Do you say "meem" or "meemee"?
Just wondering. Christopher tagged me for this. Sheer pride will not allow me to ignore a meme tag. Not to mention, if Chaucer is allowed, then, by God, so am I.
My first writing professor in college often intoned, "sentimentality is a species of inaccuracy." But, perhaps inaccuracy may be considered a species of poetry, if we are postmodern enough.
"The Sentimental Meme"
What was your favorite toy growing up?
I was fairly obsessed with crayons - the huge box with the sharpener in back. I recall organizing and re-organizing by color, height, frequency of use. Perhaps I am called to be an administrative drudge after all. There is still definitely something very soothing about possessing so much color and order. I admit I have a drawer full of colored pencils and at least a dozen different colors of sharpies, oil paints, watercolors. No crayons, though. I am a serious artisan now, after all.
What was the first curse-word you remember learning?
The grand-daddy of them all. Yes, kids, the F-bomb. Not only did I hear it for the first time in the first grade, but I proceeded to chant it naively under my breath during class. I believe we were correcting sentences on the board. Some kid ratted me out and the teacher glared at me. As though I knew what I had been saying.
Oddly enough, I can't recall where I first heard it, just that I started repeating it immediately. To my detriment.
And I still curse like a sailor.
When did you learn there wasn't a Santa Claus?
I think my mother was very down-to-earth about Santa. For a long time she compromised the myth with narrative additives designed to make things more plausible. For example, the old Santa has a lot of helpers who dress up like him, which is why you see a Santa at every mall. Finally, when I was in fourth grade or so, I stayed up all night Christmas Eve and saw not a thing. After, I announced that I no longer believed in Santa Claus. Next year, I regretted this, as I received none of those precious Santa gifts. Lesson: best to shut up and pretend you believe for as long as you possibly can. On a relatively unrelated note, I believe that by and large, this is why so many people leave the Church. And let me just clarify for those who may be questioning my opinion on the matter: no, Virginia, God is nothing like Santa Claus.
Did you have any pets when you were a kid?
I had a guinea pig named Squeaker. He was a sad, mentally disturbed furball with a giant rat of hair on its ass that my mother continually attempted to trim. I just wanted to pet the stupid thing, but it was too paranoid to let me touch him. He lived in our dank basement (presumably because my mother did not want the upstairs "to smell like guinea pig shit."). So, naturally, I often forgot to feed him. A few too many times. And he died. I received in consolation some Skittles and the assurance that I would not have another pet entrusted to my care for a very long time. Probably a good thing.
Eventually, I begged enough and got a dog - a sad, mentally disturbed Maltese named Rocky (+RIP). He was like the chump brother I never had.
Where did the monster in your bedroom live?
In my old bedroom, there was a small door, like a cubby hole, in the ceiling which led to the attic. This is where the vampires come from.
My first writing professor in college often intoned, "sentimentality is a species of inaccuracy." But, perhaps inaccuracy may be considered a species of poetry, if we are postmodern enough.
"The Sentimental Meme"
What was your favorite toy growing up?
I was fairly obsessed with crayons - the huge box with the sharpener in back. I recall organizing and re-organizing by color, height, frequency of use. Perhaps I am called to be an administrative drudge after all. There is still definitely something very soothing about possessing so much color and order. I admit I have a drawer full of colored pencils and at least a dozen different colors of sharpies, oil paints, watercolors. No crayons, though. I am a serious artisan now, after all.
What was the first curse-word you remember learning?
The grand-daddy of them all. Yes, kids, the F-bomb. Not only did I hear it for the first time in the first grade, but I proceeded to chant it naively under my breath during class. I believe we were correcting sentences on the board. Some kid ratted me out and the teacher glared at me. As though I knew what I had been saying.
Oddly enough, I can't recall where I first heard it, just that I started repeating it immediately. To my detriment.
And I still curse like a sailor.
When did you learn there wasn't a Santa Claus?
I think my mother was very down-to-earth about Santa. For a long time she compromised the myth with narrative additives designed to make things more plausible. For example, the old Santa has a lot of helpers who dress up like him, which is why you see a Santa at every mall. Finally, when I was in fourth grade or so, I stayed up all night Christmas Eve and saw not a thing. After, I announced that I no longer believed in Santa Claus. Next year, I regretted this, as I received none of those precious Santa gifts. Lesson: best to shut up and pretend you believe for as long as you possibly can. On a relatively unrelated note, I believe that by and large, this is why so many people leave the Church. And let me just clarify for those who may be questioning my opinion on the matter: no, Virginia, God is nothing like Santa Claus.
Did you have any pets when you were a kid?
I had a guinea pig named Squeaker. He was a sad, mentally disturbed furball with a giant rat of hair on its ass that my mother continually attempted to trim. I just wanted to pet the stupid thing, but it was too paranoid to let me touch him. He lived in our dank basement (presumably because my mother did not want the upstairs "to smell like guinea pig shit."). So, naturally, I often forgot to feed him. A few too many times. And he died. I received in consolation some Skittles and the assurance that I would not have another pet entrusted to my care for a very long time. Probably a good thing.
Eventually, I begged enough and got a dog - a sad, mentally disturbed Maltese named Rocky (+RIP). He was like the chump brother I never had.
Where did the monster in your bedroom live?
In my old bedroom, there was a small door, like a cubby hole, in the ceiling which led to the attic. This is where the vampires come from.
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