One of the conditions of acceptance is to share seven things about myself. I can’t imagine what bits and pieces of me I haven’t dropped all over the Internet already, but here we go:
I’ve been saying I want a tattoo for the past ten years, but can’t figure out what I can live with for the rest of my life. ** I’ve almost settled on a Smaug-like dragon*** sitting comfortably on a hoard of books, holding one open in a claw and peering at it—or the observer—over pince-nez glasses on a chain. But I never quite manage to make an appointment with the tattoo studio. And I have no idea where it would go . . .
I’m allergic to black olives. Not olive oil, not green olives (though I don’t like ’em much), just black olives. There’s something in the oxidation process that throws a histamine dance party featuring scratchy remixes of Itchy & the Mild Hives if I forget to check the ingredients list on the hummus.
My eyes are green, like my mother’s, but not half as beautiful as my daughters’. And I’m blind as a bat without glasses or contacts.
I have a weird full-out laugh. I know everyone thinks they do, but my cousin has the same one—hooray for genetics— and it’s really odd, like something the adopted child of a seal and a hyena might have, if her godmother was a woodpecker. Someone surprised it out of me in a full conference hall once, and a person at the far end shouted, “Hey, Sarah’s here!” If I try to suppress it, I snort. It’s one of those Catch-22 things, but louder.
I can sing, but only the notes from around F below middle C to the C above middle C— and only in the car. Anything else is a total crap shoot. And I mean that literally.
My father is a retired clinical psychologist who had his students practice running evaluation tests on me. Explains a lot, doesn’t it?
I’m completely addicted to YouTube videos of Irish comedian Dara O’Briain and any of his colleagues who have ever appeared on his quiz show, Mock The Week—especially the bits that were too raunchy for the BBC to broadcast. These people—particularly Hugh Dennis, Ed Byrne, and Frankie Boyle—regularly reduce me to a sodden heap of snorting, giggling, braying tears, and I love it.
There, that’s probably seven and several extra with just a bit of TMI.
Another condition of this award is to pass it to five other bloggers. I’m going to have to think about that carefully, since I have a really, really long list.
Thanks again, Sherry!
Daniel Rozin makes magic mirrors
Out of wood:
And laminated C-ring prints:
How cool is this?
*And also to four amazing people—I’d be honored to have my name appear next to this list.
** Marrying my husband was a far easier decision—then again, I was twenty-two at the time. God knows what I might have chosen if I’d been into tattoos at the time . . . but my sister is still living down Tweetie Bird.
*** Y’all might as well get used to the Hobbit references around here until both movies are over and the DVDs are in my fevered possession.