"You mean the one I wrote this morning before you went to work?"
"Yeah, that one. Was any of that about me?"
"Um, no. But have I been a terrible friend to you, husband?"
"No, but I kind of thought it was funny that I thought some of that could apply to me."
"Yeah, That is funny. And kind of sad."
"I didn't mean it to be sad. I meant it to be funny."
"Well, it is true that I didn't go to any showers that you threw this year."
"No, you didn't. I do resent that."
This week is International Delurking Week, according to Mel. When I first set up my blog and the tracker system, I used to check it religiously to see
if my mother who was reading my blog. I sort of figured out that since my mother can't really figure out how to sign onto her own email account, and couldn't have followed a FB link I had posted for a week if she wanted to, I really have no need to read the stats anymore. Every once in a while, though, I look at that map of all the dots from around the world, and it makes me feel warm and fuzzy and happy. Or I follow links of blogs I have never read before to add to my reader. I also get a great joy in looking at the search words that has brought someone to my blog. I think "Finger. Hand blender." made me feel less ridiculous in life, and "wacky doodle eagle fucker" disturbed me a bit (did all those words appear on my blog at the same time?). But in general, if you do not comment, I really do not know who you are. I would like to get to know you, though. I do become curious, what type of people read me? So, this week is a week to come out of the closet. Since I have written about my weird quirks, I am giving this brief prompt to write about yours. And comment, whether or not you comment regularly.
Many many years ago, after hearing about these friends of my ex-boyfriend for, literally, years, we were invited to dinner at their old, stately estate on the Main Line of Philadelphia. This is a gay couple, one of which is an actual rocket scientist and the other a professor of religious studies focusing on Catholicism. I had ideas, you know, of what they were like. They were devote Catholics who attended mass every Sunday, one sang in the choir and the other played the organ. They had been together for decades. I had an image of the sort of house they kept, what their interests were, and what their general house would be like. It was beautiful. Breathtakingly restored. Elegant. Regal. Exactly as I had imagined. When given the extensive tour of their home, I was led into the their bedroom suite, which was larger than my entire apartment. And what I found on their bedroom couch, covering their entire king-size bed, and on every horizontal surface of the room were hundreds of stuffed alligators. I mean, just all manner of alligator--stuffed animals from the carnival win to the lush velvet-y well-crafted toy. I asked them the obvious question, "So, you are into alligators?"
"Yeah, you know, it's our thing."
And well, you know my thing? So, lurker, tell me: what is your thing?