* 1. Post these rules.
* 2. Each tagged person must post 8 things about themself on their journal (that other people don’t know)
* 3. At the end, you have to choose and tag 8 people
* 4. Go to their pages and send a message saying you tagged them
* 5. Fuck off, lady. I don’t tag.
Hmmm…now what don’t you adorable bastards know about me?
1) I have a whole slew of really marvelous Ethiopian friends that I used to waitress with way back when I worked at Bob’s Big Boy in Fresno. I have not seen them in years and miss them fiercely. So connected were we that one evening over a traditional Ethiopian dinner, they all got together and collectively decided that I qualified as an official Ethiopian — and they even bestowed upon me a name in their lovely language of Amharic: Denkenesh Tesseme. From what they told me, Denkenesh means “you are wonderful” and Tesseme means “and the whole world will know about you.” So humbled and honored was I that to this day, whenever I am fortunate enough to meet an Ethiopian in my travels, I always remember to introduce myself in my Amharic name — and they always belly laugh and get a huge kick out of it. Bring on the injera, motherfuckers!
2) I am a proud, defiant high school drop-out. One morning, early in my junior year, I was hurrying to class and just stopped dead in my tracks in the hallway outside Geometry. At that moment, I simply made the decision to stop attending. I wanted to learn what I wanted to learn — not the useless, meaningless, uninteresting horseshit they were blowing up my cerebral cortex. So, for the duration of what would have been my high school career, I hopped my fatass on the bus everyday and headed on over to the Fresno County public library — and just started at one end and worked my way through. It was truly the most glorious sort of education: the kind fueled by passion, ambition, insatiable curiosity, and a really long-running, hilarious, byzantine dodge of the various bumbling truant officers who hunted me for almost two years. Despite stalking me relentlessly, I was like some sort of slippery, smirking, belly laughing fox in Famolare sandals who always managed to evade their authoritative snares; they never managed to take me down. Don’t get between a bitch and her books, I say. As you can well imagine, I am an ardent supporter of libraries, librarians, and the culture of books in general.
3) My hilarious sister, Jenny, made me unexpectedly BELLY LAUGH and spray Pellegrino at dinner the other night when, between the first and second courses, she proudly announced to the table that when she doesn’t bathe for a day or two, her undercarriage smells exactly like a “rat cage.” As soon as my ribs stopped aching and I mopped the fizzy water off of my chin and chest, I helpfully suggested that she employ the same method our mother uses when faced with the same substandard hygienic conundrum: the now infamous Scope mouthwash douche.
4) Because a pock-marked babysitter once forced me to eat an immense bowlful despite my earnest pleadings that the earthy, throaty taste of it made me sick — and because I then threw it up all over my mother’s nicest plastic tablecloth — to this day, I still do not eat mushroom soup. Aside from a handful of exotic meats, and the “economy cuts” of regular domesticated creatures that I patently refuse to consume (the ones Chef Anthony Bourdain refers to as “The Nasty Bits”), mushroom soup is one of the few foods of which I will absolutely not partake. If truth be told, I find overly-picky eaters to be some of the most annoying bastards on the planet and I certainly don’t play that shit in my own home. I give everybody a get-out-of-jail-free card on just five foods — FIVE. Anything above and beyond that is irritating, unreasonable, and simply not happening. Big Fattie don’t play.
5) And speaking of chow, I have probably the healthiest diet of almost anyone you know — hateful, judgmental, dreadlock-sporting, co-op-belonging, patchouli-reeking, tahini-drenched, hippified motherfuckers included. My husband, along with the plethora of medical specialists who treat me, always scratch their heads and ask me the exact same question: “How on earth is it that you are fat?” Just lucky, I guess.
6) Despite it being a wholly unremarkable film by most standards, the scene in Far and Away where they show The Oklahoma Land Rush takes my breath away, reduces me to tears, and brings me to my knees every time. There is something so pure and beautiful about all that it represents — all those determined people literally racing towards their dream. It exemplifies what is best about our country and our culture. It is America:
7) Aside from my Great Grandma Mary — who was a goddamned saint in black witch shoes and a sensible floral housedress — all the women in my family are notorious whores…myself, of course, included. We got no shame! Don’t like it? Wanna judge me? Fuck off, lady! You don’t know me!
8) And speaking about being a shameless hooker, I was recently asked who, in my opinion, is the sexiest man who ever lived. Coincidentally, my answer also happens to be one half of the most adorable couple who ever lived.