Well, appropriated is probably more accurate, as I will credit this meme to the Sydney Morning Herald – weekend edition.
Right off the bat, I confess two things in this blog entry:
One. I used to pretend I had my own cooking show. Granted I was a pre-teen when I did this, but whenever I was cooking for the family, I would talk to the kitchen wall (a la Shirley Valentine) as though it were a camera, and explain my cooking techniques, step by step. I developed quite a sparkling repartee. I gave this practice up years ago, but on occasion I still fantasize about having my own cooking show. Perhaps this is why I have become a celebrity chef groupie (Rick Stein kissed me once – on the lips!).
Two. I used to pretend that I was on Oprah. This fantasy is more recent – from my university days when I dreamed of fame and glory for my brilliant acting career (yet to eventuate). I would do this pretending when I was driving. I was charming, self-deprecating and suitably humble when I responded to her probing and insightful questions. Unfortunately, the closest I ever came to living that dream was when I went to Madame Tussaud’s in London and posed with her wax figure (she’s quite tall by the way).
So, this brings us to the meme.
I was indulging one of my weekend pleasures, reading the papers, dissecting them, ranking the supplements from least desirable to most intriguing, and then poring over the pages. I came across this meme (a series of questions to answer), the subject of which was Myf Warhurst, who is brilliant and funny, and truly knowledgeable about all things music. From there I worked around to the appropriation. I would indulge my childhood fantasies and in essence interview myself. Until The Herald calls me for the real deal, this will do.
My earliest memory is being in hospital. I was 18 months old, and was there because I had stopped breathing. I was sitting at a small wooden table with other kids, eating Weetbix for breakfast. Later I went missing. They found me in the men’s room, peeking into the showers. (I started young.)
At school I was bossy, too smart for my own good, and a bit of a loner. I excelled in handstands and asking too many questions. In high school I quit the handstands, but was still hugely unpopular, because I had a Texan accent (from living in Texas – not just for fun), and wore makeup in a school full of Aussie chicks who preferred sneakers with skirts and bare faces.
My first relationship was with Shane (I forget his last name). We were 10 years old. He let me look at his Star Wars book, which had photographs from the film. I secretly wanted to be with Mark Hamill, but we were together for almost a whole month – Shane, not Mark Hamill.
I don’t like talking about injuries, surgery, childbirth and other gory stuff. Just talking about it creeps me out.
I wish I’d never worn glasses without lenses in them because I thought they looked cool. It was the 80s. Enough said.
My parents always told me that I could tell them anything.
I wish I had straight hair.
I wish I hadn’t obsessed about a boy called Jeremy all through high school.
My last meal would be in Greece: fresh bread, tomatoes, tzatziki and olive oil.
I am very bad at ball sports. Just don’t throw it, kick it, or pass it to me.
Friends say I am silly, naughty, lucky, bold.
The song I would like played at my funeral is Wonderwall, by Oasis.
If only I could be paid to travel – again.
The last big belly laugh I had was today, on the phone to Ben. He is that smart kind of funny, the kind that is sexy.
What I don’t find amusing is inconsideration. In traffic, at the gym, in shops. Not funny, not cool, not nice.
Cat or dog. Dog, but don’t tell my cat that.
If I were a car I’d be Seriously? This is a question? Why not, ‘If I were a tree I’d be’? Or ‘If I were an animal I’d be’? (A Peugot 307, a camouflage gum, a turtle – just in case you were wondering). Silly question.
I often wonder how things will work out. They always do – often better than I could imagine – but it doesn’t stop me wondering.
That’s all for now…