At BlogHer this year I plan to enter my name in the drawing for the open mike session, Listen To Your Mother. I have never “performed” a blog post as a spoken word piece, so I’ve been reviewing my material and I have chosen a few candidates, but I’m wondering: what is YOUR favorite post that you have read here? I have written posts for sites all over the internet, but the material I publish here is my favorite because it’s mine. And you, my faithful 50-or-so readers, are the experts because you show your love (or the opposite) with your clicks and comments.
I’d love to get some suggestions from you if you can remember any posts that stood out for you over the (almost) 8 years I’ve been doing this.
Updated: since it has come to my attention that almost 8 years of blog posts is a lot to ask for you to remember, I have put together my list of faves. I suspect that my favorites are not exactly reader favorites, so I added a few posts that got a lot of comments* and/or visitation traffic. It’s been a long time, so I am limiting the scope to the last two years**, as well.
In the comments, if you would, can you indicate which is your favorite of the following?
But it was all okay because my mother was there to take care of me. I wonder if she sighed a heavy sigh when I got too sick to go to school, thinking of how my presence was disrupting her plans for the day, knowing that she would have to rearrange her schedule. That’s the first thing I do when one of my children starts to sniffle or cough. ”You’re fine,” I say, mind racing through my to-do list, hoping a dose of medicine will quell the symptoms long enough to get him through the school day.
And so, music. The sound and feel and smell of it pounded into me as I got closer and closer through the mobs of people at Woodstock ’94. It was loud and it was hot and it was wet. And the skin of people was so close to me. One day I parked myself directly opposite center stage with nothing in my backpack but a bottle of Southern Comfort and a sleeve of Saltines.
From one commenter: I found this a disturbing read.
I hold onto things that should be tossed in the de-cluttering and look at them over and over again. It is as if looking at them enough times gives the memories an anchor in my heart, ensuring that I will remember them forever. Perhaps it’s a sign that the anchor is set when I finally decide to throw the possessions away.
Yes, internet. I managed to pants myself at the gym where I am already so insecure that I do not make eye contact with Other People.
Thank you for allowing my story to continue with me for so many years, and continue in all the people I’ve met and touched since that day, and continue in my family and my children and here, on my blog. Thank you for not ending it that night in tragedy, and continuing instead a story of loss and sorrow and horror, an update on the evening news, a warning to other young women at that high school, extra security precautions for the surviving students, a ghost story for future generations.
How can he just SIT there while I am doing all this work? Doesn’t he see how I am not resting for one second while he leisurely sits there drinking his tea, enjoying his hot beverage, and I literally only get one hot sip of my coffee per day?
*A lot of comments means more than zero.
**Two years…or so.Pin It