Stupid Crazy + An Excerpt

My life is stupid crazy right now. I have done this to myself. Not only am I wrangling three monkeys, keeping my marriage S P I C Y, and just making my way through life, I have taken on 1. a photography business that is STUPID busy right now, 2. an oil business that is STUPID busy right now because people are all crunchy these days and want to bathe in essential oils, 3. a book that is just shy of 10,000 words already, 4. a styled wedding, 5. family coming in from out of town for the next month, 6. trying to get my house whipped into shape, AND 7. working with awesome vendors who give me awesome things for me to take awesome pictures of my awesome kids in for my awesome blog.


Also, I promised you an excerpt, so an excerpt you shall have. I have been spending about an hour a day working on the book. Only my closest girlfrans are my test readers right now because they will lie and tell me it's amazing. I will deal with haters and rejection once this book is finished and I'm shopping publishers. For now, I will remain in my bubble, believing that it is wonderful.


Excerpt from I Love Jesus, But I Cuss A Little

A Good Little Baptist Girl.

I grew up in a normal home in Southern California. Three bedrooms, two baths, a mom & dad who tolerated each other, an annoying little sister named Rachel, multiple dogs, cats, rabbits and whatever other creature my mother happened to be rescuing that week. I was the typical firstborn: bossy, know-it-all, master eye roller, bitchy, strong-willed, show-off, and obnoxious.

Allow me to create a visual for you, a glimpse into what a little Andrea was like. At the ripe, old age of eight, I was hyper, loud, blonde, spastic, lanky, and toothless. My sweet little sister, Rachel, was Pollyanna. She was quiet, calm, kind, unassuming, and she was also stealing my spotlight with her cuteness. When Rachel turned six, her teeth started to loosen. We did what any normal family would do: we tied a string around that tooth and tied the string to the backdoor in the kitchen. Dad grabbed the video camera that was the size of a small truck, hoisted it over his shoulder and the red light began to blink. My Mom counted to three, swung the door shut, and a split second before the tooth flew out of Rachel’s mouth, I made a ballet leap in front of the camera and stuck my tongue out, to which my Dad replied, “Dammit, Andrea!” They had missed Rachel’s big tooth pull thanks to my inability to share the spotlight. This was the theme throughout our childhood. Poor Rachel was always upstaged by her big sister, the attention whore.

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