I’ve spent two-thirds of my life in the Midwest in cities of varying size and likability. I’m now loving life in the big city with my husband of five years, our four plants, and our no car.  I’m at an age where I’m age-obsessed, but still feel immature 80 percent of the time. I think I prefer salty snacks to sweets because my Mom gave me pretzels when toilet training instead of jellybeans.  I think I like cooking more than I like eating, though my figure would beg to differ.  I’d like to subsist on 4-1/2 hours of sleep per night, just like Thomas Jefferson. I’m on a lifelong quest for the perfect deodorant. And I still get carded, which I credit to my genes.

Dependable things on my “likes” list include:  Duran Duran, Howard Stern, the St. Louis Cardinals, vampire lore (none of this Twilight nonsense), karaoke, cooking, Netflix, The Goo Goo Dolls, Hanson, Nirvana, original Coca-Cola, good novels, my rubber duck collection, trying new restaurants with my husband, BYOB anything, and smart television (defined these days as Veronica Mars, Arrested Development, 30 Rock, Damages, The West Wing, and anything Joss Whedon).  Rock of Love with Bret Michaels may not qualify under this umbrella, but it doesn’t mean I don’t love the thing.

I try not to hate much, but wouldn’t mind seeing Jay Leno knocked off his pedestal.  I also hate the new trend in alternative metal music where the lead singer has to spend part of the song sounding like Cookie Monster. Long John Silver’s no good either.