But Call Me Betsy

Here is a picture of me in a nightie with a short haircut; probably age 8 or so. Step dad accurately caricatured in the background. Our entire family seems to wear glasses. And this is me in Laura Ingalls braids, age 10-ish. I eventually turned out okay. I mean, look at the genes I had to inherit. This is my mom wearing an outfit her brother Richard brought back from his travels in the Army. I believe she is posing without her glasses, next to a glamorous fir tree in the back yard of Grandpa's house. She was 18. Little did she know that in 8 short years, she would have me.

That's what I'm doing right now. Startling the animals in my house because I have decided to become a rock star and have been practicing my singing/dance routine in the living room. It's best to do this in your socks if you have faux wooden floor such as I do because it allows you to slide around much easier and it increases your repertoire of dance moves by at least 12%. Also, best to wear a tank top and blue jeans. Or a leotard if you're planning a lot of elaborate jumps. I guess I'm being kind of loud and probably not quite on-key (can't tell with my i-pod on) because my cats have their ears back like they do when they hear fighting outside or a sudden whistle or the lyrics of "It's the End of the World as We Know It" belted out with the necessary jumping up and down to accompany that particular piece. How about a less energetic one; how do you feel about The Postal Service's "Such Great Heights?" Nope, they don't much care for...