29 September 2011

I know the (maybe) Rich and (certainly) Famous...

...bloggers who become book authors!

First there was Ree Drummond of Pioneer Woman and her book which quickly became my most purchased book for Christmas gifts the year it was published. Okie girl makes good on the range/ranch after marrying hunky rancher - and Oklahoma is just north of Texas so, yahoo, that's close enough for me! Then came Lisa Fain who authors the blog Homesick Texan who just published her cookbook - of course I lost NO time getting my copy and copies for my "nearest and dearest" because a) I'm a Texan and b) I'm inordinately proud of both Texans and their cooking abilities. Obviously, living in New York City hasn't gone to her head (or ruined her kitchen prowess). And today I read that Melanie of Big Mama has a contract for a book! ANOTHER TEXAN! This gal is Mary Tyler Moore meets Erma Bombeck. Do I know how to pick 'em or WHAT?!?

Now another long time blog author favorite I've read for YEARS, Liz Owen of Mabel's House, is being published. Liz reminds me of Anne Shirley in "Anne of Green Gables". I believe she attempted writing fiction before, something along the lines of the story by Anne in "Averil's Atonement", which did not catch the publisher's eye. Someone in her life MUST have been her own real life Gilbert Blythe who gently set her down and said, "Well, if you want my opinion, I'd write about places I knew something of and people that spoke everyday English." Because she did exactly that and DING, DING, DING - I think we have a winner!

"My (not so) Storybook Life" will be published in October (I've already pre-ordered my copy!) and I'm so excited I could pop a cork! She included an excerpt from her book today in her blog and I am copying it here for your reading pleasure. And I hope you'll enjoy her blog as well. If you're a female from Planet Earth, you'll find more than one chronicled situation akin to something YOU'VE experienced in life! Because that's why we read blogs, right? To know "we are not alone".

Thanks, Liz. And may the (book buying public) Force be with you.

Once one has breathed in the deep pungent aroma of sewage, you never again forget the nose-hair singeing, eye clawing, throat gagging experience. It comes over you slowly. You begin to feel like a character in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest as your muscles involuntarily jerk and you run screaming and blowing raspberries. Anything to get away from the mind-numbing stench.
But let me explain.
It was 6:30 a.m. I was standing in my retro pink tiled bathroom trying to open my bleary eyes and ready myself for work. As I stood there, peering into the mirror and wondering what demented nighttime fairy had planted four new wrinkles on my face, I paused and sniffed.
“Matt… what’s that smell?”
Matt staggered from the bedroom in his underwear, eyes half shut. “I don’t smell anything.”
I pointed my nose into the air like a hunting dog. “Seriously? You can’t smell that? Did you go to the bathroom in here earlier? I told you to use the room spray when you do things like that.”
Matt puffed out his bare chest and gathered his pride as best a man can with sleep in his eyes and a small hole in the side of his underwear. “I just woke up!”
I frowned, catching a glimpse of my makeup-less hot-rollers-in-hair state and tried not to think about the fact that I looked fifty instead of twenty-nine. “Well, help me figure this out. Because something smells ripe.”
We sniffed the sink drain and ruled it out as a suspect.
“Is it coming from the toilet?” Matt asked, examining it from top to bottom.
“No, that’s not it,” I snapped. I’m not known for my milk of human kindness in a disaster. Don’t get me wrong. I’m a survivor. I plan on eating my radish like Scarlet and clawing my way out of the nuclear dust while dragging my loved ones with me. But I won’t be doing it with positive phrases and a smile.
“Hon, I just don’t know. We’ll call a plumber after work, maybe it’s coming from under the house.” Matt staggered a little, trying to get past me and out of our tiny bathroom.
“Well, that’s just great,” I moved aside and pulled the shower curtain back so I could perch on the side of the tub and give Matt room to move out the door.
That’s when the full brunt of nastiness filled the air around us, a swirling mix of excrement and acrid stench that would have brought the sewer dwelling Ninja Turtles to their knees. Where the normally slightly-clean-with-a-hint-of-soap-scum bottom of the tub should have been, there sloshed gallons and gallons of brown sewage.
I clutched the front of my sweatshirt and held my breath. Matt began to dry heave.
“Get out and shut the door!” I screamed as we bumbled into the hallway.
“I’ll deal with this,” Matt grabbed my shoulders, trying to talk and hold his breath at the same time.
I could feel my eyes glaze over, the horrors of typhoid and hepatitis in our bathtub filling my mind. But more importantly, I could envision our evaporated savings account. In my mind’s eye I could see the long, gray hallway at the bank. A worker shrouded in a black suit pulled a set of keys from his pocket and unlatched a small locker labeled “Owen Bank Account.” Inside were two small stacks of quarters and a few crumpled dollar bills. It was bleak, not only because the banker with an unimaginative wardrobe gazed at me with an expression that could only be interpreted as “You’re a Big Fat Loser,” but also there was a very definite possibility we wouldn’t be able to pay for a plumber.
I wasn’t necessarily a spend thrift. In fact, I was downright frugal when it came to decorating with thrift store furniture and rewired vintage lamps. But the fact was, we were poor. We were starting out at starter jobs with starter salaries. We were starter adults with a starter bank account.
“Okay,” I nodded numbly, thankful that Matt was taking the lead on such a disastrous biohazard. “But make sure the plumber is super cheap. We don’t have much money!”
I left for work like a wino stumbling through a fog, not really remembering my commute, not really doing any work as I sipped my coffee and stared blankly at the computer screen. A disaster of such gargantuan proportions had previously been unthinkable in my life, and now I found myself attempting to push the image of a vast sea of bathtub poop from my mind. But I was sure of one thing: Anne Shirley never had to get ready for work while breathing raw sewage.

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