A seat at the table.
I've been talking a lot in this blog about what I am receiving as the new girl. So much so, that I could rename this weekly venture "An embarrassment of riches." And before we go too far, I hope I have been clear I am an incredibly lucky girl. My father used to keep me grounded (and I'm not sure my pops get enough props in my recent writings. He was, despite a few flaws, flawless—a force of nature that has 50% stake in the woman I am today, and I am proud to be his daughter). Where was I?... Oh yeah, he would say, "… but for an accident of birth ..." to make sure I never got ahead of or behind myself in the entitlement department. As a working-class Irish kid from the pseudo mean streets of 1950's Marine park Brooklyn (in early pictures, he was just like the Jets of “West Side Story,” the kind that would taunt an Officer Krupke into chasing him and his fellow hooligans from their shenanigans), my pop knew that the only thing between the Maddens and su...