Ooh! Ooh! Pick Meme! No, Don't ...

So I've been reminded on more than one occasion that I am derelict in my memery. As in meme-ery. I've been tagged a couple of times in recent weeks months, agreed to do it, then ... well, let's just say the road to completed memes is paved with good intentions. On some of these, I was tagged by more than one person, so hopefully I'm snagging several birds with one meme.

Here's the first one: Seven Weird Facts About Me. I know what you're thinking. "Damn, that should take Cowbell about 7 seconds. She's pretty weird." The problem is perception. What is weird? And how do I choose 7 things?

1) I have a weird little toe on my left foot. My sister dubbed it "Shrimp Toe" in our childhood years. It looks like a pink curled shrimp. I'm talking popcorn shrimp, people. The little worthless ones. It doesn't really move much. It's more like a vestigial toe than a real one.

2) I still kind of think my stuffed animals are alive. Of course, logic tells me this can not be, and I realize that they are, in fact, sewn together of cotton and fake fur, but ... still. I can't rid myself of the idea that they somehow have feelings. I can never throw a stuffed animal away. Not even the cheap icky ones that you win at the carnival. I feel guilty about it. (I even felt guilty writing "cheap" and "icky".) The most I can do is give those unfortunate souls to Value Village and tell myself they will be adopted by some little child who love them. Like the Velveteen Rabbit.

3) In that vein, I sleep with a large polar bear named Bed Bear. He has beans in his feet which make him comfortably heavy, and he has a nice expression. I picked him out of a huge bin of bears in Tesco at Christmastime, particularly for his expression (he called to me), and paid the princely sum of $25 for him -- a fortune for a stuffed animal by Hungarian standards. He is due for the washing machine, which makes me nervous, though he always comes out fine.

4) Now you've got my brain going on the stuffed animal track: When I was four, my grandparents gave me a stuffed panda with a red sweater for Christmas. He remained my favorite stuffed animal, kind of like kids do with their MySpace #1 slot nowadays. I took Panda to Basic Training with me, and he followed to my job training (AIT) where he became our room mascot. My roommates once kidnapped him and left a ransom note. I paid it. He is now fragile, and still has a Bandaid I put on his ripped ear decades ago, because I hate sewing.

5) I can not watch movies or read books that are heavily focused on the devil or Satan worship.

6) I abhore shopping. Of any kind. I'll eat that can of peas from the back of the cabinet before going to the grocery store.

7) I can wiggle my eyes. It's almost like they vibrate. It's fun to freak people out by wiggling them for just a couple seconds with a straight face, then act like nothing happened.


OK. One down ... two to go. Crap. I'm not tagging, but I love to read weird facts, so feel free to throw some up in the comments. Consider it your "I didn't tag your ass" tax.


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Now, in reference to #6, I have to go to the mall now. Crap. It enrages me to even write that. God I hate shopping, you have no idea how much I hate shopping. I'm sitting here writing a meme rather than shop, mmm-kay?

I have to find some pants that aren't falling apart to take to this conference, because I'm thinking jeans and sweatshirt may not be the the general attire for the week, and I'm down to one (that's 1) pair of work pants that still fit my burgeoning ass, and they're probably not long for this world. I had to color some of the threads with a black Sharpie before our presentation. Those kind of pants. Since my room will most likely not be equipped with a washer and dryer, I need some new pants.

The washer would probably wash out the Sharpie, so I'm screwed either way.

It was part of my plan, see, to get down to nothing that fits me so I'd be forced to get off my ass and lose some weight, or go naked, which will never happen in my current state and in this climate. Never, ever buy Fat Pants, or your ass will expand to fit them, that's a cardinal rule. I'm pretty sure there's a scientific formula that covers that. And yes, I am fully aware that as a fully aware woman who rails against the fucked up standards of beauty in this country, I am not supposed to give a shit about surface bullshit or use the term "Fat Pants", but hey, lecture me another day. I have to go the mall right now, and I can't handle both.

And let me tell you, if I have to go into Lane Bryant today, you bitches are not even going to want to deal with me. Your monitor may glow red just from clicking on my site alone, such will be my rage in that case. I'm just giving you fair warning, because I will be in one foul mood if I'm holding onto a pair of pin-striped plus-sizers with a price tag by this evening.

If you hear yet another report of mall violence tonight, don't be so quick to flip the channel ... send bail money.