Monday, October 8, 2007
Can you keep a secret? I can't either.
Every week I go on over to Post Secret and let myself in on the rest of the world's dirty little secrets. I can't help myself.
Some of the secrets are scandalous, some are sad, and some make me giggle because I love when karma bites someone in the ass. I love being a voyeur into other (normal in a way like you or I are "normal") peoples' deep, dark inner stuff.
So, what about this secret thing?
I have secrets. You have secrets. We all have secrets. Everyone. If you say you don't, you're a liar. Everyone has something they don't want ANYONE to know- not your best friends, not your significant other, not even your doctor (remember when you told her about that rash on your...you know? Remember??!?)
In my 29 years of life, I have learned that there are some people I can trust with classified information, and there are some that I shouldn't really tell anything.
I'll tell you what, when everyone and their mother knows that you farted in your sleep with that one guy that one time, well- it's time to rethink who you share your secret bits with, that's all I'm sayin'...
I have one friend I adore. I would walk across hot coals to get her an ice cold frappuccino if she asked. I would drive her to California on a moments notice just because she wanted a picture of David Hasselhoff's star on the walk of fame, if she asked. I would donate my pinky toe if she desperately needed a pinky toe transplant, if she asked.
But if she asks me about anything too personal and/or potentially juicy, well there is where I draw the line. This girl can't keep a secret any longer than it takes her to reach in her purse and pull out her cell phone. Tell her about that night with the circus clowns and the thong and the ouzo shots...well, within 20 minutes it will be in your FBI file in Quantico. I love her, but I wouldn't trust her with knowing who my favorite Brat Packer was (it was James Spader), let alone that thing that happened last September- you know the one... thing.
Other people, like my gals Blondie, Waffle and Hotpants (mostly. sometimes Ms. Pants can't help herself. Who can? I totally understand), are a different story. I can trust them with the details of that one weekend, with the dress, and the shots, and the cab ride to that place, and the such and such. With them, my secrets are like Condi Rice's pants- zipped up Reeeaaaly nice and secure. Ain't no one gettin' in there. No sir.
How am I with secrets, you ask?
My own, not so good. Give me a few glasses of wine and I'll tell you about the one time I cut myself "mowing the lawn", if you catch my drift. (wink)
Share a cocktail and a cheese plate with me and before the night is through you'll know my pin number, my pants size and the penis size of every guy I ever dated. And, if you're lucky I'll tell you about the first time I lost my virginity.
I am weak, with these secrets of mine.
But if you're my friend, and you have the questionable judgment to share a secret with me- well, you may be surprised.
I'm pretty good at keeping these things mum.
That weird sex thing you like that no one else does? Zip.
That time you threw up Jim Beam and skittles in the grocery store bathroom? Nuh uh.
The time you got arrested for having sex in the park with that 19-year old carnie? Well, o.k, that one I couldn't resist. Sorry. Carnies!!!
But, for the most part, your secret is safe with me.
Just don't expect me to tell you about that weekend I had with the Italian racecar driver, the monkey and the tire swing.
That's my little secret, and I'm not telling anyone.
Want to go and get a glass of wine? Maybe a martini?
Did I ever tell you about that one time I met an Italian racecar driver...?