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.