The Confessional

I'm a big fan of PostSecret.

For the uninitiated, PostSecret began some years ago as a simple project by its creator, Frank Warren. He's a man who came up with an idea wherein people write their deepest darkest secrets on a postcard and anonymously mail them to him. That way they can literally "let go" of their secrets. He placed a few fliers around his town, and on a local college campus, if I'm not mistaken, and sat back and waited. That was three years ago, and the postcards are still pouring in.

There is a PostSecret website, which posts new cards on Sundays. And I can be honest when I say there are but two things that make Monday worth getting up and heading out of the house for. One is knowing I'll record the hucklebug podcast Monday night, and the other is knowing that when I have a few minutes free on a busy Monday at work, I can check out the new secrets.

The secrets range from the heartbreaking to the hilarious, from the ridiculous to the sublime. They know no bounds. I have two of the PostSecret books. They contain postcards with everything from "I had gay sex at church camp" to "I ate dog in a foreign country (and liked it)."
People confess their abortions, molestations, secret crushes, embarrassing moments, and just things they want to say. Like, "I'm finally happy," or "When I pack my husband and kids off for the day, I dance around my house naked."

In this week's new blog crop of postcards, the one that caught my attention was "I want to throw my $12,000 cello down a flight of stairs."

At my first discovery of the whole PostSecret phenomenon those years back, I did what I guess everyone does. "Hmmm. What would my secret post card say?" For a long time I had two secrets. Well, I still have those two secrets and always will, and I'm not telling you them here, so don't hold out any hope. One was a "deep dark secret" I hated having, and the other is just something about me that no other person knows.

But as time goes on, and situations crop up, and I see some of what other people have chosen to share, my ideas change. As do my list of secrets. I've always thought I could make a pretty good Secret Card, because I like to do creative stuff like that. But what to confess. Oh, what to confess.

Here's the running list of confessionals.

* I enjoy watching "DeGrassi: The Next Generation." I'm in my forties. (Unfortunately, very unfortunately, that secret was revealed sometime back in a weak podcast moment.)

* Had I known the last time I saw both my grandmothers would be the last time, I'd have paid more attention to them. (Sad, but true.)

* God, do I want to just scream once in a while, "Shut the fuck up!" (To many people. I never will.)

* I'm afraid to own a dog. (Embarrassing, but true.)

* I've never regretted having kids, but I'm afraid I will one day. (I've been afraid of this for quite a while, though, and it's never come to pass.)

* Until about three years ago, I could not make myself puke. I learned, and it was quite empowering. (And very convenient at times.)

* I have horrible practice sessions with my clarinet because, even alone in the house, I can't stand to make a mistake. (It fills me with embarrassment.)

* I feel one of my best talents is pretending to listen to people while I'm actually listening to conversations going on up to ten feet away. (This may get me invited to a lot more parties!)

* When my sister wears her black leather open-toe sandals with the the sling back and the rope wedge heels, I want to stomp on her feet until they're bruised and bloodied. (These shoes are so ugly, they actually make me angry.)

* I hate to set an object on top of a photograph because it makes me feel like if I do, something bad will happen to the person in the photograph. (I'm not superstitious, but I can not help but feel this way.)

* For two years after seeing "Night of the Living Dead," I was afraid to look through the blinds on my bedroom window. (Such a cheesy movie, but I swear, I couldn't stand the thought of zombies walking through my back yard towards my house.)

But through the somber and the funny, the embarrassing and the angry, there is one secret above all that keeps coming back to me. Why is this? I do not know. But it was in the first round of secrets to pop into my head those years ago, and it's never left.

So I'm confessing to you.

























Why is this the secret I need to "let go" of? I guess because I feel bad about it in so many ways. If I didn't like any potato salad, I wouldn't feel so bad. But that's not the case. I just don't like Mom's. If she didn't go to the trouble of making me a special batch, I wouldn't feel so bad. But she does. I've tried to politely tell her I like the "other kind" of potato salad ("other" being anything but congealed mustard and sweet pickles with mushy potatoes), but she hasn't caught the hint. And I feel bad about wasting food. But I am. And it's gone on for years. I mean, years.

By the way, no one in my family reads my blog, so I'm not in any danger of breaking Mom's heart, or escaping another Tupperware container of egg white-less potato salad.

But it's out now. You saved me the price of a stamp.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* Well, we had a few takers in the Caption the Picture contest.
- Runner-Up goes to LilyG, with her, "I know my mother always wanted a girl and put me in this sari and put this bindi on my forehead, but couldn't I at LEAST get to play the saxophone or the drums?"
- And this week's winner goes to Duke, with his, "Man, the belly dancers here at Dave's BBQ sure suck."
- Thanks to those who played!