Say You: What is your blog about? 
Say Me: Me. My (beginning) photography pursuits. My life. My family. My mediocre successes in all of the above. Mondays I post a photo for my chosen Theme of the Year. It's a crap shoot as to when I'll post any other time during the week. 

SY: Where to you live? 
SM: I live in the middle of a sea of red, AKA Norman, Oklahoma. 

SY: Have long have you been blogging?  
SM: Since 2008, but I took my first one down.  I'll re-introduce essays from there from time-to-time, though. 

SY: Why did you name your blog "Trench Warfare (Too) ?" Why not just "Trench Warfare?" 
SM: Because my first blog, now defunct, was called "Trench Warfare." I wanted to make a play on the name and indicate this was another blog by the same author.  In retrospect, I'm not sure this was the best decision. But I'm not changing it now. 

SY: Why do you use "Say You", "Say Me" to indicate conversation? 
SM: It's my schtick.  

SY: Why does one require the digital equivalent of a high-powered microscope to read the text from older posts?
SM: Because Blogger likes to think it has a sense-of-humor.  And until I'm more proficient at html (read: get The Geek in here to code for me) we're all stuck with it.  Sorry.  

SY: Who is The Geek?  
SM:  Ah, perhaps I should introduce my family.  They make cameos from time to time.  The Geek is my husband.  It's been a long 19 years for him, rest assured: 

He's not allowed to smoke in the house. 

Then there's my son, The Boy.  He's 18.  I will be calling him The Boy until he's 78. Assuming I live that long. He's hoping I don't, no doubt: 

My daughter, age 10, is Libby. She's fond of her umbrella. And her books, she wanted me to add, since she's standing right here: 

Oh, all right.  We have a dawg too.  This is Phluffy, although most of the time we just call him The Huff: 

OK, FINE.  Two cats allow us to occupy their house. This is Old Angry Cat:  

And Chuck: 

He's new. And a mess.  
That's it!  I refuse to take a picture of the spider that set up shop in my plants above the kitchen window. 

SY: Are you really a social worker? 
SM: Lord, why would anyone pretend to be a social worker? Yeah, I'm a social worker.  Masters level. Licensed. A wholly frightening representation for my profession, I know.  

SY: Do you suffer from any addictions? 
SM: What an intrusive question! But in the spirit of self-disclosure (that would be social worker parlance for all you sorry sorts who aren't in the know), I might require intense intervention for Diet Coke, dark-chocolate covered almonds, Facebook, Sharpies, and various TV shows that started six years ago and can now be streamed instantly on Netflix.