It was my mother’s social ambition that taught me to love books.
My mother–the eldest of her siblings–had a hard-scrabble childhood. She experienced family disruption at an early age, knew it well in fact, as her mother (my grandmother) was widowed and abandoned by husbands and inamorati at a fearsome rate. Moving from city to city, home to home, dogged by the turmoil of constant change, their family suffered one “fresh start” after another (and for “fresh start” read “begin again, from nothing.”)
Smart, tall, and attractive, my mother wanted a better life than the one from which she came. She worked hard to better herself through schooling and difficult choices, and did not apologize when it meant moving on. Some–her siblings included–thought her haughty and snobbish. In my own time, I’ve been described as haughty, arrogant, and imperious, so maybe I get that from her. (more…)
Fair warning: I’m going to use some bad words in this post. Racial epithets, mostly, but I’m going to discuss them as words, not employ them as slurs. Still…you’ve been warned.
I’m a good tipper. As long as the service is good, I generally tip 20% because after a glass or two of wine, the math on 20% is easier than figuring out 15%. (Yes, I can be that lazy.)
Take coffee with cream in a glass mug:
Kurt R.A. Giambastiani 