Monday, December 22, 2008

Merry, Happy--Reading!

OK if you’ve been paying any attention at all you all know What Doesn’t Kill You is coming in January (hardcover, audio—which we’re reading, ebook and Kindle)—January 6 to be precise!!! We’ve shown you the cover, and given you the publicity blurb that tells you generally what the story is about, we’re even running a contest “Tell Us Your Best Broke Story” (check out details on our website which gives you even more of a clue that the story is about our main character, Thomasina “Tee” Hodge’s personal financial meltdown.

You may have gathered that we’re also pretty excited about this book—for lots of reasons. Considering what’s happening in the economy today, Tee’s story couldn’t be more topical—and relatable because if you’re not having a hard time, you know someone who is. AND What Doesn’t Kill You, our sixth novel, is our very first adventure in telling a story in first person. We know ya’ll always want to know how we write a book together and even with our YouTube video ( it’s still one of those things that even we don’t completely know how to explain. But in this book it’s two of us writing a single character’s voice for the whole book—and we had a ball. We absolutely LOVE Tee—her ups and downs and most of all her self-deprecating sense of humor and we hope you’ll be fond of her too.

So here’s Chapter 1—Merry Christmas, Happy Kwanzaa, Happy New Year!!

Copyright © 2009 by Virginia DeBerry and Donna Grant
What Doesn’t Kill You
Chapter 1
all you can do is mop up the aftermath, dump it in a giant personal hazmat container and move on.

I shoulda known better. But I guess life would be boring if we had all the answers. How about half the answers? Maybe that would have kept my butt out of the gigantic sling it ended up in.

Who am I kidding? No, it wouldn't. Anyway, until the day after my daughter's wedding -- and all that champagne -- I really thought I had a handle on my life. Then it broke off.

But if you can't drink champagne at your daughter's wedding, when can you? Amber's wedding -- it's been two years and it still seems impossible she could be married. My little girl looked so beautiful I had to pinch myself to keep from boohooing. That day she and J.J. -- Baby Son-in-Law I call him, because he still has a face like his fourth-grade picture -- made a whole bunch of promises to love, honor and put up with each other's mess. Then she wasn't my little girl anymore. She was J.J.'s wife. My own vows didn't hit me that hard.

In the limo after the ceremony I popped the cork on one of those cute little champagne splits to calm my nerves. Not that I was nervous like test-taking nervous, but your only daughter's wedding does fall into the major life-change category -- those events that give us gray hair and stress us out, like moving, losing your job, grinning and bearing it while dealing with your ex-husband and his wannabe diva girlfriend for three whole days without slapping either one of them. Besides, I knew the bubbly would help me smile through all the picture taking even though my feet sizzled like raw meat on a hot grill, thanks to those very cute, very high shoes Amber talked me into because they looked so sassy with my lilac dupioni silk suit. And I looked damn good, thank you very much. Better than J.J.'s mother in that tired blue ruffled muumuu, and let's not even discuss that woman Amber's father paraded around. I mean, who wears a miniskirt and thigh boots to a wedding? Don't take my word. Check out the video. I looked great -- way too young to be the mother of the bride. Except for that corsage.

I hate corsages. They're for old ladies who wear mink stoles and musty dusting powder. That will not be me. Ever. The last thing I needed was a big, sloppy orchid planted over my double Ds. Why do you think I wear this minimizer harness? But Amber just about had an ing-bing at the florist's -- you know, one of those fits like she used to pitch when she was two and she didn't approve of my day-care wardrobe selection. Ever try explaining to a two-year-old that the pink flowered pants are in the dirty clothes and she should be thankful she has something clean to wear, since Mommy has been featuring the same tired black skirt every other day for two weeks and scraping together enough quarters to hit the Laundromat by the weekend because the check for the used-car-dealer jingle Daddy wrote is still "in the mail"? And that she needs to get her skinny behind dressed, since Mommy is ready to scream because she doesn't want to be late for work again? You can't. So somehow I'd manage to tease, trick or threaten her into her clothes and I'd wash out the pink pants that night by hand, which pretty much guaranteed the next day she wanted to wear her jeans with the stars embroidered on the back pockets. We sure came a long way from those days.

So I wore the corsage, because Amber has always had first-class taste, thanks in no small part to good home training, because I love her more than anybody in the world, and because arguing with my daughter can be like convincing a pit bull to let go of your leg -- which isn't a bad quality. Early on I made sure she learned how to stick up for herself. Besides, it was her wedding. OK, their wedding.

It's just that I wasn't ready for anybody's wedding. Oh, I was used to the two of them hanging around the house, from the time they were in high school, and all through college, listening to the stereo, watching TV, playing games on the computer. By the time they were in tenth grade, he'd dropped the "Mrs. Hodges," and since he had sense enough to know not to call me Thomasina, he invented his own name for me. "Yo, Mama Tee, what's for dinner?" He'd ask this while taking inventory in my refrigerator, just as big and bold. "Did you ask your mother?" I'd say, but by then he'd be setting the table -- placemats, silverware, napkin folded just so. He was always sweet, and I figured he'd be around until Amber chewed him up and was ready for the next flavor. Shows you what I know. Either he is the right flavor, or she hasn't chewed the sweet out of him yet.

Anyway, in the fall after they had both graduated and found their first jobs, I was up early one Saturday, getting ready to go get my hair done, and the doorbell rang. Amber came flying downstairs, wearing the white blouse, tweed skirt and black leather Minnie Mouse pumps she'd put on when she was trying to look sophisticated. I knew something was brewing, since it was only a little later than the time she usually got home from Friday night. Before I could say anything, she yanked open the door and J.J. strolled in wearing a navy blue suit. A suit? On a Saturday morning? It made me dizzy. J.J. kissed her, handed me a box of still-warm doughnuts and a bouquet of red and white carnations wrapped in that shiny green tissue paper. That's when my knees went to Jell-O and I almost missed the seat of my chair as I sat down. The two of them plopped on my sofa, all bright-eyed and shiny-faced.

"What's wrong?" I said, which I know is not what you're supposed to say when somebody gives you flowers and doughnuts, but it's all I could think of. The next thing I knew, he was down on one knee, holding a black velvet box. "Oh no," is what came out of my mouth, which wasn't exactly what I meant, but really, it was. I dropped the flowers all over the floor. J.J. swiped at a tear on his cheek after he slid the twinkling half-carat diamond on Amber's finger. "Look at it, Mama!" Her hand was shaking when she showed it to me. Then she finally remembered to say, "Yes." And I ate six doughnuts -- I don't know what flavors -- then went to the hairdresser, because what else was there for me to do?

Later, when Amber and I were alone and I could speak in complete sentences, I sat next to her and took her hand. At first she thought I wanted to examine the ring, but I covered it with my other hand. "You two are so young to get married. You just graduated from college. Your whole life is ahead of you." I must have read that in The Fools' Guide to Motherhood, because those words never came out of my mother's mouth.

"Not as young as you and Daddy," she informed me and snatched back her hand.

So I pointed out the obvious. "You see how well that worked out." But the "case closed" look had come over her, like when she just had to have the Chinese symbol for luck tattooed on her left thigh for her eighteenth birthday. I said, "To my knowledge no one in our family is Chinese," and she informed me she was eighteen, she could vote, so she could decide what to do with her body. I said, "We used to be able to drink at eighteen too. There's a reason they changed it." Ultimately I let it go. Her left thigh was her business, and I guess getting married would have to be too. After all, J.J. had an education and a job. He had a good head on his shoulders and to the best of my knowledge, he wasn't a drug addict or a serial killer -- these days you never know -- so the rest was on her. One of the great jokes of life is that by the time you're old enough to recognize how little you know, all you can do is mop up the aftermath, dump it in a giant personal hazmat container and move on.

Next thing I knew, I was up to my eyelids in bridal magazines and sample menus. I had no idea there were so many banquet halls and bridal shops within a fifty-mile radius of home. Or that there would be so many decisions to make -- calligraphied envelopes for the invitations or Mom's lovely penmanship? Edible, potable or savable favors? Tall, see-through or short, see-over centerpieces? Hotel choice for out-of-town guests? Rehearsal dinner, breakfast the day after or both? Or that it could possibly cost that much to get married. But it sure was fun, and it turned out just like Amber and I planned -- picture perfect. I mean, J.J.'s parents are lovely people, but their idea of decoration was crepe-paper streamers and balloons, and my daughter's wedding was not going to be that kind of affair. Besides, his father had gotten transferred to Dallas a few years back, so it's not like they could keep up with all the details. I acquired some shiny new platinum plastic, with a limit high enough to pay for a very nice car, in order to sponsor the occasion. It would be the only bill in my long history of bill paying that would make me smile every month when I wrote the check. Isn't that why I went to work every day? So I could afford the nicer things in life? Anyway, whatever it cost to make my baby so happy, I was willing to spend it. Except it made me remember how happy her father and I looked that Friday we ran off to city hall, all hope and expectation.

I had shed my usual stonewashed Jordache for a green silk dress with bat-wing sleeves and shoulder pads the size of throw pillows and pulled my hair into a Jheri-curl ponytail with a big black clip-on bow. He had hair back then, long as mine, and it was cut in an Afro shag that bobbed when he played keyboard. Folks used to say he looked halfway like O.J., back when that was cute. He had rolled up the sleeves on his rented tuxedo and wore the ruffled shirt open so you could see his gold chains and the curly hair on his chest. Mercifully, there are no pictures, but we had it all figured out. He was the music man -- the next Stevie Wonder. And I would be right by his side -- his fan, his muse, his manager. We were gonna light everybody's fire. It made sense to me at the time. Love can make you a first-class fool.

But none of that mattered on Amber's wedding day. It was the most perfect October day I ever hope to see. We had made it through corsets, crinolines, upsweeps and the first big crisis of the day when they sent the white stretch limo instead of the white superstretch SUV I paid for. Amber got on the phone, turned into the Bride of Frankenstein, and thirty minutes later we had the right car.

By the time we arrived, the church was full. The bridesmaids arranged themselves in their six degrees of purple gowns. Dad, looking very dapper in his first-ever purchased tuxedo, was about to walk Mom, elegant in amethyst, to their seats when she reached up, patted my cheek and said, "You know, Tootsie, you're getting old." That's what I love about my mother. She captures those sentiments you won't find on a Hallmark card. After that, I gave Amber a kiss and a final fluff, trying hard not to look like I was losing my last friend, which is kind of how it felt. Anyway, I snapped out of it when she took her father's arm, because that made me mad. Why should he get to give away somebody I raised? But she wanted it that way, so before I got madder, I let the best man, Baby Son-in-Law's cousin Ron, escort me down the aisle. I squeezed his arm so tight I probably stopped the poor man's circulation, but he winked and smiled and whispered, "It'll be fine." And for some reason, I believed him. So I vaguely remember grinning as we marched in, but really I couldn't feel my face, or my feet touch the floor, because I couldn't figure out how twenty-one years had gone by, and my child -- the one I grunted and pushed to deliver without the benefit of drugs so I remember every blasted, blessed moment -- could possibly, legally, be getting married.

At the reception, people from the job just didn't know what to say. I couldn't wait for them to spread the word on Monday -- tell the others how together Tee was. You know, some people think we don't have anything or know the proper way things are done. I wanted them to see that Thomasina Hodges was -- and always would be -- a class act, especially that snake in suede loafers. He sent regrets, but his assistant showed up and fell all over herself telling me how fabulous the wedding was. So I smiled, said my "thank yous" graciously, had another sip of champagne and watched as she took one more California roll from the passing tray. After that, Julie, who had been the receptionist on executive row, and the only other brown face, came up and said, "I don't know how you can look so calm." I told her sometimes the commercials get it right. Never let 'em see you sweat. We clinked our glasses on that, hugged and I buzzed off, ready for my next post receiving-line meet and greet.

My best buds from the neighborhood -- Diane, Marie, Cecily and Joyce -- our kids had been in school together -- nodded their collective approval and congratulated me on throwing a stellar wedding. We called ourselves the "Live Five" and we toasted to my good taste. Twice.

Then I had to get through the first dance, and the song Amber's father wrote especially for her. All that ooohing and aaahing about how sweet it was just pissed me off because he always did know how to upstage me. I pay for the whole soiree, but he gets over with a song. OK, he offered to chip in on the wedding. I just couldn't bring myself to accept. I mean, he wasn't a deadbeat dad -- just a deadbeat husband. I never had to hunt him down or get the states of California and New York involved in making him cough up child support. Sure, in the beginning he almost never saw her -- LA was way more than a chunk of change away, and his monthly contributions barely kept Amber in juice boxes and sneakers, but it came regular as the IRT, which is to say sometimes it was late, but it always arrived eventually. After he finally started making some money as a musician, he'd take Amber with him during the summers when he toured -- Budapest, Sydney, Johannesburg...And even though food on the table and new school clothes every fall doesn't leave quite the same impression as your very own frequent-flyer miles, a visit to the cockpit, getting pinned with your very own wings (which my darling child wore every day for six months) or seeing a kangaroo in its native habitat -- at least the man was present in her life. But tattoo and all, Amber had been a great kid -- not a nickel's worth of trouble -- as long as I don't count her adoration of her father. So her wedding -- exactly the way she always dreamed about -- I wanted to give her those memories. All by myself.

But wouldn't you know it? After his serenade, Dear Old Dad presented the happy couple with a big fat check toward the down payment on a house -- guess he must've sold a couple of songs -- finally. That brought the room to its feet. Terrific. OK. I guess it wasn't like we hated each other. But it didn't take long after we parted ways for the reasons we got together in the first place to seem like they had been written in the sand. I guess we both loved each other once upon a time -- that was a whole 'nuther happily ever after. The only thing we still had in common was that we both loved Amber, so we agreed to be civilized about our daughter and not to bad-mouth each other in front of her, and after I made it clear that as far as I was concerned it was not then, nor would it ever be, OK for him to have put his dreams first and his family somewhere farther down on his list, he gave up trying to convince me we could be friends. So the good thing about him singing was that I didn't have to dance with him, because I don't know if I could have managed to glide across the floor, like when we used to do the Hustle --

-- so I sucked down another glass of champagne, kept my mother-of-the-bride smile firmly in place and watched from the sidelines. And even though I thought I was doing a pretty good job, my bad attitude must have been showing just a little, because both my mother and Julie came over to ask if I was OK -- I assured them I was.

The maître d' kept my glass full. Frankly, he was supposed to. As much money as I laid out -- including the coconut shrimp and mini lamb chops during the cocktail hour, beef Wellington and sea bass for dinner and the Viennese table with the chocolate fountain -- he should have been at the door of my complimentary suite with a rose and a mimosa the next morning. But now we're back to shoulda, and that woulda killed me for sure.

Anyway, my problems started the next day when I woke up, and shoulda, coulda and woulda did not stop the train wreck in my head, or keep the elephant from tap dancing across my aching body. I mean, I'd probably had more to drink in one night than I had consumed in the last decade. My mouth felt like I'd been sucking vintage sewer water and I wanted to call room service or 911 for an Advil and orange juice IV because I could not remember where the bathroom was or imagine dragging myself to it and trying to find the pill bottle in my toiletry bag. That would have meant I had to open my eyes. I had tried that already. The little bit of light sneaking through the drapes made me want to vomit.

Then he coughed. And my heart about exploded out of my chest because I didn't know he was there. Or who he was.

Read the rest of Chapter 1 of What Doesn’t Kill You at

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posted by DeBerry and Grant at 1:52 PM 1 comments

Friday, December 19, 2008

What's in a Name?

In our new book What Doesn't Kill You, our protagonist loses her job--and has a lot to say about the term "losing"!!! But of course Tee has a lot to say about a lot of things. We've been surfing around for the nice ways folks have found to say "you're outta here". Our current favorite--"Employee Simplification." Is it simpler not to have a job and a check? We don't think so!

We came across this on Bob Suttons Blog:
Streamling? Rightsizing? Smartsizing? Rationalizing? Special Forces? What is Your Favorite Euphemism for Layoffs?

A Compilation of Euphemisms for Layoffs

I thought it would be instructive to list the euphemisms for layoffs generated by my last
post. Thanks so much for all the great -- and troubling -- contributions. It is quite a testimony to the human ability for self-deception and obfuscation. Here they are:

Adjusting to shifts in demand

Corporate outplacing

Cost improvement plans

Fitness plan

"He got the box."

Made redundant

"Non-essential" employees


to read the rest:

So tell us any creative terms you've heard for getting canned--or make up your own! Post your favorites here!

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posted by DeBerry and Grant at 10:02 AM 2 comments

Wednesday, December 17, 2008


Looks like lots of folks have Broke Stories not just us, or you or Tee, our main character in What Doesn't Kill You...check out our friend Corrine's story on the Real Broke Housewives of Atlanta--and the one below from
Is it true? Maybe Bravo TV should change the name to “Broke Housewives of Atlanta.” It seems the new Hollywood it girls are having some financial trouble. It’s expensive to be a “Real Housewife” in Atlanta.

In 2007, Lisa Wu Hartwell reportedly filed for bankruptcy and her hubby Ed Hartwell just got cut from the Oakland Raiders. Last week, it was reported that Big Papa dumped Kim Zolciak, she’s selling her house, and her country music career has gone bye buy. Now, MTO is reporting that our girl Nene Leakes may have recently lost her home to foreclosure. What?

As we all know, Nene Leakes husband Greg Leakes is a real estate developer. Unfortunately, the mortgage market is in the toilet and most developers are financially hurting. It’s reported that Nene and her husband have downscaled their lifestyle and now live in a townhome. In fact, it seems the only couple that really have money on the show is DeShawn Snow and her hubby Eric Snow.

Some fans have accused the show of being fake. That our really can’t afford to shop at all those fancy places and are posers. That must be why DeShawn Snow’s charity event was such a flop. Everyone is BROKE BROKE BROKE. Of course, except for Big Papa and the Snow family.

Whether it’s true or not, I still love the show. Times are tough right now and many peoples lives are changing financially. Lets hope they bring the girls back for a second season.


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posted by DeBerry and Grant at 10:36 AM 3 comments

Monday, December 15, 2008


Laid Off? Outplaced? Downsized? Or Tryin' To Hold On?

It's rough out here. Hey, Ford, GM and Citibank are almost broke, and that noise you hear is the money in your wallet screaming. We have definitely been there. Sometimes it felt like we were drowning, and there are still days of treading water, but we helped each other through, learned some lessons and can even laugh about it—some days. It's what inspired our latest book and in What Doesn't Kill You, Thomasina "Tee" Hodges finds out that being broke ain’t for sissies.

Writing about the money madness helped us make space for positive change, so here’s your chance. If you've ever been BROKE, tell us your story—in 500 words or less. It can be funny (because sometimes laughing is what keeps us going) or serious, but tell us how you survived your personal economic crisis WITHOUT a government bailout.

We'll be giving two lucky on-line winners autographed copies off What Doesn't Kill You, Gotta Keep on Tryin', Better Than I Know Myself, Far From the Tree & Tryin’ to Sleep in the Bed You Made as well as an autographed copy of finance expert Deborah Owens’ book, a package of Sweet Unity Coffee (see for more info on our new coffee venture)--all packed inside a TiffiBag (see if you haven't read Gotta and don' t know what a TiffiBag is!)


1) Entry must be 500 words or less.

2) Post your story in the comments section of our blog at or Entries will only be accepted in one place, not both. Or email your story in the body of the email, NO ATTACHMENTS, to

3) Contest Deadline is midnight, January 20, 2009. Finalists will be judged by Deborah Owens, financial guru, radio talk show host and author Confident Investing, Nickel and Dime Your Way to Wealth, and coming in 2010, PURSE OF YOUR OWN: An Easy Guide to Personal Finance. Check out: Winners will be announced here on January 27, 2009

4) Our friends and relatives are excluded. You know who you are and so do we--AND we already know your broke stories.

5) We guess all employees of Simon & Schuster, Victoria Sanders & Associates, and Owens Media Group LLC, should also be ineligible--not because you're all so highly paid you couldn't possibly have a broke story--but because contest rules are like that.

If you've never been broke--nevermind!

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posted by DeBerry and Grant at 2:45 PM 8 comments

Thursday, December 11, 2008

What Doesn't Kill You Tour Dates

Here are dates and cities for our 2009 Tour for What Doesn't Kill You. Please visit our website: for exact times and locations and for updates!

Please come and see us while we're on the road!

2009 Tour Cities & Dates:

Monday, January 12, 2009

Saturday, January 31, 2009

Sunday, February 1, 2009

Monday, February 2, 2009

Monday, February 2, 2009

Tuesday, February 3, 2009

Thursday, February 5, 2009

Friday, February 6, 2009

Saturday, February 7, 2009

Sunday, February 8, 2009

Tuesday, February 17, 2009

Thursday, February 26, 2009

Saturday, February 28, 2009

Thursday, March 5, 2009

Tuesday, March 10, 2009

Saturday, April 18, 2009

Monday, April 20, 2009

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

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posted by DeBerry and Grant at 3:01 PM 4 comments

Wednesday, December 10, 2008

Weigh to Go Oprah!

From DG:
I’m feeling Oprah’s pain. And carrying my own weight. I have struggled to maintain the proper poundage for all of my adult life—up a little, down a little, up a lot, down. . .some. . . maybe. But not close to achieving the number recommended on the charts. In the last seven or eight years, up has been in the lead. Now, I weighed 8 ½ pounds at birth and have been a “big girl” ever since, so I’m not trying to advocate skinny. I mean, I was a plus size model for 15 years and the thing I enjoyed most was being a poster child for the reality that we’re not all supposed to wear size six, and those of us who don’t can look damn good, and be healthy thank you very much.

But I’m also aware that I have at times strayed way beyond a weight where I am healthy or where I’m happy with the way I look. And when that happens, I feel embarrassed. I realize that fat doesn’t hurt others or make me a bad person—although in the past I have called myself some very ugly names because I was mad about what I had gained. I would never say those words to others, and I swore I would never abuse myself that way again! But my “lack of control” is written all over my face—my thighs, my fingers, and let’s not forget my bust, which starts to spill out of my size ‘G’ cups. The last few years I haven’t much liked looking at pictures of myself. They remind me that I weigh ‘that much.’

And I do applaud Oprah for putting the numbers out there. At the moment ‘that much’ for her is 200 pounds. Some people gasp in horror. My Mom told me that Joy Behar said on The View that she’d rather be waterboarded than reveal her actual weight. What’s that about? Oh, I know--somewhere along the line, as a girl, I was given the impression that any weight above 125 pounds wasn’t “feminine”. Never mind that I grew to be 5’9” (which at the time wasn’t feminine either), I was still somehow supposed to be below that magic number. What I learned later, and I mean A LOT later, was that for me and for a lot of us, 125 is not only unrealistic, it’s probably unhealthy. So the bigger burden is to get rid of ridiculous expectations and deal with what’s real.

And for me, the reality is that at 175 pounds I am slim—a missy 14, bordering on a 12. I have no need to EVER be smaller than that. Reality # 2. I have also weighed 274 pounds— I was miserable. Not just because I didn’t like the way I looked, which is definitely true, even though my husband, who has known and loved me through this 100 pound swing, was not at all turned off, even when I sometimes tried to convince him he should be (I have since learned to shut up and let him love me the way I am). But I also hated the way I felt—like the skin on my calves was stretching to accommodate the pounds. My back hurt all the time, probably because it was straining to carry around my butt. I was easily winded, even after walking a short distance. My ankles were swollen. You get the idea. I could have learned to ignore the discomfort, but 274 pounds was my tipping point. I could not let myself go higher than that because it hurt. So I came down from the brink, but I have still been struggling to get back to a new comfort zone.

I seriously doubt that I will ever be able to maintain 175 pounds again—not without working out 6 hours a day, like on The Biggest Loser, and that’s not gonna happen. Right now, I’m down to 238 pounds and I’m working really hard to do something I have not done in the six books we have written—not gain weight while writing. I always weigh more at the end of a book than I did before we started. So, I set small goals for myself because I can’t deal with that many pounds all at once. Five pounds is all I can manage at a time—I think a bag of sugar is pretty heavy, don’t you? The bigger picture--I’m trying to get down to Oprah’s “that much” weight—200 pounds, because for me, right now, that’s realistic. When I get there, I’ll figure out whether to aim lower. And I will be happy to let the world know what I weigh, and how far I’ve come.

From VDB:
As is obvious from photos, which are abundantly available on the internet, I too am a “big” girl. And like Donna I have been my whole life. However, unlike Donna and Oprah and millions of others, I don’t THINK about my weight much. It goes up and down but poundage has never really been a factor that affects how I feel about myself or how I think other’s perceive me. I don’t know why. Just crazy I guess. When I was young, my parents took me shopping in chubby departments—always on the lookout for what was current and fashionable and amazingly managed to find clothes that were similar enough to what my slimmer friends were wearing that I never felt odd or even-- dare I say it—FAT. I grew up continuing to do the same thing. I am an inveterate, intrepid shopper and have the closets to prove it. While falling into plus size modeling was certainly a fluke, a stop on the twisted road of fate that I never anticipated, it suited me—especially the part where I got to preach my philosophy of self acceptance to women full of self-doubt and recrimination. I am reasonably healthy for a woman in her late 50’s. In spurts (I’m on one now) I even exercise regularly. I had boyfriends and prom dates in high school, I’ve been married twice, and still have plenty of attention from quite a wide variety of men. And I am delusional enough to feel great about myself and think I look just swell because I am just swell—whatever I WEIGH.

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posted by DeBerry and Grant at 2:49 PM 1 comments

Tuesday, December 09, 2008

Man vs Dog



Enough said....

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posted by DeBerry and Grant at 12:53 PM 0 comments

Friday, December 05, 2008

Different as____________________?

From VDB:
Donna and I are very different. We have mentioned this a number of times, often citing it as the key to both our friendship and our collaboration. But her recent post about the passing of the legendary singer Odetta once again underscored that difference.

In 1960, while Donna (who still had baby teeth) was listening to revolutionary, civil rights music performed by the aforementioned Odetta, Miriam Makeba and contemplating the cultural aspects of wearing an Afro, I was a pre-teenager, longing for my first training bra, listening to the Shirelles (for you young’uns, they pre-date the Supremes) singing Solider Boy and Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?. I watched 77 Sunset Strip every Friday night on TV and longed to move to LA and drive a convertible. I wanted to be Annette Funicello, Leslie Uggams, Gidget, any of the “Tammys” and Diahann Carroll. I wasn’t thinking about changing the world. I wasn’t planning my future I just wanted to grow up so I could have some real grown up fun.

Like I said–we’re SO different. But as polar opposites as our childhood idols were, we both learned to dream – and believe that our possibilities for the future were whatever we wanted them to be.

(BTW I haven't moved to LA, but I do have a convertible--and let's just say that my training bra worked overtime.)

DG:Which all goes to show, there are many roads to take you where you need to go!

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posted by DeBerry and Grant at 12:44 PM 0 comments

Thursday, December 04, 2008

Are we coming to your city?

Are we coming to your city? These are our 2009 Book Tour Cities for What Doesn’t Kill You, at least so far. We hit the road January 31! And we're going to be in lots of places we’ve never been before! We'd love to have your book club join us are maybe host our event. Dates and details coming soon. And check out our blog for details of our Best Broke Story Contest.

Little Rock, AR
Atlanta, GA
East Point, GA
Birmingham, AL
Charleston, SC
Columbia, SC
Chicago, IL,
New York, NY
Springfield, NJ
Milford, CT
Somerset NJ
New Brunswick, NJ
Princeton, NJ
Bowling Green, KY
Nashville, TN
Memphis, TN


posted by DeBerry and Grant at 5:56 PM 3 comments

Wednesday, December 03, 2008

Thank You Odetta

From DG: In a recent post, about what Miriam Makeba meant to me (Nov 13—Thank You Miriam Makeba) I mentioned that Odetta was another big influence from the early part of my life, but said it was a story for another day. Well, I am sad to say that day has arrived, not in the way I intended, and much sooner than I imagined.

This morning I heard of Odetta’s passing. Click here: Odetta, Voice of Civil Rights Movement, Dies at 77 - Obituary (Obit) -

We had two of her records when I was little—Odetta Sings the Ballad for Americans, and Odetta and Larry. I was drawn to the earthy rumble of her voice, often accompanied by simple acoustic guitar. I still know all the words to Great Historical Bum, and even now, with the help of bathroom shower acoustics, I find myself trying to sound like her singing Santy Ana—I don’t, but I feel where she was coming from. I’d have Mom play those records over and over, and I’d listen, and look at her on the album cover with her guitar, and her short cropped hair. This was 1960—we didn’t even have the word Afro yet, but looking at the photos now I realize how far ahead of us she was in many ways. We all need those people who blaze the trail, show us what’s possible, encourage us not to be afraid.

I have been fortunate enough to meet many celebrated people in my life, including President-elect Obama. I had no trouble speaking with him, but when I met Odetta at Crossroads Theater in 1998 (she had written original music for a Leslie Lee play called Spirit North), I could hardly put a sentence together, and as she signed her CD for me I was working hard not to cry. But I was really happy to have met her.

It feels like a whole era is coming to a close, but I guess that’s how the world goes ‘round. I am grateful to have been nourished by it. It made me wonder who are the people whose music moves people forward now? Tracey Chapman? Bono? India.Aire? Telib Kweli? Who makes you feel, think, imagine and grow while you listen?

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posted by DeBerry and Grant at 3:04 PM 0 comments

Monday, December 01, 2008

New Book Cover!!

“I really thought I had a handle on life—then it broke off.”

Straight-talking and witty, Tee is a fly forty-something. Divorced since her daughter was young, Tee has been “handling her business,” and she’s done all right. Organized, responsible and loyal, Tee went from being the first employee of a start-up purveyor of organic lotions to the right-hand of the president of what became a major player in the home and personal fragrance market.

But then everything changes and for the first time in 25 years, Tee doesn’t know who she is or what she’s going to do. She spent her life investing her hopes and dreams in someone else’s. Now it’s her chance to invest in herself. Can she step out on faith and a dream?

More about Tee --including an excerpt and a contest coming soon!

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posted by DeBerry and Grant at 11:25 AM 4 comments
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