Hot Yoga: I Will Die With Abs

Four weeks ago, raw panic set in as I realized that I have to wear a toga this summer, so I found hot yoga.

 

I’m not wearing the toga for fun, mind you, but an author event in beautiful Frankenmuth, Michigan, a glorious little town with Christmas, Polka, giant pretzels, fudge, and midwestern charm to spare.

Long story short: I am 6′”1. I was at 250 pounds of. . .let’s call it “human”. Not fat, not muscle. Just critically forty-nine years old and in need of a boost.

Enter hot yoga.

I went. I gasped. I sweated– Lord above, did I sweat; like I was a spy under interview lights– and my heart pounded from a tortuously fluid series of motions that went on for three days.

Okay, one hour, but still.

But it’s amazing. I love it. It quiets my mind, and makes me work harder than I’ve ever done in any other workout, and all with a smooth deliberation that leaves me energized and at peace. It’s incredible.

Today I did the Crow pose and Eagle for the first time (without falling over like a giant Polish tree). It’s quite a sensation. I have three months until the Day of Toga Reckoning, and I think I will be– not beach ready, but Toga Ready.

That’s a thing, right?

ALSO!

Follow me on YouTube. I’m doing writer-y stuff.

5 Minute Author Coach

See you this summer, my calendar is up to date!

Cheers,

Terry

Cover Reveal and Death By Pushup: September

YEAHHHHHHH.

 

New book in three weeks. New cover? Now.

Doom brought on by pushups? Soon. I’d like to say more, but my “side-man-boobs” hurt every day and there’s no end in sight. I feel as if there is something happening to my body, but I’m not exactly sure what it is. There are lumps– also known as muscle– but they’re under my arms in a weird place, presumably good for some purpose that has not yet revealed itself.

I’m sort of thinking that one day, I’ll be in a stressful situation and BOOM, flap of skin or wings or gills or something will burst forth and won’t that be fun?

Here’s the new cover, and we’re going to have nice giveaway one week before. Two Amazon gift cards, some paperbacks, all that jazz. I’ll let you know, and until then, I’ll be doing pushups, writing, and avoiding butter beans, which as we all know, are Of the Devil.

Terry

 

I have a cold. I will die soon.

There’s no getting around it.

My son, the World’s Largest Eight Year Old, has infected me with a virulent form of the rhinovirus, which may or may not be a combination of the following diseases:

The Bubonic Plague

Cooties

Ebola

A Random Tropical Fever

Boogers.

These have combined for the following symptoms:

Sneezing.

Producing more snot than my current body weight.

Headache.

More snot.

Snot.

Snot.

I write this as a farewell to you all, and only ask that you eat pie, waffles, and Oreo thins at my funeral.

Good day.

Terry

Tuckerizing: The Art of Revenge

Tuckerization: To base a character in your novel on a real person. Popularized by Wilson Tucker.

Terry-orize: To base a character in my novel on a real person who deserves to be dealt with harshly.

Options include, but are not limited to: Dismemberment. Consumption by animals (real or imaginary), crushing, falling, disease, parasitical infestation, forced wearing of skinny jeans, and ironic tattooing. Also, death. LOTS of death.

I asked everyone on my mailing list if they would give me suggestions for Tuckerization (Terry-orize), and WOW. The outpouring of anger and seething grudges was a sight to behold. If you haven’t signed up for the list, here it is ( I don’t spam, so c’mon.) News. Freebies. Fun.

Some of the grudges range from rather minor offenses (a neighbor who honks every morning when she leaves) to actual bad people (a guy who poisoned a cat).

In all, I’ve gotten more than sixty (60!!!!) requests. So, I did the only logical thing and decided that instead of merely using one of these assholes in a scene, I’m going to use two. The first person (winner?) will be Terry-orized in a scene that I’ll post to this blog and my Facebook page.

However, the second “winner” will be included in my next book, Halfway Bitten, and yes– I’ve already written the scene. There are certain people who just make my teeth vibrate, and the suggestion I got from one friend/reader was too good to pass up. 

Regarding her suggestion: It’s a type of person we’ve all met. They’re (unfortunately) more common than I’d like to admit, and they make me irrationally angry. So, while the chapter will remain a mystery until the new book is released, we will start by giving you the title of the chapter:

                        “Chapter Twenty-Nine: You Picked the Wrong Diner, Lady”

The other “winner” will be dealt with this week, and I’ll post their unfortunate demise here. We might even have sound effects and/or pictures; it depends on how angry I am when the scene is complete.

So, to everyone who wants me to take it out on someone for them– Thanks! 

(And I hope I never get on your bad side) 

Cheers,
Terry


SUPERMOON OF DOOM: PMS EDITION

What is it?

A moon, but Super. And an eclipse, and apparently some sort of excuse for behaving like a rampaging gang of Visigoths, because blood.

This is a Supermoon:

I bring the assurance of your doom. And salty snacks.



And these are Visigoths:

Do you think she’s prettier than me?



Which brings us to the truly terrifying part of the SuperBloodMoon of Doom.

By my math, approximately twelve percent of women will be experiencing PMS during this event. Within the United States, that means around 17 million women will be engaging in their Lunar War of the Uterus. This conflict has unique conditions, weaponry, and tactics. Here is a general representation of what a logistics officer might need to become versed with in order to prosecute this war:

I’m crying because Andy Cohen won’t retweet me!




Note that there is little nutritional value, but do so silently, in a different room, and while breathing quietly.

The signs are easy to read, unlike portents of old. It used to be that a seer or wizard would spill the entrails of a goat and read them to divine the nature of an upcoming event. Fortunately, our society is well past such silliness. You merely look for a variety of this woman:

Why yes, I’d love your mother to come visit for a week.



So, while celebrity scientists are hailing this event, they clearly haven’t thought the issue through. My prediction for this catastrophic event is as follows:

3,671 murders.

198, 426  “Why don’t you just marry her, then?”

379, 511  “I think you know what you’ve done.”

597, 842  “That whore? Figures.”

2.26 million tears at every commercial featuring dogs, cats, or old people.

4.6 million cartons of ice cream/bags of chips.

That’s the rough math. Your mileage may vary. While the scientist urges us to look to the heavens, I urge you to look out for yourself.

You’ve been warned.

Terry (From an undisclosed location.)

A Cover Model Made Me Cry: My Workout Story

I decided to get professional help. I’ve lost a good bit of weight, started lifting again, and was, until today, feeling rather chuffed about it (as the Brits say). I know the reality is different, but in truth—




Last year in one of my classes, I had a student who is a cover model and personal trainer. His name is Fred. He’s a nice guy, as long as he isn’t making you lift weights until you think you might die.

This is Fred.


So naturally, I booked for the full hour of training, because a half hour wouldn’t quite get me that six pack. Fred understood. The appointment was made. I went. I was confident. So is Fred, who I might add, works incredibly hard. Here is Fred being confident:



Oh yeah? Well nobody can outdo the unjust confidence of an aging formerly average athlete. No. One. Stretch? Hydrate? BAH.


Well then. The results were a bit different than I’d anticipated. There was good news– I’m ten pounds lighter than previously thought, thanks to a scale that isn’t clogged with dust bunnies and shame. As for the actual torture workout, it was a bit more challenging than I imagined. 

As in, I was unsure I could drive home. Without dying. Twice.


Oh, and Fred gave me dietary information. He plans regimented meals with a fitness goal in mind:


So my ordinary meals are a thing of the past. I made it home– barely– and now, it’s time to be aggressive about taking care of my body. I’m sure that I’ll be cool in about two or three weeks.
I’m an American. Not an Americant.

*if this blog goes dark, I’m dead from health. please inform my wife. thank you.

Terry