Regrets...I've had a few

My dad and I made Frank Sinatra roll over in his grave today.

My dad owns a player piano, which is fortunate because I’m sure that I’ve mentioned that I am an abysmal pianist. However, when the piano takes over and covers the lack of musical talent in my fingers, I am free to express myself and illustrate just how little talent I have vocally as well. I have delusions that I missed my calling as a Broadway star. These are very serious delusions, and I’m pretty sure I need professional help. Luckily, cluelessness is hereditary, so my dad joins me, and we spent the better part of the morning making my dog howl.

Within the shelves of my dad’s library, there are player piano rolls that even he isn’t aware of, and we found “My Way” shoved behind “Don’t Cry for me Argentina” and “Send in the Clowns”. Maybe it’s because we sounded so bad, or because I was trying to be cute and I changed all of the pronouns to the feminine versions, but when my voice cracked singing, “Regrets, I’ve had a few, but then again, too few to mention…” I thought for a moment about what I regret. Just like Frankie S., I don’t have too many regrets, and the ones I have probably aren’t worth the mention. But I wouldn't be writing if I didn't plan on doing exactly that, so...

For instance, I owned one of those oversized t-shirts with the big neon letters that were made popular in the Go-Go WHAM video. I went to a dozen stores in the mall to get it and then proudly wore it to the eighth grade dance.

My bangs were once taller than the length of my hand. I regret that. I would like to say that I burnt all of the pictures, but I had quite a few friends in high school, and for some reason, they all had cameras.

I owned three Simply Red records in my lifetime. I regret to say that I still like their music.

I like Barry Manilow too. I regret that "Even Now" still makes me want to cry.

Occasionally, I regret that second margarita.

I regret that one day in college, I walked all the way to one of my classes with my skirt tucked inside the top of my tights. I’m still not sure why all of that cool air on my fanny wasn’t a clue.
Fred had ghiardia last year, and not knowing, I didn’t trust that he really had to go to the bathroom at 3 in the morning. Actually, my carpets probably regretted that one worse than I did.

I regret eating that spinach artichoke dip yesterday at happy hour; I regret the fact that I have to do laundry tonight, or I'll have no clean underwear tomorrow; I regret that I never took voice lessons and that I gave up on piano way too early.

And, yes, eventually, I will regret keeping a blog. One day I will think back on the intimate details about myself that I threw out into cyber space and be horrified, much in the same way that I am horrified now that I once tried to dye my eyebrows blond to match my hair, making me look like an albino for two months (there are still pictures of this somewhere too). I just hope by the time sanity rears its head on this issue, I’ll be too old to remember what I wrote.