Allison Hawn's Blog, page 15
April 18, 2013
Life is a Circus Run by a Platypus
I have a book coming out! Yes, you read correctly, an actual page-and-binding construct that will be big enough to help you fend off a rabid squirrel if you should happen to meet one!
My book, Life is a Circus Run By a Platypus, has been selected for publication by Sweatshoppe Publications!!!
Here are the answers to the questions you might (or might not, this is a bit of a Schrodinger moment) be asking:
> What is this book about?
Well, here is the blurb from the back of the book:
Has being late to work due to dancing clowns ever been a problem for you? Have you ever had to defend yourself against a giant iguana? Does the overture to “The Music Man” make you violently twitch?
In Life is a Circus Run by a Platypus readers are immersed into what it would be like to live every day as if a herd of ballerinas were chasing you, without the inconvenience of actually having to run. This collection of truly bizarre short stories taken from the author, Allison Hawn’s, life takes one across the world and into the strangest crevices of civilization. The lessons learned through her adventures might very well save the reader if they too ever have to face birthing a cow, calming distraught technical support or death by furniture.
> Well that sounds swell, when and where will the book be released?
It will be available May 20th on Amazon.com and through the Sweatshoppe Publications website (http://sweatshoppepublications.com/). In the following week it will also be available through Barnes and Noble, Ingram and various other bookstores. A full list will be provided closer to the actual release date.
> If there were a war between bears and unicorns, who would win?
Unicorns, undoubtedly.
> If I have questions about the book, media kits, or am having a minor existential crisis, how do I contact you?
The best way currently contact me is through commenting on this webpage or through my e-mail at platypusringmaster@gmail.com, I welcome any and all questions (but cannot guarantee a satisfactory answer to all your existential conundrums). Also feel free to follow me on Facebook and Twitter!
Stay tuned, same Bat-time same Bat-channel, as this is my official website, for more details. I will be running contests, providing you with sneak previews and have extra book related content here in the near future. Thank you all!
My book, Life is a Circus Run By a Platypus, has been selected for publication by Sweatshoppe Publications!!!
Here are the answers to the questions you might (or might not, this is a bit of a Schrodinger moment) be asking:
> What is this book about?
Well, here is the blurb from the back of the book:
Has being late to work due to dancing clowns ever been a problem for you? Have you ever had to defend yourself against a giant iguana? Does the overture to “The Music Man” make you violently twitch?
In Life is a Circus Run by a Platypus readers are immersed into what it would be like to live every day as if a herd of ballerinas were chasing you, without the inconvenience of actually having to run. This collection of truly bizarre short stories taken from the author, Allison Hawn’s, life takes one across the world and into the strangest crevices of civilization. The lessons learned through her adventures might very well save the reader if they too ever have to face birthing a cow, calming distraught technical support or death by furniture.
> Well that sounds swell, when and where will the book be released?
It will be available May 20th on Amazon.com and through the Sweatshoppe Publications website (http://sweatshoppepublications.com/). In the following week it will also be available through Barnes and Noble, Ingram and various other bookstores. A full list will be provided closer to the actual release date.
> If there were a war between bears and unicorns, who would win?
Unicorns, undoubtedly.
> If I have questions about the book, media kits, or am having a minor existential crisis, how do I contact you?
The best way currently contact me is through commenting on this webpage or through my e-mail at platypusringmaster@gmail.com, I welcome any and all questions (but cannot guarantee a satisfactory answer to all your existential conundrums). Also feel free to follow me on Facebook and Twitter!
Stay tuned, same Bat-time same Bat-channel, as this is my official website, for more details. I will be running contests, providing you with sneak previews and have extra book related content here in the near future. Thank you all!
April 13, 2013
Silver Linings and Hand Sanitizer
This past week I was kissed by the least competent cross-dresser I have ever seen.
I work with homeless youth for a living, and as such, often go to random places where free meals are being held so that I can say things like, “No, really, you do have court today. I don’t care that it’s National Waffle Day, that does not exempt you from showing up.”
I was at one of the early morning breakfast feeding spots for the homeless, when a stubble clad chin with enough make-up to stop a nuclear warhead sauntered up to me unsteadily in a pair of heels that may have been too "out there" for the 1980's.
"Good morning, darling!" the voice boomed from far above my head as a long mane of greasy hair was tossed over a shoulder and jingly accessories danced in a way that would give most small animals a seizure.
I made a small finger wave as I attempted to figure out something to say aside from, "Good heavens! Your eyeliner, it's gone rogue, it's trying to take over your face! Run for your life!"
Then suddenly he swooped down like a hawk going after a legless shrew. I had just enough time to turn my head before he planted a giant sloppy kiss on the side of my head.
Ilsa, an outreach worker from another agency who works primarily with the adult population, reached over smacked him and said, "No! Let her go! What have I told you, we don't kiss people we've just met!"
He let go, and unsteadily sauntered off, winking at me and nearly face-planting into a table. A few minutes later, when I was using enough hand sanitizer on the side of my face to effectively disinfect a beluga whale, the main thought in my head was, "Well, the day can only improve from here."
I find it a little sad that that was my first and only thought. Not, "Holy crap what just happened!?" or "Did I accidentally take some LSD somewhere back there?"
No, my only thought was basically that with the bar set so low for my Wednesday, things could only improve.
I'm not entirely sure what this says about my life. I definitely have a habit of wandering into bizarre situations. Maybe it is kind of like how people who were raised on farms have become desensitized to the smells that make the rest of the civilized world want to yack, I think I have become desensitized to surreal, off the wall, crap happening to me.
I mean, I realize it is not in a person's normal day to watch dancing tweakers, or be delayed getting to work by dancing clowns or be told that they have "lovely lumberjack calves"(I’m still not sure if I want to take that one as a compliment or insult yet).
However, it really doesn't hit me how strange some of this stuff is until I tell someone else about it and they look at me like I've suddenly sprouted antenna and told them that my name is Gozer the Destroyer.
In any case, I wouldn't trade my myriad of crazy situations for the world. Then again, I do sometimes wish they wouldn't slobber as much.
I work with homeless youth for a living, and as such, often go to random places where free meals are being held so that I can say things like, “No, really, you do have court today. I don’t care that it’s National Waffle Day, that does not exempt you from showing up.”
I was at one of the early morning breakfast feeding spots for the homeless, when a stubble clad chin with enough make-up to stop a nuclear warhead sauntered up to me unsteadily in a pair of heels that may have been too "out there" for the 1980's.
"Good morning, darling!" the voice boomed from far above my head as a long mane of greasy hair was tossed over a shoulder and jingly accessories danced in a way that would give most small animals a seizure.
I made a small finger wave as I attempted to figure out something to say aside from, "Good heavens! Your eyeliner, it's gone rogue, it's trying to take over your face! Run for your life!"
Then suddenly he swooped down like a hawk going after a legless shrew. I had just enough time to turn my head before he planted a giant sloppy kiss on the side of my head.
Ilsa, an outreach worker from another agency who works primarily with the adult population, reached over smacked him and said, "No! Let her go! What have I told you, we don't kiss people we've just met!"
He let go, and unsteadily sauntered off, winking at me and nearly face-planting into a table. A few minutes later, when I was using enough hand sanitizer on the side of my face to effectively disinfect a beluga whale, the main thought in my head was, "Well, the day can only improve from here."
I find it a little sad that that was my first and only thought. Not, "Holy crap what just happened!?" or "Did I accidentally take some LSD somewhere back there?"
No, my only thought was basically that with the bar set so low for my Wednesday, things could only improve.
I'm not entirely sure what this says about my life. I definitely have a habit of wandering into bizarre situations. Maybe it is kind of like how people who were raised on farms have become desensitized to the smells that make the rest of the civilized world want to yack, I think I have become desensitized to surreal, off the wall, crap happening to me.
I mean, I realize it is not in a person's normal day to watch dancing tweakers, or be delayed getting to work by dancing clowns or be told that they have "lovely lumberjack calves"(I’m still not sure if I want to take that one as a compliment or insult yet).
However, it really doesn't hit me how strange some of this stuff is until I tell someone else about it and they look at me like I've suddenly sprouted antenna and told them that my name is Gozer the Destroyer.
In any case, I wouldn't trade my myriad of crazy situations for the world. Then again, I do sometimes wish they wouldn't slobber as much.
April 7, 2013
It's Hard to Samba in a Kilt
I cannot dance.
I am not just saying this to downplay an actual ability like when people say, "Oh, I can't sing," and then they belt out an aria from Carmen (Jerks). No, I really cannot dance.
I have what I like to refer to as Caucasian Rhythm Disorder. I am of Scottish descent and we are a people known, at our stereotyped best, for throwing heavy objects, playing bagpipes, producing whiskey and eating haggis, none of which are really activities that bring about a culture of smooth and sensual rhythmic movements.
Even our traditional dance is called " The Highland Fling" and mostly revolves around hopping around like a one-legged bunny on caffeine (Not to disparage any of my dancing kin, it's very difficult to do, but I wouldn't call it smooth by any stretch of the imagination.)
This past week my friend Sarah invited me to go to an aerobic toning class, and always looking for something new to try, I went. Being a few days past laundry day I threw on the only clean piece of workout clothing I had left; my Sport Kilt.
We got through the aerobic class, with me happily sweating along, kilt probably befuddling the rest of the class. The class ended and as we were all leaving a Zumba class began to arrive.
For those of you who have never been exposed to the wonders of Zumba, it is basically Jazzercise on crack.
Zumba participants are devoted, much like the members of a cult, to their classes. They show up several times a week, often wearing Zumba uniforms, and often chant along with the music.
My friend Sarah turned to me and said, "Hey, we should stay and do Zumba!"
I blinked at her a couple times with the same expression an antelope might have for a cheetah with a jet-pack. I tried to explain to her that I am not a dancer, that the second I am given a beat and rhythm to follow I become a danger to myself and others, but she did not heed my warning and so out onto the gym floor we trundled.
The music started and the first thing the instructor shouted was, "Go to the left!" And I promptly went right nearly crashing into a wall. Correcting my trajectory (because that is all it really can be labeled at this point) did not help much. I had no idea what the Zumba-trons were doing with their feet, much less what they were doing with their hands or hips. I do not samba, salsa, hip-hop or use my hips to tell truths (that's right Shakira, my hips tell terrible, terrible lies). They all moved in a wonderful synchronized form while I did something similar to The Time Warp meets the Highland Fling in a kilt.
I will admit I had fun, even when some older lady lady tried to help me learn some very basic steps, she eventually gave up. But I can promise I was a dancing tragedy, a fact that was confirmed by the pitying/attempting to be encouraging looks I got from a very adorable gay couple across from me.
What I found fascinating is how into it everyone in the class seemed to be. It didn't matter how big or small the person was, orientation, religion, The Bachelor devotee or not, this was the most accepting cult I have ever witnessed. Though, I will probably not be returning anytime in the near future, I'm pretty sure I almost gave some poor woman a black eye due to directional mishap.
So what lessons did I learn from my boogie-bedazzled enterprise?
1. You can have a lot of fun making an absolute fool of yourself (a fact I already knew, but it's nice to have a refresher course every once in a while).
2. If at first you don't succeed, then do the Running Man for 3 minutes until the song changes and you have some smidgen of hope that you will have some sort of a clue what to do for the next song.
3. Always wear a kilt into new situations, just wearing one increases one's courage, I promise.
I am not just saying this to downplay an actual ability like when people say, "Oh, I can't sing," and then they belt out an aria from Carmen (Jerks). No, I really cannot dance.
I have what I like to refer to as Caucasian Rhythm Disorder. I am of Scottish descent and we are a people known, at our stereotyped best, for throwing heavy objects, playing bagpipes, producing whiskey and eating haggis, none of which are really activities that bring about a culture of smooth and sensual rhythmic movements.
Even our traditional dance is called " The Highland Fling" and mostly revolves around hopping around like a one-legged bunny on caffeine (Not to disparage any of my dancing kin, it's very difficult to do, but I wouldn't call it smooth by any stretch of the imagination.)
This past week my friend Sarah invited me to go to an aerobic toning class, and always looking for something new to try, I went. Being a few days past laundry day I threw on the only clean piece of workout clothing I had left; my Sport Kilt.
We got through the aerobic class, with me happily sweating along, kilt probably befuddling the rest of the class. The class ended and as we were all leaving a Zumba class began to arrive.
For those of you who have never been exposed to the wonders of Zumba, it is basically Jazzercise on crack.
Zumba participants are devoted, much like the members of a cult, to their classes. They show up several times a week, often wearing Zumba uniforms, and often chant along with the music.
My friend Sarah turned to me and said, "Hey, we should stay and do Zumba!"
I blinked at her a couple times with the same expression an antelope might have for a cheetah with a jet-pack. I tried to explain to her that I am not a dancer, that the second I am given a beat and rhythm to follow I become a danger to myself and others, but she did not heed my warning and so out onto the gym floor we trundled.
The music started and the first thing the instructor shouted was, "Go to the left!" And I promptly went right nearly crashing into a wall. Correcting my trajectory (because that is all it really can be labeled at this point) did not help much. I had no idea what the Zumba-trons were doing with their feet, much less what they were doing with their hands or hips. I do not samba, salsa, hip-hop or use my hips to tell truths (that's right Shakira, my hips tell terrible, terrible lies). They all moved in a wonderful synchronized form while I did something similar to The Time Warp meets the Highland Fling in a kilt.
I will admit I had fun, even when some older lady lady tried to help me learn some very basic steps, she eventually gave up. But I can promise I was a dancing tragedy, a fact that was confirmed by the pitying/attempting to be encouraging looks I got from a very adorable gay couple across from me.
What I found fascinating is how into it everyone in the class seemed to be. It didn't matter how big or small the person was, orientation, religion, The Bachelor devotee or not, this was the most accepting cult I have ever witnessed. Though, I will probably not be returning anytime in the near future, I'm pretty sure I almost gave some poor woman a black eye due to directional mishap.
So what lessons did I learn from my boogie-bedazzled enterprise?
1. You can have a lot of fun making an absolute fool of yourself (a fact I already knew, but it's nice to have a refresher course every once in a while).
2. If at first you don't succeed, then do the Running Man for 3 minutes until the song changes and you have some smidgen of hope that you will have some sort of a clue what to do for the next song.
3. Always wear a kilt into new situations, just wearing one increases one's courage, I promise.
March 31, 2013
Tell Me a Story
<!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Times New Roman"; panose-1:0 2 2 6 3 5 4 5 2 3; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-parent:""; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} </style></div>--> I was talking with a friend the other night who, after hearing about my work-based meth-addict moment of the week, commented, “You have the best stories.” <br /><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The next day I thought about that statement a lot longer than my sun-frazzled brain should have, because, I wasn’t really sure if she was correct.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sure, I may have some great stories, but so does she, and so does nearly every other human being I have ever been trapped in an elevator with, talked to in a slow grocery store line or been squished next to on a red-eye airplane flight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I am the type of person who will unashamedly strike up a conversation with almost anyone. The group of little old ladies at the gym, the bored looking teenager at the DMV, the crazy looking, obviously armed, tattooed biker who is waiting in line for his drink at a coffee shop, I have no problem making eye contact, smirking and saying, “Hello.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Due to the fact that my mother burned any sense of shame I might have ever possessed out of me at a very young age, combined with a low fear of danger affecting my person, I have gotten to hear remarkable, fascinating, joyous, heart-wrenching, funny and courageous stories from around the world. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The thing that constantly amazes me is how much coaxing it often takes to assure someone that no, really, I do want to hear their stories. When I profess an interest in hearing a random snippet of someone’s life I’m usually given a facial expression that someone might reserve for looking at a penguin that magically just begun singing and dancing <i>The Time Warp</i><span style="font-style: normal;">.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m not talking, necessarily about deep personal stories that someone might only want to share with a therapist (though, I have heard those as well). I’m talking the everyday, my grandmother used to live across from my high school and bake me cookies every day, I used to have a job working as a telemarketer and I had this one crazy call, I once taught myself how to build chairs from scratch, stories. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">It saddens me that so many people believe that their stories are worth so little. Our stories, as an extension of our experiences, make us who we are. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">So let me encourage anyone who happens to be reading this to not only listen to others’ stories, but to share your own. No, seriously, go and tell a story to your friends, post a moment from your life here in the comments, strike up a conversation with a stranger and find out you have something in common. Your stories are part of what make you unique, so why not share bits of you with others?</div>
March 24, 2013
Can't I Just Start in the Middle?
I have the absolute worst time starting things.
Conversations, massive organizing projects, cooking dinner, blog posts, are all harder for me to begin than a limbless shrew attempting to start a lawn mower.
I'm not a procrastinator, well most of the time. It's often that I just get completely overwhelmed by the thought of the entire process.
My intentions start out well. I get up and with great purpose stride towards the mop determined to clean my floors. I will have victory and clean floors!
As I walk towards my intended target I start thinking about all that task will entail. Ok, I have to move some furniture, then sweep and make sure everything is up off the floor...
About halfway there my brain shorts out and I suddenly realize that my shoes by the front door are not lined up and for some reason that suddenly offends me more than being smacked across the face with a herring. Then I realize that I should probably go through the fruit on my counter and make sure none of it has gone bad. Then, of course, you can't forget to double check to see if you paid the electric bill yesterday or not. Then some of my books are upside down...
At this point it's been an hour and honestly I would have been finished long ago with my chosen task if I had just focused and gotten it done. Now I begrudgingly wander towards my kitchen and start the mopping process very much in a "Hard Knock Life" type mood.
Each and every time I have the same exact feeling of, "Ugh! Why was that so hard to start!?"
When it comes to writing I am ten times worse. It took me 45 minutes just to write the first two sentences of this post. However, in that 45 minutes I also checked my bank account balance, picked the perfect writing music, saw what was going on on Facebook (nothing, as always), chose different perfect writing music, looked up how long the movie "The Shining" is and whole bunches of super useful stuff.
Sadly, it isn't until around this point that I can just start writing and continue to do so without having to pause every few minutes to Google the lyrics to that one song that I can't quite remember the chorus to.
Once I get into a rhythm with my writing things tend to go better, and I feel much less like I'm trying to squeeze out my words as if I'm trying to fit a koala into a wine bottle.
And, of course, as I get into my "writing zone," I hear a pathetic meow come from the other room. Santeria, my rather danger prone one-year old cat, has managed to get stuck upside down from the back of the chair, her tiny hind claws stuck in the material.
Well writing focus, it was nice of you to stop by, but I should probably go rescue my cat.
As this is the first post in a brand new baby blog, I felt this was an appropriate failing of mine to admit.
Am I the only one who has this inability to start projects? I would love to hear any and all input, particularly if you can tell me how to avoid my dilly-dallying ways without the use of a cattle prod.
Conversations, massive organizing projects, cooking dinner, blog posts, are all harder for me to begin than a limbless shrew attempting to start a lawn mower.
I'm not a procrastinator, well most of the time. It's often that I just get completely overwhelmed by the thought of the entire process.
My intentions start out well. I get up and with great purpose stride towards the mop determined to clean my floors. I will have victory and clean floors!
As I walk towards my intended target I start thinking about all that task will entail. Ok, I have to move some furniture, then sweep and make sure everything is up off the floor...
About halfway there my brain shorts out and I suddenly realize that my shoes by the front door are not lined up and for some reason that suddenly offends me more than being smacked across the face with a herring. Then I realize that I should probably go through the fruit on my counter and make sure none of it has gone bad. Then, of course, you can't forget to double check to see if you paid the electric bill yesterday or not. Then some of my books are upside down...
At this point it's been an hour and honestly I would have been finished long ago with my chosen task if I had just focused and gotten it done. Now I begrudgingly wander towards my kitchen and start the mopping process very much in a "Hard Knock Life" type mood.
Each and every time I have the same exact feeling of, "Ugh! Why was that so hard to start!?"
When it comes to writing I am ten times worse. It took me 45 minutes just to write the first two sentences of this post. However, in that 45 minutes I also checked my bank account balance, picked the perfect writing music, saw what was going on on Facebook (nothing, as always), chose different perfect writing music, looked up how long the movie "The Shining" is and whole bunches of super useful stuff.
Sadly, it isn't until around this point that I can just start writing and continue to do so without having to pause every few minutes to Google the lyrics to that one song that I can't quite remember the chorus to.
Once I get into a rhythm with my writing things tend to go better, and I feel much less like I'm trying to squeeze out my words as if I'm trying to fit a koala into a wine bottle.
And, of course, as I get into my "writing zone," I hear a pathetic meow come from the other room. Santeria, my rather danger prone one-year old cat, has managed to get stuck upside down from the back of the chair, her tiny hind claws stuck in the material.
Well writing focus, it was nice of you to stop by, but I should probably go rescue my cat.
As this is the first post in a brand new baby blog, I felt this was an appropriate failing of mine to admit.
Am I the only one who has this inability to start projects? I would love to hear any and all input, particularly if you can tell me how to avoid my dilly-dallying ways without the use of a cattle prod.
