Birthday Confessions

As I turn another year older, I’ve officially entered the “late” part of a decade. (It feels good to have survived the 27 club.) Since today’s the start of a new year for me, I figured it was a good time to come clean on a few things — to make some confessions and head into  my next 365 a refreshed person. So here goes…

This is why I prefer to walk...
This is why I prefer to walk…

I can’t ride a bicycle.  (this one isn’t entirely true. I can ride a bicycle, I just can’t turn — not around corners and certainly not in a circle)

I am addicted to dark chocolate covered raisins.

I hate make-up. It takes me precisely 3.67 minutes to do my workday morning make-up and I only wear foundation on days I have meetings with people that can effect public policy/my funding.

I frequently succumb to sidewalk hustlers selling me stuff, like never-expiring comedy club tickets.

Cab drivers hit on me more often than drunk men at bars. If I’ve had one too many Manhattans, I’ve been known to give them my number and then panic ten minutes later realizing a cab driver can now probably hire someone to find out where I live.

JTT didn't know it, but we were gonna get married...
JTT didn’t know it, but we were gonna get married…

When I was 9, I had a crush on JTT and used to practice signing my name Kathleen Thomas in preparation for our eventual happily ever after.

My Ken and Barbie had a healthy sex life.

I don’t go into my guestroom at night without a flashlight and a stick and my cellphone. It’s haunted.

I probably can’t run for congress.

I don’t know what Post-Modern actually means and I never read any of the Deluze my professors assigned in grad school.

I always sing in the car, in the kitchen, and in the shower. Loudly, and usually out of key.

I still really want a pony.

I still really want a pony.
I still really want a pony.