Meet the Ermas: Round 1

 5 Responses »
Dec 282011
 

I love to laugh. Almost as much as I love to make other people laugh (clarification: on PURPOSE, yo.)

So when I was asked to officially hop on the An Army of Ermas bandwagon by the incredibly awesome Stacey I. Graham, I naturally said (and I quote), “Hell Yes!” The beauty of the Ermas site is the multitude of talent you’ll find and the humor* (and ability to relate to the real life moments) in the stories shared by each and every writer for the site.

Being a writer myself, I always like to get to know the person behind the words on the screen, and I’m hoping you will, too. There’s a lot of Ermas and I’d like for you to get to know each one. Today I’m featuring an interview with Adam Slade. I promise I only featured him first because of the sexy English accent I’m imagining.

PMC- Vanilla or chocolate? I know you expected me to start with age, rank, and serial number, but we need to set the tone for this interview first. Vanilla is safe and boring. Chocolate is funny and a bit adventurous. Or was it the other way around?

Adam-Vanilla, but in a funny and adventurous way. Ha! I’m complex!(With real vanilla pods. Mmm…)

PMC: Sneaky bastard. Okay then. Do you chew your ice cream?

Adam: Yes. Unless it contains nothing chewy. In which case, yes.

PMC: Good. I don’t trust people who don’t chew ice cream. Now that we’re past the pleasantries, I want name, rank, and serial number. Who are you, exactly. And why should I think you’re funny?

AS: Adam Slade, Chief Accountant in Charge of Sheep-Dip, #42, MA’AM.

I’m an English author of fantasy and humour (with a U), and have a few books under my belt that you should definitely buy. I’ll even throw in a belt to carry them with (I won’t). I currently live in Canada with my wife and cat. Both are lovely, though one occasionally bites me.
You should think I’m funny because I try really hard at it. (Don’t believe those who say it should come naturally – notice how they’re never funny people.)
PMC: I see. Where can one buy your books? And I want that belt.

AS: One (and you, yes you) can buy my books on pretty much every internet ebook seller there is. To cut down on finger strain, though, I’ll just link that Amazonian one.

Belts come only with large purchases. Large enough that I can afford to buy a belt from the royalties.
I also write erotic romance under another name, but that’s a secret, so you’ll just have to buy lots and lots of it in the hope that you get one of mine.

PMC: I was waiting for you to tell me erotic was spelled with a “u”. So, Mr. English. Tell me about this Erma gig you’ve got going on. Did you bribe Stacey with brownies to get in, too?

AS: Nope. Unless you have a past you’re not telling me about, there’s no “u” in erotica. If I plied Stacey with my brownies, she’d have me arrested for attempted poisoning. After she beat me up, of course. Everyone knows editors have serious guns from all that crossing-out.

Last Christmas Our Glorious Leader put up a competition, asking people to submit their funniest Chrimbo-themed articles. The winner would get both praise and their article posted on the site. Since I’d wussed out of the previous call for writers, I manned up just enough to write something for the contest, and Stacey decided it was worth posting. Just after that, she offered me a spot on the Ermas roster and I said ‘booya’, followed by ‘yes’.
I tend to post about once every 2 months, as spots are limited, and sometimes I’m too late/lazy to grab one. I try and keep the articles silly.

PMC: No bribing? Obviously, there is some favoritism present. *lesigh* I was gonna say there is no “I” in erotic but that just backfired on me. So back to you. Where can one find you on the interwebz?

AS: What can I say? It’s my English charm. Or the begging. Probably the begging, come to think of it.

I’m speedy with my innuendos. It’s a gift. Or a curse. A girse? That sounds like a cross between a giraffe and a horse. Cuft, then?
You can find me in many many places, as I use the internet far too much. My main blog has links to everything else. I’d love for some new followers to go with my ol–, uh, less new ones. They’re a lovely bunch. Most can move about without walkers, too.
PMC: Do you ever tweet? Cuz I’m on, like, all the time. And I never see you! Talk more. That might reel in the non-walker crowd.

Just my two cents.

Okey dokey then. Oh wait! You said English charm! Do you have an English accent to go with it? Will you read my my grocery list?

AS: I do tweet, but nowhere near as frequently as I used to. It’s a failing of mine.

Yes, I have an English accent, and yes, I can read your shopping list. Lemme see…
Mexifro comb, oil for elliptical trainer, three extra large packets of sarcasm…

PMC: You’re lucky I like you….

***

*I thought about adding the “U” out of respect for my English guest. Then I decided I like the way the word looks better when spelled properly.

Buzzing on Ketchup

 21 Responses »
Dec 022011
 

I’ve already posted an excerpt and a review of Robin O’Bryant’s Ketchup is a Vegetable: And Other Lies Moms Tell Themselves. Now it’s time for the official author interview. Grab yourself a glass of wine and kick up your feet and relate, y’all.

Extra credit if you stay till the end.

And yes, I will totally know if you actually read the post or just skipped to the end.

***

Aspiring Mama: Let’s cut to the chase. What do you mean, ketchup isn’t a vegetable?

Robin O’Bryant: It IS. It totally is. Isn’t it?? It has to be at my house because it’s the only thing my seven-year-old has eaten besides Cheerios and chicken nuggets since she started taking solids. Occasionally I make her eat something green– which she then slathers in ketchup and gags down. Sometimes you just gotta get by and figure out what works for you. That’s what Ketchup is a Vegetable is about: figuring out this whole motherhood thing as you go, doing what works regardless if it’s what somebody else would do and learning to laugh at yourself.

AM: And this girl doesn’t mess around, ladies and gentlemen. Did you see that segue way into her book and why you must have it?

So, miss smooth operator, I can laugh at myself. Am I doing it right if other people are laughing, too?

RO: Definitely. I think people in general are drawn to others who they can relate to, and who can relate to perfection? If you can laugh at yourself and let others laugh with you then everyone feels less alone.

Being a mother, especially if you stay at home or work from home, can be very isolating. (*Sidebar* I am not saying that being a working mom is easier. Being a parent is hard anyway you slice it!) But nobody wants to be friends with the mom who is always put together and has “perfect” kids– she makes the rest of us feel bad about wearing yoga pants and baseball hats everyday.

AM: Please tell me you base your clothing choices on what has the least amount of food stains visible. Cuz then? We are totally relating.

RO: Lawd, yes. After I had my third daughter in four years (did I stutter?) I was so proud of myself for getting Dressed to run errands one day. I had a four-year-old, a two-year-old and a newborn and actually not having a breast exposed was a pretty big deal. I mean at that stage in the game getting dressed was yoga pants with snot stains crusted on the knees and a t-shirt off the floor. But I got Dressed– which means I got all fancy and put on pants with a zipper, a real bra, makeup– the whole nine. I went shopping after I dropped my oldest two at preschool. I felt so sassy, I tossed my hair and sashayed all over town.

That night when I was getting in the shower, I pulled my shirt over my head and felt something crusty… dried baby puke all the way from the shoulder to the waist of my shirt. That’s when I gave up. Now that my kids are a little older (7,5 & 3), I’ve started getting fancy again, you know– bras with underwire and pants with zippers.

AM: Swanky. Now, I’ve never met you in person but I imagine you talk just like you write and really? I totally think we are the same person. Only my hair is much more confusing. So I imagine that reading Ketchup is a vegetable is a lot like drinking too much boxed wine with your favorite girlfriend after the your kids (and hers) kids have passed out from their Kool-Aid induced sugar highs while watching SpongeBob Square Pants. Please tell me I am correct and that this is how you will describe your book to anyone who ever asks for a description from this point on.

RO: Oh abso-freakin-loutely. I grew up in Alabama and have always lived in the South so I may have a little more twang than you’d expect! But yeah, these are my thoughts about being a mom, just like I’d share them with my bestie. It was hysterically funny to me to see how many synonyms I could come up with to call my lady bits. And if you’re going to write about being a mom then you are going to be writing about your lady bits– a lot.

AM: You know you have to share now, right? I want the top five lady but synonyms. Go!

RO: Britney. Coo-coo. Zipples. Lady Bits. Big Berthas. There are STORIES there. (Also my best friend is the sweetest person in the world and her only concern when reading my manuscript was that one day Britney Spears would read my book and have her feelings hurt that I called my bidnass *BONUS synonym* Britney.)

AM: I am so using that. The Britney reference, I mean. Well, maybe not. “pushed a baby out my Britney” sounds like an MTV reality show that’s supposed to run right after 16 and Pregnant. I prefer the terms *hooha* and *cabbage*.

But back to the book: what was your inspiration? And why do you think it will resonate with other moms out there?

RO: I’ve always been very introspective and terrified by the temporary nature of life. I’ve spent a lot of time in my life worrying about things that never happened, then a childhood friend of mine was killed in a boating accident. It was like someone was shaking me and SCREAMING, “STOP BEING AN IDIOT! Enjoy life while you can!” Then I had kids, and I made a conscious decision to stop worrying and enjoy my life… even if to do that I’m sharing some of my most embarrassing moments for the world to laugh at.

I wrote this book for other moms because like I said, we can feel so alone and we don’t have to. But I think anybody with a sense of humor will enjoy it. I have a self-syndicated humor column and I get so cracked up when I get emails from people outside of my demographic– some guy in his 20s told me once that he and his childless girlfriend read my column out loud every week and laugh until they cry. Prolly good birth control, too.

AM: I’m sorry about your friend. But I’m glad you are inviting the world to laugh at you. Dare I ask what didn’t make it into the book?

RO: I don’t mind being the butt of my own jokes but I never want to share other people’s stories without their permission. There are things I have written about that I will never share because I don’t want to hurt or embarrass my family or friends.

There are a few stories I wrote about my girls when they were two and four that seemed fine at the time. But after reading those stories when they were several years older, I realized they might be embarrassed so I cut them. I don’t want my kids to think that everything they do or say is going to be shared with the general public. I wrote this book for adult women so there are things there my kids don’t need to know about yet. But they know which of their own stories are in the book and have veto power over my weekly columns. Respecting their space is my biggest concern when deciding what stays and what goes.
AM: Impressive. Because what stayed was motherhood gold.
***
Now for the fun stuff. Who wants a chance at a signed copy of Ketchup? I know I do. *Glares at Robin* Anyhoo…For your chance to win, here are the rules:
1) Leave me a comment telling me what your favorite motherhood lie is. Like? Mine is that the leftovers I eat off my kid’s plate are totally calories-free. (1 entry)
2) Facebook, Google Plus, and/or Tweet “Ketchup is a Vegetable & @Robinobryant is hilarious Enter to win a copy here!” and leave a comment indicating you did so. (1 entry for each)
This means you have four chances to win a copy of Ketchup, providing you remember to leave a comment for each little thang you do. Entries will be accepted through midnight (EST) on December 9.
Do one. Do them all. Whatever you do, just promise me that you’ll help spread the word if you like Ketchup. And thank you for being as excited for my friend and her book as I am.

And Other Lies Moms Tell Themselves

 26 Responses »
Nov 282011
 

You know that really embarrassing family story about the time the kids did that one thing in public at that one place and you were all like OMG that’s only okay to tell after five too many wine coolers with the girlfriends while the little angels terrorize Daddy because it’s your night off? Or that time you dressed up like an Italian sausage at Target while your kids picked out string bikinis for you to try on?

Yeah? Well, my friend just one-upped America with a book she wrote full of little gems like these that she wrote… while she was sober.

I know.

Okay, so the actual title is Ketchup is a Vegetable: And Other Lies Moms Tell Themselves and the mom behind the book is named Robin O’Bryant. I’ll let the following excerpt speak for itself…but make sure to some back Wednesday and Friday for my review and an author interview (including a giveaway for a signed copy of Robin’s book!)

***

After giving birth to Sadie, my third daughter in four years, I was perfectly happy to be fat for a few months while I finished breastfeeding, until I got a card in the mail from my little brother’s fiancee. I called my sister Blair immediately and said, “Did you get a card in the mail from Anna?”

She could tell by the tone of my voice I was panicking so she said, “OH NO! They didn’t break up did they?”

“Oh no, it’s so much worse than that…”
“Aw crap, did she ask us to be in the wedding?”
“Yep.”
I was flattered she asked me but I was horrified. I could wear a sarong at the pool all summer, but would probably look suspicious walking down the aisle that way. I reluctantly started going back to the gym and Blair started doing Weight Watchers. My feelings about exercising when breastfeeding are about the same as they are when pregnant: It’s pointless.

When I’m pregnant I’m going to gain weight no matter what. When nursing, my body fights to hold on to fat like I’m going to be hibernating. For example… my sister lost nine pounds in two weeks on Weight Watchers; I on the other hand gained a pound and a half going to the gym for a week. (Please save the muscle-weighs-more-than-fat tirade for someone else. When I exercise while breastfeeding I am ravenous and will eat anything in sight. I end up consuming more calories than I burn.)

As summer quickly approached I finally had to break down and buy a bathing suit. No amount of tugging and/or lubricant could coax my post-baby body into one of the million suits I already owned. There was no way my baby’s meal tickets were going to be squeezed into anything I already had.

I went to Target (also known to Mommies across the country as their “happy place”), and bought a “Big Girra Bathing Suit.”

“Mommy, how ‘bout this one? It is SO cute!” Aubrey said as she picked up a hot pink string bikini.

I looked critically at the bathing suit she was holding, and quickly deduced that the triangle top probably wouldn’t even cover my zipple.

“No baby. I don’t want the other mommies at the pool to have nightmares.”

We continued back to the “Women’s Sizes” and I flattered myself with the first size I chose and forced it on to my body, Lycra snapped and crackled as I pulled, stretched and sucked it in. After seeing my reflection closely resembled an Italian sausage I’d eaten once, I was forced to get a larger size.

This should have meant that I took off the suit and put my clothes back on to go get another one. But If you’re shopping for clothes somewhere you can also buy an ICEE or a foot- long hot dog, you need to realize that no one is going to come knock softly on your door to see if you need another size. I’m lazy though, so I put on the swimsuit cover-up I was trying on and walked to get another size, dressed for the pool. I’m not going to tell you what size I ended up in, though I will say it had a “W” behind the numberS. (Plural. As in there was more than one.) I called my sister while I was checking out and she texted back, “I’m in WW’s (Weight Watcher’s) can’t talk, ttyl :) ”

I texted her back, “How many pts are a Butterfinger & a Coke cuz that’s what I’m eating rite now?” Maybe I can convince Anna that all of the bridesmaids should be in sarongs.

 

Go Ahead…Guess What I’ve Been Reading Lately…

 2 Responses »
Sep 232011
 

If you give a writer an idea, she’ll probably ask for some inspiration to go with it.

When you give her the inspiration, she might procrastinate on Twitter for a bit.

Making up new hashtags and ignoring auto DMS will make her lose track of time so you’ll give her a well-intentioned Facebook threat to get back to writing which she will miss because she was on Google +.

When she finally sees your GET BACK TO WRITING status update, she’ll decide you meant her blog. So she’ll post there about how hard she’s working on her book.

Then she will post her blog link on Twitter and Facebook and Google + and a random gas station bathroom wall and get sucked into talking about writing again, specifically, how much time it takes.

She’ll eventually toggle back to her manuscript document and promise herself to dive in but the blinking cursor will scare her away again.

She’ll decide she needs to go read a book instead.

First, she’ll browse her e-book library.

Then she’ll glance through her hard copy collection sitting on her nightstand.

She might even open one of them up and get lost in someone else’s words.

After she reads, she’ll want to interview her characters.When they start talking back, she’ll smile bigger and hunch over her keyboard just a bit more intently.

When her favorite character reveals her love for four-inch stilettos, she’ll want to go shoe shopping.

She’ll want you to come, too.

It’s research, and her accountant will wonder why he was crazy enough to accept a writer as a client.

You’ll take her to Dress Barn because who just buys a new pair of shoes for that really big date with the main character’s love interest? She’ll update her Facebook status about how much she loves research. She mentally works the outfit into her chapter five and saves the receipts to piss off her accountant.

She’ll want to head to Starbucks next. You’ll order a Tall Skinny Half-Calf Mochaccino with soy milk, and she’ll ask for a Venti Iced Green Tea with three honeys. You will both proceed to ignore each other in real life while tweeting each other online and pretend you don’t notice chairs scraping the floor as other customers move just a bit further away from your table as you randomly break into seemingly uncharacteristically synchronized laughter.

This only makes you both laugh harder. At the same time. Then you’ll sip your Mochaccino and she’ll slurp on her Green Tea.

The Green Tea will remind her that the main character’s love interest’s mother loves a a squeeze of lemon in her own teacup. She’ll ask you for a notebook.

First, she’ll scribble a few notes. Then she’ll give you back your notebook and tweet that her muse lives on Starbucks.

When Starbucks closes, you’ll be the last to leave.

On the way home, she’ll read you the funniest comments on her blog post about how hard writing her book is from her iPhone email app. Then she’ll want to share her responses to the original comments.

When you get home, she’ll ask for that notebook again. She might even find the page she scribbled her notes on.

Seeing the notes will remind her of the inspiration that got her going. She’ll probably ask you to beta. And chances are,

if you give her any encouragement,

she’ll get a new idea to go with it.

This Breath

 11 Responses »
Sep 022011
 

I just had sex with my husband on doctor’s orders because my ovaries finally decided to kick out a few follicles that might turn into eggs that might turn into a baby or quite possibly a litter and I’ve got to tell ya, I’m not sure if I’m rooting for Team Infertility or Team Modern Medicine to come out the victor. The first I already know and can handle. The second is shiny, new, and…

I can’t wrap my mind around what I don’t know.

Disclaimer: Wait, what? Me? Sex? With my husband? If you know me in real life from before social media existed, please stab yourself in the eyeballs with the nearest semi-sharp object and let yourself continue to believe that we brought Buttercup home with us after holding hands while skipping through a cabbage patch field.

Of course, the deed *ahem* has been done and I can’t undo whatever fate may have in store for us anymore than that hairdresser at Great Clips can emotionally unscar the teenage boy who broke into tears after she complimented him on his new Justin Bieber-esque look before he left with his mother who kept reassuring him that he and every other boy in America or at least Tucson younger than 20 do not, in fact, look like Belieber groupies in denial.

Even though he totally did.

I can’t undo. And it’s not the um, doctors-orders-homework that has me all a titter. Life is good in the land of The Married. He drives me crazy. I drive him crazy. And when things get boring we pretend to argue just to spice it up a bit. The issue that has me wondering WHAT THE HELL DID I JUST DO? is the fact that I may have voluntarily and irrevocably changed the simple reality I know and love for allowing me to not go any crazier than I already am.

She can walk. She can talk. And she’s fairly self-sufficient on the potty front. She goes to school a few hours for a few days a week and makes herself laugh silly with really bad knock-knock jokes. She’s four going on fourteen going on forty and she’s the miracle we waited almost two years for that I didn’t know would become the reality I wanted until I held her in my arms for the first time because I’m the kind of person who is so afraid of change that I’ve trained my brain not to want the unknown and instead accept the new today once the wind has already changed direction.

It’s true. I don’t want to go to Paris or Italy or dream of cruises or tropical islands because I have never experienced them. I have no desire to try something crazy just so I can say I did it because that would require planning and foresight and a willingness to not be so rigid but if I happen to be out on the town with a friend and she decided on a whim to stop in a piercing shop I can’t promise I won’t come home without a dainty little nose piercing. I didn’t plan my wedding as a girl growing up or sign my name with the Crush of the Week’s in doodle hearts while dating because I that would have required me dreaming about What If instead of focusing on What Was. And when I finally came to the moment where The Boyfriend became The Fiance who became The Husband as I walked down the aisle to become The Wife, I was In Love and In Awe and In Flux between states of complete calm because Life was Happening and Utter Terror because Life was Happening.

It wasn’t until the day after graduating high school, arriving on my college campus, graduating with honors, starting my first job, moving in with The Boyfriend who became The Fiance who became The Husband, pushing the baby out, moving cross-country Anything Important that Has Happened in My Life that I’ve had pretty much the same thought process work itself out in my mind: That wasn’t as bad as you thought it was going to be, you jackass. Well, except for maybe the pushing the baby thing out. She was totally worth it but Dude! That pretty much sucked. This is what was meant to be and where I was meant to end up. This moment is magic and I really need to lighten up and allow more magic to just spontaneously happen because that’s how life works.

I know this. And yet, I sit here…wondering what I want the doctor to tell me when it’s time for results and how I will react. Wondering if I can love another baby as much as I love the miracle that already is. Wondering if I am enough to mother more than once child and nurture them both completely in the way that is singularly unique to their own beings and needs without falling short and thinking I should have quit while I was ahead.

I wonder because I don’t know. And I won’t know until tomorrow comes. Until then, I concentrate on this breath…

And then the next…

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