I’m a Mama of two pretty amazing men, if I do say so myself. I don’t know what their Dad & I did right but, wow, these (thirty-ish) kiddos are cool people. Being their Mama is the best thing I’ve ever done, and I’m so grateful that they dig me, and enjoy spending time around me. How lucky am I?

I love me a good beach – and since I’m a born-and-bred Pacific Northwesterner, it’s clear that the weather isn’t the main reason for the hello to the edge of the world. Set me up with a view of the great “out there”, and if the weather is nice, Imma dig my toes deep into the sand. I could sit for hours on a shoreline, listening to the sound of the water—soft laps, easy tides, loud crashes.

I like to dabble in silly, youthful mixed-media art projects, scavenging second-hand treasures to jazz up with my own quirky flair. Most of my creations? They’re not meant to be hoarded—they’re for the doing, the feeling, as cheesy as that sounds. Once I’ve had my fun, back to the donation pile they go. A little circle-of-life action, but, you know, with glitter.

I laugh. A lot. And I cry. A lot. Heredity handed me a hair-trigger tear reflex. One minute I’m watching an ice skater do their sequined magic, next minute I’m ugly crying like they just landed a triple axel into my soul. Cats cuddling? Waterworks. Kermit and Miss Piggy patching things up in The Muppets? Forget it—I was inconsolable. Basically, if it’s remotely heartwarming, I’m a puddle.

But don’t let all that weepy nonsense fool you. My vocabulary? Oh, it’s spicy. I swear like a sailor, a trucker, or honestly, whoever drops the F-bomb with the most finesse. Cursing is an art form, and I’m Picasso with a potty mouth. That said, I’ll try not to assault your delicate sensibilities too fucking much.

As the great Mark Twain once said, “Under certain circumstances, profanity provides a relief denied even to prayer.” Preach, Twain. Preach.