mary and mala are two of my best friends. we bonded over long minnesota winters, freshly kissed babies and bowls of the world’s best wonton noodle soup with gai lan. they know what there is to know about me. and they have recently ruled that there is not enough dirt in my garden journal. it’s a bit too squeaky clean.
i have to agree.
writing an online journal is a tricky thing. it’s a photograph of your life that you intentionally surrender to a big gust of wind. a wind that takes your little snapshot and whirls it half way around the world and back again in seconds. you never know who might pick it up and take a look. and if they take the time out of their busy day to peer into the photo, i haven’t wanted to burden them with dreary mewling.
i know i’ve tried to keep it light. but in keeping it light, mary thinks i’ve lost the heft of truth. that daily truth that women and mothers share and shoulder in hurried lunch hours and in torpid carpool lines across continents and time zones.
so from this point on, i’ll try to real it up. i’ll give you the dirt. the whole scoop.
instead of simply writing about my 15th wedding anniversary and the luxurious surprise stay my husband planned at The Four Seasons, i’ll take mary and mala’s advice. i’ll make sure i add the last paragraph about the glamorous way I spent the next morning back home: in my garden helping to dig up the elusive septic tank lids for the city inspector.
how’s that for real the low down.
for my money, it doesn’t get much grittier than that.