Honestly, I really have no idea who the hell I think I am. This is what I do know –
- First and foremost, I’m a mom. My kids are perfectly imperfect. I admire everything
about them, even the frustrating parts. They are kind and warm, smart, funny, open-minded, inquisitive, cheeky, mischievous, and rambunctious. They are balls of joy dipped in semi-sweet chocolate and cayenne pepper, covered with caramel and sprinkled with nuts.
- I am woefully naive about most things having to do with tents, sleeping bags, fire-starting kits, dirt, and bug spray.
- I am slowly learning about all things having to do with tents, sleeping bags, fire-starting kits, dirt, and bug spray.
- I have a BA in philosophy. Hence my existential ambiguity, and my ability to pull a fantastic shot of espresso.
- I am a cost-of-living fugitive to Denver from California, just like all the other Californians here, and there are a lot of us. (Sorry Colorado, we have to live somewhere, too.) I’ve lived in Denver for 13 years, and I hardly recognize San Diego when I go back to visit.
- I have never been skiing, snowboarding, snow-shoeing, or backpacking.
- My father taught me how to body-surf, boogie-board, extricate myself from a rip-tide, properly land a punch, love poetry, appreciate gallows humor and cynicism, and follow my conscience.
- My mother taught me how to laugh at myself, enjoy being silly, be a care-taker, unconditionally love other people, love animals, feel empathy, and stand up for the little-guy.
- I do not tan. I have never tanned. I will never tan. Mostly I freckle and then burst into flames.
- Most people think I am at least 10 years younger than my actual age. I chalk this up to copious use of sunscreen, and what I like to think of as my youthful attitude, though others probably think I’m just immature.
- I have no idea what I want to be when I grow up.
- There are only two things I do reasonably well – being a mom, and writing. Everything else I make up as I go along, and hope to God no one realizes.