My Photo


I am a recovering shy girl gifted by the economy and my loving husband with the opportunity to indulge my curiosities for a while in the name of self improvement.

I want to learn how to take compelling photographs and be a fearless traveler and and speak foreign languages and dance in public (or at all) and talk to people for longer than five minutes without the little man that lives in my head frantically hitting the emergency button (ABORT! ABORT!).

And I want to learn to have fun. Because, really. Sometimes I forget how.


I am not trying to be coy with the not-so-original camera-in-front-of-the-face profile picture. It's just that I don't photograph well. I've noticed that one side of my mouth (and I can never remember which one) droops a little so that in particularly bad shots I look like a stroke victim. When I find a better picture, I'll post it.

I am a freak about farmgirl-type blogs because I am so envious of that life. As for our own attempts, so far we have 2 middle-aged dogs, 5 chickens (including one hen with a gender identity issue) and 2 physically-challenged ducks.

I love to cook but am hindered by a free-wheeling, I-don’t-need-no-stinkin’-recipe attitude that is not backed up by skill or the intelligence to write things down when I actually get it right. I probably wouldn’t refer to it anyway.

I have always desperately wished that I had more cultural diversity in my background or at least close relations living in another country. But I am as WASP-y as they come, and any family I have in England or Wales or Scotland is removed by about, oh, eight generations. So I live vicariously through my Cuban husband and am thrilled to my toes that his entire family calls me Anastacia. That’s my Spanish name. You know, like in foreign language class in school when you got to pick a culturally-appropriate name to go by for the year? I loved that.

I am slowly learning Spanish. As anyone who has attempted language learning knows, there are pitfalls aplenty once you begin trying to speak it in real life. One time, in innocent conversation with my mother-in-law, I inadvertently referred to her uncle as a pimp. (He isn't. Just so we're clear.)