My friend -- oh, excuuuuuuse me, my BFF -- Miss Ann Thrope of Color Me ... Complicated wanted to play a game.
It's called "I ask the questions and YOU (meaning me) answer them."
I thought it was fitting to celebrate my 200th post with this special revelationary thing.
Well, you have to understand that Miss Ann? She can be a little scary sometimes. To let her arbitrarily pick three questions out of the air and then for me to HAVE to answer them -- that can be a little disconcerting.
But she is my BFF. And I had to trust that she wouldn't go TOO crazy on my ass ... and she did not disappoint. Her questions are actually very thoughtful, and as a result, I have thoughtful answers to celebrate this momentous blog milestone.
I am, however, going to cheat and flip the order of her questions.
So here we go:
2. Think back to your childhood: What is the WORST thing you can remember ever saying to your mother? What is the worst thing SHE ever said to you?
Um. My mom and I have had some interesting battles over the years. Mostly, I was a goody-two-shoes as a child and saved my rebellious years until I was adult -- when I was selecting a mate.
Regular readers know that my first two husbandish choices weren't so hotsy-totsy, and probably the worst thing I ever said to my mom took place during the years I was married to the Evil One Who Shall Not Be Named.
My only excuse is that I was totally under his spell and his abusive thumb, and things came out of my mouth that, today, I wouldn't recognize or accept as me.
To my abject and forever regret ... I told my mother to get out of my house.
And I am ashamed.
However, I did learn something from that experience. Despite my despicable behavior during those years, my mother still loves me and speaks to me (though this does not stop her from slamming it in my face when things get tense). I marvel about this every day.
From her forgive-although-not-necessarily-forget example, I learned a valuable lesson and was able forgive my own child, who two years ago said something so unbelievably vile to me that I threw him out of my house on the spot. It was 9 p.m. on Christmas night when I slammed my front door behind him and, the next morning, changed the locks.
That child? My goofy Drama King, who has since come back into the fold as a sadder but wiser member of a close-knit family.
On the flip side, my mother (and my dad) have spent a lot of time berating me for being a crappy parent (um ... no -- but I guess they are entitled to their opinion). But the worst thing I can remember (and the fact that I remember every detail of something that happened almost 38 years to the day is testament to there being something here) is this:
I was waiting for college acceptance letters. I had applied to five schools. All of them good, but one of them amazing. Not Ivy League, but right up there, and hard as hell to get into.
The first four schools had already sent out letters (yes, I got into all four of them), and I was waiting for the fifth -- the special one.
And then, one day in April, after school, it was there.
I took it upstairs -- unopened -- to my bedroom, where I could open my precious mail without embarrassment.
I'm actually surprised that my shriek of excitement as I hurtled down the stairs, letter waving, doesn't echo until this day. Yeah, it was that loud and that hysterical.
"I got in I got in I got in I got in I got in I got in I got in I got in I got in ..."
"Wow," said my biggest fan. "That must have been a fluke."
Uh, thanks for the buzz kill, Mom.
To this day, she SWEARS that wasn't what she meant. And probably I should get over it already. But ... that one hurt more than all the slams against my parenting skills put together.
Can't help it. It just did.
OK, moving on ...
3. I know you don't especially like cooking. Tell me something that you completely RUINED. So badly that the dogs wouldn't even eat it?
Oh lordy, lordy.
Let's start with the fact that my dogs will eat ANYTHING, especially if it's NOT their dog food. They eat toys, chapstick, sticks, pillows, jackets, shoes ... so even one of my failures isn't likely to be turned down by the rat dogs.
Then let's add to that the fact that really? I don't cook that much anymore. We tend to fake it a lot. Plus Wonderhubby is really pretty self-sufficient in the kitchen and gets home waaaaaaaaaaaay before me. Gotta love a guy who can prepare dinner!
Which means, really, the opportunities for failure on my part? Not so much.
I did make a salmon dish recently that was not ruined, exactly, but just tasteless enough to have us all picking at it.
Just for the record, the dogs LOVED it.
Miss Ann's first but now final question is a four-parter and requires a post of its own because -- sheesh -- this one is longer than necessary already.
So ... to be continued.