Today’s post is by one of the funniest people I’ve never met. Tanya is part of a small group of friends, spread all over the world, with whom I keep in touch through e-mail. Rants, victories, rants, questions, and rants are exchanged regularly. Someday, hopefully soon, we will meet face to face, and the world will be turned upside down. I can’t wait. Please enjoy her post while I continue to accomplish things in my off-blog life.

What the postcards don’t tell you

A guest post by Tanya Laing Gahr

Family vacation/ˈfam(ə)lē vāˈkāSHən

(noun, expletive): an expensive and ill-conceived excursion from which one returns needing a vacation from one’s family

I’m not sure where the original disconnect took place. In my mind’s eye, I imagined that a trip to California with our sons to visit my husband’s family would involve happy, relaxed adults sipping wine and beer and barbecuing in the sun while the boys entertained us and themselves, and all were generally fulfilled by the formative memories being created. Instead, there was a lot of ass-hauling around Disneyland, lurching half-awake and mostly hungover from one promised event to another, hissing at my husband to not drive so fast it’s not the Grand Prix for the love of Odin, driving back and forth to the skate park, and getting my face in between two young men with that deep, primal, not-quite-a-whisper voice to say, “If I have to tell you One More Time to stop touching him/copying him/making faces at him/spitting at him/stealing his food/making whatever noise that is with your nose at him, I swear to God that you will never see your home again.”

“And this time, I mean it.”

Of course, it’s my fault. Had I taken even five minutes to cast my mind back to my own childhood vacations with my family, I would have remembered the tedious 10-hour drives to visit aunts, uncles and grandparents—completed with no stops except for gas because my father wanted to “make good time.” (Granted, I now have a bladder that can hold roughly my own body weight in fluid, but that’s not necessarily a win, medically speaking.) My parents were smokers back in the day, so we would arrive at our destination smelling like we had travelled via ashtray. The rest of the vacation would involve being either hustled around to rocky beaches (fewer crowds), dodgy restaurants (to save money) and the occasional roadside motel that may or may not have been murder-free for more than a month (what? we’re just there to sleep! and I’m sure the man outside with the chainsaw is just the resident lumberjack). To pass the time, my brother and I would poke each other, copy each other, make faces, draw spit pictures on each other’s arms, sneak food away from each other and make irritating noises with various parts of our body in an effort to not be the first one to say, “Muuuuuuuuuum! S/he’s bugging me!”

It’s not the vacation that’s the problem; it’s the family. Look, we all love our families, assuming they haven’t shown up on the evening news with neighbours saying, “They seemed so nice—kept to themselves a lot.”

For the most part, we make peace with their quirks: the fascination for video games that try as I might, I can’t bring myself to care about; the questionable political stances; the terror that they’re going to say something embarrassing that will leave a stain on you for years to come. It’s just in close proximity, those little idiosyncrasies become magnified. And when several generations of extended family come together for a visit in an enclosed environment, every adult reverts back to their childhood role within the family, leaving the actual children no choice but to revert back to toddlerhood. It’s a fascinating study in human development. It’s important bonding time for everyone. It’s a great reason to remind oneself why they’ve moved hundreds of miles from the place of their birth. But it’s not what one could consider a holiday.

We’re home now, and the kids are back in school and the fistfights are at a minimum. I mean between my husband and myself—what the boys are up to, I have no idea. Peace has descended again and all talk of a family vacation has thankfully ceased. At meals, we smile benignly, even warmly, at each other. We bask in the glow of each other’s company and then retreat to our corner of the house, enjoying a little mini-vacation from our family.

Tanya Laing Gahr is a professional writer, communications consultant, actor and director. If you’d like to hear more from her, and you should, check out her website. You can also find her on Facebook and Twitter.

Creative Commons photo courtesy of Dominus Vobiscum.

A Father’s Day guest post

Yes, I know what you’re thinking. Eggs have a lot of cholesterol. We’re trying to cut back.

Tia is already a writer, the real kind who makes money and everything, and she worked with her mother to write Depression Cookies. I’ve just started the free preview on my Nook and will be purchasing the whole thing as soon as school lets out and gives me my life back. (That is an affiliate link to Depression Cookies, but I am not writing this for compensation.)

For anyone who wonders how I chose a winner: I gave each entry a number, then plugged each number into the Random.org integer generator. It came up with 15, which was Tia’s blog comment number (as opposed to her Facebook comment number, which was 17.)

Thank you to all who participated. I hope you’ll keep reading.

This class appeals to me for a couple reasons. First, it’s online. Not like that memoir class at Lakeland Community College, which, even if they hadn’t canceled on me without any phone call or other form of notice, would have required me to comb my hair and put on a bra.

Second, it’s not being taught by the real-life personal friend of mine who gives writing classes online and who might discover that I am a lousy writer just wasting her time. Then our kids probably wouldn’t be able to play together anymore, and I would have to pretend I didn’t see her in the supermarket.

And third, because Rachel says instructor Amy Paturel gives really thorough, solid feedback for students who choose the premium version.

From Amy’s website:

Sessions will cover how to find your story and speak your truth, the art of journal writing (and how it helps uncover stories), the critical elements of a salable essay, the value (or not) of critiques, rewriting your essay, and the specifics of pitching and submitting essays. You will also learn how to make your essays sing by finding your own personal style and voice.

Read the rest of the description here.

You hear that? My essays are going to sing, dammit. I’m excited: up until now they’ve made more of a drunken karaoke croaking sound.

Creative Commons photo courtesy of TheGiantVermin.

(Don’t forget, I’m announcing the winner of my writing book giveaway on Tuesday, June 7. Thanks to everyone who commented here and on my Facebook wall! You all told some great stories about embarrassing moments, and you kind of made me feel better about my own.)

This marks the final day of my May challenge: to post every day as part of the WordCount Blogathon. I admit, there were times around May 18 when I really wasn’t sure I was going to make it. I’m glad I got to this point and grateful for the wonderful writers I’ve met this month. To celebrate, I’m giving away a copy of Dorothea Brande’s Becoming a Writer.

In the reading list of The Artist’s Way, author Julia Cameron calls this “The best book on writing I’ve ever found.”

I mentioned Becoming a Writer earlier this month. What I didn’t mention was that I had accidentally ordered two copies during the winter, instead of just one. My ineptitude shocks even myself sometimes. Who knew clicking “1″ was so difficult?

That extra copy is going to go to a reader.

The Amazon.com Review

Even in 1934, Dorothea Brande knew that most writers didn’t need another book on “technique” — and this, before so many more would be published. No, she realized, as John Gardner notes in his foreword, “the root problems of the writer are personality problems,” and thus her wise book is designed to simply help you get over yourself and start writing, with techniques ranging from a simple declaration to write every day at a fixed time — no matter what — to exercises that come close to inventing the TM and self-actualization movements that would follow a few decades later.

Get over yourself and start writing: It’s like she’s speaking directly to me. Now she can speak to you too.

The nitty gritty.

You have until midnight ET on Saturday, 6/4, to enter. I will announce the winner one week from today on Tuesday, June 7.

We’re keeping this simple. Tell me about any embarrassing moment in your life in the comment section below. It’s only fair, now that I’ve shared so many of mine. This will get you into the drawing. (Mildly embarrassing will do. No need to humiliate yourself on my account.)

If you’d like to have a second chance in the drawing — totally optional, you understand — write on my Facebook wall. (If you’re not already a fan, you’ll need to become one first.) This will double your chances. I mean, I think it will. Remember, I couldn’t even click “1″ on the order page, so you’re not exactly dealing with a numbers whiz.

When do take either of these steps, please give me a valid way to contact you. Twitter handle, e-mail, etc. If your blog has a “contact me” tab, linking back to your blog works too.

Each participant will be assigned a number, and the winner will be chosen with a random drawing. If the winner doesn’t respond to my overtures of awesomeness within three days, a new name will be chosen at that time.

Although I’m celebrating the end of the blogathon, anyone can enter. Feel free to spread the word.

Thanks to everyone for a great month!

Stage whispers exclaim

“There goes the neighborhood,” but

It’s not gone at all.

WordsXO: The Ghost of Mr. Able, Part 1. I’m looking forward to part 2.

MamaCanDance: Piece of Cake. A cake recipe.

B.I.K.E. with Jackie: The joy of bouncing back. A story of obnoxiousness!

Eat, Read, and Be Harried: John Hughes Lives. Not technically this week, but if I’d been on the ball last week I would have read and posted it in time. That counts.

Creative Commons photo courtesy of happy_serendipity.

Today’s guest post by Mr. R is a followup to the story of how he once used my toothbrush to clean his golf clubs and didn’t tell me until I was brushing my teeth with it. He has finally agreed to tell the world how this happened. In spite of my jokes, he is a really fair person, not prone to seeking the spotlight or showboating, so I really appreciate his taking the time to write this. ~Tara

I’m sure you’ve all realized by now your blogger signed up for a May blogathon, not fully realizing there were more than 12 days in the month, and as a result here comes guest blog #2 from me. The guy who doesn’t read blogs. The guy who doesn’t have a Twitter account, or a Facebook account. The guy who much prefers a life of anonymity to nonstop connectivity. I remember when email was so cool. Beyond that, until we can beam shit around the world, I’m just not that interested.

Anyway, not why I’ve returned. Since blog #1 already killed the anonymity part, I figured I may as well explain the Toothbrush Incident. There’s only one problem – it was 15 years ago. Were it not for your blogger bringing it up routinely, I wouldn’t remember it at ALL. “Hi, nice party – I couldn’t help but notice you have toothbrushes in your bathroom. You’ll never guess what my husband did with mine one time!”

Okay,  that’s not true. I more or less forbade her from mentioning it to anyone else, but she liked to bring it up at home when it had a good zing. Sometimes the “I birthed your children” routine got a little stale. And it’s not because I really cared all that much, it’s just because on the surface it’s so “no-he-didn’t” yet actually its not quite as crazy as it sounds.   More along the lines of putting the milk in the cupboard after a morning of cereal. And I couldn’t possibly go through the torture of having to explain it people every single time. But 15 years ago, that’s a long time for me, considering I don’t even remember our blogger’s birthday every year (damn, that actually should have been in the list). THIS IS NOT THE TOPIC OF ANOTHER BLOG. But here’s how I remember it . . .

I worked second shift at the time, so got home late, like 1 a.m. or so. On a day I’d golf, it was a tight squeeze.  I had to get enough sleep, then get to the course, then get to work by 4 p.m. You can fill in the daily details yourself. And I couldn’t golf that much — but wanted to — so on the days I could, I wasn’t missing it.

So this one day I was just running really late meeting a friend at the course, and forgot the clubs were caked with mud from the last time out. It was really on there good. I was rushing around and I broke the actual “golf brush” I had. I washed the clubs in the bathroom sink (don’t start with me — it was an apartment, and tiny, so what did I care?). When the other brush snapped, right away I’m just thinking, “Crap, now what? Guess I could live with it, or try hot water and toilet paper . . .” and then I saw the tooth brushes.

Your blogger only visited me on the weekends, and not that many. I usually went to her. So here is where you can be really pragmatic: In all seriousness, and in this context, what idiot grabs their OWN toothbrush and uses it? Seriously, that would be one dumb dude. No right thinking person grabs their own toothbrush in this case,  and you all know it.  Oh, shut up. Anyway, I’m thinking, “Hey, I’ve got until the weekend and I’ll  just get her a new one, no big deal. I’ve actually got to use mine in the next 4 hours, and won’t have time to get another one between now and  then.”

So how did the toothbrush end up accessible? Well, when I was done, I put it back where it belongs! I was rushing around, and I was using a toothbrush, and I was in the bathroom. What do you do with a toothbrush, in the bathroom, when you’re done using it?  Exactly. I was a victim of circumstance, a habit of environment. Or something.

Yeah, it was just plain dumb. I mean, it’s kinda funny, though, right? Honey?! Come on, the initial bewildered and befuddled look was priceless. But the icy stare afterwards? I don’t think it was a coincidence that winter was a record setter.

And as you can see, the story is a lot more interesting than the actual story behind it. And now, we can only hope, the “story” is put to rest — finally.

Creative commons photo courtesy of (/-\)nniina Loves U