Well, I’ll tell you. ‘Cos, like, there ARE 14 things about me you don’t know. How do ya like them apples? I know, you’re thinking, “Dude, this is one seriously vast chick.” We’re so on the same page. Here’s just some of that vastness, my fabulous minions:
1. Well, you know I’m funny. In fact, I’ve been told on occasion that I’m even, gasp, “really” funny. I’ll accept that answer. But you know what’s also funny? I don’t watch a lot of comedy. You scour my DVD collection and there are very, very few comedies. Maybe 10% of what I own can be classified as funny.
I think it’s just, you know, retarded that movies should be required to be funny all the way through. There certainly are great comedies out there, but I find most try too hard and fall flat. I’m that funny person who’s really hard to make laugh in real life. It’s true. I see humour everywhere, and I make myself laugh all the time, which can be embarrassing in public places if I don’t keep it to a silly smirk, but that’s how it goes.
That said? I think dramas that never have humour at all, they completely suck. It’s easy to bring humour into even the darkest of work. Something like the movie Brick, for instance. I mean, it’s noire, but it’s funny as hell. You’d never classify it as a comedy, but it works some very good humour into a black-as-fuck plot. Humour ought to be omnipresent in our world. We should never, ever be without laughter. And, hey, in the spirit of Barry O’s inauguration, I wanna do my part.
2. I sneeze when aroused. Sometimes. I know! I thought I was a freak, too. I was never going to write about it on here. Every now and then — achoo! HELLOW. But it turns out that the British medical folk just did a study that shows it’s actually kind of common, sneezing upon arousal. Who knew? Then again, I’ve always thought of a sneezing fit like an orgasm-meets-enema for the head. “And now that I’m clearheaded — let the games begin!”
3. I have never broken a bone. I’ve been thrown from a horse, fallen down a flight of stairs, thrown off a scooter (landed on head and taken, sirens blaring, to the hospital), had several car accidents, have fallen off bikes, and have generally lived life as an unrepentant klutz. Yet, I am unbroken. A little scarred. And living with a mild head injury. But, all good. Cute as a button, too.
4. When I was 13, I got to have a barbecue at Peanuts’ creator Charles Schultz’s home in Santa Rosa, California. He had an annual Old-timers’ Hockey League tournament and would extend invitations to different teams every year, and everyone would show up in the hot summer, play hockey at the rink on his property, and he’d always do a big barbecue for all the families. Well, he talked to me. He asked me about school, what I liked to read, what my favourite things I learned were. He told me all about his daughter, how she was an ice-skater, and that’s why he built the rink. He was awesome. :) [Other celebrities I’ve seen IRL are of a ridiculously long list with everyone from George Michael and Michael Hutchence (3 weeks before his death, buying a toy from me for his kid) to Tim Robbins and David Duchovny, and a million in between. Film town, remember? I worked at a great bookshop and a very touristy toy shop way back when.]
5. A couple years ago I taught no fewer than three full weeks of cooking classes to kids between the ages of 6 and 12. I even wrote cookbooks. One week of summer cooking camp was an international cooking course. We made Thai green curry from scratch, Tandoori chicken and naan bread, an African feast, a day with all Middle-Eastern fare like falafel and tzatziki and tabouleh. The kids loved the classes. We’d cook at least 3 things per day and eat everything at the end. I wasn’t paid nearly enough, but I wouldn’t mind doing it again one day. Maybe. Ha. Yet I keep cooking all the same shit at home. 2009 is the year my kitchen took a chance.
6. I coulda been married. I was with someone I thought would be foreverman, and when he proposed, something clicked. Something of the “that’d be wrong on so many levels” variety. I said no.
7. I’m going grey. I’m 35. It’s happening. A speck here. A strand there. I’m rebelling by cutting my hair increasingly punk the older I get. I have a fauxhawk now. I don’t care too much about the greys. I think premature grey’s sexy on both men and women. Don’t even ask me how much I want to push Dr. McSteamy and his grey whiskers against the wall and do evil things. But it’s the crow’s feet wrinkles on my eyes, that come from the increasingly outdoor lifestyle I live coupled with the fact I’m just getting older, that bother me. Luckily I laugh and smile enough that they look like they belong.
Again, I don’t tag. You wanna do the meme, then rock on. You’re it. But this here’s a democracy, folks. Do whatcha wanna.
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