So I’ve been trying for weeks … well at least one day each week … the guilt-ridden day … to write something about me for the “About” page. I can’t do it. I mean, I can. And I will. But I won’t be happy. And it’ll take me a long time. I still won’t be happy.

I can say the most embarrassing and appalling things about myself — as evidenced by this blog and my column — but say something real about myself? Gads. The horror!

The most terrifying sentence in the English language is: “Pam, why don’t you take a moment to tell us all something about yourself.”

Seriously? Just shoot me now.

How does one condense the ginormous superficiality of me into a succinct montage of personal facts and accurate detritus that will make me seem not so, well, me, but more, well, like someone worth knowing and engaging in conversation? I have no answer to that.

The stupid part is that it’s my site, I can say asinine things, fabricate details even, in my “About” section. I don’t have to make myself sound brilliant in 89 words or less. I can use 1,000 words to make myself sound mediocre. Shoot, it’s my blog, and I can lie if I want to … and I would, too, if it weren’t for this dang biography phobia-thing.

Thusly, in reference to my last entry about minor Pam-fails, I believe, reader BFF Mary, we can pull out the big guns for this one:

Pam’s mini-biography neurosis = epic fail at: pam(at)