WEIRD LIKE THAT

Why Jenny Lawson’s Books Make Us Furiously Happy!

Just as the Lorax spoke for the trees, Jenny Lawson @TheBloggess speaks for those who don’t have the cohonas to speak for themselves. Like me. (Not that trees have cohonas, but … okay, never mind) Oh yeah, she’s got ‘em. Big, brave ones that lifted her up last night at @BookPeople in Austin, lifted her above any anxieties or fears she might have had and sailed her through a talk in front of over a hundred people.

(Okay that sounds kind of weird. And the visuals are…okay, her cohonas didn’t literally do that, just, you know, figuratively. Of course she doesn’t literally have them either, and she’s a lot less hairy than the Lorax and … never mind.)

Anyway … my daughter Erin and I got to BookPeople an hour early and waited with a hundred or more sweaty people (it was hot in there or else crazy people are just sweatier than most) for the arrival of The Bloggess.

{{Above: I needed a longer selfie stick than my arm, but I still like this pic. Waiting for Jenny at BookPeople in Austin. }}

Jenny is a humorist, author, comedienne, proponent of being Furiously Happy (Jenny, you gotta trademark that) and is the tell-it-like-it-is-no-holds-barred arbitrator of the perhaps unintentional movement to make Mental Illness the new black.

That sounds flippant, and believe me, Jenny is flippant, but in a good way. She laughs at herself, her husband, her foibles, her craziness, her anxieties, her life, and because she does, she gives all of us other crazies the right–and the power–to do it too.

She arrived flustered but smiling, perhaps a little overwhelmed by the huge crowd waiting for her and also obviously happy about it. I have anxiety issues and can imagine how daunting it was for her to face that sea of faces staring back at her like a pack of wild, starving raccoons. But that’s the thing about Jenny that makes you love and admire her, and shake your head in awe–she is so brave.

Brave enough to talk frankly about what it’s like to not be able to get out of bed for a week. Brave enough to share the kind of things in her books I wish I had the cohonas to share. Brave enough to talk about her va-jay-jay in front of her grandparents sitting in the front row. Brave enough to say the actual word “vagina” in front of a crowd of strangers (and her grandparents).

Brave enough to put aside whatever fear she might have and stand in front of her fans, grinning from ear to ear as she launches into an explanation of how she took her ADD medicine and then had to add a beta blocker, followed by rum and Diet Coke in order to do this thing she was doing, making the very real obstacles in her life so hilarious that for a minute I forget that underneath the funny, there is a whole lot of truth.

{{Above: Jenny greets the crowd. Her fingers aren’t blurred out for any bad reason. I’m just a bad photographer.}}

After apologizing for things in her book that are going to offend us–”They offended me too,” she explains–she spends the next thirty to forty minutes entertaining us, reading hysterically funny excerpts from her new book,Furiously Happy. I laughed along with everyone else, but I also tried to not get too sidetracked by the humor. Why? Because I knew there was an agenda here. A selfless, bite-through-your-lip, shudder-through-the-fear agenda to take the stigma out of mental illness; an agenda to bring this malady to a level everyone can more clearly understand, in a way that isn’t scary or condescending or disturbing.

(Okay some of the va-jay-jay parts are disturbing, but only because I was abandoned in the woods as a child and raised by Victorians. Don’t judge me!)

(I didn’t mean the parts of her va-jay-jay were disturbing I … oh never mind.)

And for those of us who are also crazy (a term of endearment, not disdain, for those who follow our fearless leader) as we listened to her last night, hanging on her every word, craning our necks to see her better, laughing at her freewheeling story about passing out during a pap exam, for a moment we forget that tomorrow we may not be able to get out of bed because our own illnesses are so crushing. We forget we had to overcome our anxieties and fears just to be there, crowded into metal chairs in what became a fairly claustrophobic space. (No offense BookPeople. You have an awesome store! You can’t help it that Jenny’s so popular.)

And as she moves into the Q and A part of the talk, even though there isn’t what I would call a sense of camaraderie with the other people there (I’m too weird for that) I realize there is nevertheless a bond of YES-WE-ARE-CRAZY-BUT-CRAZY-IS-COOL permeating the room. We are all temporarily forgetting that once we leave here we will be crazy in a world that doesn’t think it’s so cool. A world that doesn’t understand why sometimes we can’t leave our houses, why we can’t get dressed, or eat, or stop eating; why we sometimes live in a place so sad and dark we can barely breathe. We forget, because in this moment we are united by Jenny Lawson’s uninhibited ability to say, “Yeah, I’m crazy … And?”

In her first book, Let’s Pretend This Never Happened, Jenny goes for broke, relating the most laugh-inducing stories imaginable about her childhood, her marriage, and her daily life. That book made me love Jenny. Her new book, Furiously Happy, makes me respect and love her even more, because in this book it’s obvious she realizes she now has a platform on which to stand. And this is a platform she can use to help the rest of her clan, her people–all of us Crazies–by getting this message out to the masses: It’s okay to not be perfect. It’s okay to be Broken. And sometimes … it’s hilarious.

What’s most remarkable is that she can do this at all. And that she’s willing to do this. Which makes us love her even more, because by her own admission she is terrified of so much. How hard it must be to be Jenny … and how exhilarating.

Because, as she explains in her new book, a few years ago she reached a place in her life that was devastating, heartbreaking, life-crushingly sad. And instead of lying down and giving up, she decided to be Furiously Happy–to throw fear and caution into the closet and slam the door, to launch into life with abandonment and courage, to fight the darkness and send her own peculiar light flooding into it, shining a way for others.

{Above: My daughter high-fiving some random raccoon.}}

She’s the first to admit that the closet door cracks open sometimes and the fears rush out, but that’s okay. In fact, that’s even better. It tells us it’s okay to still fall. We just have to get up again. She’s teaching us–by example–that we can do that.

Reading Jenny’s books with their unabashed irreverence, abundant cursing, and lie-on-the-floor-laughing humor has done something to me and for me. It’s made me–and I’m willing to bet, the rest of her comrades-in-arms–a little stronger, a little braver, a little happier. A little more willing to try to see the funny side of my everyday craziness. Because when you listen to Jenny and when you read her books, you don’t feel so alone. And–strangely enough–you don’t feel so crazy.

And you begin to think if Jenny can do something like this, something so monumental as to write these books and go on this book tour and speak to strangers and sit for hours and sign their books and accept their stupid presents, then maybe I can get out of bed today. Maybe I can take a walk. Maybe I can play with my children. Maybe I can laugh at my brain and say, “Ha! You’re not the boss of me!”

Maybe I can live and be Furiously Happy.

After the talk, I got to meet Jenny, and as I feared, I reverted to babbling child/fangirl mode, stuttering and mumbling, unable to say how much I admire her and what she’s doing.

Unable to tell her how much her books and her blog and her VOICE mean to me, and I know, to others. But I feel sure someone out of all of those people managed to be more articulate than I was. I hope so, because she needs to know what she’s doing for those of us who struggle against depression, anxiety, phobias and other serious brain fungi. She also needs to know she has become the leader of a ragtag band of warriors hellbent on helping her spread the word. She needs to know she is making a difference.

Thank you, Jenny Lawson. Keep rocking it. We’re with you. Probably most of us are curled up in the fetal position on the floor, but we’re with you, nevertheless.

Read Jenny’s blog www.thebloggess.com and check her out on Twitter @TheBloggess

WEIRD LIKE THAT is written by Tess Mallory, the author of nine romance novels and a total fangirl where Jenny Lawson is concerned. Even though Tess hasn’t had a book published since 2009, she isn’t letting that sink her down into the dark pit of despair, because she’s having a blast as a freelance editor while working on her next book. It’s gonna be awesome, though probably not as awesome as Jenny Lawson’s books.

JennyLawson TheBloggess FuriouslyHappy Humor MentalIllness Depression Suicide SuicidePrevention WeirdLikeThat romancenovels

tessmallory

Mushrooms … and The Funny Bone Factor

tessmallory

I’ve probably been on your mind lately. I mean, you’ve probably been paralyzed with worry, thinking, “When is Tess going to write another blog post?” You’ve probably lost sleep over this and I apologize.

So … what’s the problem? Why don’t I write on this more often?

Because I’m weird? Well, yeah, that’s a given.

Because I don’t have the time? Well … I do usually have the time. Or I could make the time.

What I don’t always have is the funny bone factor. You know–the joke, the witty phrase, the hysterical comeback, the gimmick, the schtick.

Sometimes, life just sucks the funny right out of me and puts the schtick somewhere really uncomfortable.

I originally started this blog because I wanted to make people forget about how really sucky life can be sometimes. When I was going through radiation treatment for breast cancer, I read Jennifer Crusie’s books over and over again because they are just so darn funny. Nowadays I read Jenny Lawson’s (what is it with these funny Jennys?) blog. Laughing helps. It helped me. And my thought, when I began blogging, was to try to make people laugh and hopefully in the process, make them feel better.

But sometimes, I’m just not feeling it. And forced humor is worse than no humor at all. And yet–I wanted to write a post today. Go figure.

So … here’s the only thing I can think to tell you today to make you laugh:

I’m afraid of mushrooms.

I’m not kidding. I. Am. Afraid. Of. Mushrooms.

I don’t know why. Maybe because of these guys:

Well, I was exposed to them at a young age, but they’re really cute, so … ? I mean, yes, Disney is getting scarier every day and will ultimately end up taking over the world, but little dancing mushroom guys? Not so much.

Let me s’plain. I’m not afraid of looking at a mushrooms. I don’t break out in hives or have a panic attack. I actually like to look at them and imagine little fairies using them for sunbathing. Or as umbrellas–Aw, the tiny umbrellas of nature.

No, what I’m afraid of is touching them or (shudder) eating them.

Maybe I’m afraid because mushrooms smell funny. And I imagine they would taste like dirt. Maybe it’s because when I was a kid my mom warned me not to eat mushrooms growing in the backyard because they would kill me.

Okay, this probably had a lot to do with it, but still …

People really tease me about not eating mushrooms. Luckily I can claim I’m allergic, because my allergist told me I was allergic to mold and I asked if mushrooms would be a problem. He said, “Well, you might want to stay away from any fungi”

NOTICE how he didn’t just say “don’t eat fungi.” He said STAY AWAY FROM ANY FUNGI! (or as I like to call them–funguses) Now I can totally prove that I’m not crazy. A doctor of medicine validated my fears and feelings. Now I can tell people that my doctor told me unequivocally NOT to eat mushrooms, and if they have a problem with that, they can take it up with the AMA.

So there.

The way I see it, being afraid of mushrooms is like being afraid of driving on the freeway. Isn’t the truth that you’re really crazy if you AREN’T afraid of driving on the freeway. And aren’t you really just a little bit nuts if you’re one of the weirdos out there EATING FUNGUSesess?

A friend of mine told me yesterday on Twitter that she used to be scared of mushrooms too, until she fried them in butter and garlic. I told her I was down with the butter and garlic, but still not sure about the mushrooms. You see, in order to cook them, I’d have to pick them up to put them in the butter and garlic, and in doing so, I might breathe in the poisonous spores they emit into the air around them.

So . . yeah.

Okay, I admit it, I’m a pretty phobic person, so maybe that’s the whole deal. Maybe my brain just picked something out that’s normal for everybody else in the world and made it my kryptonite. Actually, that makes perfect sense. Except I have a lot of kryptonites. And I promise, they are all just as hilarious as being afraid of mushrooms.

So there it is: your funny for today. I have prostrated myself at your Interwebby feet, virtually humiliated myself by exposing a terrible weakness in my psyche, all in order to make you laugh. So …

until I can think of something truly amusing.

I do plan to start writing on this blog more often though, even if it isn’t funny. Who knows, maybe the more I get into the groove, the more my funny bone factor will kick into gear.

Until it does, here’s something that’s guaranteed to make you laugh, just cause I’m so kind and yeah, weird like that. It’s entitled: Ozzy the Weasel and Eeyore, BFFs Forever.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fWvQn_GYwYw

Also, check out thebloggess.com because she’s always, always hilarious. Disclaimer: she’s rated, um, “R” for Risque and Really funny.

Deer Friends, summer’s here and the deers is here!

I bet a lot of you wonder why the heck I don’t write blogs more regularly. Or maybe you’re just thanking God that I don’t. In either case, the reason is because I am a perfectionist when it comes to writing. I don’t just write a blog, I rewrite it and rewrite it and rewrite it until my fingers are numb and I’m dehydrated and constipated and bleary-eyed ad the words have lost all resemblance to their original form and function. Sort of like raising children.

But no more! From now on I am just gonna WRITE THE DARN BOOK–I mean–BLOG! After all, it’s NaNoWriMo and if people can write 50,000 words without looking back, surely I can write a 600, 700–oh who am I kidding–1500 word blog without rewriting it to death. So here goes–a blog with NO REWRITES, because I don’t have time!

Today’s subject: Animals in the house.

My husband and I are currently trying out the Tiny House Life (because we are insane and you can read about that on my other blog–the one at crazytinyhouse.tumblr.com) and we have 2 cats and 1 dog inside 240 square feet. Which relatively speaking feels something like this:

Did I mention we are insane?

Why, I ask myself. why did I ever let animals inside my crazy tiny house? This is the question that haunts me day and night, mostly night because that’s when our huge orange cat wants to come in. And go out. And come in. And go out. Endlessly. All night.

People say, “Why don’t you put in a cat door?”

To which I say, “Are you OUT OF YOUR CORNFED MIND??”

No, I don’t really say that. I say, “Well, uh, great idea, but we live in a very small town that is actually also classified as being "out in the country” (as in, “I live out in the country”) and since we live sort of “out in the country” our yard is nightly filled with raccoons, possums, wild feral cats and probably mountain lions for all I know.

“So I can’t get a cat door because, if we had a cat door, we’d have to leave it open at night (that’s the point, right, to have a way to let the darn cat in and out at night?) but instead of waking up to our fluffy orange cat lying at the bottom of the bed in the morning, there would probably be a huge rabid squirrel sitting on my chest staring at me with buck teeth bared, chewing on one of our Corgi’s dismembered paws.

So. PLEASE STOP SUGGESTING THE CAT DOOR. (I’m talking to you, Bill.)

Even though the streets are actually paved where we live, there aren’t any streetlights, which is nice when you wanna see the stars but not so great when you’re trying to see if someone is trying to break into your yard.

The other night our Corgi woke up and started barking in a way that said "HELP HELP! SOMETHINGS OUTSIDE AND I HAVE TO PROTECT YOU! QUICK, QUICK, OPEN THE FREAKING DOOR!” (Yes, I understood exactly what he was saying. Some people call me the Corgi Whisperer.)

So I shook my husband until he woke up, stumbled out of bed and put the dog on the leash. They went outside to have a look-see. After about ten minutes they came back in, both highly agitated.

“What was it?” I asked, expecting anything from a burglar stealing the non-working washing machine in the backyard, to roving elephants.

“Giant bucks fighting behind the fence!” he cried, his hair wildly disheveled and eyes crazy with fear. (Okay, his hair wasn’t wildly disheveled ‘cause he doesn’t have that much to work with in that area, but he was freaked.)

Apparently two bucks had squared off behind our backyard fence and were having the equivalent of a Highlander sword fight, using their antlers as claymores.

Our fierce puppy dog, who has the ears of a bat, had heard the clashing of antlers and probably smelled all of that big buck testosterone oozing out of the hairy pores of the Champions of the Forest (this forest consists of less than 1/8 acre between our fence and the highway).

Still, my husband is sometimes given to exaggeration and I kind of figure that his image of this:

Was actually something more like this:

Or even this:

When I was a kid in North Texas, seeing a deer was a cool, almost existential experience. Back then a “deer-sighting” wouldn’t happen very often, but when it did, man did we get excited!

We’d be driving along some back road and all of a sudden, there would be a doe, and if we were lucky, a fawn beside her. Instant awe would fill our souls as my dad slowed the car so we could feast our eyes upon the sight of one of nature’s beautiful works of art. It was a joyous moment.

Then I grew up and moved to the Texas Hill Country, where you literally cannot throw a rock without hitting a herd of deer. (Not that I would intentionally throw a rock at a deer. But I have been known to run at them and flail my hands around while yelling “Get out of here!’)

Before we got our privacy fence, every winter our yards, front and back, were occupied by a herd of deer. Or maybe two herds. I’m not sure, they weren’t real chatty. Mostly they just wanted a place to hunker down after eating every single plant in my yard.

I love roses and foolishly thought when we moved here I could have a rose garden. Hahahahahahaha. Ha.

Well, the poor things are hungry, I get that, and it’s terrible and someone should do something about it, I’m thinking maybe some kind of catch and release program. Someone should get some really big cages, prop them open, put corn inside and hide in the bushes and watch and wait, and then when the deer show up, slam the cage shut and then take them to some nice resort and release them into the salons where they can have their nails filed or something while they drink hot tea and eat cookies.

Yeah, I don’t see it happening. Deer are notorious for neglecting their nails. Hooves. Whatever.

And don’t be fooled by their cuteness. Most deer are actually sneaky, conniving little creatures just pretending to be sweet and fragile, while actually just waiting for the right time to jump out in front of your car.

Driving home at night around here is like trying to sneak into Area 51 without being assaulted by aliens. You have to drive slowly because you never know when a deer is gonna jump out in front of you and say “TA-DAH!” just before he smashes through your front window.

Yep, the deer used to love to sleep in our yards, front and back, but after we got the fence up, they couldn’t get inside the backyard any more and I’m a happy camper. (insert Dance of Joy here).

But the night the bucks fought behind the fence, well, my husband said it was like watching National Geographic in person. For a second I saw some of that awe in his weary eyes that I used to feel as a kid and I wished I could have seen the battle too.

And so I decided we should be nice to the deers.

And I will. As long as they stay out of the backyard.

My mighty warriors went back to bed, unbloodied but slightly bowed, when suddenly I realized that if it weren’t for our fence, that battle of the bucks might have taken place on our back porch. Oh. My. Good. Grief.

Wait … what was this blog about? Oh yeah, animals in the house.

At least you know now why we can’t have a cat door, and also this reason–just in case they ever manage to get over the fence, sneaky little devils:

So I guess I’ll have to continue to put up with letting our cats and dog in and out during the night. I hate doing it, (okay, okay, my husband usually does it) but in spite of everything, I love my annoying little furballs … 'cause I’m weird like that.

Follow her on Twitter @tessmallory and on Facebook

HIGHLAND STRANGER IN A KILT - YES OR NO?

My husband just handed me a pillow we got at Ikea a while back that has a kind of weird black and white abstract picture on it–sort of a cross between a flower and a clock–and told me that if I leaned in the middle of the flower/clock that I would travel back in time and it would take me to the McDonald’s in San Marcos. (And people think I’m the weird one in this marriage.)

But since I’m a Time Travel romance author, and since Outlander is on TV now, that made me start thinking (always a dangerous endeavor). What if you traveled through time and when you got there it was something totally disappointing? Like instead of arriving in 1776 at the signing of the Declaration of Independence, you ended up in 1955 in Cool, Texas.

Well, first of all, you wouldn’t know the difference, because nothing much has changed in Cool in the last 59 years. And even though Cool is pretty Cool, you have to admit, it would be a let down.

There you’d be spinning through time—wheee—frantic thoughts running through your head—Oh My Gosh, what’s happening to me? Where am I going? Am I traveling through time? Will I end up in some strange, exotic place and meet a Handsome Stranger in a Kilt who will put me on his horse and ride away into the sunset with me?

And then WHAM! You land, and look around, and there’s this gas station on the side of a highway (Cause that’s all that’s in Cool)

and it looks just the same as the last time you saw it in 2013 when you drove through there with your sister, but you walk in and see a newspaper with the date, September 3, 1955.

Wait, I think I just wrote Back To The Future again. Except this time in the boonies.

I am kind of a savant.

My husband just asked me what I was writing on and I said, “Oh, just an idea for a blog post.” And now he’s going to ask me to read it to him and I’ll have to skip over the part about the Handsome Stranger in a Kilt whisking me off on his horse. And that’s what I get for writing in bed at midnight.

But really, it’s not a problem, because any man who would hand me a pillow and tell me if I lean on it that it will send me traveling through time is certainly my kind of man, and one I wouldn’t trade for the world.

Uh, but for Jamie … ?

Naaah.

I don’t think I could handle the upkeep that goes with riding off into the sunset with a Handsome Stranger in a Kilt. I mean, there would undoubtedly be a lot of camping out (without toothbrushes) and a lot of eating of wild meat (which would get stuck between my teeth and again—no toothbrushes) and a lot of jostling in the saddle (without a bra, because if I’m lying down on a pillow in bed when I start time traveling, I guarantee I’m not wearing a bra) and then there’s the whole no makeup thing that comes with traveling back in time.

Oh sure, it’s fine if you’re young and have dark eyelashes and brows and pretty good skin, but if you’re a redhead like me and have pale eyelashes and brows, chances are you’re gonna be missing your mascara pretty soon.

Trust me, Handsome Stranger in a Kilt guy is gonna dump me like a sack of bricks after I rub off the final layer of L’Oreal Voluminous in Black.

So, no thanks. I think I’ll stick with this boy over here that’s been with me through thick and thin (yes, I’m talking about my weight) and who still thinks I’m beautiful even when I don’t wear makeup ( I keep telling him it’s time for an eye checkup) and doesn’t care that I let my hair go gray or that I put a blue streak in it or the fact that I go to bed in an old tee shirt instead of something black and slinky.

You can bet that ol’ Handsome Stranger in a Kilt wouldn’t stand for that. He’d have me exercising and risking going blind crushing up charcoal to smear on my eyelashes, and searching for a Henna plant to dye my hair back the color it used to be, and forget black and slinky—I suspect HSIAK is gonna be a commando kind of guy, and way too much trouble.

Uh … what was I saying?

Oh yeah … too … much … trouble.

*ahem*

I think I’ll leave him for someone younger and less comfortable in her life. I’m sort of settled in here.

I just handed the pillow back to my husband.

I don’t want to take any chances.

Cause I’m Weird Like That.

A BLOG FOR THE BLOGGESS, JENNY LAWSON

Recently I visited North Texas and had breakfast at a cafe where the ambience was mostly Taxidermical. (That’s a real thing, look it up. It’s sort of like post-apocalyptic). When I saw the decor I thought, Hey, I bet my good friend Jenny Lawson would love to see these dead animals on the wall.

Okay, I don’t know Jenny Lawson, but she’s my favorite blogger and so I took some pictures for her, because Jenny (www.thebloggess.com) just happens to LOVE taxidermy (find out why by reading her book, Let’s Pretend This Never Happened, which is totally hilarious and yes, I’m trying to butter her up, or margarine if she prefers. I’m a fan girl, what can I say?)

I intended to email the pics to her, but I went to her site and she confessed that it’s hard for her to answer all her email (cause she’s THAT GOOD), so I decided to write her by making a comment on one of her posts. However, by the time I got through I was too embarrassed to post it because it was so long, and also I couldn’t post the pics there and then suddenly I thought, “Hey! I have a blog!”

So I put my letter and pictures here and I hope she reads it and wants to take me to lunch and we become best buds and go to yard sales together and she can teach me to knit and or rattlesnake wrangling or hopefully HOW TO BE FUNNY. Yes, I will sit at her feet adoringly and learn hilarity from the Master. Mistress. Bloggess. Whatever.

Uh, okay, so here’s the comment I didn’t post on her site:

Hi Jenny! I wasn’t sure where to send these pics, so I thought I should put them in the comments under your corpsey nightshirt thingie post because this first guy (see pic) could totally strip a human down to muscle in no time at all and give a zombie a run (or a munch) for his money. Also I live near you, so we should have lunch sometime because I’m a writer too and I want to meet you and steal your identity. Not really. You live with rattlesnakes and I live with a Corgi. You do the math. No, I’m just a fan girl. : )) But I would definitely spring for lunch Or coffee. Or a smoothie. You pick.

Anyway, here are some pics I took JUST FOR YOU recently at a cafe in Weatherford, Texas, because I loved your book, Let’s Pretend This Never Happened, which made me laugh harder than I have in a year and dragged me out of a total depression brought on by Life and Death and such things. Hope you adore.

Okay here was where I tried to add a picture, and after much finagling, I found that I couldn’t put a picture in the comment section, which makes sense because, after all, if people could put pics in your comment section, well who knows what kind of insanity and possible nudity could ensue. So here is the first pic I tried to put in the comment section and the accompanying caption:

WOODBURY JAVELINA

I knew (for obvious reasons) that you would love this guy. Woodbury had a hard life, so when he got gutted and stuffed and hung on a wall in a small town restaurant it was really a step up for him. Now he can look down on everyone else, instead of everyone looking down on him. He had short legs. Which he doesn’t. Anymore.

And here’s some of his friends:

SPARKLY DEER

Sparky Deer had always loved rhinestones and the taxidermist knew this, so of course when he (the deer, not the taxidermist) bit the dust, his embalmer knew that BLING was totally the way to go.

MR. MOOSE

Mr. Moose does not know how the hell he ended up in a cafe in Weatherford, Texas.

MRS. TURKEY WITH ATTITUDE

Do not mess with Mrs. Turkey. She will stab you. She hates the cafe. She hates coffee drinkers. She hates mostly everything. Leave her alone and don’t sit under her at the cafe ‘cause sometimes spit still dribbles out of her beak.

Then I summed things up:

I forgot to look and see if these guys were on the menu. The turkey, probably. The deer, possibly. The moose, not in Texas. The Javelina, aw, I hope not. He’s so cute.

Well, okay I just realized I can’t post pictures here (on your site) which makes sense because no telling what people might put here, so I’m emailing the pics to you, so I hope you will wade through your millions of fan letters and see them, 'cause they are TAXIDERMY pics of a deer with sparkly antlers, a confused moose, an irate turkey, and the star–a Javelina, not to be confused with a javelin or a plain old pig. Much more fiercesome. Wait, I think you have his brother. Or sister, or however that works.

I think this one must be an important Javelina because he has a plaque with his name on it – Woodbury. Woodbury Javelina. I may make that my new pseudonym. Also he has magical powers and can cure colds, (she had a cold at the time, so see what I did there?) so be sure and print out his pic and rub it all over your face. No, no, don’t thank me, it’s the least I could do.

So anyway, I guess I’ll just email them all to you even though I have no idea if you’ll actually read them or if you have like a robot or something that does that for you.

Which I’ll never know about the robot, because I didn’t send the email, because I thought, HEY, I have a blog–yeah, I already said that. But since I did write a WHOLE BLOG about her, I hope that counts for something!

And so dear JennyLawson, Bloggess, this wraps up my fangirl post to you. I hope you enjoyed the dead animals. I always enjoy yours. Cause I’m weird like that.

Follow me on Twitter @tessmallory

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Especially if your name is Ian Somerhalder. Or Jenny Lawson.

AND Check out my new COZY WEBSITE (a term I just invented) @ www.tessmallory.com – more about this next time! Yeah I know I said that last time. JUST BE PATIENT! (sheesh)

My Dog Ate My Sandals–Help Me, Ian Somerhalder!

So my Corgi ate my Bohemian pink sandals I was going to wear to the Romance Writers of America #RWA14 conference.

It’s not fair.

What did I ever do to you, dog? Except feed you and pet you and talk in a high squeaky voice because you love that. Sigh.

No, don’t beg for forgiveness–the damage is done!

Okay, okay, the truth is, it was my fault. I left the shoes out like a dummy and now they are just little pink pieces of leather.

I have another pair, somewhere in the bottom of my closet,

but unlike whatsername in the gif above, I don’t get all excited about going in there, cause it’s horribly messy. There will be no dancing. More like a lot of moaning and groaning as I try to find the one pair of sandals that fit my PLAN.

Yes, I had a PLAN, you see, a PLAN! I am not a BEAUTY=PAIN girl. No, no, not me. Beauty can equal comfort just as easily, so I had planned what my fashion style would be for #RWA14 – Sophisticated Bohemian. Doesn’t that sound cool?

Okay, well some people may not think so, or have their doubts (and to think how much I loved you, Neil Patrick Harris) but you know, you gotta go with what feels good to you! Especially at a conference like this when you’re not only trying to pitch your book ideas, but also yourself.

If you read my last post, you’ll know that I struggled with being able to BE MYSELF in my editor meetings and finally came to the conclusion that if I’m just my WRITER self, I’ll be okay. Unfortunately, that Writer Me has to be clothed. I mean, I can’t walk in Naked, right?

All right, all right, let’s not be rude! My thighs may shake like Jell-o but, uh, it has nothing to do with my abilities as a writer, does it?

Although in a sense, we’re all naked when we sit there with someone we want to impress, because we are baring our souls–trying to express the depth of love we have for our craft, the passion we feel for our work!

I mean, all writers have this BURNING DESIRE to see their work published, right? Even the ones who claim they don’t care if they ever get published. Believe me, they care!

But anyway, back to my mutilated sandals …

Yeah, I’m talking to YOU, buddy! Oh well, I’ll dig out the other sandals, but what difference does it make if I can’t find the right clothes to go with them? I went shopping for two days, and the clothes I want are just not out there, at least not where I’ve been shopping. And not in my size. I need to find some cool boutique, but not only will that take time, it will also take MUCHO MONEY. Why is it that I always like things that cost so much? And why does it always cost so much? Ultimately, I may just have to be an UNsophisticated Bohemian.

Sigh.

So what is a Sophisticated Bohemian anyway? Well, I think it’s necessary to have a long skirt, a loose, organic top, lots of woven and bangly bracelets, dangly earrings, and of course … sandals.

Well, um, maybe not blingy seahorse sandals. Maybe more like this lovely lady’s style:

Okay, I can see I’ve gotten WAY off track here, so everybody just calm down, will ya and let me think.

Okay, back on track. Now, the truth is I’ll get all this stuff done before I go to #RWA14. And if I don’t, well, hey, it’s not like anyone is going to get all judgey on me because I didn’t get to go through with my plan of Sophisticated Bohemian, right?

It’s all about the WRITING, not the CLOTHING! It’s about the PASSION!

No, not that kind of passion. I mean, yeah, that kind of passion but without the teeth.

Should the Real Me meet editors at RWA 2014?

The Romance Writers of America convention, known on Twitter as #RWA14, is just a week away and for some reason I’m getting a little nervous. That could just be from my Corgi puppy trying to gnaw on my hand as I type this, (gnaw, lick, gnaw, lick) but I’m beginning to think it's more deeply rooted than that.

Here’s the problem: When writers/authors go to a conference like this, we have the opportunity to meet with editors and agents and other industry professionals. I even have a few private appointments lined up!

In these meetings, we have the chance to hook the interest of an editor or agent and snag an invitation to follow up with a proposal. While this is all great and wonderful and amazing, if I have a total panic attack in the middle of pitching a book idea to one of them, it ain’t gonna be so great and wonderful and amazing.

Now, you ask, why am I worried? After all, I’ve been published for years, I should know this stuff, right?. Well, first of all, I’m kind of not normal. I mean, I’m not really sure what normal is, but I don’t think it’s on my compass.

When I ask friends for advice about stuff like this, they’ll inevitably say, “Just be yourself, you’re great, they’ll love you.” And I’m thinking, Have you met me? Oh yeah, you’ve met the Semi-Normal me. Most of you haven’t met the Absolutely Insane Me or OMG the Crazy Talker Me.

The Crazy Talker Me comes out when I’m put into situations where I’m supposed to know what the heck I’m doing and instead of being calm and professional, I panic and start babbling like a ten-year-old on speed.

“Hi! I’m Tess Mallory how are you are you enjoying Texas oh man Texas in the summer is the worst we just got a Corgi puppy and he’s having to stay in so much and he’s just the cutest thing but he’s driving me pretty crazy do you have a dog I’m really more of a cat person myself but my husband loves dogs, and really I love Corgis but this one is truly a handful but anyway I hope you brought sunscreen you’ll love the Riverwalk if it isn’t too humid and –”

Please, someone bring in Ian Somerhalder will ya?

Whew! Thanks, sweetie! (In my head he answers back and says, “No problem, beautiful.” Sigh.)

So Crazy Talker Me will talk non-stop when she’s nervous, and when she’s in a situation she worries she will SCREW UP. And guess what? In this scenario, I definitely am doing some major screwing up.

Editors are by and large kind and wonderful people. They want to find the next great book. But they really aren’t there to hear about the weather or my delightful Corgi, shown in this picture preparing to kill vampires and/or zombies, which is why we call him “Biscuit, Vampire/Zombie Slayer.”

Now, by this time in the conversation, hopefully the editor has managed to stop my manic monologue and interject a polite “So what do you write?” or “What are you working on?”

And then the madness really begins. I love pitching book ideas almost as much as I love going to the dentist. With lightning speed, Crazy Talker Me morphs into Paralyzed Brain Me.

“Oh, uh, yes,“ I say, "I’m working on this awesome story where this awesome woman meets this guy and he’s really handsome and funny and awesome and they uh, they uh have a big conflict, because she finds out he has a secret, but she doesn’t know what the secret is and that makes her, uh, suspicious and afraid to trust him because you know, uh, she has these trust issues from when she was a little kid, and uh, her mother used to bring home all of these boyfriends, and uh, the girl had to sleep with her door locked and when she was sixteen, uh, she finally ran away from home, uh, so when she meets this guy, the handsome uh guy—oh yeah, did I say he’s a vampire? That’s his secret and uh, uh… “

UH – DING DING DING!! My time is up! Thanks for playing, and no, we do NOT have a winner.

SO WHY DOES THIS HAPPEN TO ME?

I think it’s the expectations inside my own head and the fact that no one REALLY knows what you’re supposed to do when you walk into this VERY IMPORTANT meeting. Oh, you can read all the tips and stuff, but for me, when I walk into that room or that café at the hotel, as Paralyzed Brain Woman somehow I realize that all the THINGS YOU SHOULD DO IN A PITCH MEETING #1 – #10 go against my intuition and believe it or not, my sense of Logic.

Don’t look at me like that! I actually do have some of that stuff. Either that or I’m deluding myself—always a possibility. But let’s examine the realities of the ten-minute writer-editor (or writer-agent) meeting.

First of all, I have ten minutes to convince this person, this very nice, receptive person in front of me, that I am writing or have written a book she will want to buy and publish.

Next, I have to do this by condensing my entire book down into a very few sentences designed to hook her interest and make her EXCITED!

BUT then thirdly (is that a word?), I have to be totally professional.

Here’s the problem, or rather the problemS with all of this: I can believe in my book to the depths of my soul, but if I get nervous, Crazy Talker Me comes out and it’s all crash and burn from there.

Plus, it’s not the way I wanna do this thing. What am I talking about? I’ve been a published author for twenty years and I can say from experience I can have the BEST idea in the world, but if my writing style doesn’t float that person’s boat, it doesn’t matter how great the idea may be. What matters is the writing. Yes, I’ve got to have a great story, a great plot, great characters, but what difference does if make if SHE DOESN'T LIKE THE WAY I WRITE?

And how is she going to make that decision based on a short summary of the story?

I’ve got some more strikes against me, ‘cause I’m not a “professional” kind of person. I’m a “Hey, how are ya? How’s the family?” kind of girl. I’m a Will Rogers-I-never-met-a-person-I-didn’t-like (until they prove me wrong) woman. I’m a "Did you have a bad day, here’s a cookie,” person.

Which goes against stuff we’re taught about professionalism and meeting with editors, but my question is: WHAT IF THEY WANT A COOKIE?

SO HERE’S WHAT I’M THINKING … Okay, I confess, this is what gets me into Trouble–the whole “I think I’ll just step out of the box and do something different, my own way” thing.

You see, I was the kid who wore her brand new furry green winter coat to school in September because I loved it and got laughed at by the entire class, since in Texas it’s 101 in September.

I was the pre-teen most likely the very FIRST to think of wearing a dog collar as a fashion statement, waaay before the whole goth/spikes/black lace movement. (That collar came off after my first period class, oh yeah.)

And more recently, I’m the middle-aged woman who just got a couple of turquoise and dark blue streaks put in her hair …

because I want to be a mermaid. Although I’ve had a hard time finding any pictures of mermaids with blue hair. What’s up with that?

I’d also like to be a princess. None of them have blue hair either. Have I made a drastic mistake???

Um, back to RWA. *ahem*

Obviously, I’m not very good at the lockstep thing, the normal thing, or the the following the rules thing. So when I start thinking radical thoughts like,

“Hey, wouldn’t it make more sense if I just handed the editor the first two pages of my book and let her read it, and then if she’s interested, she’ll ask me what the book is about?” this creates a new problem.

Here’s the problem: I don’t know if this is a BRILLIANT IDEA (and will perhaps change the face of Publishing as we know it. Wait, that already happened with ebooks–sheesh) or if the editor will point at the door and say “We don’t want your kind in publishing.“

Or heck, maybe everyone is already doing THIS EXACT THING AND I JUST DON’T KNOW IT!

TRUTH TIME

Truth is, I haven’t done this in a while. A few short years ago, I was a fairly well known time travel romance author with a publisher and an editor I loved, and then my dad died and I lost my mojo for a while. (Thanks in advance, but please, no sympathy. It’s LIFE dammit, and it happens to everybody.)

Still, I was a Daddy’s girl and it hit me hard.

But my mojo is back now WITH A VENGEANCE and I am READY TO REINVENT MYSELF by becoming a YA author AND a humorous mystery writer.

I believe in this crazy person that I am. I know I have good ideas. I have faith in my ability to write a good—no—a great book. But like many (most?) writers, there’s that little demon in my head saying “Don’t screw this up!”

So I don’t wanna screw this up. I wanna be brave, but not stupid.

WHAT TO DO, WHAT TO DO?

So what to do? Be myself? Well, whatever that means. The Semi-Normal Me, the Crazy Talker Me, the Cookies-and-Milk Me or–hey—what about the Writer Me?

The Writer Me knows what’s great about my story and why this wonderful editor sitting in front of me would want to buy it. The Writer Me knows what it takes to put a good book together because I’ve been doing it for a long time. The Writer Me has confidence in my ideas, my style, my writing (well, most of the time) and so maybe, just maybe, what it comes down to is letting the person I’m meeting with see THAT Me.

And if Writer Me comes to the table with mermaid hair, wearing sandals and a flowing purple dress instead of a suit and high heels, well, maybe that’s all right too. 'Cause that’s just me. The Real Me.

So here’s the plan: Lock the CrazyTalker Me in the closet.

Let the Writer Me out.

And then, maybe most important of all, remember that this is just one meeting (well, two or three, but still). Sure, it matters, but it is not going to make or break my career, or my life.

WAIT! WHAT IF IT DOES??

Just kidding. It’s all good. It’s all really, really good. Because it occurs to me that what’s really important here is to go into the room and connect with this person, this other human being on the other side of the table who is taking time for this moment, to present my idea the best I can, and hopefully, to be memorable, in my own way, not because I have a blue streak in my hair, but because I am writing a good book and have been able to convey that without babbling. as I am doing in this long run on sentence.

Okay, okay, so I need some practice.

But I can do this. And so can you.

I hope to meet some of my blog readers at #RWA14 ! I’ll be the one in the kind of weird dress and sandals, with long white hair with some turquoise streaks. (Yes, I know, I’m obsessed with it! I can’t help it! I love it!) And also they match my new turquoise glasses! Whee!

Anyway … Be sure and stop me to say hello, and if I have a cookie, I’ll be happy to share. : )

Oh … about your editor/agent appointments?

Yes, hahahahaha! I’m really J. K. Rowling and I’ve just been pretending to be Tess Mallory, hahahaha!

Okay, I’m not J. K. Rowling.

Just dreaming. ; )

I’m weird like that.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Which is a great way to slip into mentioning that my blog, NOTE TO SELF is now called WEIRD LIKE THAT!

I think the new title reflects who I am a little better and makes me sound like I’m a much more fun person than I actually am. : ) Thanks for reading!

NOTE TO SELF: 5 WAYS TO TELL IF YOU’RE LOSING YOUR MIND

#1 YOUR SPOUSE MAKES THINGS UP

So yesterday, on the way to the dentist AGAIN (see Dental Phobia post @ www.tessmallory.weebly.com ) my husband had to pull off the road suddenly because we had forgotten to pick up my sedation medication. He pulled off right in front of a storage unit place, just as another car pulled in and almost hit us. As my heart tries to climb back into my chest, my hubby, says casually, “Oh, I think that’s the lady that owns this place. You know, this is where our second storage unit is."

(Yes, we have TWO storage units. Because we’re special.)

Okay, forget we just almost got smashed into head-on by this crazy lady, whomever she may be, but wait a minute–this was not our second storage unit. I mean, I know where our second storage unit is–it’s just outside of town and is a brand-new, fancy-schmancy place.

I know this, because my husband took me out there recently to show me where to drop off the check every month to pay our bill. (No there’s no postal service in our town. Okay, there is, it’s just easier to drop it off and my husband is cheap.)

And even more recently, I had rushed out there to make a payment so we wouldn’t lose our storage unit, since both of us had forgotten to pay the bill. (No, this doesn’t happen all the time. Okay it happens a lot.)

Because of this, I knew this storage unit place (where we had just almost gotten killed and maimed and dismembered by some lady driving crazy) was definitely NOT our second storage unit place!

After a heated "discussion” in which my husband insisted not only was this our second storage unit place, but also he had NEVER taken me to the other fancy schmancy storage unit place on the edge of town, I sat back in my seat, feeling totally bamfoozled.

Now, I know he did take me out there, but no amount of “conversation” could convince him of that. So of course, that led me to wonder … Is he Making things up, or Am I going crazy?

As far as I’m concerned, he’s making this up (and has been known to actually rewrite history!), but this isn’t a blog about my husband, no matter how adorable he may be. But the incident made me think about the possibility that I might be, you know, insane. I figured, if I can think of 5 insane things I’m doing, then I’ll know for sure. And maybe you will too. So that was #1. Mull it over, ladies. And gents.

#2 YOU BUY YOUR SPOUSE A PUPPY

I mean, what was I thinking? First of all, let’s forget about the fact that neither one of us have ever had a successful or good experience with a puppy, and the only grownup dog we’ve ever succeeded with was an amazing rescue Corgi who was the MOST PERFECT DOG IN THE WORLD (may he rest in blessed peace).

Second, let’s forgo the knowledge that since Waffles was the most PERFECT DOG IN THE WORLD that it is statistically impossible for any other dog to be anywhere CLOSE to being as perfect as he was. Third, Let’s not even THINK about the fact that we had just downsized into a tiny version of our previous home, and had barely enough room for ourselves, let alone a puppy.

The fact is, my husband never asks for anything for himself, and has missed Waffles so terribly since he passed away a couple of years ago, that when he (my husband) said he wanted a Corgi puppy, I threw intelligence and past experience into the hot Texas wind and said, “Yes, let’s do that!” (Let it be noted that I did first point out all the reasons that getting a puppy at this time was NOT a good idea. But at the same time, when I think about puppies or kitties I get all mushy and gooey and sentimental and stupid.)

So six months ago, we got a bouncing baby boy Corgi puppy. His name is Biscuit. The fact that it took us two months to name him should have told us something. The fact that we should have named him Dog-Who-Eats-Rocks-And-Anything-Else-That-Will-Fit-In-His-Mouth is beside the point.

At first, he was adorable and precious and so cute with his big Corgi ears and little nub of a tail–okay, he’s still adorable and precious and cute, but the honeymoon is over, kids. Mostly because as mentioned above, HE EATS EVERYTHING. I wanted a dog, not a goat.

But I love the little guy, and have been ecstatically happy to pay the $600 vet bill a little each month since he ate the rock that eventually pooped out on its own anyway. Bless his little cat-poop-eating heart.

#3 YOU DON’T KNOW IF YOU DREAMED IT OR IT HAPPENED.

Now, if you read the #1way to tell if you’re Losing Your Mind, you might be inclined to think that this one, #3, is actually what happened in the whole storage unit disagreement. NO, it isn’t. And you can tell my husband that if you see him.

But sometimes I do get confused, like I’m thinking about a conversation I had with my son, and I think, “Did that happen or did I dream it?”

So then I have to call him and say, “Did we have a conversation about inventing a way to flatten cats and keep them alive so you can stack them in a closet in the winter, or did I dream that?”

To which he will invariably reply “Mama, are you taking your medications?”

And to which I reply, “Just answer the question, smartie pants.”

And as in #1, the moral to this point is that it is THEIR WORD AGAINST MINE. And it’s my blog, so I win. We did have that conversation and I will be stacking cats in my closet next winter.

#4 YOU FORGET WHY YOU WALKED INTO A ROOM

On first glance, this seems trivial, but believe me, it isn’t. I get up, I go into the kitchen and for the life of me I DO NOT REMEMBER WHY I’M THERE. And that’s okay.

What’s not okay is I NEVER REMEMBER WHY I’M THERE. The same goes for not remembering where I put something, or if I took my daily rotunda of medications or if I fed the cats or brushed my teeth.

The answer: just do them all again! Which, I’m now realizing, could account for the faint green pallor of my skin, 5 fat cats, and the lack of enamel on my teeth.

#5 YOU THINK YOU CAN DO STUFF YOU CAN’T DO

This is the worst one I think. Not long ago my daughter was going to do yoga to a CD and I thought I would do it with her. It would be good for me, right? Limber me up and get the blood flowing!

The problem, you see, is that in my head, I still weigh 120 and am 21 years old. I can still touch my toes in my head. In the real world, not so much. I was kind of excited when I got down on the floor with my daughter and started to do the various zen-like movements.

And then my back went out.

But what was cool is that right before I collapsed into indescribable pain on her living room rug trying to do the Downward Moose, I had an amazing epiphany:

Yoga is evil. Really. Totally Satanic. And since I am against evil stuff, of course I had to stop doing yoga. And how can I complain about my back? If I hadn’t wrenched it, I wouldn’t have known that yoga is evil! I discovered evil and I vanquished it, so I am the winner.

Are there winners in yoga?

My husband is guilty of #5 worse than I am. He still thinks he can climb up on roofs and dig ditches five feet deep to lay sewer pipes, and probably leap tall buildings in a single bound. When he had back surgery last fall for a herniated disk, he was told to not lift anything over ten pounds for six weeks.

The third day after surgery he came in carrying Biscuit (remember the puppy in #2? No, it wasn’t a dream) under his arm like a log for a fireplace (which we don’t have). At the time, Biscuit weighed 15 pounds.

“What are you doing?” I said patiently. No that’s a lie. I screamed and kind of flailed my hands around in the air.

“I’m bringing the puppy in,” he said, frowning.

“WHY ARE YOU CARRYING HIM? You’re not supposed to carry anything over ten pounds!”

“He doesn’t weigh over ten pounds.”

“Yes, he does!”

“I don’t think so.”

And so it went for the next six weeks. I told my husband how much the things he carried weighed and he denied it.

He did learn that a jug of spring water weighs 8 pounds. So for that six weeks, when he insisted on bringing in all the groceries by himself, he carried the spring water in one hand and eleven plastic bags in the other, figuring the weights balanced out that way. I told him he was right, the plastic bags only added up to 2 more pounds–apiece.

IN CONCLUSION, I would like to say that the fact that my husband did this, in addition to swearing that he never took me to the fancy schmancy storage unit place, PROVES without a doubt that he is Making Things Up.

As far as my own insanity, mine is a creative kind of crazy that doesn’t usually involve knives or anything, so that makes it all right. And besides, they are what makes me crazy–the puppy and the cats and husband. So I should have named this blog FIVE WAYS HUSBANDS AND PUPPIES DRIVE ME CRAZY, but I didn’t because I didn’t realize it then.

At the same time, it occurs to me that I also could have named this blog FIVE WAYS TO TELL IF YOU’RE GETTING OLD, but that would appeal to a much smaller audience, because there a lot more people out there who think they might be crazy, than will admit that they are getting old.

Tomorrow, no doubt, I will get up and have to check to see if I really wrote this blog or if I dreamed it. I can live with that … AS LONG AS WE’RE ALL CLEAR ABOUT THE STORAGE UNIT!

Until next time … be kind to one another and don’t worry about going crazy. It’s them, not us.

Timeless Highlanders Trilogy

Scroll Down, Readers, Scroll Down!

I must confess to being completely confused on Tumblr’s very strange way of having a way to comment. I WAS WRONG to tell y'all to Click on Would Love To Hear From You. Apparently you should click on Ask Me Anything. I guess. I’m not sure still.

In any case, thank you so much Dorey, Toni, and Roberta for your comments!! They mean the world to me!

Dorey – Are you kidding me? You are a wonderful writer! And I have PROOF that you’ve written more than a poem. Let’s try plays, literary pieces and don’t forget – A BOOK! :D You are a writer in THIS life make no mistake about it!!

Toni –Tumblr stole your name from the post!! It makes me so happy that your daughter enjoyed the workshop! I love to encourage aspiring writers. How is she doing? Still writing?

Roberta – Hope this answered some of your questions! But good grief it turned out long! : D

For those of you who haven’t yet read the blog, scroll on down below the comments that follow until you get to the actual post. Thx for reading!

– Tess : D

Voice from the past

Hey. prolific pal. I am still envious that you can pour out so many words on paper. You know me, I struggle with even a one-page poem! Great writers advice in your blog…In my next life, I wanna be one!

Dorey