I got tagged by a meme. This is my first meme ever, and I can’t say I’m entirely thrilled about it, because I don’t like to waste all my random at once, but here goes. Thanks to Brett and Matt for making this one a double-header.
1. I have a deep and abiding love for my car. In a scary way.
My car is a ’94 Honda Civic named Billy Markham, and he is my faithful companion and true. We have borne some fifty thousand miles in each other’s company over the last two years, and we have met many strange people and seen many amazing things, the oceans that bound this country and the mountains that raise it. The exploits of the ubiquitous Billy Markham are many, and some few worth recounting. He once pulled an eight-by-four trailer with a mattress strapped atop it through the Rocky Mountains, the Nevada desert, and the Sierras, expiring many a time in the heat only to rise again to battle his mistress homeward. He once brought me through a snowstorm all night long with a busted coil that could have exploded at any time. He delivered me, safe and unexploded, before quietly expiring in the night, never crying out of his ills, never letting me know of the torments he had suffered that night on my behalf. The mechanic who saw him the next day was in awe. “Truly,” quoth he, “this steed must bear you the greatest of loves, for I have never seen another sustain such a wound and continue onward. Had he been a lesser beast, you would have died out there, in the snows of Montana.”
Seriously. It’s a little sick. But I love him, and I will not let him die, not yet, not while I have breath to work on him and money to repair what I cannot. Also, he’s about to become a Colorado citizen, as of June.
2. I can’t whistle.
I really can’t. Good men have tried and failed to teach me. I blame it on my dental work.
3. I am a Champion.
No, for real. When I was sixteen, I became a swordfighter. I was good at it. The friend who taught me to fight and I had long talks about nobility and goodness and chivalry and what it all meant, and six weeks later he came back from Colorado, where he’d been studying blacksmithing, with a sword he forged me. He asked me if I would be his Champion, to guard over him and his children, for the rest of our days, and I accepted.
Come on. It’s not like I could tell him, “Sorry, dude, I’m not into this Champion stuff. Can’t I just be your homefry? We’ll get pizza. It’ll be just as good.”
It became a big part of my life, and if you’re one of my closest friends, you’ve seen it in action. Call it a hero complex. One of my kith and kindred needs me, I’m on the next flight out to be by their side and solve all the troubles. It’s a good credo. Never could think of better.
4. Karaoke. I’m great at it.
Once I was doing Salt-N-Pepa’s Shoop and the machine got behind on the tempo, so that the words on the screen weren’t synced with the music. They were, in fact, not the right words for that section at all. I got through the whole thing. Perfectly. I was AWESOME. I can also do Tupac’s California Love up right.
Don’t even talk to me about Eminem. I don’t want to hear it.
5. My hands and feet are seriously tiny.
I’m 5’8” and I weigh in at about a buck-forty, and my feet are a size six and a half. My hands are the palmist equivalent. Certain friends of mine have been known to stare at my toes. Not in the cute baby way, like, “Aw, wook at da widdle toes.” In the: “Dude. Your pinkie toe is disappearing into your foot and it’s scaring me,” way.
6. I’ve never done drugs.
No. Not even that one. Not even the demon weed. I don’t have any particular reason why. Never had a good reason to. I expect that some day I will find myself in Amsterdam with Snoop Dogg, and then I will have a damned good reason, but for some reason, ‘because we’re all getting high in the basement’ was never good enough for me. As it stands, though, my parents are more experimental drug-wise than me.
Yes, I’m aware that alcohol is technically a drug, but until the FDA classes it as such, no, I haven’t done drugs. I am a bad Californian.
7. I need my feet on the ground.
I can’t bicycle, roller skate, roller blade, ice skate, skateboard, unicycle, stilt-walk, or do any other activity that involves my feet only slightly elevated from the ground and balanced upon some object whose integral structure I cannot feel. Cars are fine. I’m actually a great driver, and I enjoy it. The jury’s out on motorcycles. I’m a little afraid to try. This is because the last time I was on a bicycle, I knocked out my two front teeth. And a motorcycle is kind of like a bicycle with an engine and a higher top-speed. It seems like I could potentially do a lot of self-damage on one of those.
I really want to try, though.
8. You can see 3-D images in my handwriting.
This is something a buddy of mine claimed back in high school. It is tiny. It is pretty. And it is damned near illegible. Here is my best attempt at a photo of it.
Cross your eyes and move your face away from the page slowly. If you do it right, you’ll see an elephant.
9. I used to play football.
Also soccer, basketball, and volleyball, but football’s the one everyone gets kind of weirded out by. No, I wasn’t a kicker. I was a running back. It didn’t last much past puberty. All the boys went and got huge, and there started to be a physics problem. If a body of mass x encounters a body of mass y at the same velocity, does the body of mass y get slaughtered? I do believe it does.
10. I’m a homophonophobic.
I just made that word up, but it’s true. Homophones: words that sound like other words. Your-you’re. They’re-there-their. If you screw these up, I will hurt you. It is the equivalent of nails on a chalkboard to me. I do not understand what the problem is. WHY is this so difficult? Do you write PHONETICALLY? Do you still SOUND OUT YOUR SYLLABLES AS YOU TYPE THEM? Then WHY ARE YOU MAKING THIS MISTAKE?
I understand a typo. A typo is fine. I do those too. Hit the wrong key. It happens. But this is not a typo. This is a word that MEANS SOMETHING ELSE ALTOGETHER.
It especially troubles me when professional writers do this. I am not naming names, because that is mean, but I recently saw a professional copywriter do a blog post whose TITLE had a homophonic error in it, and then someone else RE-posted it, HOMOPHONIC ERROR INTACT. And I wanted to kill EVERYONE IN THE WORLD. And use CAPITALS GRATUITOUSLY. Which I realize is probably someone else’s pet peeve, excessive capitals. That’s okay. We all have our little things, and this is mine.
‘Cause, you know. MY LIST.
11. I’m superstitious.
I like magic. I like signs and portents and fortune-telling, and I’m a sucker for the real stuff. I’m not going to believe every charlatan on a street corner, but there was this one card-reader in Manhattan who totally got me because she was precise about things and she looked like a walking mummy with these big eerie eyes. She said I would have ‘at least two children’ and she wouldn’t talk about my health or my friend’s, which freaked us both out a bit. We were a little convinced that we were going to walk outside and a piano would drop on us.
We didn’t really. But there’s a strange little midland between believing in something completely and having it work its way into your brain, and I live in that midland.
I leave milk out for the fairies. I throw salt over my left shoulder when I spill it. I fork my fingers at evil people. I don’t follow any particular faith on this one, pretty much any-and-all. If you tell me some African tribe back in the early A.D. period used to spin in a circle and belch to dispel evil spirits, I’ll probably add it to my repertoire. Be careful with this one. I already have a bunch of strange little ways.
12. I mimic dialects.
Not on purpose, it just happens. When I lived in Oakland, I spoke Ebonics, well enough that my boyfriend at the time had a friend who got on the phone with me and said, “I thought your girl was white?” When I went to England, I had an English accent, which was difficult because I would usually start, say, asking someone for directions, realize that I had asked in an English accent and now I had to keep it up, lest they think I was mocking them.
It works in other languages, but to a lesser degree, since my vocabulary isn’t fantastic. When I was in France speaking French, they assumed I was Italian because my accent was good but my grammar was mediocre. Same thing, reversed, for Italy. The accent was good enough that they thought I was just over the border, but the words weren’t fooling anyone.
One exception: Scots accent. Can’t maintain it. I think it’s because I’ve only ever heard men talking in a Scots accent. If I mimic them, I pitch my voice lower, as though the male baritone were part and parcel of the accent. I’m still trying to figure out which portion of my brain to blame on this one.
13. I can recite poetry.
Lots of it. I used to memorize for fun on long car trips. Still do, actually. Good way to freak out someone who’s arguing badly. Just start quoting appropriate Wordsworth at them. Clams ’em right up.
14. If I’m with a good female friend and some guy tries to hit on us, we will unabashedly pretend to be lesbians.
Not in the hot lesbian lover way. We’ll basically act a little embarrassed, as though we’re sorry he got the wrong idea. “Oh. Um, this is awkward, but you see, we’re together. Yeah, together together. We’ve actually been married in a civil ceremony and we’re about to adopt. She’s planning on taking some time off of work to take care of the baby since I really can’t be away from my job right now, and – I’m sorry. Are we boring you?”
It’s good fun. Making up professions is good too, especially if you can throw in some age-old couple banter.
“Yes, she’s a photographer and I’m a lawyer, just made partner actually.”
“She’s the smart one in the relationship.”
“Oh, honey, stop that. That’s just not true – she’s brilliant, really she is.”
Kills the mojo dead. It’s amazing.
15. I am a speedy touch-typist.
85 words per minute, easy, and I can do it without looking at the keyboard. Good party trick.
16. I am Catwoman.
No, not really, but cats really like me. If I live with them, they’re totally indifferent, but I cannot tell you how many times I have been wandering down the street and cats have begun following me. They also invade my house – I’ll open the door and a cat I do not know will slink in and start looking around, as though searching for my secret drug stash. Then they’ll sit back and look at me expectantly. I keep feeling like someone told the cats that I’m the incoming prophet, and they got the wrong girl.
There you go. A plethora of randomness. To bed with me, because, bonus fact: I get tetchy if I’m in the same place for too long. I like having a home to come home to, but I am riding the wind much of the time. If I can ever get the writing together enough to become a travel writer for National Geographic, you’ll never see me again.
I know you’re supposed to tag people on a meme, but unless someone dinks my superstitious side and tells me that all the babies born today will die horrible deaths by a vengeful god unless I pass it on, I think I’ll let it die with me. If for no other reason than I don’t know eight bloggers who haven’t already been tagged. Tell you what, give me your favorite awesome blog in the comments and I’ll go expand my Pool of Awesome.
Subscribe. More random every day.