What’s more embarassing – the voodoo ferility charm from New Orleans that’s still (?) in my nightstand drawer (from back when we were trying to conceive on our own) or the baggie of pot that has long gone stale because I never got around to smoking it (or throwing it away for that matter)?
Here’s a story from my teenage years though, that’ll make up for the lackluster answer above. So my father had this trunk in his office that I would often go through when he wasn’t around. And in it he kept a couple of paperbacks, of an explicit nature. And I’d borrow them. Because, really, if he discovered them missing, what was he going to do? Ask my mother about them? Or ask me or one of my siblings? Not likely. I’d usually return them when I was done with them, but sometimes, he’d be in his office so I couldn’t and then I’d hide them under my bed until I could return them. And then one day I forgot, and me and my best friend were looking for something under my bed, and she pulled out one of the paperbacks. And the look of shock on her face caused me to panic so that when she asked what it was, I insisted that I didn’t know, that it must belong to my sister who I shared a room with. Because I wouldn’t have something like that. But why was it under my bed, she wanted to know. And here’s the best part. Because my sister, I said, wouldn’t be stupid enough to hide it under her own bed.
*Making blogging fun (and easy) again by participating in this 30 Day Challenge.