Monday, October 10

Lovely Liz Owen + an excerpt from My (Not So) Storybook Life

Y'all. I'd introduce you to my friend Liz Owen, but you already read her blog and salivate over her beautiful pictures and craftiness, right?

Liz has an adorable dog named Mabel, a super-talented arty husband, and one of the cutest little girl babies to ever be a girl baby.
This is Jane. Hi, Jane!

Liz is a great blogger. By that, I mean that she actually blogs useful and cute and informative and inviting and honest things. And she does it more often than I do once a month.

And Liz wrote a book. And not just the kind of book that sits around on a hard drive and never gets any fresh air, but a real, live, funny, published book. Because I like Liz so much, I'm choosing not to be annoyed that yet another friend of mine is going to be a famous author before I am. (See: Kyran and Jerusalem)

Instead of being jealous and keeping Liz's talent and grace (and her love/hate of literary heroines I also happen to love/hate) a secret, I'm going to share.

She posted an excerpt from My (Not So) Storybook Life: A Tale of Friendship and Faith on her blog, and I'm swiping it.

Folks, you're going to want to read this book. It will be out and about, making people happy, next Tuesday, October 18th.

Pre-ordering is your friend.
You can find My (Not So) Storybook Life at any of these fine book-selling establishments:
(click on the links below, yo!)
Amazon (and, maybe in stores? I dunno)
Barnes et. Noble, inc
and BAM!
(ps- if you google "Elizabeth Owen" she is not the one with the book about clairvoyance. fyi. she's the one with the supersweet cover)

I haven't read it yet, but I've been promised an early copy. I'll review it here when I've read it, and possibly, since I was planning on buying it anyway, maybe, if you tell me I'm pretty, I'll give away a copy, too.

For now, enjoy. And pre-order. And thank me later. 

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.

It's gonna be so cool, right? I know. I'm excited, too.


  1. Now, this sounds like a book I can relate to! I'm adding it to my list of books to order/ buy. Thanks for the heads up.


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