About Me

I’ve lived in Virginia for all 25 of my years, Northern Virginia for the past three.  For those three years, I have also provided for and kept alive and healthy both myself and my cat.  I’m beginning to suspect I might just be an adult.  This is my life and, more often than not, where it has gone wildly, hysterically wrong.

I inherited a long stride and a sarcastic sense of humor from my dad. I inherited a pickiness about my chocolate and a passion for helping unloved, uncared for animals from my mom. I have a little brother who inherited a totally different mix of characteristics, but we’ve stopped arguing so much in our old age.

I like reading, wine, black t-shirts, people who can drive stick shift, extravagant earrings and impractical shoes, walking instead of driving.

(Oddly enough, the last two guys I’ve dated could not drive stick. One was a Marine. A MARINE! How will he protect our country if he cannot drive the Jeep?! The current one grew up with parents who own a service station. Yeah. I’ll keep him because manages a wine shop, but my mom’s going to teach him to drive this summer.)

I don’t mind people who interrupt, because I do it, too. Even to myself. I don’t like shopping malls, rum, the cartoon Drawn Together, poor grammar.

I cry over Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’,” that depression commercial with the Weimeraner, roadkill. I fall down a lot, but not nearly as often as I walk into walls.

 

The title Stories about wolves is from a quote in The Blind Assassin by Margaret Atwood. I firmly believe this to be one of the most perfect books in the world, although I haven’t read enough books to make that statement.

“All stories are about wolves. All worth repeating, that is. Anything else is sentimental drivel.”
~Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin