Be careful what you ask for.

I never get tagged for memes. Like, ever. And that's totally ok with me, because dear god am I ever bad at them. And I have this habit of telling you all too much on a daily basis, so it's not like there's all that much y'all don't know about me already.

A few weeks ago, Veronica tagged me for that Seven Things meme. I tried super hard to do it; really, I did. I got to Interesting Fact #3 and fell asleep flat on the keyboard. I will never suffer from insomnia; all I have to do is think about myself and I instantly am lulled to sleep.

Mr Lady, Dullsville, Canada.

And then LatteMommy tagged me for the same meme a few days ago. Clearly the Gods want me to do this this, and so I will try. I will in all probability fail, but here goes:

• I still, 3 years later, haven't told anyone in my immediate family about this blog. Except my brother, but he can keep a secret. I also haven't told any but a small handful of my closest friends about it. Molly didn't even know I had one until she started one. My husband has never even read this thing. He knows it exists, I just don't touch it when he's home. Fortunately, he's almost never home. There is not one good reason for this. In fact, when I moved it over here, I cleaned it all up so that my mother-in-law COULD stumble on it and my husband wouldn't start calling lawyers if he found it left up on the screen. I just, after all this time, have come to enjoy the public secret. It's sorta naughty, and I suffer from a severe lack of naughty in my life.
• Speaking of naughty, the word I hate most in the whole world, the one that makes my throat tighten up and my eyes dilate at the sound of it....just guess what it is. Go on. I've been called a very long list of questionable names in my life, and having spent most of my "professional life" in the back side of a whiskey bar, well, the imagination would have to stretch like Gumbi to try & come up with a phrase I don't know intimately. And with all that, the one word I loathe is....ready? PANTIES. Wanna know why? So do I. If you figure it out, let me know, K?
• I am severely, embarrassingly, nigh cripplingly dyslexic. Don't get me wrong, it totally works for me. I almost like it, really. It does tend to get in the way sometimes, though. Like when I golf, and I'm doing all great with my lefty clubs and then all of a sudden, for no good reason, my brain just decides to switch me to my right hand. Mid-swing. Grrr. Or when I'm typing. I will type entire sentences backwards. Spell check hates that. Or when I'm writing numbers, and this is when it's the worst. I'll set the scene for you; You and your buddy are out at the bars and you see me and my girlfriend and your buddy says to you, "Damn, do you see that smokin' hot chick over there? Dude, go be a good wingman and take care of her frumpy ass friend." So you, good wingman that you are, approach me and strike a conversation so your buddy can get all up on my girl. At the end of this, you ask for my number so you can totally blow me off later, because that's how this game is played, right? I give you mine and you give me yours. You say 555-867-5309 and I repeat 555-867-5309 but I write down 555-786-3095. You say, "No, no, it's 555-867-5309", and I say, "Yeah, that's what I wrote down." And I look at the paper, closely, and I read back 555-867-5309. Because to me, it looks right. I do this shit all the damn time.
• Speaking of numbers, I have a strange capacity for memorizing them. All I have to do is write a number down once, and I've got it forever. It has to be written on paper, with a pen, or the spell is broken. If you click the Birthday label on this blog, you will see the realization of that fact. I can't forget birthdays or phone numbers. Good lord I wish I could sometimes. I have figured out, though, that keying the number into my cell phone doesn't count in my weird ass head as writing it down, and I have opened up lots of RAM since learning this little nugget. Oh, and for some really odd reason, I can sometimes forget numbers and birthdays, but only the really, truly important ones. Like my work number. Or Hannah's birthday. I cannot, no matter what I do, remember Hannah's birthday. And she's one of my best friends ever. God, my brain hates me.

Ok, that's four. I'm going to need a Red Bull if I'm going to get through 3 more. Maybe you should get one, too.

• I have been in the diapering business for almost 10 years, and before that I had 5 smaller siblings, whose diapers I have all changed, and I still can't put a diaper on to save my ass. I see other babies and their diapers look just like they do one the commercials, but my kids always have one cheek hanging out and one side of the tape wrapped all the way from one hip to the other, with the other piece of tape dangling off the end, hanging on for dear life.
• I hate snow. This is no secret to anyone who has ever met me. I hate hate hate snow. I never played in it when I was a kid, I would rather eat my own toenails than drive to the grocery store in the snow. I hate snow. I could, however, shovel snow all day long. I love shoveling snow. It may be my single favorite chore ever. I won't even attempt to rationalize this one.
• And the last one (thank you baby Jesus) is this. I have never attended college. I really want to, though. I want to do something, and I want to do it bad. My problem lies in deciding what something I want to do most. I have a few things that I am freakishly, obsessively interested in; things I own books on and google too much and ask around about. And so, without further ado, I offer you the list of things I'd like to do when I grow up.

1. I'd like to teach. Maybe English, maybe Math. I can't decide.
2. I'd like to be a Handy Man. I think this would be the coolest job, ever. And I almost already possess the skill set to pull it off.
3. I'd like to play bass in a band. I would really like to play bass in a band. I dream that I play bass in a band. I'd just have to get a bass. And learn how to play it. And then get a band. Totally. Attainable. Goal.
4. I would like to write obituaries. I am not kidding you on this one. I think that a finely worded obit is important. I think I would be great at it. Just go read one of those birthday post and pretend the person is dead. I'll wait..........see? I'd rock the obits.
5. I want to grow up to be a debaser.
6. I would really like to be a seamstress. I like lines. That's why I was so good at Mechanical Drafting; I see things in lines and cuts and corners. I already have an entire wardrobe planned out for my daughter and my nieces (when they get here). Now, if I can just talk Santa into buying me a sewing machine. And perhaps this book.
7. I would like to work for the FBI. I would really love to be a handwriting analyst. I am a handwriting junkie. I keep snippets of my friends' handwriting in a box with letters and stuff. It's not as creepy as it sounds (maybe it is), I just like the idea behind it. I like that you can figure out so freaking much about someone by just paying attention to how they write the letter T. But more than that, more than any of this, honestly, I want to profile serial killers. I want to interview them and dismantle their brains (not literally, that would be the coroner's job) and write essays on them and compare them to each other. Why? Well, I don't know, really. But I do know this; aside from my bible, which I've had forever, the book that has been with me the longest, the one I can't get rid of no matter how much or little I read it, is this. Also, I was the only kid in 6th grade who could spell schizophrenia. I have always had a penchant for the crazies. And I'm betting I always will

And that, thankfully, is it. I'm not tagging anyone, because this meme is pure evil. And everyone with an internet connection has already done it. Oh, one other thing? Please don't turn me in to the authorities. I only sound nuts. I'm really just your average kid.