Sapna tagged me to share 6 unimportant things about myself based on these rules:
1. Link back to the person that tagged you. [Yup, did that]
2. Post the rules on your blog. [Oh, yeah -- here they are!]
3. Share 6 unimportant things about yourself. [That comes after #4]
4. Tag 4 people at the end of your entry. [These lucky people are at the end, like it says]
Unimportant things...that's difficult. Everything about me is important -- most especially my modesty. Maybe I can think up some though...like
1. I am a packrat. I keep all manner of unimportant stuff. I find a nice, memorable place for it (or a reasonably flat surface on which to stack it) then can't ever find it again -- or it turns out to really be unimportant so I forget I've got it. This results in stacks of things I can't bear to even think of looking through. Just as an example -- here's a bit of my desk:
2. I collect stegosauruses and frogs (which, in turn, collect dust) -- like so (and yes, I know that one is the Starship Enterprise, not a stegosaurus):
3. I don't mow my lawn, and haven't for thirteen years. No, it's not xeriscaped or zeroscaped or weedy. I have a lawn service.
4. I got on the music train via the way-back machine in the 1920s and got off in the early 1970s. Don't ask me about anybody making or pretending to make music since then. I don't know 'em -- except for Dana Owens.
5. I like mechanical pencils. I buy lots of them. If I see some in interesting colors I buy them. I don't care if they can be refilled or not -- I just buy them. This is part of my stock. I think I need more pencils.
6. I talk to all the other drivers on the road -- all the time. I tell them they have ugly cars or picked a bad color (like NO color: black, white, gray, "silver", various shades of brown or olive drab) -- my car is blue. Blue is a good color. Sometimes I tell them they are deserving of their ugly car because their driving is equally ugly. I tell them to get off my road if they can't drive. I sometimes even tell them their taste in music stinks (it doesn't fall in the 1920-1970 range), especially if their base is trying to blow the doors of my car. When there aren't enough drivers to talk to, I talk to the pedestrians. Mostly I tell them they have bad taste in clothing, or they need glasses to find the crosswalk. I tell them how creeped-out I am by their tattoos (they have to be done with a NEEDLE! -- another reason I shuttle tat). Occasionally, I do tell somebody they've done something right or they've got good taste in clothes. Nobody listens.
Now I want to hear some unimportant things about:
Jeff Hamilton -- the Bridge City Tatter
Clyde -- the MadTatter
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