Almost every time I look at the clock, it says 9:11. Every single day, sometimes twice a day, I see this number. As if I would ever forget. I will NEVER forget.
Alcohol – methyphobia [Understandable, just don’t hang out with me.]
Anything New – neophobia [Change is always hard.]
Church – ecclesiophobia [The structure will not hurt you unless it collapses on you.]
Cooking – mageirocophobia [New York-area people: What is cooking?]
Dolls – pediophobia [Oh, so true. If you didn’t watch the ventriloquist or mannequin episodes of The Twilight Zone, check out this book I loved as a child that my mother just got out of her storage unit. Disturbed would be a mild reaction. WTF are adults in charge of childhood entertainment doing? And furthermore, why did I like this damn book?)
Eating – phagophobia [Another excuse for anorexia.]
Holy things – hagiophobia [A friend went home with a guy who had shrines/ relics to the Holy Lord everywhere. How can you Marvin Gaye and Get It On with that staring at you? #sinners]
Home – ecophobia [I get it if you only had terrible memories.] I am still very much a “home is where the heart is” and, like, my family is EVERYTHING. My own home is EVEN BETTER. I’m a homebody?
Ice or Frost – pagophobia [I have a medical condition and totally relate.]
Kissing – philemaphobia [TRAGIC. Completely TRAGIC.]
Laughter – geliophobia [Again, WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?]
Light – photophobia [Most people I know are opposite. Does that mean we’re optimistic?]
Memories – mnemophobia [We all have bad ones…]
Religion – theophobia [no need to be afraid unless it’s corrupting your life. I mean, we live in a free world where you do not have to believe in anything.]
If you’re itching for a cocktail a little more fun than the standards on this holiday, look no further. This blue (yes, there’s curacao) concoction should do the trick.
1½ oz. white rum
1 oz. blue curacao
3 oz. Lemonade Sparkling ICE
Combine all ingredients with ice in a blender. Blend on high until it becomes slushy. Pour into a glass and garnish with blueberries.
I picked up my clean and perfectly folded laundry this evening from “panty-man” (my name for Felix) and he informed me that he packaged my belongings in a new bag because mine (my Kent School laundry bag) was “falling apart,” and “Gia, no charge but that one is just…done; it’s not working out for you.”
But I don’t use other bags! Every other laundry bag I’ve bought is terrible and could be called a “dumb-bag,” so I rely on my Kent one.
I’ve already had to retire my Camp Seafarer laundry bag (reserved for whites) because it really did have too many holes to function. Rock it, North Carolina.
While not emotionally attached to anything made out of material, I realized these bags happen to be the best and have lasted decades. Other laundry bags have just not been good to me. They are too long; I am too short. I do not like synthetic blends, the list goes on, etc.
(BTW, I recently saw a Kent laundry bag in my BFF’s apt. I am not the only one who still relies on it, and therefore feel OK admitting this.)
I think my issue with panty-man Felix is “Why didn’t you ask before replacing it?” But to him it was a matter of, “Darling, I’m doing you—and your devoted team here—a favor. We cannot work like this.”
Well, I cannot carry some no-name bag that has no functionality. It’s my Kent laundry bag and is still the sturdiest (yes, with a few holes) perfect package and I want to use it.
Rip my soul, then. If there will be no bag, I welcome you to arrange everything in my closets and drawers as well. I cannot walk a block carrying anything else, even if you fold everything as perfectly as you do.
Change is always difficult, *sigh.*
The popular (senior) boys in high school were called The Crunchies. They were a mix of highly preppy, privileged stoners with major sideburns and long hair, though this was not the seventies, just 1998.
They listened to The Grateful Dead, Led Zeppelin, Jimi Hendrix, Pink Floyd, Cream (and Eric Clapton on his own), and developed a love affair with Phish that they’ve sustained for life. They preferred bow ties and Nantucket Red pants.
The Crunchies were an interesting type of bad boy, and all of the freshman girls, including myself, were fascinated. The Crunchies, in turn, were fascinated with us. While we had the youth card to our advantage, we were our own off-the-cuff breed that diverged from previous generations of our prep school’s girls. We were loud and opinionated (and maybe, yes, cringe-a-little tacky), but we ruled.
Perhaps part of the appeal was the opposition. They brought introspective chill into our lives and we brought the festivity & flair into theirs.
The Kent Crunchies in their photo glory…
It’s hard to keep everybody’s secrets, but I am loyal and have only spilled when the confiding person threw a number on me.
Imagine not speaking to a soul about what you know. An abortion or secret love child from an affair (so many with infidelity scenarios), a reputation-harming fetish or sickness, the cheating on a major major major exam, money laundering, or (accidentally?!) killing someone (j/k, luckily don’t know anyone with that last one). What do you know about other people than you cannot share? And how does it haunt you?
It is hard to know things, but when you give someone your word, you give them your word. I have kept many secrets from daylight. Most are those I wish I had never known in the first place.
There are secrets that are merely gossip-worthy, and you need to unleash on at least one party not involved because that person has no one to share it with—or at least no one that matters where it would circle in the relevant circle. [Or you may just be an unloyal beyatch who has nothing to talk about other than gossip and needs to share it. Ya’ll are dumb and not part of my post so be gone.]
But the real test of being a secret-keeper is thinking before you speak when an unknowing third party mentions something uncannily related to the very secret you’re harboring in conversation. You cannot forget that your knowledge is secret and that an utterance of a single word will do plenty harm and no good.
Harboring is exhausting. It is shocking and hard to believe what some people have gone through/are going through. I need not add to their issues and talk about it. More importantly, people confide in me and I respect their trust in my loyalty. My lips will be zipped, but sometimes knowing is overwhelming.