And I suppose it’s fair to say that I’m also a little bit rock and roll—but truth be told, I’m all over the place when it comes to genres of music that move me.
In My Humble Opinion
Remember Alice in Wonderland and the white rabbit? I do, and recently I’ve been heard muttering “I’m late, I’m late… for a very important date!” all around town. Even as a kid, being prompt was important, mostly because members of my family were habitually late for Thanksgiving dinners, cello recitals, school plays and the like.
It’s no secret that I’m a bit high strung, but I learned long ago that pharmaceuticals are not the answer for what ails me. I used to apologize for my idiosyncrasies, but the older I get—well, what would Popeye say? My friend Lynne was just here for a visit, and it was nice to have company for the last few days.
First name Amanda, last name Reed. And boy oh boy, do I owe her one.
Today’s title above is a somewhat esoteric reference to an old Noel Coward song that I’m fairly sure is no longer considered PC—so I won’t include any of the lyrics here (“Use the Google!” as Mom would yell); suffice it to say that the song refers to blistering heat, which caused the mercury to rise in the Upper Delaware River region over the la
Even though I maintain that the “Three Ps” are my bread and butter, I’m not really complaining (go figure), but rather attempting to encapsulate what would otherwise be a very lengthy explanation of what I do for those who dare to inquire.
Or so they say. I suppose it depends on who is taking the picture and what the subject matter is, but with my arm in a sling (and a song in my heart), I ventured out into the world last week to see what I could see, the idea being that if I could capture photos illustrating where I was, then fewer words (you’re welcome) would be called for.
It should come as no surprise (IMHO) that my birthday is a national holiday, and now that it has passed, I can get down to business. If for some reason your cards and gifts got lost in the mail, feel free to forward them on to me c/o The River Reporter.
I’m not sure if I’m clinically depressed, self obsessed, or simply mad as a hatter, but my mind never stops whirring, and it’s difficult getting to sleep these days. When attempting to explain how I feel to my shrink—or what friends I have left—I stutter and stammer, seeking the right words. “It’s an existential crisis,” I said to a confidant.
I would never call myself fashionable. Sure, I look in the mirror before I leave the house—but I’m often at a loss as to what to wear and far more concerned with my mop of hair, grateful that it still sprouts from my head in unruly abundance.