Readers have asked for my bio statement.
I would like to respond, cantankerously, "Know thyself, busy bodies." But then, this column would fall short of word count requirements. So, for the sake of people's morbid curiosity, I will perform a painful self-examination.
Mother of four, wife of one, teacher of many, writer of sorts, some days self-critical to the point of paralysis, bossy since birth, I trudge through life wanting a pool in my backyard so badly I can taste the chlorine.
Sometimes I wake up in the morning thinking only of getting back in bed at night.
I once ran my car over a paper bag in the road. Surprisingly, it tore off my exhaust pipe, which dragged behind fallaciously screaming, "Just married." That's when I learned what the big yellow caution sign said - watch for fallen rocks impersonating brown lunch sacks.
My home is well organized. Everything has a place in the floor where I can easily find it, or die tripping over it. Therefore, I hired a housekeeper to save my marriage. She's cheaper than a divorce.
I've played taps for hundreds of withered houseplants.
My children cause me stress, drain my financial resources, challenge my knowledge, make me grow up, deny me privacy in the bathroom, drink out of my water glass without asking, smile when they see me coming, keep me tethered when I want to run away, and love me even when I stink at parenting. They are my treasure.
I'm 37 and I still don't know what I want to be when I grow up.
Touching raw chicken grosses me out. I love sushi until I really think about it. I drink my cream and sugar with a dash of coffee.
I paid my cousin $20 to eat a mule-cricket.
Unlike her, I wouldn't swallow a bowl of worms for a million bucks.
My cat collects dead moles. My dog won't fetch. My parakeet bites the hand that feeds it.
I consider the following to be risky behaviors: Consuming dried prunes before a long car trip, going to Target without an itemized shopping list, throwing away unidentified keys, tasting anything from my refrigerator no longer in the original packaging, bending over to pull weeds in tight pants, hugging a child with a stomach virus.
I married for love.
Dead Skunk in the Middle of the Road, by Loudon Wainwright, III, is one of my beloved childhood melodies.
My favorite smells are fresh cut grass, tomato plants, grilled onions, rain, and dinner cooked by my husband. I can smell ants too, but I don't like it.
I have a longstanding fantasy about climbing into a full milk vat in a dairy, floating on my back, and getting a total body milk mustache.
I believe there's no problem that a long sit on the front porch can't solve.
I think lobster is overrated as food, but makes a good fashion motif.
I can't carry a tune, but I can tote a purse that coordinates with my shoes.
I eat grits to stay in touch with my cultural heritage.
When I hear Dixie, I cry, sentimentally. When the Star Spangled Banner plays, I feel proud.
Global warming doesn't scare me; I'm cold natured. And I wouldn't mind having a view of the ocean from here. It might help my property value.
When I breathe my last, lay me to rest between the hedges of Sanford Stadium, while the Redcoat Band strikes up a rousing rendition of Glory, Glory to Old Georgia.
Finally, I might know who I am, but don't ask me why I'm here.