I just Googled, “How to make your About Me page stand out.” Ugh. Okay. So I’m supposed to dazzle you, provide you with some eye candy, boast about my accomplishments and charm you. Ah, hell no. That’s wayyyy too much work.
I’m Cat DeCenzo. I draw and paint things. I take pictures. I stare at people a lot. And I think I strangled a cat once. [See evidence below]. I write about stuff. Sorry, that’s all I got. I don’t write about cooking meals for 365 days straight a-la the gal who blogged in Julia. There’s no rhyme or reason to my posts. Some are pretty funny. Oh, yeah, I’m a good cook, too, so I’ll throw in a recipe or two.
I began my illustrious art career in the 6th grade when the nuns asked me to create a program for the May Day celebration – some pagan, Catholic ritual. They must have liked the way I scribbled on the desks. And I became a writer on the same day when I inked, “O Mary, we crown thee with blossoms today, Queen of the Angels and the Queen of May” inside the program in red ink. And I learned an appreciation for fashion by shoving a floral wreath on my head and wearing a really cute white dress with matching shoes that were to die for.
To this very day, I am fascinated by why people act, walk, talk, and think the way they do. I am a relentless and zesty stalker of the mundane. And, as the famous anthropologist, Margaret Mead, said years ago, “There is no more creative force in the world than a menopausal woman with zest.”
And I like this song by Natasha Bedingfield. She gets me….
I am unwritten, can’t read my mind, I’m undefined
I’m just beginning, the pen’s in my hand, ending unplanned
Staring at the blank page before you
Open up the dirty window
Let the sun illuminate the words that you could not find
Reaching for something in the distance
So close you can almost taste it
Release your inhibitions
Feel the rain on your skin
No one else can feel it for you
Only you can let it in
No one else can speak the words on your lips
Drench yourself in words unspoken
Live your life with arms wide open
Today is where your book begins
The rest is still unwritten