Wine and friends can lead to confession | Opinion | The Press and Standard
by The Press and Standard | February 28, 2016 5:00 am
Last Updated: February 24, 2016 at 1:08 pm
You know how, when you get together with friends to eat and have an adult beverage, the tone soon turns confessional?
You might start to tell little secrets, spill a few confidences. Not blockbusters like “My ex is in the freezer.” More like, “I cut my kid’s hair and now he looks like a troll.”
In fact, after a peanut butter sandwich and glass of wine, I’m feeling a little confessional right now. So here goes:
You can find the best knives at Asian groceries.
The last time I slept eight hours, Reagan was in office.
I have an English degree, love comparative literature and earned my living as a writer. But when I pick up a book, the first thing I do is flip through to see if it has photos.
I can’t remember the last time I had a tetanus shot.
For some reason, I’ve been wanting a cat. Widdle would leave home, but I still want one.
I am so not prepared for the zombie apocalypse.
There are probably 10 lipsticks rolling around in my purse.
Speaking of purses, I hoard them.
I break into a sweat reaching for a paper clip. Thank you, hormonal imbalance.
Every Sunday morning I eat a pot of grits with cream, butter and cheese. Widdle cooks and I eat — talk about a sweet deal!
I’m immediately impressed when meeting someone with an Ivy League education. That’s elitism, and I should be ashamed.
The vehicle you own isn’t something I notice, ever. I have longtime friends who could drive covered wagons for all I know.
I read “Star” and other tabloid rags in the grocery checkout.
Also I stare dazedly at my moving groceries like the conveyor belt is some newfangled invention. Then I hold up the line trying to dig out my wallet and bonus card at the last minute. Yes, I’m that shopper.
I just spent 20 minutes reading an article about Kate Middleton’s eyebrows.
Popcorn-flavored jellybeans are delicious.
I habitually walk around with less than $2 in my wallet.
Sometimes I doubt everything I believe.
I had to take remedial math in college, but my bank accounts are balanced to the penny. There’s a big difference between a theoretical x + y formula and your hard-earned cash.
I eat fish instead of meat, because I don’t think trout have emotions.
Believe it or not, I snore. Like a hippo.
I don’t know which scares me more, Cruz control or Trump tyranny.
My husband won’t eat anything I cook. This has given me a complex. One’s tripe casserole can only be rejected so many times before one stops trying.
Four months after her death, I still can’t talk about Nicky. I can laugh and joke about my mom and dad, but not my dog. Grief is weird.
I am obsessed with Winston Churchill.
Not a fan of the “open flow” concept, with kitchen, dining and den in one large room. My kitchen has a door that closes, thus containing the smell of collards cooking during “Modern Family.”
Widdle doesn’t like to bring in the porch plants when it gets cold, so I have to do it on the sly. This involves me skulking outside late at night and early in the morning. I expect to be arrested any day now.
I love to fly.
I get a stitch in my side if I drive more than two hours. That’s me, staggering around the parking lot of Loco Bob’s, clutching my gut.
I regret nothing.
(Julie Smith, who also holds up the drug store line staring at gum, can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org.)