Curses! Tagged Again!

Reader N.B. shares some eerie similarities with my dear friend and co-blogger N.P. The initials, of course, stand out. Both write wonderful blogs: N.P at The Coffee-Stained Writer and N.B. at Secundum Artem. And both seem to take perverse pleasure in tagging me for memes so they can watch me scream.

This, with the election heating up, and my every waking moment spent obsessing over tight races all over the country.

But what the hell. It gives me a prime opportunity to tackle N.P. with a meme instead of being the one on the bottom of the dog pile. And N.B. is a fellow tuxedo cat slave, not to mention having exquisite taste in potty-mouthed political blogs. So why the fuck not?

Here are the rules for the game.

1. Link to the person who tagged you.
2. Post the rules on your blog.
3. Write six random things about yourself.
4. Tag six people at the end of your post and link to them.
5. Let each person know they’ve been tagged and leave a comment on their blog.
6. Let the tagger know when your entry is up.

Right, then. Let’s have a rummage around the old brainpan.

Random bit numero uno: I once came within spitting distance of being certified as a pharmacy worker. I threw that over for a brief career in the credit card industry because I couldn’t survive a training class in which the majority of our time was spent watching the instructor stare hopelessly at his computer screen, wondering what he was supposed to be teaching next.

Random bit numero dos: The tuxedo cat who owns me has a disconcerting habit of startling herself awake, meowing at me, and then biting me gently on an exposed limb before jumping off the bed. I have no idea why.

Random bit numero tres: I have a bust of Alexander the Great by my bedroom door. Alexander the Great, in fact, is one of my favorite people of all time. Despite being a conquerer, he was actually an astonishingly nice guy. This is how nice he is: as he lay dying, he was asked when he wanted his subordinates to perform his funeral rites. “When you are happy,” he said. Thinking of his people to the last.

Random bit numero quatro: I used to be an enormous Dukes of Hazzard fan. My bike was named The General Lady. Somehow that squared with my obsession with Knight Rider, which led to me attempting to persuade my mother to buy me a Trans Am when I was eight years old. She was unswayed by my passionate logic that it would be only another eight years before I could drive it. (I did end up getting a Firebird from that era when I was seventeen, so it all worked out.)

Random bit numero cinco: Greatest moment in smoking evah: Years ago, I was having a quiet smoke out in front of the mall where I worked when a woman stumped up and launched into a lecture. “You shouldn’t smoke. That’s going to kill you someday.” I took the cigarette from my mouth, looked at her somberly, and said, “Yes, ma’am, I know. It’s called population control.” Her jaw slammed into the sidewalk, and she did about thirty seconds of a beached salmon impression before the guy who was with her managed to stop laughing long enough to haul her away. Priceless, I tell you.

Random bit numero seis: I used to hate J.R.R. Tolkien, politics, and alcohol. Now I’m a Lord of the Rings fanatic with a political blog who adores tequila and wine. Funny ol’ world, innit?

I do hereby annoint N.P at The Coffee-Stained Writer as my successor. I do not, as a matter of policy, foist these things on others, and so it’s up to the rest of you to annoint yourselves. If any of you tackle this meme, let me know in comments, and we’ll have a special linkfest of a post a bit later on.


Argh! Tagged Again!

And it feels a little strange to be suffering a meme courtesy of Progressive Conservative by way of NP.

The idea is to write your memoir or epitaph in six words. If you can add an image to go along with it, so much the better. Then, simply sneak up behind 5 unsuspecting friends and whap them in the back of the head with it. Links need to be provided to the person who whapped you and to the originator of the meme, so they can see how far the thing goes. You can check out the place where it all began for a better explanation of the rules.

Well, the rules basically say I’m supposed to do a lot of things I never do. Such as tag people. My philosophy is that people can bloody well tag themselves, so if you want to take on this six-word meme madness, let nothing stop you.

Not even finding the right bleeding picture.

Right. Brilliant. More decisions to make. Which could have been my six-word memoir right there, but I’ve got something a little better, I think:

“Writing consumed me. So did cats.”

That really is the story of my life in six words.

All of you reading this blog who find this meme irresistible, consider yourselves tagged. I’ll shout “You’re IT!” in your comments after the fact.

Ogods, I’ve Been Tagged for a Fucking Meme

You know, the hazard of dwelling almost exclusively on the intertoobs is that you leave yourself open for this kind of shit. The dreaded Meme. The “How the fuck does this fit with my blog?” kind o’ thing. But my dear heart sister and co-blogger NP tagged me, and, well, it makes for an easy post during a dramatically busy week. So you all get to suffer.

The rules:
Each player answers the questions about themselves. At the end of the post, the player then tags 5 people and posts their names, then goes to their blogs and leaves them a comment, letting them know they’ve been tagged and asking them to read your blog. Let the person who tagged you know when you’ve posted your answer.

What was I doing ten years ago?
I was a virtual teetotaler, sans tattoo, not yet in to black and death metal, just moving to Flagstaff on a drunken whim with two dear male friends (yes, I know what I just said – I wasn’t being a teetotaler that particular night). I’d not yet acquired an internet addiction. I was in lust with a vampiric Scottsman who considered me as his own dear sister. And I was a complete political innocent. My, how things change.

What are five (non-work) things on my to-do list for today?
1. Try not to die of exhaustion.
2. Finally get to the fucking Science Fiction Hall of Fame after a year of intending to.
3. Buy pants. This would be funny if you knew the signs for “Pants Do It!” in our obscene sign language.
4. Finish watching the Dresden Files and try not to roll my eyes at the horrific writing. Much.
5. We’re supposed to make fajitas. Fat fucking chance I’ll be in the mood after a day of downtown.

Five snacks I enjoy:
1. Babies (carrots, that is – what, did you think I really am a baby-eating atheist?)
2. Dried cow flesh
3. Stupid politicians
4. Religious fanatics
5. Nature Valley Chewy Granola Bars

Things I would do if I were a billionaire:
1. Get the Spider Jerusalem KISS HERE tattoo. What do you think? Let or right butt cheek?
2. Use said tattoo to hand in my resignation.
3. Make sure the parental units are accommodated.
4. Buy a house surrounded by ten acres of property, fenced, with hungry wolf-malamutes inside to keep people from visiting uninvited while I’m writing full time.
5. Hire my friends to do ridiculous things, like become my Personal Layabout. Applications accepted in comments. Refer to the tattoo at #1 for an idea of what your life would be like.

Places I’ve lived:
1. Terre Haute, IN
2. Flagstaff, AZ
3. Sedona, AZ
4. Page, AZ
5. Prescott, AZ
6. Tempe, AZ
7. Mesa, AZ
8. Kirkland, WA
9. My own head

Jobs I’ve had:
1. Book store clerk (responsible for finding a book based on no better description than “It’s this big and it’s blue”)
2. Apparel salesperson (the next person who snaps their fingers and says “MISS!” to summon me loses those fingers, guaranteed)
3. Video store clerk (I don’t wanna talk about it)
4. Call center rep for a business forms company (I now know why 90% of small business fail miserably. It’s because people are too stupid to own them.)
5. Call center rep for a credit card company (And yes, we really will charge you a late fee for being a minute late. You’re the desperate bastard who signed the terms. Better get on your Congresscritter for that legislation.)
6. Call center rep for a cell phone company (No, we don’t have a sample of every single phone at our desks. No, we can’t tell you what that strange button on the side of your phone is. Of course the owner’s manual is fucking useless. Yes, your teenager really did send 3,000 text messages during class last week. Seriously.)

Tag! You’re it…
Only if you wanna be. Inflict misery on yourselves. I’m not a sadist. Much.