Honestly, do you really want to know these ten things about me?
Apparently there are sparkly strings attached to the very lovely and luscious literary award bestowed upon me by blogging beauty, a femme d’un certain age.
The Terrible Ten
Well here goes.
- I first attended college at the age of four. No, I was not enrolled; my mother was. She brought me to class with her several days a week. I loved it. Thus began my lifetime affair with learning, and also with art, as she was studying art history.
- I am claustrophobic in large crowds and jammed elevators. I always thought this was due to my diminutive stature. However, I just had an epiphany. I believe my claustrophobia may be tied to the fact that my parents lost me for awhile at the 1964-65 World’s Fair. No kidding. This is amusing (in retrospect) since my mother would not permit me to cross the street alone at the time, yet somehow, I was allowed to wander off in a crowd of, you know… like… a few people.
- I drank vodka for the first time in Soviet Russia at the age of 16 while bathing in the Volga. I do not drink vodka often. I do not bathe in the Volga often. I also drank kvac (pronounced “kvass”). Clearly, both intoxicants immediately impaired my judgment as the Volga is a bit… muddy. Perhaps we need potato alcohol for this month’s half drunk writing challenge in which I will participate. However, if my laptop continues its recent nervous breakdown, I will need to be 7/8 drunk in order to write anything audaciously and (in)appropriately (un)worthy, while in my teenager’s wreck of a room, draped over his dilapidated desktop.
- I believe in telepathy or ESP or whatever you’d like to call it. An unpredictable and unsettling sixth sense that I have on occasion possessed. I have known things before they happened, I have physically felt the sensation of specific events taking place miles away, and I once saw someone’s past in a dream. I have no need for these eerie experiences to be explained (or to occur too frequently); I’m fine with a bit of mystery in life.
- While likely no surprise, I will divulge that my first kiss – (le premier baiser) – was with a Frenchman. I shall also confess that my first encounter of a more proximate nature – (est-ce que j’ose le dire ; le premier baiser?) – was with a Frenchman. Both were lovely. My first proposal of marriage, however, came from an Iranian friend of my grandparents when I was 12. It was a serious proposal, which I can only attribute to the appeal of my pearly white pointy glasses. Very Winnie on the Wonder Years. The offer was declined on my behalf, politely.
- I like to date tall men. Preferably, very tall men. I once dated a famous man 7’4″ tall. Count the number of digits on one hand. (Not blue, but yes, a clue.) That is my approximate stature. Please note — I only went out with the aforementioned 7’4″ man one time. I may be crazy, but I’m not insane. Oh, eh oui… He was French.
- I am a third generation jax player. And a damn good one. I am also a third generation multilingual scrabble player. And a damn good one. My sons make it fourth generation on the scrabble, and I am loathe / proud to say they’ve been known to beat me. Unfortunately, I forgot to teach them jax. It’s not too late, is it?
- I cannot play golf, but I have an outstanding putt. And I don’t mean putt-putt either. Grown-up golf. I grew up learning from a master (really), putting in the living room into a flat, metal dish-like contraption. It is one of the few childhood memories I have of doing something with my dad.
- I had recurring dreams from as early an age as I can recall. Several of them lasted well into adulthood. One of the more vivid and frequent was the ability to fly, which is undeniably common. In my case, I followed a very specific route through my neighborhood, gliding unperturbed around trees and past a reservoir, on to the elementary school. Glorious.
- Talk about a desire to transform dreams into reality… When I was a kid, I was convinced that if I could rig the right habit and combine it with will power, I could fly like Sister Bertrille in the Flying Nun. I did realize she was actually Gidget (um, Sally Field), but I was her size and so I thought, Hollywood trickery aside, it had to be possible. After several failed attempts, I concluded that the problem stemmed from the fact that I wasn’t Catholic. I did not, however, convert. Instead, I have spent a lifetime dating tall Catholic men, frequently French, who can scoop me up in their arms and carry me about like the voluptuous and saucy waif I like to think I am. Same effect, no?
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