Friday the Dorkteenth, well almost

Missing the actual day to do this should be proof positive of my dorkiness. The dictionary defines dork as "A stupid, inept, or foolish person." I've known about this for weeks, knew I wanted to do a blog entry, had sorted through all the proof of dorkiness in my life and then couldn't decide what to write. How much more stupid (to admit my dorkiness in a world that values polished and smooth), inept (missing the chance to humiliate myself when others are doing the same and taking some of the groans from my general direction) or foolish (to have done some of the stupid things I've done) can a woman get?

You've just got to love me, in that sweet head patting, can't help laughing while giving me a hand to get off my newly bruised fanny way.

Though lacking Napoleon Dynamite's spectacular hair do, chapstick fetish and dancing moves, I share his ability to say or do the thing that makes people wonder about me. For a woman who's pretty good with words, I know that just reacting spontaneously can be dangerous for me. In short, sometimes I don't think before I open my mouth. Once at a dentist, I was warning the technician about a bad gag reflex before he took x-rays. Clucking slightly, he gave me advice and said he felt sorry for me. I blurted, "Don't feel sorry for me, feel sorry for my husband." I didn't even realize what I'd said until I saw him blush every time he saw me after that.

Then there are the quirky interests, like tracking the careers of character actors. I don't do it intentionally, but I really enjoy it. If I like a performance, I'll notice an actor again. I watched The Edge with Sir Anthony Hopkins and the best looking of the Baldwin brothers this week. Alec, maybe, I can't remember. He's the one that creeps me out a little. I did remember though that the third absolutely delicious male in this testosterone fest was Harold Perrineau who had been in Oz as the absolutely compelling narrator, August, Woman on Top as a delightful drag queen, and William Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet as Mercutio, where he was also in drag for part of the movie. Why this guy isn't a major star, I'll never know. He's massively talented and gorgeous (as either a man or woman). Yeah, I couldn't help blurting that stuff out while my friend rolled her eyes.

So, I blurt and sometimes make inappropriate comments. I have this trick memory for basically useless information like actor's filmographies, quotes, some statistics and odd factoids. I kick butt at Trivial Pursuit. You'd think that I could use that memory for useful information like my office's fax and toll-free numbers, but no, I have to look at one of my business cards every time to quote the number accurately. If something serves a practical purpose, it just won't stick in my memory unless it's rarely used. I think of my memory like velcro. Hard facts can slip right from it, unless I write them down, but the soft, fuzzy, useless stuff sticks.

Weird words and mind quirks aren't the only things that qualify me for dorkhood though. I have a real talent for klutziness and embarrassing myself in public. If I look just okay or slightly frumpy, like I interrupted housework to go buy more detergent, I'll do fine. Let me look really good though, and I'm almost guaranteed to show how it's all a sham. On a blind date over a Christmas holiday back in college, I was leaving my house, dressed in my first true little black dress. I looked hot and way more sophisticated than my 20 year old self had any right to look. My date and I were both relieved and pleased with each other's appearance, and I wanted to keep up the good impression. Instead I stepped off the covered walkway to the exposed driveway, hit a piece of ice with my heel, and literally went heels over head in a complete flip that left me sprawled on my tummy at my date's feet. To make matters worse, when he tried to help me up, I ended up pulling him down.

That was just one of the sprained ankles in my life. My klutziness is so extreme, that I've been on either crutches, a cane or a walker about 15 times in my life now. That averages out to about once every three years. Thinking back, I ought to be good for about two more years. Let's keep our fingers crossed. Add onto that, my nose has been broken not once, not twice, but five times (two car wrecks, falling out of bed during a nightmare, running into a wall in gym class from sheer momentum, and catching a punch from a drunk at a concert who didn't recognize I was a woman until I started screaming). If I throw in the broken fingers and toes, this entry could run for days. In defense of my dorky self, other people are safe around me. They don't get hurt just from proximity. While klutziness is embarassing, the moments of accidental public exposure are worse. Lisa, you're right, I do think my clothes sometimes are just determined to come off by themselves.

I'm a dork. I confess it freely. In my home office, I have a little pen and ink and watercolor print on my desk. It says, "Blessed are we who can laugh at ourselves, for we shall never cease to be amused." Right on.

As proof that I'm really not the only one, check out the other dorks at DorkBloggers.

dorks, The Dorkteenth