Friday, March 29, 2013

The Inquisition

My kids have always been really, really inquisitive.  In theory, I love their curious nature.  In reality, it drives me insane. I decided to categorize some types of annoying questions the kids ask.  First, let me tell you the most commonly asked question in our house.  "What's for dinner?" The second?  "Who farted?"  


I just told the kids we're leaving for soccer practice in 5 minutes that they need to bring their hoodie, a water bottle.  "Mom, are we going to soccer practice in 5 minutes?  Do I need a water bottle and a hoodie?"  Obviously you heard me the first time cause you're parroting it back to me.  That's not a question!


I'm in the kitchen, standing in front of a boiling pot on the stove.  Next to me is a box of pasta and a jar of sauce.  Don't EVEN ask me what we're having for dinner.  I won't answer, because it's pretty damn obvious!


This happens all the time in our house.  We're all in the kitchen and someone will have a very important question to ask me.  "Does Jade like tomatoes?"  Having 4 kids, I know Sky loves tomatoes, River and Ember hate them.  But, having 4 kids, I don't remember if Jade likes them or not.  But, she's right freaking next to you, ask HER!


Inevitably a kid will shout a question from downstairs up or vice versa.  Inevitably this is right after they just left the room I was in.  Like when I'm in the bathroom brushing my teeth.  "MOM?  WHERE ARE YOU???" This is not the mystery of the century people.  I'm still upstairs brushing my teeth, exactly where I was 4 seconds ago.  Of course they don't do it just once, they'll shout it at least 3 more times.  By the time I'm done brushing my teeth I'm pissed. "HOW MANY TIMES HAVE I TOLD YOU NOT TO SHOUT ACROSS THE HOUSE?"  Crap, I just shouted back breaking my own rule!


We have one kid who has always had an extremely hard time even articulating what the question is.  So, we try to help him narrow it down offering suggestions, but usually it turns out more like we're on the losing charades team.  A lot of times it ends with a frustrated and sarcastic "never mind"!


"Wait a minute, what did you say we're having for dinner again?"  Dude, I said it 3 times, there's taco shells and shredded cheese on the counter and it smells like freakin' Mexico in here, come on!  


"What if, the whole world was on fire and all the firetrucks used all the water to try to put them out?  What would you make for dinner?"  This is my least favorite and it leads directly into the last type of question.


When the questions are  ridiculous, shouted from across the room, about someone else or what-ifs I try not to answer them.  Thus, the hanger.  This is the most painful type.  It is so hard NOT to answer a question and it just hangs in the air taunting you to completely lose it.   For the next 5 minutes I'm steaming trying to keep my mouth shut and look calm in front of the kids, hoping it will dissipate.   Even if that one does, there's always another one.

Ewwwww.....who farted?

Monday, March 25, 2013

Derby Dilemma

I had already decided, it was done. I was done with roller derby. No more mouth guards soaking in Listerine on my bathroom counter. No more stinky knee pads I only remembered were stinky when I went to put them back on again. No more remembering to bring a bandanna to practice to wear under my helmet to absorb the sweat that makes my head itch. And you can't scratch it when you're wearing a helmet. No more being a zombie the day after late night practices and then getting up early to take care of the kids. No more being covered in bruises with chronic knee pain.

That was until I went to watch my old team play a derby bout on Saturday night. Then I had a bout of nostalgia.

There's nothing quite like the adrenaline rush you get when a girl who outweighs you by a good 80 pounds is swooping across the track headed right for you and you know you're headed straight into the concrete half wall.

Photo courtesy of Wildside Photography

Or when I was skating in a bout and a player on the other team took the game a bit too serious and threatened to "fuck me up" at the after party. And she didn't mean buying me a drink.

There was that time we flew to an away game and some girls brought a shitload of pot on the flight. Way before that shit was legal in Colorado. Of course, it's always been illegal to bring your mary jane on a plane.

I actually had a reason to wear this obnoxious belt buckle.

Which also came in handy putting gropy drunk fans in their place.

If it wasn't for derby I would never have known my true calling is actually jello wrestling.

Photo courtesy of Wildside Photography

Unless it's putting girls in neck braces.

The dilemma: How can I fit this crazy ass sport back into my crazy busy life?

Friday, March 22, 2013


Ever since we've moved back from Morocco, I've been really busy.  But, in the last few months I've even stepped it up a notch.  I'm trying to fit everything in and the fact is I'm stretched pretty thin.  With the added pressure that I really really want to be done writing the book before the kids are done with school.  So I'm devoting any spare minutes to making that happen.  But, in the meantime it's spring break and with the kids home I'm even more scattered. Just like this post.

Parent teacher conferences were a couple of nights ago for the middle school.  Craig rushed home from work, I grabbed Sky and we made it just in the nick of time.  When we got there with Sky, turns out it was River's conference.  Unfortunately, Sky looks nothing like River, so we couldn't even pretend like we had the right kid.  While the teachers had wonderful things to say about River while Sky eavesdropped, they did mention he's unorganized.  To which I replied, "He didn't get that from me! You know, the parent who brought the wrong kid to the conference." Ok, he might have totally got that from me.

After Jade's conference, we left with plants to babysit over the break.  Did I mention that whilst babysitting the 1st grade tadpoles over spring break one year I brutally murdered them? At least it was right in the beginning so I didn't have to take care of them all break. Even though I felt awful. Thank god Jade really doesn't get that from me.  She's nurturing and always reads directions thoroughly. And that's why we have a grow room in our house right now.

Sky in a justified moment of rage at River and Ember asked me how I don't get mad. ME???  I am NOT patient.  And I'm mad a majority of the time which is why I have these scowl lines on my face.  Usually it's because of him!  How could he not know this? Cause I'm constantly yelling at him to pick the towel up off the bathroom floor. Constantly.  And there are a million other things too. At least he doesn't think I'm mad all the time, maybe I'm pulling off calm better than I thought. I'm positive that's not it though.

I may have sent this e-mail to an attorney I barely know this week and just wrote what was on my mind without re-reading or spell checking:


First of all, I wanted to apologize. I met you at the luncheon on Saturday and realized too late how douchey it was of me to ask you legal advice. My husband is a doctor so he gets
"hey my pee is practically brown, what does that mean?" all the time. After I left, I was like oh my god, I'm THAT person. So my sincere apologies.

I would like to rectify the situation. Because of course I have another question. I would be happy to come in and meet with you, or pay your hourly rate or whatever to get it answered. Let me refresh your memory and give you a preview of my further line of questioning. Boring businesses book question. I mean questions, cause there were this legally reprehensible?

Again, I'll be glad to come in and meet with you, or just send me a bill. But, as I'm finishing the editing of my book and heading to the business side, I realize I have no freaking clue what I'm doing and any and all advice will be both appreciated and compensated.

Marie Loerzel

Yes, I used both "douchey" and "brown pee" and she did respond and I think I have a new attorney.  I also have a kick ass artist who's working on the cover art!

So last night we made time for this which we've wanted to do for a long time now....

They all tied and loved blending things in the blender to make crazy sauces, half way through they had to use goji berries. I have at least 6 more videos, but I don't have time to upload them all. I'm sure I actually have a lot more I could include in scattergories, but the kids just got up and starting fighting. Seriously, why don't they scatter when they're annoyed by each other?

Probably because I'm scattered enough for all of us!

Monday, March 18, 2013

Confessions of an Ex Chameleon

I got the invite from someone who reads my blog.
Should I go?  
Who would I go as?  
What would I wear?  
Could I contain myself from doing something stupid?  
Would I choke on a large piece of extremely rare ostrich steak?  

Answer Key:  
Definitely, let's try confident writer on for size.
Something artistic, professional, yet casual that doesn't require ironing. 
Absolutely not.  
I don't think that's something that happens twice in a lifetime. At least I hope not.

I'm sure most writers pose trying to perfect their confidence stance in a selfie in front of a stripper pole in their bedroom with their unmade bed in the background.  Which is never ever made, unless it's that quarterly phenomenon known as the the changing of the sheets.   And quarterly is stretching the truth, if you must know.

As an introvert, I've always struggled in social situations.  I can pull off talking to one or two people, but I will totally invest in them and completely neglect the rest of the group.  My coping mechanism has always been to pretend to be someone else who fits the situation better.  Well, still me, just a tweaked version that fits the situation better.  For a conservative crowd,  I'd try to dress conservatively, and avoid any conversation about q-tips because I'm liberal.  And I think everyone knows that conservatives and liberals have different views on what you should stick in your ears.   If I was having a group of moms over I might bake cookies and nod when they explain that they make their kids study the SAT prep book and speak Latin at the dinner table.  Even though I don't really like baking or cookies too much.   If I'm around derby girls I f *bomb a lot.  Which is closest to the real me. I just don't do it around my kids. Unless I'm defending them against a drunk guy on the beach in Morocco who totally cursed first.  He was a fucking douchebag!  Is douchebag one word or two?  

I used to be a Social Chameleon.

But, now I'm done pretending.  Except trying to pull off that confident writer thing.  I'm still doing that.

I walked into the luncheon, my worst fear of food and combined with a room full of strangers, realized.  But, I wanted to meet Sue, the woman who invited me to the writer's group and the author's who were presenting on self publishing.  Everyone was very welcoming.  I found a table with Sue and another woman, Brenda.  Three is my magic number.  I can do this.  So, we starting chatting and that's when the meeting started.  With a writing prompt.  I whispered to my table mates, "Do we have to read this out loud?  Cause I was going to write bitch but not if I have to share with everyone."  Much of the crowd was women over 50, generously so.  The answer was of course, yes.

But, I'm going to be the real me.  So, I was all like, "fuck it".  I'm going to write bitch and anything that comes to mind in painfully embarrassing messy long hand my kids complain about and I'm going to sign my damn name to it. The notebook is recycled every meeting and my words would live on in infamy.  Or something like that. 

You know how when you're in elementary school and it's almost your turn to read out loud and your heart is pounding and you're not listening to anyone else because you're silently rehearsing?  That's what I did, then my phone starting ringing.  Then she called my name.  Finding my reading glasses in my purse to locate the button to turn it off would have been awkward.  So I just let it ring and started into the most fumbling recitation of my own work.  The only recitation of my own work because I don't read this shit out loud bitches. I meant that in a worldly womanly tribe where we wear really big earrings and have disks in our bottom lips kinda way. 

I fumbled through.  It's hard for me to even read my own handwriting and then I got the timing all wrong and tripped on my own words even when I could decipher them.   I was so prepared to say bitch loud and proud.  But, at the last minute I noticed two small kids in the room and I substituted "bleep" instead.  The context was very clear though.  No one gasped or judged and best of all I didn't pee myself, inadvertently launch a spit loogie or die.

Now all I had to do was make it through lunch, extort some free legal advice regarding using pictures of the King in my book and just be me.  The thing about salad is, generally the more exotic lettuce leaves are hard to fit in your mouth.  There's a choice.  Cutting or shoving.  I'm a shover.  It's not delicate or pretty.   In chameleon mode I would have gone cutter.  But, god damn it, I'm not doing that anymore. I'm a liberal, cookie-hating, cussing, shover.

I'm an Ex-Social Chameleon and these are my confessions.
Signed Marie Loerzel Unprofessional Writer Extraordinaire


Thursday, March 14, 2013

Rock N' Roll Fantasy

"Here come the jesters, 1 2 3 it's all part of my fantasy I love the music and I love to see the crowd dancing in the aisles and singin' out loud, yeah..."

Photo courtesy of Mama Beast

I didn't actually have a rock and roll fantasy.  Well, I did, it just didn't involve me.  Or I was kinda me but mostly a hybrid of Chrissie Hynde and her angst with a sprinkle of Fiona Apple's depressed undertones. I had never played a musical instrument in my life.  Besides the recorder twice in elementary school before I purposely jammed it with spit when I realized I was tone deaf.  Wait. I  actually learned I was tone deaf in middle school when I tried out for show choir in the 7th grade and got the tilted head pity look from the panel of judging teachers.  Which is when I took a vow to never sing in public again.  I kept that promise for 30 years.  Until...

My kids had a concert at the end of their School of Rock camp.  The moms gathered with cell phones in hand to capture our precious little Angus Youngs' and Jimmy Pages' graduation concert.  That's when we were cornered.  "You should start a mom band!" Obviously, he didn't know about my tragic recorder dreams, butchered Doobie Brother's performance and subsequent shattered confidence that derailed my promising music career.  But he hooked me with his last reassuring comment.  "I teach 8 year olds,  so you can do this."  I knew right then I had to prove I could groove. Challenge accepted.

When all the other mom's bailed on the idea, I told my ex derby wife Mama Beast (the ex belongs with derby, not wife, just for clarification) she was in.  She recruited the baby and only non-mom of the band, Anna. None of three of us sing or play an instrument.   So, I recruited the most musical person I know, one of few people who will sing at my parties with the rental karaoke machine, Lori.  The band Visible Panty Lines (VPL) was born.   We even had someone to help teach us some street skillz and take our money.  John, our pimp.  Which is confusing because a john isn't usually a pimp too.  But, both Lori and Mama have johns.  I mean, John's.  So somehow it all balances out and comes full circle.  Trust me people.  

After 5 weeks we were ready for our first performance.  Ok, we weren't ready, but it was performance day.  Thank god one of us can play an instrument and sing lyrics she wrote in a really breathy sexy way. Brace yourselves and  listen closely.      

I know you're thinking to yourself,  "You learned to do that in just five weeks from a guy who looks like he could be the sixth member of REO Speedwagon?"  Yes.  That's exactly what I'm telling you.  True story.   It was time for the second song in the set.  And this is where we get really rowdy.   

Or not.

 The night was winding down and it was already time for our encore.  Who are we to thwart popular demand?  Let the people have what they want right?  Or wait?  Maybe they just wanted cake.  Then let them eat cake!  Unless that was CAKE.  But, let's just say it was VPL...  

I swear to god, we did that song so much better in practice at least 24 beats of it in a row were completely perfect anyhow.  And it was an awesome 4 seconds!  Did you see the cameraman pan the huge crowd of teenagers playing on iphones to soothe their embarrassment?  

I know you want to know where we're playing next so you can come see us live and throw money at our pimp to support some rockin' local women musicians.  Here's the thing.  Yoko Ono might be breaking up the band.  Something about kids soccer games and some such benevolent world peace crap.  Any day now the VHI Behind the Music cameras are gonna start taping the tragic story of how Visible Panty Lines broke up.  Until then...

We are Visible Panty Lines!  Thank you and goodnight Colorado Springs!

 ****The name VPL was coined by my Mama.  Well, not my mother.  My other Mama.  Who was inspired that day when we were eating lunch at  Poor Richards together and she discovered the tandem toilet in the ladies room.  Yes, the one perplexing stall with two toilets that allows you to ask your toilet mate the age-old question, "Do I have any visible panty lines?"***

Monday, March 11, 2013

Memoirs of an Insecure Writer

Having just finished the second draft of my memoir and having been freshly rejected for a columnist position at a local paper, I was feeling oddly secure and confident.  For no apparent reason.  In the last 3 months, I have fiendishly read the memoirs of other writers, a pleasure I didn't allow myself early in my book writing process.  For two reasons.  The first one being intimidation.  The second, I didn't want to inadvertently copy anyone else's style.  Or content.  Or be intimidated by it.

This weekend I thought I was finally far along enough in my own book that I was ready to read the book I've purposely been putting off.   Unfortunately, I was completely wrong.

When we got back from Morocco, I couldn't wait to start writing Rock The Kasbah the book.  But, since it was summer and the kids were home and I was still overwhelmed and crying every time I went to the store, it was probably for the best that I waited a couple months until the kids were back in school. Craig kept reassuring me that I didn't need to rush, that only I could write my own book.  Though I appreciated his beautiful and delusional sentiment, it didn't slow me down at all.

Did I mention I have no idea how to write a book? And that writing one brings up all kinds of emotions I didn't expect. Like, do I seem like a pompous douche bag?  What if it's crap?  Like it truly sucks.  And people tell me it's good out of pity? Will I be mocked if I  inadvertently use "they're" instead of "their"?  Ok, I know the answer to that one is "yes".  Suffice it to say,   writing puts you in this weird, vulnerable place where you question everything like the narcissist you truly are.

Which is why I put in this really vulnerable place a pic of me first thing in the morning with a zit.  I actually have 2 more on my chin, but they're a bit camera shy.  To prove to you that I'm not a narcissist.  Unless it just proves I am.

Infrequently and temporarily though, I'll be in a good place in my head.  That's where I was when I picked up Let's Pretend This Never Happened  by Jenny Lawson.  Aka:  The Bloggess.  Blogger turned published author and New York Times Bestseller.  I was so mentally prepared.  Or so I thought.

I started at the Introduction.  Where she starts with a story of her falling out of a moving car as a kid.  Wait a freakin' minute people.  This is MY STORY!  Except I was 6 and she was 9.  My mom was driving and her dad was at the wheel.  Neither one believed we fell out or stopped for us.  Of course, this story is also included in my book and now I look like a huge big fat liar and copycat.  Even though I have a big family who can vouch it's absolutely a true story.  This is exactly what I was trying to avoid.   Which is why I'm posting this picture.

Because I'm feeling completely insecure and intimidated right now. And because I'm going to guess the Bloggess can't do this.  But, I'm not going to read the next chapter right now to find out.

Friday, March 8, 2013

Want You To Want Me

I'd submitted my work two days before the deadline and then waited anxiously for months. My future was at stake. This would be a great way to get my name out as a local writer. Even though I still can't refer to myself as that. I would if I got the job and actually got paid to write though. But, it would be a whole different kind of writing. Late yesterday afternoon I got my answer via e-mail.


YES! Oh, thank god!

I hadn't even set out to apply for this position with a local paper as a columnist. When we were in Costa Rica, I got an e-mail from the co-editor of this paper telling me they were looking for some female columnists. I'd never considered writing for a newspaper before. She went on to say that she'd read my blog and thought of me, so she extended an invitation for me to apply. I was so incredibly flattered that she read and presumably likes my blog. And I still am.

All I needed to do was write a resume and two sample columns that had something, anything to do with Colorado Springs. Now, I'm used to writing blog posts which I never run out of ideas for. This was a different story though. Amidst the Lance Armstrong confession, I thought about my neighbor, a world class athlete who beat Lance Armstrong a few years back who is involved in doping charges of his own. How totally relevant is that? But, how much do I not want to totally piss off the guy who lives right across from me. And for a job I don't know if I even want, let alone if I'm going to get it. I had a couple other really, really great story ideas. Both involving close friends, exceptionally relevant in the Springs. They are both much too personal and one is much too litigious. So, I can't write either one of those.

So I wrote about some other crap. Things I was interested in, but not passionate about. That's when it started. Doubt. Then, there was the 700 word requirement. Which made me a total Type A anal person. Of which I am not. Although 700 was probably a ballpark figure and I'm sure I could've gone 689 or maybe 702. That's not what I did. I turned in those articles after I worked my ass off to make them 700 words exactly. Exactly people. This is crazy. I was becoming the girlfriend who changes herself for the boyfriend who's perfect on paper. You know, he's a great guy and everything, but the chemistry's just not there. No matter how much I want it to be. And really, all I want to do is let out this huge fart I've been holding in whenever he's around. It's like that.

But, I've been stressed. That maybe the chemistry, or lack thereof, would be misconstrued by the other party. What if they chose me? And while I hoped that I'd delicately and politely decline if that happened. In the back of my mind, I kept thinking that this would validate me as a writer and help get me the exposure to do the writing I really am passionate about. My book. I know that's crazy girlfriend-but-he's-got-a-steady-job-and-he-doesn't-live-with-his-mother thinking. But, I was still really tempted. Of course, I was worried that rejection would sting. After all, everyone wants to be wanted. Or so I thought until I got rejected. Then it was pure relief that I didn't have to contemplate this anymore. Plus, they're giving me a free gift certificate to a spa. And Massages don't sting.

Besides, now I have my first rejection letter, I can frame it and put on my wall. It's the badge of honor of every struggling writer who doesn't feel validated enough to call themselves a writer yet. This all comes the day after I've written the last chapter of my book. Although, I still have lots of editing to go, it's not going to stop me from celebrating with a fish taco, a strawberry jalapeno margarita and some girlfriends today.

Cheers to rejection! And the many more to come!

Monday, March 4, 2013

Jerkin' My Pork

If you're a regular around here, you may know I love food. I love to cook it. I love to eat it. I love to have people over and try out new recipes that go horribly wrong. Then, when we moved back to the states, I discovered, The Food Channel. Which I may have mocked in the recent past. Because why the hell would someone watch people cook food that you don't get to eat. But now, I get it. Pretty much everything else on tv is total crap.

My kids do not share my love of anything and everything healthy and gourmet-ish. Not for my lack of trying or anything. Funny thing is, while they groan at what I make for dinner, they love watching the Food Channel. Granted, that may be because I don't let them watch much tv. But I'm still going to claim it as a victory just the same. You take it where you can get it you know? One of their favorite shows is Worst Cooks in America. If you're unfamiliar, two professional chefs, Bobby Flay and this woman who's name I don't know who coincidentally has the worst hair in America, head two teams of terrible cooks pitted against each other trying to make culinary masterpieces. Often disaster ensues.

Of course, I use this show as manipulation to try to get my kids to try new things. Last night, it was sauteed kale cooked with garlic, olive oil and some red wine vinegar. Made from a Bobby Flay recipe, which I made sure to tell them. Hoping it would excite them as much as this new recipe excited me. It didn't. Well, except Sky who is by all accounts not a normal kid. He loves both beets and brussel sprouts. He also loves to drive me completely crazy telling me he'll be driving soon. And what kind of car he wants to buy (this week) when he does.

Finally he stopped jabbering when Worst Cooks in America came one. Then, all the kids started salivating over the weirdest things, like a lamb burger. Now, I've made lamb for them before, as we did live in Morocco, the country with the highest rates of lamb mortalities the world over. Ok, I didn't actually fact check that. But, I would say, lamb related traffic fatalities alone make them number one. Which of course is why lamb is so plentiful there and why I really tried to like it. But, I really don't.

I much prefer the not-so-plentiful-in-Morocco, pork. Which is why as I'm typing this I'm slowly jerkin' my pork. For dinner. I don't care if my kids like it or not. Because I've come to the conclusion that they only like food as seen on tv that they don't have to eat. Unlike this recipe that will be seen on their plates tonight. I'd invite you all over for a taste, but jerkin' is kind of a private thing. So instead, I'm giving you the recipe so you can jerk your own pork.

Slow Cooked Jerk Pork with Caribbean Salsa

3lbs boneless pork shoulder blade roast
6 cloves garlic
2-3 Tbsp Jerk seasoning
1/2 tsp coarse salt
1 lime, squeezed
1/2 cup fresh orange juice

Use a sharp knife, cut slits into the port and stuff holes with half of the garlic. Combine remaining garlic, jerk and salt and rub on your pork. Place in a large container, pour juices over it and cover and refrigerator  over night. The next morning put it into a crock pot and cook on low for 9 hours. Remove and shred with two forks.

Caribbean Salsa

1 avocado, diced
2 large mangos chopped
1 1/2 tbsp chopped red onion
1-2 tbsp chopped cilantro
2-3 tbsp lime juice
salt and pepper to taste

Jerk Seasoning

2 tbsp onion powder
1 tbsp sugar
1 tbsp salt
1 tbsp thyme
1 1/2 tsp all spice
3/4 tsp cinnamon
3/4 tsp ground red pepper

Happy jerkin'!

Friday, March 1, 2013

Spring Break

The last two weeks there have been two school delays, one snow day and one sick kid. As well as, a million other distractions too numerous to list.  Now, I do love my kids and having them home and all of that.  But, having them home throws a whole curve ball in my writing.  I can do many things, but I can't write with constant interruptions because someone smacked someone who got smacked first because someone said something, but only because someone else said something worse.  Though, I have written many blog posts that way.  But,  I can't do book writing that way.

I've always had this far off distant dream that I'd be laying on a beach somewhere this spring break.  Relaxing because I'd finished writing the book and had turned a copy over to a professional editor right before I left.  Wooo hoo!  Strawberry jalapeno margaritas for everyone!

Then I realized spring break is a couple weeks from now!  Holy crap!  How did it get here so fast?  I have been diligently working my ass off.  I finished the first draft a while ago, I'm 90% through the first edit and I'm going to go through the whole thing one more time before I'm ready for anyone to read it.  I'm not going to make this crazy magical deadline that has absolutely no significance to anything that I arbitrarily made up in my head.  And it's really stressing me out. Not to mention I haven't made any plans for spring break. None.

Now, I know this is totally ridiculous.  I've told myself this in my own head at least 1,000 times just this week.  With several choruses of  "You want the book to be good remember.  Stop being crazy.  A few weeks or months here or there doesn't make a difference in the long run."  Ok, that's not actually what I say in my head, but I had to edit for profanity, so I totally made that crap up.

For all the things I didn't get done this week, I was able to fit in an interview.  Because, thank god, an interview is something I can focus on with my kids around.   You can check it out here AND find out what new hobby has also leeched some of my time here.

Oh, and the woman who interviewed me? Laura Dennis. She just published her first book last summer. Bitch! And, I say that in the best possible, most envious way.


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