In which I blather again–oh, holy Jeebus, yes–and then some more. If you can’t tolerate the video, or if it just makes you cry too much, the upshot is: my husband can’t get a critique of his art work. So that means you should give him one.
Back in the 1980s, I did the college gig all traditional-like. Squirming and chafing in Montana, I hit eighteen and began the countdown to flight. When the time came to start college, I viewed the 1,000 miles separating my new campus and my hometown as “a headstart on a life where I don’t work in… Continue reading Who’s Your Daddy?