I turn 30 in 5 days.
I love good music. New music. Sing-along-so-loud-no-one-can-tell you-can't-really-sing music.
I'm incredibly short. No, really. You didn't notice because I was wearing heels. Trust me. I'm well-below average.
My humor, however? Definitely above average.
I am a sucker for cheesy, romantic comedy movies. You know, the kind that you watch over-and-over-again-until-you-wear-out-your-VHS-copy-and-are-forced-to-finally-buy-it-on-DVD.
I am selfish. And awkward.
I make jokes when I am uncomfortable. Kind of like Chandler Bing. With whom I also share a "nubbin." I mean, we don't actually share one. He has his, I have mine. What I meant is we share the feature.
I am the proud owner of a shiny, heavy, impressive new camera. The D700. The one I've swooned over. Repeatedly, on this here bloggity. To the point where you were going to scrounge up all your extra pennies and send them my way so I would just shut up already. Geez. But you can keep your pennies. Because I'm a giver.
I developed my affinity for sarcasm because I didn't have the ability to take it from others. I can't stand the heat, but I don't want to leave the kitchen. So I try to be the best cook. The iron chef of cynicism and lightening wit.
I have the hobbies of an octogenarian. Knitting. Quilting. Clothesmaking. Okay, maybe a Mennonite octogenarian. With 13 children. And a robust garden.
Except...I don't have 13 kids. And I can't grow anything. Except for babies in my womb. And thighs. Oh, cankles, too. If I plant something, it will die. It's like Athena's Law for Living Things. My mama? Exactly the opposite. It's as if she taught me everything she knew, groomed me to take over the family business, and then she had a heart attack in the middle of her wedding reception as her spouse, young enough to be her son, looks on in horror. And then I fail miserably. The company on the brink of being sold only to find it in myself to excel. To win. At the last possible minute as music builds in the background. Gasp! The company is saved! Oh wait. Nevermind. That's Tommy Boy.
I can't grow anything.
I'm a sucker for Apple products.
I don't like it when people say "literally" when they're making a euphemism. Or using hyperbole. Or not actually being literal.
If I am ever lucky enough to quit my day job and make a living as a photographer/knitter/hatmaker/quilter/yogi/mennonite octogenarian extraordinaire, I am going to get more tattoos.
I'm a fiend for White Chocolate Raspberry Truffle ice cream.
And good Pinot Noir.
I recently fell trulymadlydeeply in love with The National. And Adele. And Mumford & Sons.
The color pink once overwhelmed my wardrobe. I hardly wear it anymore.
I have bangs.
I thought they'd be a fad. Something I'd be sick of within days of having them cut. But I still really love them.
I'm ridiculously inspired by people who are living their lives. Out loud.
I would love to move to coastal Oregon.
Or San Francisco. Or Seattle. Or the Northeast.
I am a horrible mom. As I am just now mentioning my kidlets. The fruits of my womb. They are the most amazing little girls I've ever met in my life. And you can call me biased. Because I am. But DRL and I are raising them to be the kind of little girls that others find amazing, too. At least we are trying to.
My favorite color has become the color of my girls' eyes. Which are completely different.
I still miss my gramma. A lot.
I blog stalk people until they're convinced of my coolness and decide to be my friend for realz. Lucinda. Anda. My latest recruit: Gladys. Watch out, Jasmine. Kelly. Miz Boo. I've doused myself in a fresh coat of awesomesauce...
I stole the idea of this post from Gladys.
Hers was better.
But then, the original always is.
I've told you all about who I am.
Now, you tell me....who are you?