{the author}

I hate describing myself.  It always seems so pretentious, throwing out descriptions, trying to sound real or fabulous or whatever.   That’s the problem with it, I think.  It’s trying.  Shouldn’t you be able to skim through this and know absolutely who I am down to how I like my toast and how often I lose my keys?  Instead you’re left with a short explanation of what I am, which can do no justice to the human condition.

The “whats” are simple, really.  I’m a wife, a mother, a writer.  I am gainfully employed,  exploring avenues of presevation and self sufficiency, and trying to keep up with the  laundry.  I am a blogger, a whovian, a whedonite.  I like my eggs fried, and I like my toast not at all.  I prefer tea to coffee, champag in ne to wine, and can’t remember the last time I slept in more than three hour stretches.  I’m a lover and a fighter, just ask my husband.  I am a college graduate, a grad school maybe.  I always say yes to naps, but rarely take them.


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