I prefer Andy over Andrea. Andy with a “y” because I don’t need an “i” to prove I’m a woman. I have boobs and a hooha for that.
5’2” of smart, compassion, awkward, feisty and snark, with freakishly pointy elbows.
Divorced. Twice. Because the process was so much fun the first time around.
I collect shoes. And husbands, apparently. Shoes are shinier and take up less room.
Mother of two grown daughters who still speak to me so, amongst all of my glorious ineptitude, I did SOMETHING right. Twice.
If I run over a pothole with my right tire, I will run over another with my left or the world will end.
I don’t like coffee, wine or seafood. That’s, like, the female trifecta. Thank God for those boobs and hooha because otherwise, I might have to rethink my birth certificate. And? I am Greek. Not sure how I can gag on chardonnay and lobster when they’re coursing through my Mediterranean DNA. Luckily, I can slam a shot of ouzo like no one’s business, lest my mother yell down from Heaven JEEEEE-SUS CHRIST, ANDY, ARE YOU ADOPTED? Followed immediately by AND WHAT IS HAPPENING WITH YOUR HAIR because, well, it’s Mom.
I’m back writing after taking a six year hiatus. It took me that long to get my bearings and regroup after a particularly brutal tsunami all but destroyed our lives.
I’m a woman (see above), mother, sister, friend, fighter, survivor and writer who is enormously grateful for the gift of each one of those identities.