Good-For-Something Memories

Memory can be a tricky thing. It sticks with you when you wish it would go away. Or sometimes it's just out of grasp… you know it's there but you can't find it. And sometimes I'll know I want to remember something – I'll be in the moment and think to myself, "remember this," only to find that the next day, all I remember is telling myself to remember something.

I think the gift (or curse) of memory is one major thing that sets us apart as humans. As much as I would like to think that Penny, our aging family boxer dog, remembers the time she stole my lunch-time peanut butter sandwich off the counter, I don't think she does. As much as I would like to think that she remembers her brother, Ralph, and the 9 years she lived with him, I don't think she can.

She recognizes, of course. She "remembers" who I am, who my sisters are, and greets us with a stubby-tail wag and old-lady breath when we walk through the door.

But recognition is not the same as remembering. I think the remembering is what makes us who we are. I think that much of our identity comes from our memories.

So while I wish I could forget that time I was verbally assaulted by the fat old Greek guy I used to work for at my first waitressing job in college, and while I wish I could forget all the memories that started with, "I knew he was a bad idea…", while I wish I could forget a nose bleed on someone else's white sheets, that one time my mouth farted at work, and cubic zirconium barretts, I can't.

It's funny the memories that stick with you. And evade you.

I wish I could remember my houses more, the ones I lived in while growing up. I wish I could remember my mom as a young mother. I wish I could remember the kids I used to play kick-the-can with on Whittier Road in Grosse Pointe. And I wish I could remember my first day of college.

But most of all, I'm scared that I won't remember. I'm scared that one day all my memories, even the bad ones, will be just out of reach.

So, that is why I continue the blog. No matter how insignificant, stupid, or embarrassing my memories are, I want to remember them. I want to look back and remember who I was at 23. 33. 43.

So it's selfish really, that I'm not trying to do anything but preserve memories. And it's crazy that I ask my family, friends, and even a few strangers to read my memories.

But I've always been a fan of honesty. And transparency. And my memories are who I am… take them or leave them.

The same thing goes for my blog posts.

My hope is that people will enjoy reading my memories. Or at least appreciate them for what they are. I make no promises of great writing. I make no promises of enlightenment.

I can almost promise that I will post things that I wish I could forget. And can almost promise that I will post things I shouldn't, including things that will piss people off or greatly embarrass my family.

But the bottom line is that I am that girl that had seventeen spoons in the bottom of her sink. And I'd like to remember that… so that one day when my daughter calls me crying about how she's going to live alone forever, I can pull up my good-for-nothing blog and make it good for something.

So, thanks to all of you who read my blog regularly. The phrase, "I read your blog today…" is one of the greatest compliments I'll ever receive.

I hope you enjoy the new design. I couldn't have done it without Katie Tringali, Owen Robinson, and Sarah MacKay. They are geniuses who dealt with my countless e-mails and requests, and who did all of it without asking for anything in return.