Author: beth teliho

Award-winning fiction author, blogger of the random and ridiculous, elephant obsessor, consumer of spicy food and margaritas, teller of filthy jokes. Lives in Texas with her husband and two adventurous sons. Aspires to live in a treehouse with a cat. Or ten.

Sticks and Stones aren’t Shit Compared to Words.

A lovely, insightful comment on my last post got the ole noodle crankin’, and you know what happens next: I have to write it or it won’t leave my head.

Growing up, my room was right across from my mom’s and I could hear everything she said. Under the same societal pressures to be “perfect” we all are, she was always frustrated with her weight, a perpetual dieter. She never met an exercise craze she didn’t try, but I do remember the emphasis being more on weight than fitness. When she was getting ready I would hear her mumble (or sometimes yell) things like:

“I’m too fat and ugly to wear this in public.”

“I’m such a fat cow.”

“My ass looks like a bull-dozer in these pants.”

We’ve all done it. It’s just crap you say when you’re frustrated, tossing that third pair of *shrunken* jeans across the room.

Of course, when a young girl hears her mother say things like that, her mother who she thinks is beautiful and perfect, she does one thing:

She adopts that same self-criticism.

Her words became my inner dialogue, and my weight became my measurement of self-worth. It’s vicious and ugly to hear those things in your head. It stops you in your tracks. I had zero awareness of body issues and – in an instant – became so hyper sensitive to them I remember skipping school because I thought my body was unacceptable. I was a size 8. But I was curvy. I hated my curves and saw them as fat. I wanted to look like those no-booby-stick girls that walk the runway, because yeah, on top of everything else, this was the 80’s and I had media pressure to be a waif.

I remember once my mom joking and saying it looked like I had gained 10 pounds over the summer.

BLAM!

That stung. I was twelve, so my zoom lens on a comment like that was about 1,000X. That began the era of giant shirts to hide my body. The takeaway: never make an inference IN ANY WAY to a young girl’s weight.

Between girls being nasty to me in school, and the pressure to find a place, any-freakin-place, to fit in, I didn’t have a chance in hell. Not when I started out-of-the-gate with such negative inner dialogue and a horrible self-image.

*I just wish someone had warned her*

That’s why I wrote this. Because my mom had no idea her words were doing damage. She would never want that.

All of us make mistakes. Hell, I’ll probably make four today. But if this post reaches even one person who might be saying these types of things within earshot of a youngin’, whether it be about their nose, their value on this earth, or their weight….well, that would be everything.

**Happy ending. It took  thirty twenty a handful of years and the Frankenstein of patch jobs, but my self-image is intact and healthy. Oh, I still hear the negative voices. The difference is now, I don’t believe them. I have perspective on what true beauty is. And my diet and exercise goals are based on fitness and feeling comfortable more than a size on a tag. My therapist probably drives a Range Rover to her lake house, but who cares, right? Thank God for therapy.

What about you? Do you remember hearing anyone talk like that when you were little? How did it make you feel? Was weight, beauty, or perfection over-emphasized in your house? Please share. I value and look forward to your comments!

Night Of The Menage Attack

So I went to a party over the weekend at a neighbor’s house down the street. I sat in the backyard for the first half of the evening with a friend, sipping drinks and enjoying the cool breeze. The hubs was with me for the first hour or so, but for the part of the story in question he was at home getting beauty sleep since he’s ambitious and does things on weekends like triathlons. Weirdo.

Anyway, at some point I wandered inside to the host’s dining room – I honestly can’t recall why – and walked up on two women sitting there. One was a little slumped over, clearly had had too much to drink. The other woman seemed totally fine.

The first thing I noticed about the sober one was she was pretty. Not the giant, silicone cans – too much makeup – Beverly Hills type, but the tall – thin – naturally beautiful type. The kind of woman I expect to a) be uppity and b) ignore my presence. But, she surprised me by immediately reaching out a hand to introduce herself. She had a firm handshake, in case you’re wondering, which is a huge deal to me. I hate limp willie handshakes. Anyway, she was chatty and warm, asked about my kids, how I knew the host, etc. etc.  As I was leaving the room, I heard her murmur, “She’s so sweet,” referring to me. Hmm. I like this gal.

Later in the evening I ran into her again in the kitchen. She was excited to see me and greeted me with an enthusiastic, “Hiii!” We yammered about this-and-that, about how her dress was from Target, (she’s frugal and down-to-earth. love her!) when she began interjecting things like, “you’re so beautiful,” and “you’re so pretty.” I’m not one to take compliments well, so I blushed and stammered, but at the same time I’m thinking, this chic is my new BFF! I’m already envisioning how great it would be to take her shopping:

ME: How does this outfit look?

BFF: It’s perfect. You’re beautiful. You look like Kate-Frickin-Moss in everything.

ME: Should I get bangs?

BFF: No, you’re perfect the way your are. But if you do you would rock them cuz you’re stunning no matter what.

ME: You’re the bestest bestie evah!

BFF: No YOU are!

ME: No YOU are!

(ahem) That wasn’t pretty. Look away.

She then introduced me to her husband who was planted on a barstool. He was very nice and also had a firm handshake. He reached over saying I had something on my face only to gently swipe the side of my nose. We laughed. I got the joke. He was poking fun at the stud in my nose. It was a little chummy that he TOUCHED MY FACE and I’d known him all of 7 seconds, but his wife was showering me with flattery so I let it slide. I’m shallow cool like that.

She complimented my top, she oozed over my children, saying how handsome they were and they must get their looks from mommy…..

and then IT happened.

New BFF to her husband: “Honey, isn’t she beautiful?”  “Isn’t she cute?”  “Isn’t she gorgeous?”

Whoa. *takes new BFF off speed dial* Why is she saying this stuff to her husband? Why is she asking HIM?

This. Just. Got. Awkward.

I mean, what’s he supposed to say? You don’t ask your husband if another woman is pretty in front of said woman……unless….unless….

No. It couldn’t be. That’s preposterous. But what if it’s not? Holy Shit Balls. Are they into Menages? My mind instantly went to the Seinfeld episode where Jerry’s girlfriend calls his bluff and wants to have a 3-way with him and her friend, but he can’t bring him self to do it. It’s hilarious, but now I’m starting to relate to it on a whole new level. One I do not appreciate. I glanced at the husband. He was smiling at me all, cat-that-ate-the-girl-from-the-party.

So this morning when we woke up in bed, they were all, that was HOT.

KIDDING. But if you’re into that sort of thing and you just got a visual, you’re welcome.

I understand I could be way off base. She could be totally secure with herself, and obviously her marriage, and was being genuinely sweet. Maybe I’m just not used to that behavior so I read it wrong. Perhaps she had had more to drink that I thought. Maybe she just found me irresistibly adorable. I mean, who doesn’t? Probably.

Or….what if my gut was right? What if they sought me out like some sort of prey, and I was on the menu? Sweat beaded my forehead as I began to panic. What if they corner me in the bathroom? What do I do? I mean, I can’t go through with it, but I did really want to go shopping with her….holy orgy, Batman….

….what do I do?…..

….how do I get out of this?…..

SALVATION

in the form of a tired 9yo who was ready to go home. YES, SWEET BABY JESUS, MOMMY WILL TAKE YOU HOME RIGHT NOW. And thank you, precious child, for ending my night and thus a very uncomfortable situation to explain to your father.

I waved bye to my EX-BFF, thanked the hosts for their lovely party-con-love-triangle, and went home.

So now I ask YOU: Was that strange behavior or am I being a total nut-case? I’m soooo looking forward to your comments!

Editors note: I was going to title this post, I Think She Wants My Boobies, because the last few days a lot of attention has gone to balls via my last post, and I’m nothing if not fair. But then I was like, what if that looks like I’m trying too hard to put stuff like boobs and balls in my titles? And if I were, is that so bad? Anyway, I obviously ended up going with another title, but I want the record to show that I was even steven in my representation of all things round and hangy. Thank you.

Blogging Takes Big Hairy Balls

I know what you’re thinking. Why does blogging take balls? I’ll tell you why. Because you’re putting yourself out there. Big time. You’re holding a neon sign and saying, “Hey world, here I am and all the crazy shit that goes on in my head! Do you like me? Press that thumbs-up button!”

Some days your post may be funny, other days it may be more thought provoking. You never know which your followers will respond to. It’s all a big risk, but you can’t write for some supposed, abstract expectation. So you write what’s in your head and in your heart. You squeeze your eyes and say a little prayer that someone out there in the blogosphere gets you, and you hit that publish button.

To some people this may be a risk free endeavor. People who are comfortable being in the spot light. “Here I am, take it or leave it” type people. They put it all out there, lay it all on the line to be judged or loved. Easy peasy. I admire the shit out of those people.

But that’s not me. Not by a long shot.

I’m more of a “waves from afar, hope you like me but if you don’t then I probably need to apologize at this point” type. Have you ever played that game – that what Friends character are you most like game? You probably have. So keep in mind who you think you’re most like, but then ask someone else who knows you well which character they think you’re most like. The answers won’t always match. My friends all said I was definitely Phoebe. I’m assuming because we’re both blonde and dingy; good natured and a little eccentric. Know who I always related to? Chandler. I never related to any of the girls – they were way too together for me. I related to the shy guy who never knew where he fit in. The sometimes awkward one who used humor to get himself through life, or to cover up when things got too real.

I’m fiercely private by nature, but trying very hard to learn to be more open. It takes tremendous effort to quiet the negative voices in my head and gather the cajones to write. I’ve found this is infinitely easier to do with strangers, however, so blogging is good practice for me. There is a comfortable buffer in sending your words to people you never (or rarely) see. Conversely, handing my novel over to beta readers, whom I know personally, almost made me physically ill. I would have rather paraded naked in front of them. I did it, though. I gave them my novel because I want it to succeed that bad. I’ll do whatever it takes.

So why the hell bother with a blog, Beth? Because I need to, desperately. It’s strangely cathartic. It fulfills some sort of innate writer’s need to share what’s in my head. If I don’t satisfy this call to action, I’m going to end up that crazy lady under the highway that talks to invisible people and shows her boobs to strangers eats paper. And you know, you know, I’ll have like a hundred cats. So I’ll continue to use this awesome, crazy, strange venue to purge what my muse wants to create, and with shaky, tentative hands I’ll offer it to you.

This is what was in my head today. I’m scooping my big, hairy balls over to the side so I can reach the publish button. If you enjoyed it, hit that damn like button and let me feel the love. Even better, comment and tell me which Friends character you think you’re most like. Did it match what others thought? Are you a blogger? Let me know if it takes big hairy balls for you to blog too. You can use a different analogy if you want. Jes sayin’. If you’re not appreciating the testes visual. If you are, you’re welcome.

Sisterhood of the World Bloggers Award

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*WRITER B IS ME* HAS BEEN NOMINATED FOR AN AWARD!!! The Sisterhood of the World Bloggers Award is passed from Sister-Blogger to Sister-Blogger to recognize blogs whose writing inspires you, and being nominated is a huge honor!

As a very young blog, I can’t help but be overwhelmed with gratitude for this lovely gesture. On my recent post, Hold My Hand Until I Can Fake It, Please, this is exactly the kind of fellow comrade support I was referring to.

There are a few rules that go along with receiving this award. I’ve seen different versions, but I’ve chosen to follow those my nominator used:

1. You have to thank the person that nominated you. (no problem there!)

2. You have to include the award logo on your site. (done and done)

3. You have to name 7 things no one knows about you. (ruh roh)

4. You have to nominate 7 other blogs who inspire you and let them know they’ve been nominated. (Only seven? Okay! Can’t wait!)

LET’S GET THIS PARTY STARTED!!

I don’t think I could say enough about the Sisters-O-Mine that nominated me for this award! They are the Dynamic Duo, Inion N. Mathair, the mother and daughter team like no other. Our blogs united one foggy night and it was kismet! They adopted me as a Sis and have been cheerleaders for my writing and blog ever since. Who does that? Inion N. Mathair do, that’s who. They are givers. And not only that, they are brilliant writers. I happen to know that for a fact because I’m reading their book, The Perfect 7, right now and I can’t put it down! If you haven’t been to their beautiful blog, check it out ASAP!

Now for 7 things about me you probably don’t know unless you’re a stalker:

1. I once took it upon myself to taste and review every Ben & Jerry’s ice cream flavor in my quest for a favorite. The hubs and I would each get a new pint every Saturday night and try each other’s. This spanned several months. The result? Five pounds and chin acne. No, that’s not my favorite flavor. That would be disgusting (what would be in it?) That’s what happens when you consume a pint/week for months. The winner? I don’t even remember. Something with the word Marzipan in it maybe? I probably ate the container.

2. For a very large chunk of my life, I was that crazy cat lady. No, really. In my early twenties I had eight cats. Now, you might be thinking….ew, but please know I was young, and naïve, and just trying to save the world one stray kitty at a time. And I took care of those eight cats (without acquiring any more, might I add, cuz I got a clue) for close to twenty years, until the last one passed away. I miss their purrs and little wet noses, but I don’t miss the litter boxes.

3. I can make the veins in my right hand wiggle like snakes. If this writing thing doesn’t pan out, I’m going to the circus with that little nugget.

4. If I could travel to any destination in the world, I’d go to Greece. I want to visit the ruins, the beaches, the islands…all of it.

5. My death row last meal would be Ethiopian food. If you haven’t tried it, do so immediately. My favorite dishes are the vegetarian ones, but everything is good. And, you don’t use silverware! Bonus! My death row music (do they let you do that? they totally should) would be Blues. Probably John Lee Hooker. Or Buddy Guy. Or maybe I would just rock it out to some Florence and the Machine. I mean, it’s my LAST DAY ON EARTH! I WANNA YELL AND STUFF! I love her.

6. I have a terrible habit of falling asleep at the park. While my kids are there. It’s just so hot….and I’m so tired….if I just lay my head on this picnic table for a second….YAWN.  “Mommy?!”  *jerks head up*  *wipes drool from chin*

7. The kiddos and I listen to music in the car all the time. Once, on a whim, while listening to Maroon 5, I told them Adam Levine was once my boyfriend and had asked me to marry him. Their reactions were so awesome, I couldn’t resist but continue: I went on to say that I had to choose between Adam and their daddy, and chose their daddy cuz, when it came right down to it, I knew he’d tolerate cellulite be a better husband and father. They totally bought it. I tried to kinda smile so they’d know I was kidding – but it flew right over their radars. There are currently 7,109,441,475 people on planet Earth and two of them believe with all their sweet little hearts that Adam Levine would actually take me for his wife. THAT’S GOLD PEOPLE. I’m not sayin’ a word.

Now on to the nominees for the Sisterhood of the World Bloggers Award! My criteria for choosing was simple:  BLOGS I LOVE! I love to laugh, HARD, at stripped-to-the-bone honesty, and I’m also totally inspired by creative, unique  blogs that support other bloggers. So without further ado, and in no particular order:

1. Shitastrophy. Her name is Alyson and she is the funny lady behind this hysterical blog. I watch for her tweets, FB updates, and new posts like a crack addict. There are few people that make me laugh like her, in fact, I can count them on one hand! Her category titles alone will make you spew Diet Coke out your nose! She often guest hosts other bloggers so she’s an awesome Sister-blogger too. Her shit is SO funny, a compilation book is even in the works! I would buy that in a NY minute, Alyson!

2. Baking in a tornado. Karen has done an incredible thing: not only has she created an amazing blog for blogs like mine to aspire to, but she incorporates recipes at the end of each post! She’s also is a MAJOR Sister-blogger, guest hosting other bloggers, yes, but also with her FLY ON THE WALL, and SECRET SUBJECT SWAP writing prompts that engage and encourage bloggers to write, share, and network. THAT’S AWESOME! And a ton of fun! She is sweet, and supportive, and I truly admire her!

3. When Crazy Meets Exhaustion. Stephanie is the zany, hilarious gal behind this hugely successful blog that makes me genuinely LOL all the time. I adore that her “Hiya” is in honor of her Grandmother, and I instantly respect anyone who idolizes the genius Tina Fey! You can just tell this chic would be a blast to hang out with and I can’t get enough of her! Another honest, funny, smart woman. I love it! Must check out her Oversharing page!

4.  Leigh Bones: you can’t hide crazy. Remember how I said I can count on one hand people that make me laugh REAL hard? Leigh is one of them! You want honest? Leigh is h-o-n-e-s-t! And, oh God, she’s so funny and I can’t stand it. If you haven’t visited her site, do yourself a favor, and while you’re there look for her recent post, Labia Lipstick. Not only will you laugh your ass off, you’ll also obsess over what your shade is! Don’t act like you won’t. You will. Did I mention she’s training for a MARATHON? She is. For real. And she’s posting about the whole journey.

5. elleroy was here: funny with a soundtrack.  Linda’s blog is a blast to follow! Not only is she a no-holds-barred writer, but also a photographer, a talented musician, a mom of two boys, and funny as hell! This woman oozes creativity, right down to her Saturday cocktails! I think she might win for coolest looking blog too – LOVE the guitar header! She is definitely a blog I look up to. If you haven’t checked her out, RUN, do not walk. Oh, and if you hate Mondays…you just found your tribe.

6. Is your Father home yet? Oh Mandi, you gave with out taking….I bet you’ve heard that a million times. Sorry for the Manilow reference.  Mandi’s blog is pure greatness. I instantly loved her because of how much I related to her posts, and of course, how much she made me laugh. Check her out. Right now. And when you go, don’t miss her post, Attack of the Asshole Monkey. (and I thought it was funny that my dad had a giant iguana living in his kitchen that hissed at us. It is, but her monkey story is WAY funnier!)

7. The Redneck Princess. I’m truly inspired by Donna’s blog. Just her page categories are impressive: My Photography, Recipes, Beauty, Crafts, The Poet in Me, Tutorials, Give-a-ways, Gardening, and Do it Yourself! WHAT. It’s true. And her posts are honest, sometimes tender, and always funny. AND, she was one of the first people to hop over to my baby blog and like several of my posts. THAT’S A SISTER BLOGGER. So, of course, she owns me, heart and soul. 🙂

Now, I know that’s my 7, but I’m going to do a quick, honorary shout-out to three ladies whose blogs I’m obsessed with. It might be breaking the rules, but I’m blonde so I can just act confused. Had I been able to include these gals on my list I would have, but they were just honored with the award, like, last freaking week so I can’t! But I want them to know how in awe I am of their blogs and writing, and how grateful I am for their *SUPPORT*! 1. Jennifer M. Zeiger 2. Jay C. Wolfe 3. Lafemmeroar

Okay, Sister Bloggers-O-Mine, CONGRATULATIONS on your award! You all deserve it! High Five each other and celebrate! In other words, BREAK OUT THE WINE! And thank you all for inspiring me and making me laugh every day! 🙂

We Interrupt This Broadcast — Leroy, WTF?

If you’re a follower to my blog, you might be asking yourself right now, WTF? Am I on the right site? Rest easy. I just changed themes. I got blog envy and decided to spruce things up a bit. I know, risky move, but I’m a young blog so I figured better now than later, right? This is THE ONE though. I won’t switch things up on ya again. Welcome to my new home. Settle in. Take your shoes off. Of course you can put your feet on the coffee table. Here’s a cheese plate. Wine? Certainly. Red okay?

Now back to our regularly scheduled program…

I was thinking the other day how cars fit our personalities. Not everyone’s I guess, but most people’s. Some choices are purely practical and based on needs. Others pick cars based on how they picture themselves, e.g. rugged and outdoorsy, or efficient, or sporty. Some are chosen based on how you want to be perceived. You pick your color, interior, engine size, 2wd/4wd, SUV, Sedan, hybrid, foreign, domestic, new, used…we all have our fit. And more importantly, they almost all have names.

The first car I ever drove was a purple VW Bug. It had sparkles in the paint and a moon roof. It was FREAKIN’ AWESOME. It was technically my dad’s car – on loan to him through the dealership he worked at or something like that, so I only drove it for about four months during my senior year of HS, but DANG it was cool. I named it Beethoven because I was a nerd and loved classical music it deserved a bad-ass name.

After HS, I borrowed $1,000 from my Grandma and bought a used, yellow VW rabbit named Wolfgang. I drove that car into the ground – until it had to be towed away about three years later. There were a handful of junkers in my twenties that got me from class to class, and waitress job to waitress job, but they’re hardly worth mentioning. A mirror of the state of my life at the time. Then I met this cute guy who liked to take me to hockey games and tolerated my eight three cats. Not long into our relationship I acquired a red Jeep Cherokee named, aptly, Redman – this name chosen for the Redman tobacco my Grandpa used to chew.

Then I graduated college and married that cute guy. The first car I got to buy NEW and pick out all on my own was a silver 4-runner. I liked it because it reminded me of an elephant. Even the side view mirrors were huge like ears. I named it Modoc after, well, Modoc: The true story of the greatest elephant that ever lived, by Ralph Helfer. Over the years (and two kids) Modoc got handed down to my hubs and now I’m driving a black Sequoya that he picked out. Even though I didn’t choose it, I knew the Universe assigned it to me when I saw the license plate. Hand to God, the last three letters are WTF. What are the odds? How perfect is that? This SUV is big, mean, and named Leroy Brown, after the Jim Croce song of the same name. Why? Because he’s the baddest man in the whole damn town; badder than old King Kong, meaner than a junkyard dog.

What is your car? What was your thought process buying it? How is it like you, or not like you? Most important: what is its name?? I LOVE hearing from you!

You see tomato, I see dead guy telling girl to dig up tomato

Eli2

Ah writers. We’re an odd breed. Quirky. Eccentric, yes perhaps. I was reminded of this recently when shopping with a friend. We perused the aisles of a local antique mercantile when my eyes landed on a lavishly embellished elephant. I stopped, mesmerized. His colors and design suggested an origin of India or maybe even Nepal. I’m a sucker for that. In a *that must be mine* hypnotic trance, I walked over to it.

It got even better.

The body of the elephant was actually a box that opened to reveal another, smaller, silver elephant. WHAT.

My friend was tickled with how enamored I was with it. She encouraged me to purchase it. My initial hesitation was its price ($40), and oh, WTF did I actually intend to do with yet another knickknack? I LOVE elephants, but did I need another one, really?

I went back-and-forth, but of course I bought it. I would have paid $100 because what I didn’t tell my friend is that as soon as held it in my hands and opened its secret box…a scene began to unfold in my mind. A scene where a young woman is digging in the dirt near the Indian reservation where she lives. She’s been digging for hours, fingers bleeding, sweat dripping from her nose, arms aching with exhaustion as she tosses handful after handful of dirt over her shoulder, desperate to find the wooden elephant she knows is there. Why? Because it is time. Her Grandfather told her so. Her Grandfather who’s been dead since she was six.

This is the part of being a writer that’s hard to explain to *others*. My friend saw a unique elephant. I saw a girl digging in the dirt cuz her Grandfather’s spirit told her to. Kinda the same not the same at all. How do you tell that to someone without sounding like a loon bird? You don’t. You just say what I did: “I dunno. There’s just something special about this elephant. I think I have to have it.”

I once was inspired by a peridot necklace that came as a freebie in an ebay order. I don’t know why. I can’t explain these things. I put it on and happened to write great that day. No, I WROTE LIKE A FUCKING ROCKSTAR THAT DAY, and for days and weeks to follow. I became convinced the peridot’s energy had something to do with it.

I wore it for close to a year.

It wasn’t even on a real chain, it hung from a red thread. It’s a miracle it didn’t break, but I was genuinely afraid to take it off for fear the magic spell would end. But wait my lovely friends, it doesn’t end there. I shared the crazy love: it’s in my novel. My main character wears it, because she’s awesome, but also because I wanted the mojo to spill over into my book. (It’s not weird. Don’t make it weird.)

I also have a collection of small, vintage suitcases. Everyone thinks I just like them. That’s true, but it’s not the whole story. I also buy them because they belong to someone else. A character, one that has been sitting in my *character waiting room* (where there’s always killer music and awesome magazines) while she fully forms. She needs these little suitcases, because her trips are brief and she only travels by train. But don’t bother asking her name…she will just lie to you.

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Sometimes I feel like that little girl in the movie Signs who keeps filling the glasses of water. No one knows why, not even her, until they do.

If you are a writer reading this, you are nodding your head. You are thinking of your own amulets, totems, and fetishes…and I know you have them. They drive us, inspire us, and maybe, just maybe, even sprinkle magic fairy dust on our muses. So now it’s your turn, writer friend-o-mine. I showed you mine. Quid pro quo. What are some of your good luck charms, inspirations, or things you think are too weird to tell you non-writer friends?

My writing totem can’t wait to hear from you…
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Hold My Hand Until I Can Fake It, Please.

There was a time in my not-so-long-ago past when I wept without shame on an airplane, terrified to the point that a stranger (bless her heart, I’m so grateful to her to this day!) held my hand across the aisle to comfort me until we began to descend and I calmed down. Was this a horrifically turbulent flight across the Atlantic? Hardly. It was 45 minutes from Austin to Dallas. No bumps. It might have been cloudy, which probably hurled me into the panic attack in the first place. And I was on Xanax, people.

I’ve come a long way. If that same woman saw me now, she would beam with pride. Hey, I’ve flown to Hawaii since then – sans Xanax! Yes, I was nervous, but I acted like I wasn’t. That’s the key. You just have to fake yourself out – tell yourself you are a pro. Put your head up and walk right in there like you’ve done it a million times. Eliminate any doubts that pop up immediately – SQAUSH! Because you don’t have doubts, you’re a PRO. Stewardess, can I have a pillow? Me sleepy – YAWN.

My point is, sometimes I require hand holding.

Which brings me to the now. I have a finished novel. For two years it’s been my WIP, and now WTF? I’ll tell you WTF. An OCEAN of information. An ocean in which I am a drop of water. The good news? I have found writers to be the most generous and supportive people on the planet, and I’m not just sayin’ that. I have connected with dozens of dynamic, talented, brave, amazing writers who are now my lighthouses. And they just keep comin’. I’m beyond grateful.

After two years of researching the subject, I’ve decided to self-publish. It’s A LOT of work (no matter which publishing route you take) but I’m determined to put the best possible product out there. I want it to be a labor of love, a collaborative effort with a team of people to help me with the stuff I can’t do (professionally edit, cover design, etc.) and I have a lot to learn along the way. But I have a plan…

BABY STEPS.

If I look at the big picture I’ll end up on the floor in the fetal position hyperventilating in a puddle of my own drool. So I’ll take one step at a time. Right now I’m revising and shopping editors. That’s IT. I’m not allowed to think about anything beyond that. I can read about the beyond all I want; I can flag links about formatting, or cover design, or whatever… but I can’t DO. I won’t dilute the quality of what I’m doing now with stress about the future.

I’m going to stick my head up and walk right into this process, baby step by baby step, and if I get confused or overwhelmed – and I will – I know I have an incredible community around me to light the way, or maybe even hold my hand for a little while.

A Stitch in Time…or however the hell that goes…

So I’m supposed to be having this stellar writing day. The kids are back in school (happy dance!) and now I can be one of those mythological creatures: a *productive writer*. I have so many things on my writing to-do list it resembles a page from a phone book: everything from posting (this counts), to working on smaller writing projects, to editing my novel (haven’t even cracked it open and it’s nearing 2:00), and a slew of non-writing to-do’s.

I thought – no brainer. Kids are gone by 8:00. I’ll dabble online, finish a few little things, work on a short story, then lunch, then edit for 3 solid hours.

That
did
not
happen.

Where did the time go? Did I really just lose an entire day? I answered emails and tweets, made a few tweaks to my blog, and all the sudden it’s well past lunchtime! And I think I ate – but I’m not really sure – it’s all sort of hazy. There’s a blop of dried salsa on my sock and chip remnants near the couch. What kind of lunch is that? OH GOD, What else did I eat?

My sink is full, my laundry’s overflowing, I haven’t showered, the dog isn’t walked, and I’ve accomplished no errands. I’VE HAD ALL DAY. Oh, crap, I just realized I forgot (again) to take something out for dinner. Meat can thaw in an afternoon, right? I’m good, I’m good.

The takeaway here is NOT that mass amounts of salsa results in chin acne (but it does), it’s that I need a schedule. (you thought I was gonna say a shower, didn’t you?) Yes. A new, bright, shiny writing schedule. I can’t fall into the abyss of emails and tweets for 3 hours anymore. And editing is my priority – it HAS to come FIRST.

Okay, ready gang? Tomorrow – PRODUCTIVE WRITER: Take 2!

Do you have a writing schedule that helps you stay on task? If so, PLEASE SHARE!

**Why didn’t you remind me to take the meat out! I still haven’t done it. Honestly, you are no help sometimes…

No wig needed – I’ve got mascara

If you’ve been to this blog before you’ve probably seen one or two photos of me floating around somewhere. THEY’RE ME. I swear. That’s something I’ve actually had to say to my family.

I think they look exactly like me. I’m mean, it’s frickin’ ME. I turned the cell phone around and snapped the photos myself – that’s how I know it’s not an imposter. That’s also why it shocked me when my husband AND CHILDREN repeatedly swore the photos didn’t look like me.

uh…how am I supposed to take that?

After hearing my husband say it again, I had to ask him: in what way do they not look like me? Like, they are pretty photos and I’m a barker in real life? Or, they are awful and I’m prettier than that? Or, they are weird and not a representation of me at all? WTF?

He said, “You look sexy. You have on lipstick and stuff.”

ME: “Oh” *puzzle pieces click* “You mean I usually don’t look that made up?”

HIM: “Not really. If you have a bra on in that photo…that would pretty much be our wedding day.”

Well shit. I realize I’m a low-maintenance, crunchy granola type gal, but it’s more than a little disconcerting to know I could disappear into the witness protection program with a little mascara. I mean, I put no effort into those photos.

No really. I took my hair out of a ponytail and put on tinted chapstick. And my children think it looks like someone else. Some other lady.

ahem. Perhaps I should put more effort into my everyday appearance.

*braids hair* *climbs into tree house* Nah.
tree-house-5264768

Chaos Elves: 2: Collections

The 6yo has a strange habit. A collecting habit. But he’s not collecting toy cars, or video games, or baseballs. No, that would be too…predictable. He’s just collecting.

We’ll be at the park/zoo/beach and he’ll run at me with feverish intent, only to hand me a small length of broken shoe string, or a feather, or a bottle cap. “Here, for my collection,” he’ll say before running away. He collects anywhere inspiration strikes. Small piles of these random accumulations sit in various bowls, drawers, and niches all over our house.

treasures

There seems to be no specific criteria for what makes it into his trash hoarding stockpile: anything goes. He’s even handed me wet, wilted reeds from the bottom of pools. When asked what purpose these items serve, he answers simply, “To remember.”

I’ve come to realize these tiny tokens enshrine moments. They are his way of keeping memories alive, which makes the piles around my house (and bottom of my purse) like little photo albums, filled with special snapshots of his life.

Well damn.

That tugs at my heart a little. I might even be tempted to use the word endearing.

And then I recall that this is the same child who – at the age of four when I told him he couldn’t have candy at the checkout counter of Target – screamed repeatedly, “YOU’RE A PENIS!”

Not so endearing anymore. Nope. Notsomuch.

Oh, please share with me your kiddo’s worst, most embarrassing tantrum! Mine have done it all…and I mean ALL. I LOVE hearing from you! You all make me laugh more than anyone!