Confession time: blogs are where introverts become extroverts

Confession 1: I have an unexplained love for cheesy 80's songs, and have to have them in my music collection. Just in case, you know? In case there's suddenly a pressing need to have a Cheesy Songs From the 80's party somewhere. One can never be too prepared, really. My itunes is overflowing with gems like "All I Need Is A Miracle," "Send Me An Angel," and Wham winners. But of course. And we can't forget Lionel Richie or Billy Ocean.  And that's just the tip of the iceberg, my friends. Tom is not very understanding of this need of mine. Just today he was scolding me for purchasing Rick Astley's "Never Gonna Give You Up" off of Amazon. But what's 69 cents? That's a total score in my book. You may call it a sickness, but I like to call it an asset.

Confession 2: Here's the thing. I'm a really shy person. I realize I don't act like it on my blog, but oh, I am. A total introvert in all aspects of the term. I often try to avoid phone calls if I can. I regularly have inward battles about going to activities where socializing with people I don't know must occur. I usually wait for someone else to start up a conversation. And I really don't mind that every night I'm a slave to my computer and couch for work. I'm often torn about whether I should try to work on these things, or just accept it. See, because shy people will back me up on this. All my life I've been pegged as rude, or stuck up, or uninterested. I've gotten used to this stigma, and although I don't actually wish to come across this way, I feel like it's not a huge deal because once I get to really know someone, the stigma usually vanishes. Or, um, at least I'm pretty sure? But the good news? I've improved quite a bit since I was, well, 7. I mean, shucks—just a few weeks ago at a retirement home with the young women I plopped myself down next to a nice old man and we had a rollicking conversation.

Confession 3: Once when I was young but probably old enough to know better, I poured hot wax down our bathroom drain. It was in liquid form, and me—the dufus—didn't really think about how it would harden once cooled. I think I realized what would happen only a millisecond after I dumped it all down the drain. Responsibly, I booked it out of the bathroom and basically just sat around and hoped it would clean itself up. Here's the worst part though—we had had relatives visiting who had left just that morning. I let my parents—and brother, who incidentally had to take the bathroom pipes apart to clean it up—assume that one of my mischievous cousins had been the culprit. Can you believe me? Sorry, mom and dad. After all these years I've finally decided to come clean.

Confession 4: I've stopped doing my 20 Second Fitness workouts and I don't have a good explanation for why. Other than laziness.

Confession 5: I—gulp—don't read forwarded mail.

Confession 6: Clara still sits in her Bumbo on top of our kitchen table for every meal. This isn't so much of a confession, I guess, as it is a statement. It's just that we might be raising our daughter to think she's entitled to sit on top of tables wherever she goes, and it's going to be a real problem once she's at school and she causes a scene for demanding to sit on top of the lunch tables to eat. Truth is, I love it, because it makes for super-duper easy clean up. I'm thinking that we'll just be the sit-on-top-of-tables type of family. That's a stigma I can live with.

That's all I can think of. Oh, wait. Confession 7: This picture has nothing to do with anything.

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I'm pleased to announce that I sent my big old beast of a project off to the printer this week. Wipes brow. Like any good beast of a project, this one was prolonged, drawn-out and overdue at the printer's. And then there was this super-dramatic catastrophe wherein our printer friends returned our proof and all the pages were in the wrong order. There were heart attacks all around, and everyone looked at me—like it was my problem, or something. So I had to chime in to defend my honor, because seriously. Do I look like the type of girl that would send the pages of my beast of a project to the printer in the wrong order? No, sir.

Anywhovilles, (spoiler!) it all worked out. Wipes brow.