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1. Being the lead in the school play = career as actress.
2. Jameson Parker was the hottest man alive. (I was not alone!)
3. A dollar at the Handy Store near my Nonna’s house was A WEALTH OF CASH.
4. Hitting boys was a good way to make them love you.
5. I should not have to go to bed.
6. I should not have to get up.
7. I didn’t need a babysitter.
8. I would love my Snoopy doll forever.
9. Coats were for losers.
10. I was going to get married when I was 20.

1. Curlers looked better IN hair than NOT in hair.
2. My stuffed animals were alive when I wasn’t looking.
3. If my mom would put more water in the bathtub, I could totally SWIM.
4. White patent leather shoes were the utmost in style. With kneesocks.
5. I should not have to go to bed.
6. I should not have to get up.
7. Nailpolish is a God-given right.
8. My “Angel Cake” Strawberry Shortcake doll was the best smelling thing on earth.
9. My brother should do whatever I say.
10. I was going to get married when I was 15.

Well, at least SOMETHING to tie together a toilet paper ad and early Kevin Bacon films, besides possibly the extent of fluff involved and the close relationship with… well… crap.

But the ACTUAL theme for the rest of the week here at the ‘Com is Things We Were Obsessed With As Kids.

In my case, two of those things were fluffy television kittens and Kenny Loggins kickin’ off his Sunday shoes.

For you, it could have been Transformers or an EZ Bake Oven or a BB Gun or Lego or the stone you used to write on the cave walls. Especially since the age range of people coming here stretches from 15 to 83! And my dad, somewhere in the middle.

So…

1. What stands out in your memory as the favourite toy of your childhood/early teen years?

2. What song do you remember listening to repeatedly as a kid?

3. What item of clothing sticks out for you as something you a) wore too often and b) didn’t wash enough because it was so cool and you had to put it on every day?

I’m a little wonky today for a number of reasons related to both my disorder and my gender (what? I don’t know what I’m talking about either) so posting might be a little wonky as well.

Granted, now that I’ve said that, I’ll inevitably post 90 things during the course of the day, which will lead six people to leave the comment that “we thought you weren’t feeling well?”

Which may lead to me raising an eyebrow and waggling my finger at the screen, but you won’t see that, will you? No, you won’t.

But, because I love you, I’m going to link to six old but fun — just like William Shatner! — posts here, just in case you needed something to read. I care about your reading needs, you know… I really do. Much in the same way I am concerned for your dental hygiene and iron intake. And the cleanliness of your underwear.

Consider me your cybermom.

Wait, no, don’t. That’s creepy.

Anyway:

Donettes, yo.

The infamous “Dear Him” letter.

Apparently, I’m an easy lover.

Remember?

No real excuse for a photo of Ryan Reynolds. But a lot of opinions.

A manifesto.

Proof I’ve always been this weird.

***

I used to love flossing until I had a violent hygienist floss my gums to ribbons on a horrible, fateful visit to the dentist. I still own floss — Tom’s of Maine Natural Floss, actually — but every time I try to use it now, I feel a wash of fear rush over my mouth. A mouth wash, if you will. Why am I laughing so hard right now?

Sometimes, when I am in conversations with people that are awkward — disciplinary sessions, dealing with negative feedback, hearing bad news, trying to pour my heart out to someone who just doesn’t get it — I just want to jump up and run away yelling, “This is aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaawkward! Someone heeeeeeeeeeeeeelp me!” Instead, I just stay there and keep trying. But know that I’m thinking it next time I have an awkward conversation with you.

In the middle of the night, when I am dying of thirst, I never want a drink of water. I just want a really cold glass of skim milk — which is kind of like water with clouds dissolved in it. But still really good.

Today, at the coffee shop, the guy who was making my latte was wincing as he moved his shoulder. I gave him a look of concern — non-invasive, but open to bitching if he wanted to bitch — and he informed me that his shoulder was dislocated.

Remembering all the weird physical motions I used to make when I was a barista, I offered him sympathy: “Oh, this job really sucks for having a dislocated shoulder!” To which he replied, without skipping a beat : “In exactly what job does having a dislocated shoulder not suck?”

Right now, I’m listening to a song that goes:

“When will you say ‘yes’ to me?
Tell me quando, quando, quando…
You mean happiness to me,
Oh, my love, please tell me when…”

It seemed all yearning and charming and sweet, and the little bossa nova thing going on in the background made it even more sweet. It’s a twirling-around-the-dance-floor-at-some-ballroom-in-NYC song. But when I went to look up the lyrics on Google, I typed in “panda panda panda”. I didn’t mean to — I only realized on the third panda. What is going on in my head?

I love the love songs. I really do. Even in my cynical, singular, narrowed-eyes state, I swoon and swoon and swoon. It’s like a sickness I cannot heal. An addiction that I cannot shake. A mental bent that I cannot straighten. A hope that will not die. Anyone else with my romantic history would have gone goth by now, I think, but I still end up plugged in to my iPod in public places, grinning to myself when Louis sings back to Ella or Tony Bennett tells me about the way I look tonight.

And when people give me a funny look and ask me what I’m listening to, I usually pull out an ear bud and say, “Oh — love song.” Without fail, everyone just nods. What better reason to smile?

Oh — besides actual love.