According to Wikipedia:
A meme is a unit of cultural information that propagates from one mind to another, analogous to the way a gene propagates from one organism to another as a unit of genetic information and evolution. Biologist and evolution theorist Richard Dawkins coined the term meme in 1976. He gave as examples tunes, catch-phrases, beliefs, clothing fashions, ways of making pots, and the technology of building arches.
And in Urban Dictionary:
A meme is defined as an internet information generator, especially of random information.
Some say “meme” is pronounced to rhyme with dream; others say it should sound like “mem” as in the first syllable of memory. I think as it is used in blogspeak, it should rhyme with dream twice, i.e., getting two syllables as in “Me! Me!” The blogger who tags another with a meme is someone who is only to happy to write about himself since he is, after all, a blogger. The blogger who gets tagged is the sort who is only to happy to write about herself, just look at her blog. So Me! Me! seems apropos in this context. Okay, wait, I know what you’re thinking, all bloggers don’t write about themselves. True. But you probably won’t see Arianna Huffington tagging someone with a random-facts meme.
Aaryn over at RubySoho tagged me. Aaryn not only blogs real funny about herself and her family, but she opines with flare on economic, ecological, social and political topics in her blog as well as in her regular column over CityBEAT. RubySoho is sort of a cross between dooce and Mark Morford’s column (but with excellent photos). The object of this meme is to blog eight random facts about myself and then pass it on. Sort of like a cyberspace chain letter, but you get to talk about yourself and no curse hangs over you if you fail to pass it on (as far as I know). And you get to read the clever random answers of those you tagged and those who tagged you, albeit they are people who you are probably predisposed to think of as clever anyway or you wouldn’t read each other’s blogs. Well, maybe.
There are a few rules . . .
1. I have to post these rules before I give you the facts.
2. Each player starts with eight random facts/habits about themselves.
3. People who are tagged need to write their own blog (about their eight things) and post these rules.
4. At the end of your blog, you need to choose eight people to get tagged and list their names.
5. Don’t forget to leave them a comment telling them they’re tagged, and to read your blog.
Eight Random Facts About Me:
1. I volunteer in haste and repent at leisure, except that I don’t repent at leisure because I’m too busy with volunteer work. If something needs to be done, just ask me. I’ll step right up and martyr myself at no charge. This has gone on for so long that my über-supportive husband finally had to speak up. He recently asked me to please take a break from being an über-volunteer at my very earliest convenience.
2. When I was twenty years old, I went on a date to a champagne brunch at a private, members only, swanky, Puttin’-on-the-Ritz, country club in Los Angeles. I had never been to a country club before. When I was growing up, let’s just say that we were a wee bit poor, so in my early years McDonald’s was a rare treat, and sit-down dining at Denny’s only happened when my grandparents took us. I was new at country-club life and a wee bit nervous that someone might figure that out. It was a buffet-style brunch, served in a very large and formal dining room overlooking a golf course and tennis courts. As I waited in line at the buffet with my plate in hand, I felt something in my pants sort of lodged near the back of my knee. I was perplexed and a bit freaked out too. I was holding a plate of food, and as a moved down the line, I sort of shook my leg a bit. I felt something soft slide down my calf and lodge there, just above my ankle. As the line moved down the buffet, I moved too and then gave my leg another subtle shake. That was all it took for a pair of silky taupe panties to fall on the floor. I must not have noticed that they’d been stuck inside of my pant leg when I put them on. I quickly surmised that they had probably gotten lodged there during laundering. Damn static cling. I considered kicking them under the buffet and walking on, but I really liked those panties. Balancing my plate with one hand, I bent my knees, swooped down with my other hand, and retrieved my taupe panties as deftly as I could. I stuffed them in my pocket and did not look around to see if anyone noticed. What would be the point of facing the humiliation? Better not to know.
3. I detest water bottles rolling around on the floor of my car. Water. Bottles. May. Not. Roll. Ever. Water bottles have to stay in the cup holder. If there is a cup of green tea in one cup holder and a near-empty water bottle in the other, then an extra water bottle can be on the seat, but it must be secured by a purse or similar so that it cannot roll. If a water bottle escapes to the floor and begins to roll back and forth, to and fro, every time I slow down and speed up, then I will stop my car smack in the fast lane of the San Diego Freeway and then slowly start up again in order to make the bottle roll toward me so that I can retrieve it and return it to a properly anchored location. Don’t even ask how I feel about children grabbing onto my purse strap while I’m walking.
4. I have already told my children that their children will have to pick a name for me besides Grandma. They have the following choices: Majesty or Goddess.*
5. I tell my husband that he has Hobbit feet. He doesn’t agree. I believe that the proof is in the sock. His feet are as wide as they are long, and his toes are hairy. When I make fun of my husband’s feet, in a very loving way I might add, our youngest daughter bends down, kisses his toes, and says that she loves her daddy’s feet. She looks up at me with sad eyes, and then pleads with me not to make fun of her daddy’s “beautiful” feet. I wish I could say that this is as dysfunctional as our family gets, but if you saw us play Scattergories, you’d know that we need Dr. Phil.
6. Ricky Nelson kissed me at the Palomino in North Hollywood in 1980.
7. My beloved grandmother, who died when I was thirteen, visited me in the operating room when I had my oldest daughter via C-section. We even had a very loving conversation. Naysayers would say it was the morphine. I know she was there.
8. When I grow up I want to be a writer.
That’s all folks. And now I’m tagging name of blog, Blogging Mum, ClunkClunk, Jump for Joy!, jonsonblog, Grant, Bryce, and Granny (aka Lymphopo or Liz over at As The Tumor Spins). Everyone on my list are personal friends or family, and so I’ve already annoyed each of them at one time or another (what’s one more?), except for Granny, whom I only know from reading her blog. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t know I’m alive out here in the vast Blogosphere, but I read a very limited number of blogs (as you can see from my links) and Granny is one of those blogs, and she has a very good blog at that, so Granny is hereby tagged.
*I’m just kidding about number four. I think that being a grandma (after my daughters have completed their post-graduate degrees, of course) will totally rock. You get to hold, kiss, bathe, rock, snuggle, and sniff a cute baby. When you are done you can hand the baby back and then scoot off to the dermatologist for your Botox injection.