Tag Archives: writer

That Time I Told Everyone Your Secrets

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“In life, we all have an unspeakable secret, and irreversible regret, and an unreachable dream.” Diego Marchi

I currently have strep throat. I have taken my nightly cocktail of drugs and shortly I will feel myself slipping away to reruns of Sex and the City. You know, the TBS ones sans nakedness. So as long as I’m conscious, you just put your feet up, pour yourself a glass, and forget all about your problems while I wax poetic about the mundane details of this life talk about mine. I’m your Carrie Bradshaw and this is my way-too-personal-sex column. Of sorts.

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about secrets.

Secrets hold great power. Once revealed, they can disrupt your entire life. Although many of us hold secrets in a negative light, there is such a thing as good secrets. Example:

  • I’ve been in love with you for years. Oh, and I’m perfect.
  • Grandma died. And you’re the sole heir to her bagillions.
  • Even though you said you didn’t want to get married, your boyfriend is proposing to you in Paris!

*Sorry, based on experience that last one was a poor example.

That being said, these Manolo Blahniks have been carrying a lot of secrets around. So many, actually, that they might be reaching their secret holding capacity. I mean, I wouldn’t want to break a heel. And they aren’t just my secrets. They’re your secrets too. And don’t you think that with the friendship should go the secrets? Why should I have to tote around moldy secrets of people that I don’t even associate with any more?

So while I was compiling a list of your secrets to blog about, I took a seat next to my giant New York apartment window, and in true Sex and the City format, I stared at my laptop and said to myself:

I can’t help but wonder… what are my secrets?

*My family always wondered why my cat BamBam looked a little strange. When I was 5, I wanted her to look like Heathcliff so I bit a chunk of her ear off.

*Speaking of ears, my right ear is significantly larger than my left. Like, my left ear is normal size; my right ear is ridiculous. I discovered this in high school, but my parents had kept it a secret since I was a baby. I always wear my hair down and no one is the wiser.

*My senior year of high school, I was always late for my curfew. Every time, I told my mom that a cop pulled me over. Every time, she believed me. I don’t know if this is a credit to my persuasive skills, or a testament to my poor driving ability. Truth is, I was driving in cars with boys. Actually, one boy. And I found it impossible to leave him.

blake-mycoskie-toms-shoes*I think Blake Mycoskie is the single-most attractive man on the planet. He’s generous, brilliant, well traveled and scruffy. He went on vacation to Argentina and saw hundreds of children without shoes, so he decided to dedicate his life to changing that. He now runs a successful business, TOMS, while traveling the world and giving people shoes.

*I wrote a paper in 6th grade about Pearl Harbor. By my second year of college, I had handed that paper in to about 8 different teachers along the way. What alarms me, is that I never even edited it.

*I dig the Twilight saga.

*In high school, when I worked at Chuck E Cheese, I would purposely misspell the names on the birthday cakes so we could eat them. They were so, so good.

Well, my dears. That’s all you get for today. Maybe someday I’ll tell you my big secrets. Maybe even the ones involving boys. But right now, I’d rather pass out. Of course, I’d love to hear some of yours – I promise I won’t blog about them. Right away.

Happy Memorial Day!

 

Dear Midwest, Without You I’d Be Famous

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You know your hair is too long when you have to start using conditioner meant for a horse.  Gees, people.  I’m just saying.  But on a side note, it works rather nicely.  So I’ve heard.

horse-shampoo

People always ask me, actually they harshly criticize and often yell at me, for the fact that I’ve never moved out of this God-forsaken craphole of a town. For those of you who don’t know, I live in a suburb outside of Chicago, where nearly everyone is a loser with zero motivation or aspirations in life.  So when I put it that way, I guess I can see their point.

Friend:  But you could be a big time writer in New York and travel the world.

Me: I’ve already traveled everywhere I want to go in the world.  And New York has too many rats.  And snobs.  And pricey food that comes on a giant platter but is the size of what I can only consider, a midget snack of sorts.


Friend:  But you could move to L.A. and write for tv shows and movies.

Me: I’m brunette, no one would take me seriously in L.A.  Besides, I can’t deal with the fakeness.  I would call everyone out and then they would hate me.  And then I’d run home to my lonely, roach-infested apartment, where I’d cry big, fat elephant tears and eat myself ugly. 

Friend: But you could move to the downtown and work for the Tribune.

Me:  I hate the news.  It’s depressing.  Plus, I probably wouldn’t get by with throwing in sarcastic comments when I was writing about the Korean missile crisis.  That job would blow chunks.  Give me a break, I’d never move to any of those places.  Seattle.  Now there’s a place I wouldn’t mind moving.

Friend:  You know that Grey’s Anatomy isn’t actually filmed in Seattle right?  So you wouldn’t be meeting McDreamy, or McSteamy, or any of the Mc’s?

So could all these people be partially right? Perhaps.  Is it true I want to continue my writing career on a larger scale? Mmm hmm.  Is it possible for me to accomplish all my dreams living here?  Heal no.  So what on earth could possibly keep me sandwiched here in the middle of the country, suffocating for air, slowly dying from lack of culture and white-trashy influences, you ask? 

Is it the ice-cold winters, which seem to get longer with every passing year, that make me contemplate roasting my own dog [or I guess my neighbor’s cus I don’t have one] over a rotisserie just so that I won’t have to leave my house for food?  Not exactly.  It’s much more complex than that.  But when isn’t it?

The other day, I was bronzing myself on the back porch, as the landscapers were mowing my yard.  I arose from my position to make sure I was decent as they were mowing right in front of me.  The last thing I need is a sweaty, landscaper-stalker.  But on a serious note, could they possibly point that grass blower thingy in another direction?   Then as I was gazing at all my patches of dead grass, a thunderbolt of realization occurred to me.  Um, why can I see those?  Where is the tangled pile of hose that has been laying in my backyard and covering the dead grass since I moved in?  Wait a minute. THESE PERVERTS STOLE MY HOSE! @#$!  And now they’re blowing grass at me.  What the?

As it turns out, my father had slithered outside at some point and drilled a bracket into the side of my house and wrapped the hose nicely around it.  BONUS: he was smart enough not to install one of those plastic roller pieces of crap that break after two seconds, which would result in a lifetime of frustration and ultimately, the death of more grass.  EXTRA BONUS:  He planted grass seed.

Folks, I’m sorry, but with quality service like this, the Midwest has a hold on me.