Wow. It has been a long, long time since I sat down to drip drop a blog into cyberspace.
I don't think anyone reads them. So why write? Because it feels good to hear yourself type.
My website is being redesigned. I have to decide whether or not to put a blog on it.
I got an invitation the other day to be a fan of myself.
I just spent three hours answering emails that were backed up into the alley.
My IPhone never leaves the palm of my hand. I hold on to it tighter than I did my kids hands when we crossed traffic.
I eat Twinkies because I feel guilty for not accepting green plants and pieces of rice on Facebook.
And I want to know why I am tired and stressed. Ahhh, technology.
Thank goodness I get to hop in my car on an almost daily basis, put the windows down, turn the music up and drive for hours. I love it. Wanderlust runs in my family. My grandfather was a huckster. My dad sold RV's on the road. And I am a traveling storyteller. The DNA of our family is based in asphalt and dirt, twisting up into lines sprawled across a wrinkled map.
I'd have it no other way. My car is like a respite. An escape. A humming spa of tire and tread, magnified heat through the window glass, Etta James in the passenger seat and wide open spaces filled with new ideas, dreams, and memories.
I love to go.
