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.