. It’s all because of the bush.” Then I thought “Good God, Tanya. You are so dirty.”

We walked.
There was a curious knocking. Loud. Repetitive. Hollow. Echoing through the neighborhood.

“That’s a woodpecker,” I said, and pointed to an enormous tree. I don’t know why I felt like educating Kealoha. Maybe I was just making conversation.

Kealoha looked like he didn’t believe me. I said: “No. Seriously. THAT’S a woodpecker.”

Kealoha said: “It’s so loud.” He paused. “That’s not just a pecker, that’s a DICK.”

Yes. The sounds of spring: bushy squirrels and wooddicks.

It’s like both of us are teenagers. I guess this is what spring can do to you. Or maybe, maybe Kealoha and I just shouldn’t be let outside. It’s probably better for everyone if we just stay in the basement.