I’ve been tagged for a few things in the past few weeks and I’ve just dragged my ass through blogging and sleeping and napping and dish washing and not done a single thing about being tagged. And as much as I may claim to dislike memes - and I do, the typical ‘here is what every letter of the alphabet means and if you decode it, it says I’m a good kisser, wild in bed, unpredictable, unpredictable and like vodka’ meme drives me insane cuz um? you don’t even have to know my real full name to know that - I like the different ones. So challenges, I meet thee!
OhMommy tagged me and some other, way classier than I, bloggers to open up our purses and show the world our shame. Looking through some of the other posts, I am shamed by the preparedness of the other moms out there. Taking pictures of my purse showed me something…I forgot to put a replacement diaper in there, after the last one that Isobel needed. Good thing I figured that one out prior to being out with only a pack of wipes (which live in the stroller, incidentally). So, here’s my stuff:
Top - My purse. Bought for $24.95, less 25%, at Payless Shoes. It fits over the handles of my stroller. Enough said.
Middle - The very outer pockets and the very inner pockets. We’ve got Lobello chap stick, keys, Purell (rarely used, but it appears I must own and carry some since I passed an infant out of my vagina), a couple of crayons, a pen and all of Isobel’s ID/Medical stuff (Birth certificate, SIN card, Health record, MSP card).
Bottom - The big inside area where crumbs collect and coupons go to die. There’s some McDonalds coupons (see?), Pocky, tissues, Isobel’s hat, her mittens and my stretch gloves, a couple of receipts from the day (movie rental, groceries), my wallet with Isobel’s first (and only) professional photo on the back of it (from when she was 5 months old), a book that our dealers buddies at Starbucks gave Isobel and the mandatory ziploc of Flat Earth Tomato Ranch veggie chips.
See? Pretty boring. Usually way more organized. I clean it out daily. Just usually right before bed.
Next, Secret Agent Mama tagged me to come up with a six word memoir.
1) Write your own six word memoir
2) Post it on your blog and include a visual illustration if you want,
3) Link to the person that tagged you in your post, and to the original post if possible so we can track it as it travels across the blogosphere
4) Tag at least five more blogs with links; and
5) Leave a comment on the tagged blogs with an invitation to play
Um, quick, someone tell me, a memoir, it’s like, a story of your life, right? I mean technically? I can’t just be creative about this, I have to follow the specific wording, apparently, so thank god for dictionary dot com. Which is where I see that memoir means:
- a record of events written by a person having intimate knowledge of them and based on personal observation.
- an account of one’s personal life and experiences; autobiography.
- the published record of the proceedings of a group or organization, as of a learned society.
- a biography or biographical sketch.
Based on these findings, I simply must provide the following six word memoir (god, I miss coffee…I have no sense of humour, any more): Naive ~ Guilty ~ Actress ~ Doormat ~ Challenging ~ Authentic.
And last, but not least. (She’s never least), Mr. Lady hit me with something bookish.
1. List three books you’ve always meant to read, but haven’t got around to them
2. Share the two books that changed your life
3. Recommend the one book you’ve been talking about since the very first day you’ve read it
Okies. I’ve always meant to read:
Marilyn Manson’s Autobiography. I think he’s one of the most intelligent speakers I’ve ever seen on Politically Incorrect, he crafts an image that is very much unlike who he actually is a person, and he keeps getting all the hot gothy chicks. I’ve always wanted to know how he came to be Marilyn, from Brian.
Slaughterhouse Five. It’s been sitting on my shelf since the day after Kurt Vonnegut’s death, but I haven’t ever picked it up. I think I might also have bought ‘Welcome to the Monkeyhouse’ on the same visit to Chapters, but alas, my brain remains Vonnegut-less. I’m aware that because of who I am, and what I’ve lived and seen, and my IQ and my religious and political ideals, I’m supposed to be all up in this Vonnegut business. And I plan to be. But like I did with Kerouac, Huxley, Welsh and Burgess, I will do so in my own time.
Diet for a Small Planet. See, I had this home ec teacher in junior high. Most kids didn’t like her. Hell, most of the time I didn’t like her, but the things she said, they sunk into me. Things like not using more than one paper towel, if that at all, to dry our hands; that powdered milk could go just as far, far cheaper in baked and cooked dishes; that if I read this book, I’d think of a whole different way to live, eat and commune with the world. I think I haven’t picked it up yet, because it just might not live up to all I’ve built it up to be, and I don’t want to ruin something good I remember from those days.
The two books that changed my life are The Best Little Girl in the World and Carrie. But a third mention should include Now More Again.
The first book taught me that being anorexic might just be something special about me - whereas Teen, YM and Seventeen magazines tended to only talk about whittling thighs and I knew I wanted a lot more drastic measure than that.
The second book showed me that despite my two-year-battle with recurring nightmares due to watching Gremlins at four years of age, I really really enjoy horror, the macbre, morbidiy and freaky shit like that. Without Carrie, I never would have moved to Koontz or Saul, Barker, Lumley or Lovecraft. I know, they are not all in the same league, I’m just saying.
The last book was the only book I’ve ever read when I could nod my head during the entire thing and completely just get it, like it was my life I was reading about, with my own thoughts and choices and tics and failures.
The book I tell everyone about, that I insist other women read, that I’ve bought copies of for other women, but not myself, oddly, is Stargirl. Yup, I nicknamed my bf after the main character in the book and if you knew her, you’d want to read the book, or if you read the book, you’d want to meet her. You’d know why. Seriously, read the book and then do a dance on some bubble wrap in the rain while wearing a broomstick skirt with unshaven legs.
Wow.
It’s midnight. The latest I’ve stayed up intentionally in two weeks. True, my nap this afternoon was two hours long - thank you, Isobel - but I better get going. I am not tagging anyone because I think you should all consider yourselves tagged. If you choose not to do any of the three above, well, you’re just a rebel, aren’tcha?
Then again, if you made it to the end of this, I am impressed at your willingness to bore thyself. Or were you looking for napping fodder?
