Not content with leaving well enough alone, my brother-in-law tagged me with the middle name meme.
I am not going to go through the rubrics of posting the rules, only to say that each letter has to reflect a fact about the person tagged. Fortunately, my middle name is short and sweet: Anne (yes, Karen, my parents paid extra for that final, silent "e").
A is for anarchistic leanings. There are days where if I suddenly found myself in a surreal, "Blade Runner" type world with naught but a K-bar and a pump shotgun, and no family of whom I needed to worry, I could "cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war ."
N is for New York. Although it has been a long time since I lived in the Empire State, I am proud of my birthplace, the great metropolis of New York City - and especially that wee, quaint hamlet called the Bronx. My husband never fails to point out my accent when it slips loose - I'm tawking funny? Funny how? Meeeeeeeeee . . . . . I love the Jints and the Yankees. I understand the subway system. Any memory of 9-11 makes me cry. I prefer a square Gabila knish over a round Yonah Schimmel  one. I don't care how shallow or how little steps there are - if there is at least one step between my front door and the walk from my driveway, it's a stoop (Katie, go outside and get the paper off the stoop for your muthah!).
N is for Nicene Creed. It pretty much sums up - and nicely so - my faith. One thing does surprise me, though. How is it you can see the same people at Mass every Sunday, and you know they have been coming since time immortal, but they still read along in the Missal when saying the Creed ?
E is for elephantine, which is an apt adjective for my feet, sadly. I am only 5'6" and as a result of inheriting my mother's Amazon feet - but not her stature - and having conceived, carried, and borne the Digikids, I now wear size 11 shoes. I am told that our feet grow larger as we age which means eventually I will give up all together and simply lace the shoe boxes.
Now, I tag the following:
1. People who need people (and, you know, they really are the luckiest people . . .).
2. Hookers with hearts of gold.
3. Closet Red Sox fans who live in the Bronx .
 Julius Caesar, William Shakespeare, Act 3, Scene 1.
 His knish bakery is on Houston Street. That's HOW-stun, not HYOO-stun. Just like the street between FIFTH Avenue and SEVENTH Avenue is SIXTH Avenue, and NOT "Avenue of the Americas". Fuhgeddaboutit.
 Though I must confess, if it was a particularly late Saturday night, I have found myself inadvertently bypassing the Holy Spirit and jumping straight to "one, holy, and apostolic Church."
 Upon being identified as such, chances are good someone's coming by to play "Danny Boy" on your face with an ugly stick, so you might want to use a pseudonym, or as the French would say, a nom d'idiot.