Good evening everyone I was on the blog blitz for Odyssey In A Teacup yesterday and have a great guest post to share with you.
Odyssey In A Teacup is available now in ebook and paperback, you can purchase a copy of both here.
Huge thanks to Rachel from Rachel’s Random Resources for inviting me onto the blog blitz and to the author for providing me with this guest post.
Before I share my guest post with you here is a little bit about the book.
Book Synopsis:
A tut-tutting, big-breasted, modern-day gorgon; a humourless schoolmarm with an unfortunate name and freakishly long, yellow incisors (yeesh)—these are the kinds of people Ruth Roth regularly encounters. Add in daily dealings with an acerbic mother who squawks like a harpy, a father with a dodgy moral compass and a God complex, a bitchy mirror, and Ruth’s existence feels like a Greek tragicomedy.
The idiocy of daily life makes sense to Ruth when she develops a fascination with ancient mythology. She learns that the deviant gods and spectacular monsters of bygone myths are alive and well in the backwoods of our psyche; that there’s always one who escapes suppression and can have the whip hand in our lives. Ruth’s is one of the most unwelcome societal presences—the goddess of obscenity. And talk about ugly!
Ruth can relate to this immortal. Not in looks; Ruth is quite comely. But she feels unwelcome in her own family (she gatecrashed her mother’s womb only two months after her brother vacated it). Despite being labelled the ‘black sheep’, or maybe because of it, Ruth takes on her nemeses, bravely and brazenly (her dirty goddess doesn’t give a rat’s about social niceties). But our heroine is war-weary. And the yearning to fit in somewhere—anywhere—eventually undoes her. We must look on helplessly as Ruth loses her soul.
She wants it back, though!
Just as well the mad characters in her mind and experiences won’t quit. Just as well Ruth never loses her wry wit. And where her nearest and dearest attempt to keep her shrunken into a wholesome package of conformity, Ruth’s two closest girlfriends simply won’t allow it. And then there’s Ralph Brill.
Ruth’s hot-looking, eccentric cousin and best friend, Ralph is her staunchest ally. Also a misfit in his family, he has his share of problems including a st-t-t-tuttering brutish father, and an obsessive-compulsive personality disorder—Ralph needs to do everything twice, twice.
Ruth relies on his repeated encouragement and the support of her girlfriends as she embarks on an odyssey. A good homoeopathic dose of ancient mythology helps her find her way back through the sludgy shame and irrational fears choking her spirit. Then just when all seems well, Ruth faces an apocalypse …
Guest Post:
I love Matt Stone and Trey Parker, creators of South Park. I love their warped humour, their characters—foul-mouthed, politically incorrect bunch of yobs!—I admire their ability to satirise. Apparently, I do a bang-up job of this myself, according to a reviewer. She said it had been a really long time since she’d read good satire, and she ‘simply adored’ my first book.
I was chuffed, but I hadn’t thought of myself as a satirist. I thought I was just writing humour, Aussie style: taking the piss out of everything is one of our favourite pastimes. Then again, when you think that so much about life is stupid, it’s hard to resist sending it up.
Anyway, because most of my characters are parodies, I decided to commission a caricature of myself and add it to the cover images of all my social media accounts. Ha, ha, ha.
But now, it seems, the joke’s on me.
As we get older, our nose supposedly gets wider, our chin gets longer, our ears get bigger. I’m starting to look like that caricature and my Maker is laughing. Oh yeah, ha, ha, ha!
Occasionally, I’ll stand in front of my sometimes-bitchy mirror and push my droopy basset-hound jowls upwards. It reminds me of the way I used to look; makes me ask myself what can I do about this?
Well, there are lots of options. Many involve going under the knife. There’s also a heap of non-surgical approaches like dermal fillers, botox, etcetera. But I dare say none of these procedures is as painful as the process of self-acceptance.
Still, if I do decide to ‘alter’, why not go the whole hog? As above, so below. Top ’n’ tail. Yep. A face lift and a … vaginaplasty?
No way, José!
So, maybe a collagen boost for the lips and lips. An injection for the upper; vontouring for the lower. Vontouring is the treatment du jour for a saggy twat. Non-surgical, laser vaginal tightening?
Nope, again. Should I consider opting for a vajaycial, then—a kind of facial for the vagina?
Nope to that too. No one’s going anywhere near my vajayjay with a vacuum glass, pore cleaner or a micro-exfoliator—I can barely weather a speculum.
Self-improvement is different for everyone. And far be it from me to judge others for wanting to do what makes them feel good. The shift in appearance that comes with getting older is made so much harder for us women with the endless subliminal body-shaming that fills the airwaves. And although I’ve been hostage to social mores at times, there’s no rhyme or reason to much of it.
There was, however, a reason for my rhyming when, as a member of an online writers’ community, I used to submit poetry. Mostly, it was because I was too bloody lazy to come up with short stories. But maybe it was because the power of poetry cuts deeper than a scalpel can.
So, when the body-shaming tries to have its way with me in a weak moment, I can look back on this particular poem I wrote:
Just slide your numbing stent inside my vein,
And knock me out to make me young anew,
As botoxed brow and hoisted chops regain
a mirror casting back a luscious view
Two silicon balloons … augment my chest!
Please liposuck my dimpled thighs and hips.
With tummy tuck, my blubber you’ll divest,
Then give me JLo’s arse and Jolie’s lips
A cougar I’ll still be, but who would know —
my spandexed bod will surely hide the facts?
… Oh wait … inflation tends to reach a low,
And skintight stretching ends up looking lax
On second thoughts, it seems that I’ve been blind:
You have to wear a mask but mine’s not writ.
I’m outta here, I think I’ve changed my mind,
’Cause when it’s lost I’ll hardly give a shit.
At the end of the day, even if I haven’t lost my mind, I’d rather look at a caricaturised version of my younger self in the mirror than a version I don’t recognise.
About The Author:
Paula Houseman thought her life was, well … meh. Until she started fiction writing. What gushed forth onto the page made her realise her existence had not been mundane after all; it had been ridiculous! Sure, she has a serious side. The concept of ‘identity’ had fascinated her for some time, and she exercised it as a graphic designer creating them for others through imagery. Then, at university (majoring in linguistics and sociology), she explored how word usage constructs our identities and realities. Paula applied her findings to an essay on women’s subjectivity, even won the 2007 UNSW United Association of Women Prize. And her honours thesis examined the archetypal significances in the words that shape our collectively authored cancer story. But while she was digging around in ancient mythology where the archetypes live, Paula developed a kinship with a butt-ugly, potty-mouthed goddess, one who embodied a holy kind of dirty, showed her the absurdity of the human condition, taught her about the value of laughter, and is responsible for the bawdiness in her book, Odyssey in a Teacup.
Over The Rainbow Blog 