Confessions of a goody-goody

My sister ironically went to a Catholic private high school and as we walked through the Abbey, she motioned to the confessionals and said, "you see those porta-potties over there? Those are confessionals. You should try one sometime." For the next half hour I couldn't talk--well, none of us could. Being doubled over does that to you. But for the life of me, I never did understand exactly why she said that. I mean, little did anyone know she was about to lose her virginity before I did...a few weeks before I did...and she's five years younger. And it didn't get any more innocent from there.

It's not like I risk being brought to shame, put on the stand, burned at the stake, or otherwise whisked away into the witness protection program. But I do have a few skeletons in my closet. Like the fact that I still like the New Kids on the Block, for instance. Or the fact that the only person I've ever been fully intimate with is the man I'm married to. Or the fact that I *never* smoked pot, or did any other illegal drug. Hell, I don't even like the effects of the legal ones. I've been known to be fond of a clove cigarette, but even that is a thing of my past, having quit in school, somewhere around Tri 6. Heh! Cat's out of the bag. It's not like anybody knew at the time. I'm a hopeless conspiracy theorist, by the way.

Sometimes I crave ice cream...and at times, a clove. But, Good Girl Extraordinaire that I am, I never give in to any of it. I'm still into country music, though, even if it's on the inside. I download a shit-ton of mp3s off the internet--gigabytes a month. Screw iTunes; I'd have to mortgage several houses. I'm addicted to Dillard's. Commercials make me want to throw the TV through the patio door. So do questions about whether or not I take insurance. Satellite dishes freak me out. So do big, wide rings around the moon, heights (especially at night), bright slow-blinking strobe lights accidentally left on the daytime settings in nighttime fog, and the Northern Lights.

Nothing to write home about. (Well, except maybe the NKOTB part.) Guess I won't need to confessional after all. My sister, on the other hand...