I share too much
Eleanor is discussing Free To Be… You And Me on her site today, which makes me feel a bit better. You see, I recently spent $75 on eBay to acquire a pristine copy of the out-of-print video. I watched it when I was all Bronchy, and Eric didn’t seem to understand why I had shelled out so much cash for a children’s movie. It is very funky, but I started to wonder if maybe it was an embarrassing purchase.
I know that I used to fantasize about “The Pam Channel” when I was a kid. It was a twenty-four hour channel of all me, all of the time. I’m really glad now that this never surfaced. I’m very thankful that there aren’t permanent records of me during some particularly awkward and potentially embarrassing stages of my life.
Screaming, “Turn it up! It’s Tone Loc!” and then grinding my pre-pubescent hips while moaning, “She said ‘Hey, you two I was once like you and I liked to do the Wiiiiild Thaaaang!’”
Kissing my Richard Greico poster.
Deciding that the perfect bangs are six inches in the air and stiff, and then cascade down like a waterfall into my eyes.
Announcing to my family members that my life would be complete if someone would just purchase the Belinda Carlisle CD for me.
Arguing with my cousin Chris that “Walk This Way” was a song by Run DMC and that whoever “that old guy with the big mouth” is completely ruined the rap.
Eight years old and writing a fevered suicide note and then putting a belt around my shower curtain rod and around my neck. I jumped off the tub and the rod fell on my head.
All of those times I bumped around my house pretending to be Helen Keller.
The other times when I wanted to see if those reflective bumps on the street were really so the blind could drive like my father had said.
The time I told someone that Michael Madsen and Tom Sizemore were the same person and then I pulled it off like I was just joking but I really hadn’t been.
The time I threw up in the traffic circle in front of my university because I had taken vitamins on an empty stomach.
Bragging to my school that I saw “The Dad from Family Ties” in a parade and therefore I was really cool.
The week that I kept forgetting to put on both of my socks before I put on my shoes and I kept ending up in school with one sock on and one sock off. Two shoes.
The time I let some boy name my breasts.
The day I decided to try on a see-through vinyl dress.
The year I owned a crimper.
The time I cried because my Jellies broke.
The time I had cybersex.
The days that I went around wearing Hypercolor clothing.
The month I dedicated to learning all of the moves to Michael Jackson’s “Thriller.”
The evening I spent listening to “She’s Like The Wind” over and over.
Ditto to “Pour Some Sugar On Me.”
And T’Pau’s “Heart and Soul.”
And “Tell Her About It.”
The three days that Tony Danza was my imaginary boyfriend.
The two years Michael Jackson was.
The time I ate onion grass to win the approval of the popular kids in the second grade.
The time I “accidentally” stole twenty bucks from my dad so I could go balls-out at the Bookmobile. I cried for two weeks afterwards. He never found out. (Hi, Dad! I quit smoking! You love me!) It really was an accident, though. I meant to just grab my lunch money. When I got to school I saw that the two dollars was wrapped around a twenty. I thought about returning it, but I figured he’d think I was trying to steal it. So I spent it and then I felt so guilty that I saved up twenty dollars to put back into my dad’s wallet. My babysitter’s brother stole the twenty dollars from me and then told my mom he found twenty bucks outside. I couldn’t tell on him because I wasn’t supposed to have that twenty bucks in the first place. This is turning into therapy, here…
The six people I convinced I was British in a restaurant one day because I was bored.
Staying up all night to watch Axl Rose on “Saturday Night Live.”
Watching “Lady Chatterly’s Lover” while I was babysitting and not understanding a damn thing.
The time I had taken three bites out of that cheeseburger before I had noticed it was covered in ants.
The time I was dubbed “The Best Farter” at a slumber party — and then recorded my best blast on cassette.
When I wrote a fan letter to Peter DeLuise.
When I tried to create a club where I was president. You could only be a member of the club if you weren’t a cool kid on the block. It was called… this is embarrassing to write… “The Odd Club.” You had to prove that people were mean to you in order to join. We were like a group of Costanzas running around.
Jesus, what a freaky kid I was. Alright, that’s enough fodder for you guys. What sense is this? I tell you I’m so glad there isn’t a permanent record of my most embarrassing moments and then I go and spill them all here for you to read. Brilliant.
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