Face Oddity

A new reader, Cheryl, has tagged me for a meme. To whit:

1. When tagged, place the name and URL of the tagger on your post
2. Post the rules
3. Write 7 non-important things/habits/quirks about yourself
4. Name 7 of your favorite blogs
5. Send an email/comment on their blog letting them know they have been tagged

I'm going to try to make this funny, but it might turn out appalling: sorry in advance. See, it's been, um, quite a week for my self-esteem, body-wise, with any number of children, grownups, and circumstances making me feel I must be some kind of freak. What makes it a little funny is that I'm actually a fairly attractive person: you know, tall, blonde, thin, Teutonic, not-smelly. Whatever. Anyhow, "7 non important quirks":

1. Last Thursday, Munchkin grabbed at a particularly prominent mole on my scrawny upper arm (I have a LOT of moles). Her verdict was immediate: "Nipple!" Um, no. Not a nipple. Mole. Thanks, flesh of my flesh. You'll get there one day.

2. Earlier that week, at Starbucks (obviously), I was crammed in along a long bench next to a family with a six-year old relative in tow. The little girl, Gracie, was fascinated with my computer and with me, and we had several brief and adorable conversations before she asked me, flat out and a propos of nothing: "Are you missing a tooth?" I goggled and blinked. "Urrr, no, it's just, they're um, crooked." Her family was horrified. She continued. "You should get braces!" Thanks, random kid.

3. Saturday morning, Pynchon finally convinced me to buy my first new non-nursing bras
since, um, I'm not sure when. I warned him it would be expensive. I went to the Specialty Professional Bra Boutique in our uptown mall. The verdict? People, I'm a 30E. That's right. Toothpick-sized rib cage, giant boobs. In the US, they call this size 30DDD. Awesome. The three D's are for the dollars dollars dollars you need to spend to buy bras in this size because of the freakish freakishness of your non-standard rack. Specifically, $130 each. But, sweet baby Jesus, they are soooooo comfortable. Wow.

4. Saturday afternoon, in Toronto for the Awesome Bloggy Parents Get-Together, I stopped by Fluevog, where I had purchased some really cool and expensive unisex ankle boots in December. I had sent one pair back because when I wore them outside, my feet got wet. Now, my new pair bore witness to socks just as soaked. I marched into the store, and found the manager I had been dealing with. His verdict? The problem is not cheap-ass construction that uses cheap-ass glue to bond the leather upper to the rubber sole and which promptly disintegrates in damp weather, but rather THAT MY FEET ARE TOO WIDE FOR THE BOOTS. Dudes, they're unisex workhorse ankle boots, not teetery Jimmy Choo mules. How can it be that I buy them, my feet fit in them easily, I suffer no pain or blisters or pinching at all, and then, when it rains, the sole separates from the upper and water pours in.? It's my fault? Remember, I have a club foot. I'm sorta sensitive about this kind of thing.

5. Every day, underneath my t-shirt, or blouse, or sweater I wear a maternity tank top. Why? Because, designed to accomodate the vast terrain of a hugely pregnant belly, these tanks are the only shirts I've ever found that are long enough to ensure that I'm not flashing my belly at people all day. I buy all my shirts as long as I can find them, believe me, and I've still always got inches of belly all over the place. Why, dear God, why?

6. I can't work can openers. Since we've lived together, Pynchon has watched me throw out at least three can openers for being defective, in the sense of being inoperable by me. Here we are making a big deal about me throwing out the last one in disgust:


So he bought me an electric one. And I can't work it, either.

7. I have a fatal fondness for Kraft Dinner, and I seem to have passed this on to Munchkin. On those nights that Daddy works late, we will, literally, split a box between us. She puts away her half, and I inhale mine. Basically, we're racing through our bowls in order to make sure that the other doesn't wind up getter more. Ah, rituals ...

I can't imagine who I might drop this meme on, so I'll just thank Cheryl for thinking of me (and boy, are you regretting it now, Cheryl! You're probably also terrified to meet me in a dark alley. Or a dark bar. Like this fine collection of bloggers, staring at me quite possibly in horror:


Okay, it's really only Motherbumper who's staring in disgust, but Metro Mama, Crazymumma, Amy, Mamalooper, Redneck Mommy, Her Bad Mother, and I'm-sorry-but-I-didn't-really-meet-you-two bloggers and a stealth blogger are turned away in disgust, surely.)