May the shame monkey visit your home often.

Tripping + falling + uttering inappropriate expletives + talking to myself + thinking the car is in reverse when it's really in drive + food in my teeth + reading trashy pulp like Us and People + not washing my hair for loooong periods of time + getting accidentally drunk + wearing inappropriate clothing + eating Ruffles and Top the Tater in vast amounts and often + wine-stained teeth and + occasionally, forgetting my lines

=

Things I should probably get embarrassed about, but don't.









I do not embarrass easily. Not these days anyway. As an adult I have learned to embrace that which makes me- well...me.
As an adult.

I think this complete and utter lack of shame stems from my childhood- a time filled with so much shame and humiliation that I don't think it would even fit in even the most spacious of psyches.

As I've mentioned before, we weren't exactly "affluent" when I was growing up. I almost never had any of the cool clothes or stuff that the other kids had. You had Kangaroo tennies? I had Roopocket tennies from Kmart. You had Guess jeans? I had Whatthefuckarethose jeans. You had a satellite dish and a remote-controlled t.v? We had four channels and a "remote" that consisted of me getting up off the couch to change the damn channel.

Rusty, broken-assed cars, junk in the yard, hand-me-down clothes, a bad perm, growing freakishly tall by the sixth grade, having boobs by the fifth, hee-haw relatives, bologna sandwiches, grocery store-brand pop, no-name kool-aid, clearance underwear and drunk family gatherings that always ended with inanimate objects getting shot really, really, REALLY didn't help the situation.

I lived in constant fear that my classmates would notice these things- that my jeans, shoes and well, everything wasn't the same as theirs. Sometimes they didn't, but mostly they did.
Some of you may remember the first time legwarmers were in style? I was in the sixth grade, and it was winter. All the girls had cute ones they had bought at Maurice's or Deb, or Stuart's. I begged and begged, and eventually all of my wishes came true- sort of.
Instead of being pink and purple and blue like everyone else's, and obviously store-bought, mine were beige, blue and mustard gold. And hand made- the horror! They were hideous.
But, my grandma had felt bad for me, so she knit me a pair in what she approximated were our school colors. I knew it was a nice, sweet, loving gesture, but I also knew that the minute I wore them I would be socially crucified.
So I did, and I was. It was mortifying in a way that only a gangly, dorky 12 year-old can be mortified.

Multiply this scenario by like, 10,573, and you get a sense of my early adolescence.

I'm no Psychaiatristdoctorperson, but I'm pretty sure I used up most of my shame reserves during those years, leaving the coffers nearly empty.

And for this, I am glad.

Shame and humiliation wastes so much energy and time. I need all the time I can get to do things like write blog posts about my ovaries. I need all of the energy I have to "re-enact" what I imagined happed this week on "Dancing with the stars", as I have never actually seen the show. My version involves sort of a hybrid breakdance/rhumba/Flashdance montage- am I close?

So...the point I have yet to come to here is this:

It's REALLY hard to embarrass me. Really.

And I was tagged by the lovely, smart and accordion-playing Ms. Feisty to pick five songs that I'm kind of embarrassed that I like.

So sit back, pour yourself a nice cognac, put your feet up and prepare to be dazzled...


The top 5 songs I love (way) more than I should (with video links, in case you don't know- as the case often is- what the hell I'm talking about):

#1) "All out of love" by Air Supply. I know all of the words to this song. All of them. I sing it so loud in my car when it's on that dogs a mile away start barking. For this, I should be a little bit embarrassed.

#2) "Xanadu" by Olivia Newton-John. It's totally one thing to love the ELO songs from this wonderful roller-disco epic, as I do (shout out to Mr. Lynne, alive and well). But to love this song as much as I do, well...not so much.

#3) "Bust a Move" by Young MC. I don't know if they still do it, but Grandma's Sports Garden in Duluth used to have an 18-and-up dance night that we went to ALL. THE. TIME. This song was on mine & my roommates regular rotation for our pre-game party at our apartment.

#4) "Kids in America" by Kim Wilde. I used to play this really loud in my bedroom and dance like Molly Ringwald did in the Breakfast Club.

And finally, one that I really, really, really, AM embarrassed about. Seriously. You can think less of me for this one- I'd understand. I can't explain it either. I'm as horrified as you are. Feel free to delete me from your computer.
Here it is...
.
.
.
.
.
.
#5) This.

I need to go and wash it off now. Sorry.

Try and remember that true love is unconditional. UNCONDITIONAL!

Let's go for a quick little drive! I call shotgun!

The other day, I was driving along and I spied this.

So I actually stopped and took a picture of a rainbow.

Then I took out my "Hello Kitty" journal and wrote a nice long entry about how I don't like it when people are mean to puppies and how much I wish fairies were real. I made sure to dot all of my "I"s with smiley faces. God likes it when you do that.












Which reminds me...


I'll be adding this to the permanent collection as soon as the artist, Fredwick deSparkles signs it. He hasn't had a lot of time for his art lately, what with working double shifts at the 7-11 and all. The pay isn't great, but the slurpees and nachos are free, and he can take home all of the outdated magazines that he wants. Sweet!

Note to self: Rethink career move.














After the "rainbow incident" I needed a little freshening up in the breath department.


Ahhh, banana and mint. Together at last.
















On the way home, this guy thought he could intimidate me into being a better driver. Ha!

It's like he knew my head had been full of rainbows and monkeys all day.

I'll show YOU, Mr. hearse guy.

I can drive with my eyes shut! Look at me! Look at me!

Oops. Sorry Ma'am. Didn't mean to scare you like that. I'll be exiting now. Thank you.

The end.

Can you keep a secret? I can't either.

Every week I go on over to Post Secret and let myself in on the rest of the world's dirty little secrets. I can't help myself.
Some of the secrets are scandalous, some are sad, and some make me giggle because I love when karma bites someone in the ass. I love being a voyeur into other (normal in a way like you or I are "normal") peoples' deep, dark inner stuff.


So, what about this secret thing?



I have secrets. You have secrets. We all have secrets. Everyone. If you say you don't, you're a liar. Everyone has something they don't want ANYONE to know- not your best friends, not your significant other, not even your doctor (remember when you told her about that rash on your...you know? Remember??!?)

In my 29 years of life, I have learned that there are some people I can trust with classified information, and there are some that I shouldn't really tell anything.
I'll tell you what, when everyone and their mother knows that you farted in your sleep with that one guy that one time, well- it's time to rethink who you share your secret bits with, that's all I'm sayin'...

I have one friend I adore. I would walk across hot coals to get her an ice cold frappuccino if she asked. I would drive her to California on a moments notice just because she wanted a picture of David Hasselhoff's star on the walk of fame, if she asked. I would donate my pinky toe if she desperately needed a pinky toe transplant, if she asked.

But if she asks me about anything too personal and/or potentially juicy, well there is where I draw the line. This girl can't keep a secret any longer than it takes her to reach in her purse and pull out her cell phone. Tell her about that night with the circus clowns and the thong and the ouzo shots...well, within 20 minutes it will be in your FBI file in Quantico. I love her, but I wouldn't trust her with knowing who my favorite Brat Packer was (it was James Spader), let alone that thing that happened last September- you know the one... thing.

Other people, like my gals Blondie, Waffle and Hotpants (mostly. sometimes Ms. Pants can't help herself. Who can? I totally understand), are a different story. I can trust them with the details of that one weekend, with the dress, and the shots, and the cab ride to that place, and the such and such. With them, my secrets are like Condi Rice's pants- zipped up Reeeaaaly nice and secure. Ain't no one gettin' in there. No sir.

How am I with secrets, you ask?

My own, not so good. Give me a few glasses of wine and I'll tell you about the one time I cut myself "mowing the lawn", if you catch my drift. (wink)
Share a cocktail and a cheese plate with me and before the night is through you'll know my pin number, my pants size and the penis size of every guy I ever dated. And, if you're lucky I'll tell you about the first time I lost my virginity.
I am weak, with these secrets of mine.
Weak!

But if you're my friend, and you have the questionable judgment to share a secret with me- well, you may be surprised.
I'm pretty good at keeping these things mum.
That weird sex thing you like that no one else does? Zip.
That time you threw up Jim Beam and skittles in the grocery store bathroom? Nuh uh.
The time you got arrested for having sex in the park with that 19-year old carnie? Well, o.k, that one I couldn't resist. Sorry. Carnies!!!

But, for the most part, your secret is safe with me.

Just don't expect me to tell you about that weekend I had with the Italian racecar driver, the monkey and the tire swing.

That's my little secret, and I'm not telling anyone.

Hey-
Want to go and get a glass of wine? Maybe a martini?
Did I ever tell you about that one time I met an Italian racecar driver...?