In Which I Embarrass Myself

As promised in my last, epic post, here's my list of 5 embarrassing things about myself. It's guaranteed to provoke a superior snicker or two and help you kick off your week feeling happy that at least YOU don't share my same list. Probably.


1.  I love to sing and am still somewhat surprised and chagrined that I've never done anything about this passion.  Unless you count that I was a choir-geek for all four years of high school.  It was nothing like Glee;  we just stood there on risers in scarlet robes and sang.  I spent hours and hours and hours of my teen years singing to myself. I was a latch-key kid, and would often race home, drag out the standing vacuum cleaner, and wail away in front of it for hours.  This still seems like a pretty fun way to spend an hour or two.  (Disclaimer: am I good? Who knows. I'm not awful.)

Image from here

2.  I have a lazy eye, which is mostly controlled, except for a) applying eye make-up  b) whenever I become extremely tired or c) sitting in front of the computer. This last seems dangerous, considering how much I sit here. (Every year I ask the eye dr., and he can't see any evidence of a weak muscle.) Anyway, some of my earliest memories are of wearing a patch over my left eye, and hating it.  To help me become aware of it and correct myself, the ophthalmologist advised my parents to snap their fingers in my face whenever my eye drifted out. And they, in turn, told my preschool teachers to do the same.  To this day, if anyone snaps their fingers at me, I still experience a knee-jerk feeling of shame and check myself: Eyes all forward? Whew, okay.

"Fun to wear" claims the ad. Bullshit.  Image via here.

3. A significant part of my junior high brain was consumed with the adoration of Barry Manilow.  Loved. Him.  Planned to marry him. (Of course, I had no idea at the time that he was gay.)  With my very superior understanding of statistics, I believed that the likelihood of anything occurring broke down to 50/50: either it would happen, or not.  In this way, I happily sailed along believing that I had a 50% shot at marrying my man.  All I had to do was grow up, move to New York, and...um....hang out near his studio.  Right?  My love for Barry has faded immensely in proportion to my early passion. But: I still know every word and nuance of this album:

Image from here.

Oh, love: Looks like we've made it. 

4. I have freakishly big shoulders (and a wide back) compared to the rest of my frame. I mean, I've never been petite, but these shoulders mean that, while I wear a size 8, or even occasionally a 6 in jeans and bottoms, I'm pretty much excluded from wearing button-down shirts.  I have to try on an XL, or even XXL, or once, at Penney's a size 16 blouse. What the hell? I think these were passed down from my paternal grandmother, who was rather round-shouldered.  I'm afraid that I'm going to end up looking like one of those old ladies with spindly, skinny legs and a huge top half.  Note: there is no accompanying image, because my Google search mostly turned up other women comparing their shoulders to linebackers. We should all organize and form a roller derby team. 

5. I consider myself pretty familiar with good interior design, via my love of shelter magazines and all the design blogs I read.  I know how to employ bright colors and clean lines and mid-century furniture and the whole she-bang.  That said, come December, all that better judgement goes out the window, when I put up my beloved Christmas village.  You know: little houses that light up. Little round mirrors that serve as "ice ponds."  Little tiny people, shopping and decorating trees.  I love it, and chalk it up to my thwarted desire to own a dollhouse as a kid.  My children love it; it makes me happy to see them hanging off the back of the couch in the family room, staring quietly at the miniature, static world.  What makes my particular village even cooler (yes, I just typed that phrase) is that mine is a retro village, with '50s-era buildings and details.  Go ahead and judge: yes, it cheesy, kitschy, and middle-american as a plaid Barcalounger: but dude, it's Christmas.

So there you have it. Keep in mind this is just one short list, not even the list of most-embarrassing or humiliating. Trust  me, there's more.  Reading it over, it's clear I'm about as cool as your grandma: Choir robes, vision problems, JC Penney blouses and my easy-listening taste.  Good lord.  Honestly, I don't listen to Celine Dion or subscribe to Reader's Digest. And I don't smell like Ben-Gay.  Really.