Honestly?
The most neglected of these good people is Dori, who writes a fine expat blog A Yellow House in England. She has given writing to survive several awards, including the Neno Award, the Most Inspirational Blog Award, the Friendship Award, and the Butterfly Award. It's one thing that that Dori has received all of these awards herself, which is a sure sign of her writing prowess, but it's also another that she has taken the time to pass them on, which is a sure sign of her kindness. Thank you, Dori, and my apologies for letting these awards slip away.
One of the perils of not acknowledging these things immediately is that they disappear into the Great Internet Beyond and my own memory's sketchy storage system. So I remember that Svasti passed on an award. And Robert. I know I'm missing at least one other blogger. If you are out there reading, leave a comment and I will add your blog to the list.
Which brings me to the latest award. La Belette Rouge, memoirist, humorist, spot-on writer and all-around great blogger, has passed along the Honest Scrap Award. One of the fun things about this award is the requirement to list ten honest things about oneself. A daunting task. The award also requires that I pass it on to ten bloggers. Here is where I always fall down on the job. If you would like to take this award and run with it, on your own blog or in the comments section below, feel free.
So. Gulp. Here I go.
My parents, all gussied
up for the 1968 Senior Prom. Oh, if I could only
still hold you two responsible for my neurotic ways!
Instead, I will use you as photographic filler.
1. I find this task terrifying.
Why? On one hand, I am pretty boring. On the other, I
have all these worries that I am used to keeping
mainly to myself. I am neurotic, for lack of a better
term. So I find myself thinking of writing things
here like "I am pathetic and antisocial." or "If you
met me in the flesh, you'd be questioning whether I
was really the person who writes this stuff." OK.
Let's just say I'm insecure.
2. To
continue in the same vein, now that it is possible
that a lot of people from my past, childhood friends,
old high school buddies, people who knew me in
college, read this blog, I wonder what they think
about these stories of mine. Did any of them know
this stuff already? Do they look back at me with
kindness or do they judge me? I'll never know, so I
think I'll go for the kindness angle.
3. I will listen to a song over and over again when I
have it stuck in my mind. Recent selections
include Finish
What You Started, All Come
True, Funk
#49,
and Hot
Sauce.
Oh, and Ball
and Biscuit.
4. While I am a good cook, some might even say a
great cook, the only things that my son will eat in
my presence are noodles with butter and cheese,
packaged macaroni and cheese, grilled cheese
sandwiches, pizza crusts, and rice and beans from Chipotle
(yes, he even refuses my rice and beans). Pasta with
cream sauce? No. Soothing, buttery polenta? I don't
think so. Anything with a green fleck or two in it?
You must be joking. This would drive anyone crazy,
but I had an epiphany the other night about why it
was driving me murderously
crazy. I have "meal
issues," probably from a childhood of
bad
dinner table experiences, from being made to stand at
the table as a three-year-old on a regular basis,
to being totally ignored or berated by my former
stepfather at mealtime, to finally being rejected
as a dinner partner by my mother and Kevin when I
was fourteen. My son's unhappiness with my food
offerings felt, well, deeply personal. Once I
realized this, my irritation level at his dietary
preferences went down several notches. Though I
still find them maddening.
5. You know that I don't
drive,
right? But did you also know that I don't bike,
skateboard, scoot or Segway? It's a wheel thing, I
suppose.
6. I
really should be working on my novel. On my good (or
is that "crazy"?) days, I have these grandiose
notions of the brilliance of my writing. On my bad
(or is that "realistic"?) days, I think my writing
will never amount to anything. So blogging keeps me
going while also distracting me from the larger
purpose.
7.
I hold on to people in
my mind,
keep crushes for
decades,
never really forget a friend, even if I haven’t
spoken to them directly since middle school or
even earlier. These attachments keep me plugged
into the world, gossamer threads from my mind to
yours. All it takes is a little tug -- a photo, an
email, a similar name -- for me to conjure up the
smells, the meal, the pains and joys, that awkward
conversation we had fifteen years ago.
8. It could be that three cats, one dog, one child,
one husband, a two-story house, and a backyard is too
much. So I don't vacuum nearly as often as I should,
the toilet needs scrubbing, and I finally stopped
watering the impatiens after six months of careful
attention.
9. My only regret is that I should have kissed him
when I had the chance. Just to get it out of my head.
This was years ago, when I was so focused on doing
the right thing, on keeping a tenuous hold on my
first marriage. But that kiss will never happen and
as time goes by, the moment and its importance feel
more and more distant. Still, I think about it
sometimes and try to console myself with the fact
that it would have been destined to end badly and my
desire would have gone the way of most, shot through
with sadness and regret.
10. I talk to my mother on the
phone almost every day. Sometimes more than once a
day. I worry about whether this is healthy, not
because of our conversations or how I feel afterwards
(I feel fine), but mainly because I think it can
stand in for interactions with other people, like
people on this coast or friends I haven't spoken to
in ages. Maybe it gets in the way of potential
friendships. Maybe I should pick up the phone and
call my father every once in a while. Or maybe I'm
just neurotic and worry too much.
There you go. Another morning of novel-writing gone.
But this was more fun.