Let's begin at the beginning, shall we? Well, with the basics anyway.
I am 29. I have a five year old daughter who loves anything having to do with books, art, horses, or Barbie movies and who recently discovered the Glory of the Double Stuffed Oreo. I was not really emotionally prepared to have a kid who was into B-A-R-B-I-E, as I am one of those feminist, Women's Studies minor, sort of mothers, but at this point it is such a nice break from DORA! and all the YELLING! that I am going with it.
My daughter, who in my estimation is the very best person in the entire universe,
discovered Photo Booth on my computer and we have been taking some goofy photos of late. Here is some evidence:
We had a dog, but my father stole her and now she lives at his house.
I am a runner. Last year I ran a few hundred miles, completed a 12K and two half-marathons here and here. I am in the lotteries for a handful of different races this year including this one and that one (the full). I am also doing this, this, and this for sure.
Recently, I started doing yoga again for the first time since college. I've been going here and sweating out some demons in a 105 degree room. I have been doing a LOT of yoga the past couple of months. Which in no way should suggest that I am any good at it at all. I am not, but I find a lot of value in the practice.
I like to cook, aspire to garden, do my own yard work, and figured out how to run my snow blower for the first time this winter. (I should note that I realized after finishing the driveway and returning the beastly machine to the garage that I did NOT know how to turn the thing off, but I muddled through and nothing got broken.)
I live in the the largest town in the farthest northern state in union. Yes, I've met HER (she used to sign my paychecks and once we talked about make-up). No, I don't agree with her. And if you want me to tell you my theory about THAT you have to buy me a drink first.
I was married far too early (21) and reasonably briefly (3 years) to my daughter's father.
Getting divorced at 24 with a baby led to, in hindsight, a series of less-than-exquisitely-made-life-choices currently culminating in this: I am getting ready to sell my house which I bought two years ago and did not intend to sell. I am putting it on the market largely as a result of a break-up from the person with the person I bought the house. Neither breakup nor person will be discussed here, but in coming weeks there will likely be plenty of bemoaning the hassles of selling a house. Consider yourself warned.
I have a degree in English Literature. Anne Lamott is my favorite modern writer. Virgina Woolf and T.S. Elliot are my favorite Modernist writers (yes, there is a difference). Allister McCloud is my favorite Canadian writer and of course I love Jane Austen. I have a fondness for Anais Nin, would like to have a drink with Earnest Hemingway, and harbor a long standing distaste for Ayn Rand (who is the only author who's books I have actually thrown across the room in frustration although that was years and years ago and I am perhaps less of an idealist now). I also believe that Dan Savage and Gloria Steinem have, in their own ways, done more good with words than most political dignitaries.
I believe that life is finite and full of choices. That you should play out all the moments of your life and not leave any cards on the table. That bliss can be found in watching your child sleep no matter how old they are. That food is the only form of art that is truly nourishing (a great line that I ripped off from a sub-par movie). That staying up all night long to read a book or in bed all morning to have sex with someone you love are both perfectly acceptable ways to spend your time and that astrology, while obviously questionable scientifically is oddly accurate in practice even if your weekly horoscope never does remind you to buy new socks.