Sunday Night Confession.

My favorite gift ever was the bike my parents gave me for my 8th birthday: a Campus Green Schwinn stingray with green and silver banana seat, stingray handlebars and fabulous flowered basket. And dig those pants, will you? I had my own ideas about fashion from an early age. In the basket, my dog Charlie.

I have no idea what this gift is from earlier the same evening but, clearly, I was hoping for the green bike. Take a gander at that decor: the pine paneling (which I believe is in vogue again), the burnt orange shag carpet (which is not) and the hobnail milk glass compote on the end table (Eddie Ross anyone?). And not to be missed: the Early American furniture!!

Fast forward to 7th grade, apres Christmas, where Charlie and I are admiring my new pink plaid pants. Second only to my favorite pair of pants ever: purple crushed velvet a la Prince circa 6th grade. I used to wear them to the bus stop in winter and they would freeze solid; they literally crunched when I sat down. I loved them so...


You'll notice the same Early American chair as in our previous house, now paired with brown and white toile curtains (I could swear there were war scenes) and Federal-style lamp. If you could only see the objets d' wall art flanking the fireplace: eagles made of glued-on sequins. I will have to find a photo for you.


Oh, yes. Focus upper left. Eagles with glued-on sequins created by my mother.

My dad, Mike Brady, would kill me and never speak to me again if he knew I was posting this photo of him. Luckily, he doesn't read my blog. I keep telling them and they keep saying, "Blog? What?" I say, "Never mind."

My aunt, however, reads this and will be laughing her ass off about now. xo as

Sunday Night Confession.

I once had a guinea pig that lived to be 9 years old. Her name was Fluffy. I changed her cage every day. She would sit up and beg for food. She also ate lettuce on the kitchen floor with my dog.

My other one only lived to be three. Her name was Sniffles.

Sunday Night Confession.

I was a latchkey kid.

In third grade, I would walk my little brother home and watch him until my mom got home from work.

Somehow, I started watching Dark Shadows. It scared the bejesus out of me but I was too fascinated by the vampires and ghosts not to watch. What with Barnabas Collins and the ghost who would appear after the scent of lilacs filled the room? I would wake up in the middle of the night convinced that I smelled lilacs and wait, terrified, for the ghost to appear in my bedroom.

So I used to watch the show while standing by the front door with one hand on the screen door handle (the front door was already open) so I could run out of the house in case anything paranormal appeared in my living room.

For those of you who aren't familiar with it, Dark Shadows was a gothic soap opera with ghosts and all manner of supernatural goings on and a cast of ultra-creepy characters. It aired from the mid-60s to the early 70s. I just read that Johnny Depp was so obsessed with Barnabas Collins that he wanted to be Barnabas Collins. It looks like he's getting his wish: the show is being made into a movie starring Johnny Depp, directed by Tim Burton.

Yikes. I'll be the one under the covers.

Sunday Night Confession.

When I was a young girl, around 6 or 7, I had a crush on Ray Rayner.

If you are from Chicago or possibly the Midwest, you will know who he was. He was like your crazy, hairy, old uncle. He had a duck named Chelveston and a stuffed dog named Cuddly Dudley. I remember the day he showed up in coveralls with notes tacked all over them (he could never remember what came next and he could then just pluck a note off his pants and follow the instructions on the note).

When I was somewhat older, I had a crush on Monty Hall from Let's Make a Deal.


What was wrong with me?

Sunday Night Confession.

I once ironed a shirt while it was on my body because I was too lazy to take it off.

I still have the scar to prove it.

(I ended up having to take the shirt off anyway.)

Sunday Night Confession.

When I was in first grade, I had a crush on a fat, redheaded, redneck boy named Kenny.

The students in my class were sitting on chairs in a circle and Kenny and I were seated next to one another, holding hands. We were having a spelling contest and when you answered correctly, you got to leave the circle and return to your desk.

When it came to my turn the teacher asked me how to spell "as." I intentionally misspelled it so I wouldn't have to leave the circle and stop holding hands with Kenny.

As it turned out, because I misspelled the word (I don't remember how I misspelled it: az?) I had to go to the end of the circle, so to speak, to start over.

The things we do for love.


[This is my feature where on Sundays I share with you something that you may not know about me and you share something related or otherwise, depending on your mood, about yourself.]

Sunday Night Confession.

I lost my virginity during Super Bowl XIV. Trust me, the Super Bowl was the only memorable thing about it.

Today is Super Bowl XLIII. Yowsa. It looks like I lost my v. when dinosaurs roamed. Actually, maybe it doesn't look as bad in Roman Numerals.

Too much information? Too bad. This is my new feature, as of last week, where on Sundays I share with you something about me that you (or anybody else) may not know about me and you share something related or otherwise, depending on your mood, about yourself.

Spill.

Sunday Night Confession.

I have Tom Jones singing "What's New Pussycat?" on my iPod.

Your turn.