My dear friend Stephanie over at dishalicious has taken a break from free opulent massages for her job, Monk-esquely wiping things down, and shopping for handbags that cost more than my monthly "salary" to "tag" me into revealing six weird things about myself. And then, like I did with every chain letter sent to me as a child (even the ones that threatened I’d be run over by a steamroller if I did not continue the chain), I will say: tag ends here, bitches–I don’t know who the Alpha was of this cruel game, but I am now the Omega. And with that, I give you:
- although I am a pathological overachiever when it comes to Germanistik-related affairs and anything having to do with my "work" (my grades are being posted today and my evaluations were yesterday–apparently my greatest weakness as a teacher is that I don’t bring enough cookies), I am infuriatingly uncompetitive in all other aspects of life. This comes from the fact that I completely blow at games, unless that game is "Guess Who Can Talk The Most and the Fastest," in which case I totally! win! all the time!, or "Non-Drinking Asshole," in which I am the only non-drinker. I also hate participating in any form of forced merriment or team fun, kind of like the opening credits of "Daria" when they’re playing volleyball and Daria doesn’t even try to get the ball and two popular girls head-butt each other and she makes a half-assed gesture with her hand like "meh." That’s me. Every once in awhile I can be coerced into playing "Taboo," but that is only because that game was made by puritans so you can always circumlocute their stupid little words by swearing.
- a vague extension of Item #1, which I have discussed before on this blog: Certain company excepted, it gives me uncontrollable anxiety to share meals with others. This is partly due to my very weird diet (explained in the Robot Iff Robot post about a month ago), which I don’t enjoy explaining to people, and partly due to the fact that I can’t stand food-related disorder and people sitting around a bunch of dirty dishes having an inane conversation about Steve Vai while all I can think of is the congealing risotto on my plate and the pile of work I have at home. This rule is relaxed a bit during vacation times–this week, for example, when school’s out (which you would not know by the massive crowd at the gym, jeez! Did everyone else stay around to study for their exams too?!?), the thought of sharing a nice meal with someone is actually pretty pleasant (especially if it is Ethiopian food in LA), but during the quarter nothing terrifies me more.
- a vague extension of #s 1 and 2, I loathe forced merriment of all kinds: parades, parties if the participants are not cynical graduate students or cynical non-graduate students, New Year’s Eve (especially New Year’s Eve–that will be visited in greater detail closer to the blessed event), Christmas, all non-Christian Christmas knockoffs, other people’s birthdays, my birthday–any time there is an expectation of fun, I freak out and don’t think I can live up to it. Unexpected fun, however, is my specialty, and I can make pretty much anything fun in the world, including emergency room visits and being stuck in traffic. I like having fun more than just about anyone I know, including my extremely rowdy upstairs neighbors who are always, always, always making some sort of ruckus at infinity o-clock in the morning–and even though I don’t drink alcohol anymore I still goof off all the time, just not at readily-appointed Official Times of Mirth.
- I cut my own hair, which might explain a few things about why I look like I do. I haven’t been to a professional hair person since 2002. At the time I was going to this cool kind of hipster salon in the East Village and my stylist moved to Europe and I figured, meh, I’m currently paying $60 to make it look like I cut my hair myself, I might as well just cut my hair myself. Et voila.
- The only exception to #3: Disneyland. For some unfathomable reason, I fucking love Disneyland. Living 11 miles from Disneyland has been one of the greatest aspects of my OC residency, because now every time I finish a brutal academic quarter where my brain has grown three sizes (like the Grinch’s heart), I can go to Disneyland and shrink it back to its normal size, and also go on some bitchin’ rides (I maintain that Splash Mountain is the greatest ride ever invented, though the Indiana Jones ride is pretty awesome and the Tower of Terror is the Nietzschean abyss in real life, and I mean that in a good way). You would think this would be prohibitively expensive for someone in my current sitch, but I have my ways (and they are embarassing). As an extra added bonus, my friend Erin and I always go together, sans kids and with our usual minimalist approach to attire and makeup, so we look like extra-super lesbians, which is fun because it makes D-Land’s more conservative patronage uncomfortable, which I enjoy. I also like Disneyland for sociological reasons and because I think it represents the ultimate in human achievement–a totally isolated, unreasonably expensive fantasy world full of plushies and fake countries that all look alike, and also rides. For some reason it’s too fascinating to resist. Also the Tower of Terror rules!
- I am incapable of parking a car correctly. One of these days I’m going to compile a digital photo array of various incarnations of the "Schuman Slant" because how one person can park in EVERY way but the correct way should be the subject of some sort of study in the Social Sciences.