There are a few other bloggers that are doing these Guilty Pleasure posts as well. It all started with C.J. Duggan and if you want a bunch of smiles, circle back to her site and see the comments to read other pleasures. Love to have you join the fun.
Once again this week I am giddy about turning over my Guilty Pleasure post over to a guest. This week I am welcoming the witty and talented author Margaret Ethridge as she talks about a pleasure that a lot of us can relate too. Well I know I am guilty of it for sure.
I Sing the Songs…
When Michelle said she was going to open her Guilty Pleasures spot to guest authors, I jumped at the chance to spill my dirty little secrets all over her blog. I thought this would be a natural for me. I was born and raised Catholic, so I am nothing if not guilt-riddled, and confession is second nature to me.
There are more than a few indulgences I find pleasurable, so all I should have to do is pick one and babble away, right? Wrong.
Don’t get me wrong, I am not a traitor to my upbringing. Each day, my free will is almost crushed under the weight of the guilt pressing down on me. I have not updated my own blog or finished the scene I promised myself I’d have done last week. I haven’t scrubbed the tub, corralled the dust bunnies that chased me down the hall this morning, or sorted the massive pile of socks on top of my dryer. I didn’t spend nearly enough time trying to coax my teenager into conversation this weekend, and we throw away way too much food. These are the things that give me guilt.
My problem is; I don’t feel guilty about partaking in the things I love.
The fact that I sang every word to ‘Drive’ by the Cars at the top of my lungs on my way back from lunch? I don’t feel the teensiest bit bad about that. It felt too good. To quote another hit by the same band: it was just what I needed.
My name is Margaret, and I am a car singer. Not just a car singer, but a hedonistic, retro-lunch-hour, loud and proud, car singer.
This wouldn’t be such a bad thing if I didn’t know that I am a horrible singer. I mean it, really bad. I have no middle range. I can sing very high or very low, but nowhere in between. When I was in college, my sorority song mistress actually told me I could mouth the words. No lie.
That’s why I only unleash my inner Celine Dion when I am all by myself. (Yes, I went there. I couldn’t help it. Rest assured Celine fans, I only sing along with the Eric Carmen version.) Well, it’s mostly when I’m by myself. I have been known to serenade the hubby and kids when a particularly kitschy song pops up on the radio, but I’m sure to ham it up so they think my wretched warbling is all an act.
So, yeah. That’s one of my little pleasures in life. Singing along with the radio. Seems harmless enough, right? Well, you might think so, but you better hope you’re not in the vicinity when they dig out the Barry Manilow classics. I do love me some Barry…
I guess I should talk to Michelle about writing another post about my latent Fanilow tendencies.
How about you? Do you perfect your Idol audition while your engine idles? What songs rev your motor? Are you a Fanilow? Tell me every little thing. You know I’d never rat you out—I’d feel too darn guilty.
Margaret Ethridge can be found posting the funniest Tweets here:
Her Facebook Fan page is here:
Author Margaret Ethridge