When It's A Little Scary

This weekend I uploaded my first novel in ebook format. It's actually not the first novel I've ever wrote, but it is the first one that I shared with people. And by people, I mean random strangers on the internet who just happened to come across it, read it, and like it. I wrote the first draft in 2006, and then six years later, I pulled it out, edited it and stuck it on the Internet (complete with a few pesky typos). Now... I'm sharing it with not only those first readers, but with people I know. People who might look at me with raised eyebrows and ask: "Whoa, you wrote this crap? Thanks for polluting American literature!"

There's a different level of scariness to this step of self exposure. People you know can be dishonest in order to spare your feelings (thus lying to your face). People you know may be brutally honest. People you know may be disappointed. There's nothing worse that disappointing someone that I know, for whatever reason. So... yeah, this blog post scares me. I feel paranoid and anxious. I don't know why I'm getting so worked up. It's not that I'll ever know if someone in my life purchases the book (or doesn't). That's not really how book sales work. I'm more scared of the people who are like: "HEY, I bought your book!" Instead of imagining that they may really like it, I see them slamming their Nook/Kindle/iPad/etc. shut with a yell of: "What a bunch of poorly written sh*$!"

This will likely happen, at least for a few.

I can't please everyone, but wish that I could.

There's also a level of me thinking: "This book is who I am, what I like to do, the kind of writer I will likely be forever. What if people I care about crap over that.?" But at this point in my life, I'm trying to challeng myself to do things that are a little scary.

With that being said... KILLING MEMORIES (under my pen name: Tatiana Moore) is now available on Kindle and Smashwords.

If you buy it (.99 cents)... don't tell me. Thanks for any and all support!

A Thought

A few months ago, during a Couch Conversation with Sister, she decided to alert me to all the potential danger of cat litter. And how by now my body is likely full of dangerous spores and what not. At the time I was like "meh, I'm not pregnant, who cares if I'm full of cat bacteria." Now every time I scoop poop I feel like I should have a doomsday gas mask. Maybe this isn't fat on my body but feline fecal spores.

Do I Smell?

Today while walking on the treadmill I was compelled to look over my shoulder, which is when I saw a 6-foot tall, 50ish-year-old, white man wearing short blue shorts, a t-shirt, and white knee-high socks. He was staring at the wall, hands on hips. There was nothing on the wall.

Can you see him?

I'm not sure what made me turn around. It was kind of like that feeling where you know someone's watching you and you look up and someone is actually watching you. But this guy was all about the wall, so I'm not sure what it was that made me turn. Maybe the socks. Like a "oh hell no!" beacon, they called to me. They pushed through Maroon 5 pumping in my ears to drown out the grunting dude three machines down.

(You can hear this guy running from across the gym; he breathes hard, grunts, wails, and repeats the same chant over and over--a "you can do it" chant in a language I don't understand. I've made the mistake of stepping onto the machine beside his in the past. He's quiet at first, but fifteen minutes in and I'm looking around for the source of all that noise to find it right next to me. By this point I'm usually a good clip into my workout and don't feel like moving machines. I often feel like reaching over and decrease his speed a few notches. Nothing should be that taxing or that loud.)

Anyway, his sock pushed through the din of the gym and grabbed my subconscious. I was so shocked that anyone would pull their socks that high. I mean, if you're cold, wear pants.

I then realized, quite shamefully, that they were some kind of compression sock and therefore forgivable. But it made me think about other strange outfits at the gym. The most startling: full winter wear. Several guys wear thick sweat pants (likely over long johns), gloves, knit caps, and sweatshirts with hoods. They then do cardio and sweat through all the layers. I don't really understand this method. Gym rats out there who might be reading this... is that really beneficial? Do they think that the more they sweat the more calories they burn, because I'm not sure it works that way. Sweat doesn't always equal calories burned, right? That getup just seems like the perfect choice for a person who wants to experience heat stroke or dehydration. And it's the PERFECT way to marinate the funk.

Some of these people are straight up funky, men and women alike.

I was approaching this one dude on my way to the ladies gym and I could smell him about 8 feet away. That's quite the funk bubble.

Now, I know that most people don't smell like roses while they work out. Sweat has a distinct odor to it, unfortunately. But... when your funk starts to impede into my personal bubble, we have a problem. I am so absolutely horrified about making anyone around me uncomfortable with any aspect of myself, I don't know how others can go to the gym already smelling nasty.

If I'm on a machine and there's no one around me and I get a whiff of smelliness... my thought process goes a little like this:

Funky, loud guy at the gym.

Whoa, did someone fart?
...Did I fart?
What is that SMELL!?!
Where is it coming from? 
Oh god, is it me? 
 (discretely sniffs myself) 
It's me!!!
(peddles faster in effort to speed up the time that I have left and then realize the machine doesn't work that way.)
Okay, so as long as no one gets on that machine next to you, you're fine. 
Wait, the smell is gone now. 
Maybe it wasn't me.
I gotta wash these pants!

Basically, I try to be considerate of anyone and everyone, but  I worry that I'm inadvertently polluting the air. I'm sweating more these days, which I think means I'm becoming more fit? I don't know where I heard that fit people sweat more than unfit. Is that true? Now that I type it, it sounds a bit backwards. I don't want to be the smelly girl at the gym. I also don't want to dress in knee-highs, sweat suits, or other strange things.

The other day I saw a girl wearing what looked like a red and black trash bag jacket.

If I ever wear a trash bag to the gym, please slap me and tell me that cotton works just fine. Also, if I ever buy matchy-matchy workout clothes (pink shoes, pink shirt, black pants with a pink stripe, pink iPod shuffle, and pink hair bands, etc), please put me in check. And if I ever do start putting makeup on my semi-man face, please make sure I wipe it off before working out. There's no reason to wear full makeup at the gym.

I wonder if I smell. I could be the major of Funky Town and not even know it. I think Sister would tell me.... she better.

Putting Makeup on My Man Face

Not sure who this is, but this is how I feel.

I am acutely aware of every hair on my body.

It seems like such an inconsequential thing to obsess over, but I do. From the 30-year love-hate relationship with the nest of curls on my head to this odd silver arm hair that grows 4 times the length of its sister hairs, to the 1-2 visible (and quickly plucked) hairs on my chest. (The very ones that make me throw back my head wailing "I'M A MAN!") To the hair on my toes and face. To my overgrown eyebrows (I can't keep up with those caterpillars; I do keep the unibrow in check). To the fact that I must have a super hair-growing gene. To the fact that once a month my bathtub clogs after I shave my legs.

Ooo... too much?
Yeah, too much.

[The bathtub thing was hyperbole, in case you thought I was semi-serious.]

At any rate, I am very aware of my hair. From what it's not doing to frustration because its never doing what it's "supposed to do" (you know, lie sleek and flat against my head, and it should, shouldn't it? Where are the 50% white genes in me?!). I just want manageable hair. The funny thing is that for the majority of my life (beginning at like 8?) I relaxed my hair (chemical straightener) to tame the wild. About three years ago I stopped (it was too expensive and I was curious about my natural hair). Now it's all natural: a semi-tight curl with loads and loads of volume. I have enough hair for twenty people. Because there's so much, I pull it back all the time. Even now, I don't know what to do with it or how to take care of it. I switch hair products every few months. It does look good when it's down, but I'm always patting at it, wondering: Is it to big? My hair draws attention. I don't like such attention. At the same time, when I pull it back I feel like a man. Multiply this by the fact that I often have unwanted facial hair and you probably have the prime reason why I'm not approached by men. They probably see me as one of the brethren (I have been called "sir" to my face and I don't think it's my authoritative personality, ha!). Or maybe I'm not approached because I morph into Samuel L. Jackson a la "Coming to America" 'bout ready to blow someone away if they get to close.

I'm not sure where this obsession with hair came from. Hairless Barbies, most likely. Countless ads for Venus razors? (I bought one--they really are top of the line.) I wish I wasn't so obsessed with hair. Even more so, I wish I could stop focusing on my man face.

For the past few weeks I've been contemplating wearing makeup. I stopped wearing it a while ago (except for special occasions). Here are a few reasons: (1) I'm lazy and don't want to put in the effort; (2) I like the idea of being wanted and/or desired for the "real" me sans makeup, Spanx, and other beauty paraphernalia that is supposed to make me aggreable to men; and (3) being darker skinned, the stuff smears all over everything. I remember being so hesitant to hug people without leaving a brown cheek print behind. I'm only thinking about it now because I've been feeling quite manish of late.

Like man troll manish.

I wake up and hobble into the bathroom and find a man standing in the mirror. That man is me, and she is not sexy. And as I stare at my manflection I think: maybe a little make up will make this hombre prettier? And that man shakes her head and I head out the door with my hair pulled back and a pair of girly earrings in my ears.

So I am in limbo. Tomorrow, maybe I will wear makeup. Or maybe I'll quit thinking of myself as a hairy man troll. Positive thinking is supposed to be sexy, right? Meh. It's just been one of those days (ie, years).

I'm pretty sure my birth father (or mother) was part Sasquatch. Curse my little brown hairy body.