highly-acclaimed blog. (Long title of her book: "Beyond Blue: Surviving Depression & Anxiety and Making the Most of Bad Genes"). Over the last year, Therese has become one of my favorite people. Here is the endorsement I sent to Therese’s publisher:
I don't know how Therese does it - a singularly unique woman who strikes a universal chord, a one-of-a-kind that we can all relate to. Let me count the contradictions: perfectionist-screw-up, brilliant-confused, depressed-hilarious ... Therese is a saint in pursuit of a masterpiece, and BEYOND BLUE is Exhibit A. This is The Book of Job as Art Buchwald might have written it, had he been as talented as Therese. Wise, compassionate, and funny beyond measure, Therese ultimately offers up healing. This is a book for the ages.
The publisher chopped this to a single sentence back cover blurb (to make room for the other rave endorsements, I might add).
The book goes on sale in January, but Amazon has it in stock right now. I have heard that Amazon orders heavily influence whether book stores will stock certain books or not, so I strongly urge all of you to order from Amazon now.
Any follower of Therese is well acquainted with her keen sense of humor. To give you a feel for her style, I rounded up these extracts (with her permission) from some of her funniest blog pieces. Enjoy ...
Fear of Fish
From a blog piece on competing in a triathalon:
You’d think the paranoia would end as soon as I could exit the sooty pond, but not for an OCDer.
As I sat on my bike seat, I heard a squishing sound.
"I heard the fish. I just squashed it! I knew it!"
"It’s probably the padding in your shorts. Chill out. And even if you managed to catch one, he’ll be dead by the time the ride is over."
"But I can’t ride 14.2 miles with a dead Nemo in my pants!"
Every time I shifted gears, I thought about Nemo, wondering how he was doing. In fact, no matter how hard I tried to direct my thoughts to something else, preferably the race I was participating in, I continued to freak out about the fish.
Like when I passed a chicken farm, about a half of a mile into the run.
"I smell it! It’s a whole family of fish, reproducing as I run! Nothing short of a fish school drying out could smell that bad!"
I finally crossed the finish line singing the tune from "The Little Mermaid": "Les poisons, les poisons, how I love les poisons!"
Which was fitting, because considering all the seaweed (but no fish!) that fell off of me in the shower afterward, you’d think I was "The Big Mermaid."
A year or so ago, I got fed up with my mate's constant begging for sex, so one night I asked him point blank, "What is the minimal number of times a week that you need sex in order to be satisfied?"
"Twice. Absolute minimum."
"Fine," I said. "You get Monday and Thursday. If you don't beg any other night."
It then occurred to me that Monday and Thursday evenings were trash night. We drag out all of our rubbish and recyclables from the last few days and leave the stuff on the curb ... to be picked up at 5 a.m. the next day, when the trash truck compressors will try to wake up our slumbering kids.
Yes, trash night is sex night in our household. Clearly a "Seinfeld" episode in the making.
This concept ... of a scheduled sex session ... was so intriguing to the other birthday guests that trash talk dominated the entire conversation for the rest of the evening.
"What about bulk pick up?" one asked.
"And what if you miss a day?" asked another.
"Eric's lucky," said the guy crossing his legs. "Our trash is only picked up once a month."
Schedule of a HSF (Highly Sensitive Family)
A typical Saturday morning in our highly-sensitive house looks like this:
2:00 a.m. HSH (highly sensitive husband) goes downstairs to sleep on the couch because he keeps getting awoken by the loud snoring of his HSW (highly sensitive wife), who is having anxiety dreams (she missed her final exam because she got carried away with the ice-cream machine at the dining hall--filling up 21 small paper ketchup containers with all the different flavors, all of which are too cold on her highly sensitive teeth).
2:10 a.m. HSH is back upstairs to get a softer pillow for his highly sensitive head.
5:15 a.m. The state of South Dakota on the HSB's (highly sensitive boy's) talking puzzle of the United States wakes up HSH again. He bangs it with his highly sensitive hand, but it won't stop saying "Pierre is the capital of South Dakota. Population, 14,000."
Finally, the miffed HSH goes into his highly sensitive woodshop (the garage) to get a screwdriver to dismantle the thing. As he yanks the IN (insensitive) AA Energizer batteries out of there, it finally shuts up. This reminds HSH of the time his HSW tossed a Winnie the Pooh keychain into the back yard when it got stuck playing the Winnie the Pooh theme song. (Her efforts with a hammer in the woodshop didn't succeed at rendering the thing mute ... So every time she opened the back door to let the dogs do their business for three days--until the AA Energizers finally surrendered--she heard the annoying tune.)
Lots more from Therese in future blogs. In the meantime, don’t delay: please order from Amazon now.