Enoughness. Part Two.

Ok, let’s see how quickly I can write this thing.

The list for this morning:

  1. I slept in my bed last night. By “my bed” I mean…. MY BED that I slept in as a wee young child up until I left for college. You know? It was pretty comfortable. That was the bed where I would lie and dream about my life…. you know…. the dreams where I become an alcoholic, then recover, then get to write two books about it? Those dreams.
  2. These conversations:


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I am pretty sure Brian KNEW that I didn’t mean “cat.” He is rather smart. And yes, I am not kidding about the feeding thing. In my “brian notes” it does NOT mention stopping to actually FEED MAH SWEET BAHBIES while I am gone, and Brian sees food as a willy-nilly experience punctuated pizza distributed at weird times… so. Let’s hope they’re alive when I return. But then… he just sent me a text promising that he would not forget to FEED THE PETS and I am really starting to question his parenting.

Also, feeding the pets is a no brainer. All Steve has to do is sit in front of his dish and look sad, and food will come. It’s impossible to avoid. He’s that good.

BTW – he is “working from home” while I am gone. This narrates to: “watching ESPN and typing once in a while” but no judgment. I write blog posts while binging on Project Runway, so yep.

3. Oh, I didn’t explain the “gone” thing? Well, here you go:

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4. This is where I am heading:



5. Also: I have really good hair today, so here’s hoping it holds on for tomorrow too. One never knows.

6. And this:IMG_8134-1.JPG

My pops drove me to the airport. Y’all, he was talking on the phone to his office, zipping in and out of traffic like the Boss of it All, and I only had to pray once for our souls at a rather dicey merging into traffic situation. The man is a BEAST, I tell you. A very sweet beast.

As we unloaded at the terminal, he told me, “Have fun. Try to be in the moment and actually enjoy it, you know? God is giving you all the gifts.” (I know, Dad, that’s not EXACTY what you said, but it’s close and I haven’t had enough coffee yet. #writerslicense).


I will. I will enjoy it. All of it. It’s such a crazy life.

Do you know why I get to do this? Because God is awesome. And I did what he asked, after a lot of whining and fighting and nutty behavior. I got sober.




See you in New York!!!




To Spanx or not to Spanx. That’s the really dumb question.

Linking up with Free Write Fridayy today!

The theme is:

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Y’all. In this post I am going to somehow tie together elasticized undergarments to my relationship with Jesus.

If this doesn’t merit a Best Blogger Award I just dunno…


Recently I was signing my book at a really Important Book Signing Event. And yes, I know I keep talking about this, like over and over, but to be honest this whole thing is totally consuming mah LIFE, I tell you. I am a Big Deal! I am super Excited! I am certainly too Famous for cleaning the cat box! If I keep posting about it perhaps the small counterparts in my family might agree!

So far, it’s not worked. I still have to feed them. Needy varmints.

And I know, with the Five Minute Friday theme and all, I should really go for a super spiritual post. But as you know… IF THERE IS A SPANX STORY, IT MUST BE TOLD. And, for reals, it was the first thing I thought of when I thought… “Freedom!”

Well, that and Braveheart. But then he kinda morphed into someone wearing Spanx and shouting in his Scottish accent and it got a bit weird from there.

So, the Spanx story:

As you might know, I purchased a dress for The Big Important Signing. A bit later, whilst journeying through the Cute Money Sucker known as Target, I spied these:


Ok. It was a DIVINE moment, I thought. I mean, it says, RIGHT ON THE PACKAGING, “Super HIGHER POWER” !!

I grabbed a pack, and clutched it to my sagging body, the crinkly packaging told me sweetly that I could “Live the Dream.” I wasn’t quite sure what the context was – like if I wore them I could finally, finally be asked to sing back up for Gwen Stefani?

Perhaps. But it’s also possible they would just make me feel all confident and non-lumpy for the Very Important Signing.

I bought ’em.

And then, the morning of the signing, I put them on. This in itself is an amazing undertaking. It takes a lot of flexibility and upper body strength to get these suckers on, friends. Also, a lot of grunting and a few moments of claustrophobic panic, but I talked myself through it. Who needs yoga class? We could just put on Spanx every morning.

And BAMMO! They were ON!


Ok, let me interject here with one small red flag. The women on the cover of the packaging? They’re, like, CARTOON women. And thus, they are not actually REAL. And also, it seems to me, they are already pretty svelte and possibly, just maybe, THEIR CARTOON WORLDS DON’T REALLY NEED SPANXS IN THE FIRST PLACE BECAUSE THEY’RE LIKE TINY.

So all this living of the dream crap lasted until about twenty minutes later when the Spanx started to want some freeeeeeedom! (Insert Scottish voice for the Spanx from hereon. Makes it more dramatic.) And since the elastic fabric of these guys seem to be possessed with its own sentient abilities – the Spanx started on its master plan of escape. “Listen, you eejit!” said the Spanx. “It’s high time I’ll be takin my leave! Blar blar blar!!”

They started to travel south.

Here I am, all professional, calm and collected, signing books and being so very famous, and at the same time, my undergarments are duking it out, all Scottish style, with my stomach and lower-down lady-bits.

And by that I mean: the Spanx were sloooooooooooowwwwwwwly rolllllllllinnnnnnng down. By painful, strangling inches, the evil torture device headed south every time I moved.

My first thought was: Just don’t move. Just sit as still as a frightened bunny and maybe the Spanx will take pity on you. This plan didn’t really sit well (get it. GET IT. You see that, don’t you?) with trying to be convivial and chatty and, you know, NOT WEIRD, when signing books.

So for a bit, I just tried to accept the Spanx. I serenity prayed at them. I surrendered to the Spanx. “God, grant me the serenity,” I breathed with the last bit of squashed oxygen in me, “To accept that I cannot change out of these…”

But then, I took courage into my own hands, and excused myself from my table and sorta lurched to the bathroom.

It was there that I removed the Spanx. With a lot of grunting and a few choice adjectives, I de-suctioned them. Not an easy feat in a small stall with a lot of rather curious writer-types around. Writer-types have very vivid imaginations, so I dread to think what they were conjuring up in their fertile minds with all this thumping and cursing and “Just OFF! Get OFFA me!  You’re evil! EVIL!!” emanating from my stall.

And then, I did kinda a dumb thing.

(You might want to interject here with, “Just NOW?” which I will allow. I get it.)

The Spanx finally made it to the floor in a beige, defeated heap. I stood, gasping above them. Triumphant. “Demonic SPAWN,” I hissed. And then I kicked them.

Now, it seems Spanx are made out of VERY elastic material. Did you know this? Which also, it seems, makes them kinda boomerangey. Because it was the kicking thing that caught one part of them in my shoe and then they sorta twanged loose and SHOT RIGHT OUTTA THE STALL LIKE FORTY FEET ACROSS THE ROOM.

I then came out of the stall, picked up the Spanx (I SWEAR it kinda growled at me), dropped it in the trash, washed my hands, smoothed my hair, and did my best, so sophisticated walk out of there. So what if it was lunch time and the bathroom was packed with fifty women in shock and awe who had just witnessed a Spanx beat down?

I was free. FREE!!!!!

I could BREATHE, y’all. Breathing is so awesome. SO completely necessary for ones serenity!

So, I pranced it back to the signing table. No, I didn’t just prance, I did my best model STRUT back to the table, friends, to the soundtrack of “I’m Too Sexy for my Spanx”.

And spent the rest of the afternoon, saggy but happy, with my devoted fans. All four of them.

Jesus loves me, this I know. He loves me, even with the foldy bits and the endless neuroses. He loves me enough to say:

“You know? You are beautiful. And I have to tell you. Spanx are from the devil.”

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How to do a Book Signing. By: A Very Important Person

How to Do a Book Signing

By: Someone so Famous I Almost Can’t Stand It

1. Find out about book signing months in advance. Feel a warm glow of anticipation. Like looking forward to Christmas. Or when the next Star Wars movie comes out.

2. Time passes. Realize you have one week until you leave. Start scheduling the freaking out to occur with regularity from hereon.

3. Arrange childcare, pack, make meals because they will all starve and die without you, pack some more, freak out on regular intervals. Wake up at 2 am a lot and then freak out about freaking out. YOU ARE SO NEUROTIC STOP IT.

4. Drive to airport. Get lost a little, right NEXT to the airport. You can see the planes. You just. Can’t. Get to the planes. Start muttering “da plane! da plane!” in a weird Fantasy Island moment, while gripping onto the steering wheel and what’s left of your sanity.  Get a grip and finally force yourself to take on google maps. OH HOLY ADULTS,  YOU ARE SO GROWN UP.

5. Get through the metal detector thing without losing your pants. Make weird eye contact with guy while putting belt back on pants. Awkward.

6. Someone on plane is wearing your high school boyfriend’s cologne which is confusing. You suddenly want to listen to Spandau Ballet.

7. Turbulence on plane makes everyone in your row start up impromptu bible study. You start humming, “I’ll Fly Away” and “Nearer My God to Thee” as comedic relief. Jesus humor is not well received.

8. Get to hotel. Twelve year old model checks you in. You want to offer her a granola bar and ask her why she’s out so late. She upgrades your room. You love her!

9. Get to room on the 27th floor. You can’t figure out how to use the keyless key thing. You are smarter than this. You nearly dismantle the keyless thingie until you realize, while holding the plastic thingie in your TEETH as you are searching, Lord, help please, PLEASE I am finally HERE just let me in the damn door, that you just need to hold it in FRONT of the keyless thingie. There is no swiping. You feel like a complete idiot and know that somewhere, someone in the concierge office is laughing his arse off. You don’t care because


11. You can’t figure out how to turn on the lights. Everything is chic and automated. Therefore, it is hard. You start to wonder if you should just go home. But, there’s two bathrooms. You can’t leave them.

12. WOW. Bam! You found button for lights and blinds! You got this! You can see now! The button says, “Welcome!” and when you push it the whole room just comes to life! All for you! It might be possible your ego cannot handle this hotel room.

13. The view from the room almost makes you burst into tears.

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14. The television says, “Welcome Dana Bowman, author.” You almost, ALMOST burst into tears.

15. You watch Real Housewives until two am because your brain is going to freak out anyway, so you frost it over with blonde highlights, drama, and boobs that smoosh upwards in clothing. You wrap yourself in the big, white, fluffy robe that the hotel provided, and realize, you can so relate to all those women. They are fraught, fraught, I tell you, with the struggle. Except to the boob part. You can’t really relate to that part.

16. You wake up at 5 am. The coffee is sublime. You dress in your “Ima author! Here is my all grownup book signing” outfit and wait for your Cali friends to show up. You feel like it’s your first day of school.

17. Friends show up. They take you on BART and amidst the Gay Pride parade which is kinda, well, overwhelming. Evidently it is rather a big deal. It just makes you very, very distracted. It is just too early for all that leather.

18. You end up by the water, and slurp down the best latte you have ever had in your entire life. It almost makes you burst into tears.

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Adorable Cali friends.

19. Sweet friends walk you to conference center, give you a kiss, and send you off. Your editor takes you to your booth.

20. You see your book, a stack of them actually, waiting for you to sign.

21. And finally. Finally. You burst into tears.

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Bad, teary pic. Happy author.

Postscript: Your editor hands you a tissue and exclaims, “There is NO crying! There’s no crying at book signings! Our authors do NOT cry! Hold it together, woman!”

And, later, you met the author of Lemony Snicket! Squee!!


The end.