I grew up with a strong sense of justice.  I simply knew the way things should be.  And since I’m not smart enough to be a district attorney, I am a novelist.  My childhood was slightly confusing.  I blame my parents for this.  Oh heck, I’m going to blame them for everything.  I think I would have turned out normal if it weren’t for them. 

Okay, probably not.  I am a fourth-generation Californian, and an American mutt, but identify most strongly with my Italian heritage.  My mother’s family, of strong Norwegian/German descent, tried to teach me how to do things right.  How to cook, clean, sew, budget accordingly – all the things a proper young girl should know to be a contributing member of society.  I, however, failed miserably.  For my 40th birthday, my grandmother gave me a cookie gun, so it’s clear she hasn’t given up on me yet!  That is eternal optimism!

My dad’s Italian family taught me about the good life.  The indulgent life.  How to eat, shop and be merry.  My Nana had very tiny feet and a penchant for shoes (she worked at the Emporium, no doubt to fund her shoe addiction).  My afternoons at her house had no lessons, other than how to walk in her high heels, drape myself in her mink stole and drip myself with rhinestones.  Tastefully, of course.  I picked up on this lifestyle much quicker.