All posts tagged: Secrets

The Secret Issue: Shhh…

We all have secrets. I like to think I’m an upfront, transparent kind of gal, yet there are a lot of things I’ve never told anyone. Hey, what if I told you a secret right now? Oh hell no, this is not that kind of post.  A secret isn’t to be toyed with. It’s not some flitty, flighty gossip, it’s a long-held, deep and dark. We keep a secret because it has perceived power. If unleashed, it might impact others — or it might affect how they see us.  Secrets can be good or bad. A friend tells you they are pregnant and to keep it hush-hush until she’s ready. A colleague comes out of the closet to only you, “Can you keep a secret?” And then there are secrets that cause insurmountable pain — a secret love affair, a state secret that if unleashed would cause destruction. A secret recipe that if divulged would mean millions of people would know how to make my grandmother’s perfect chocolate pudding. Locked away. In midlife we take stock …

61% of Women Would Rather Talk About Their Own Deaths Than This Topic

My trigger to stop being so secretive about money occurred in a Palm Springs hot tub, while my sister and I were parboiling ourselves under a clump of shaggily glamorous palm trees. She is 61, I’m 59 and we were talking about money for the first time since the days when our “salaries” came in the form of weekly allowance from someone we called Mommy. Which is to say, we were having a meaningful money discussion for the first time in a half century.  “How much do you make?” she asked. I told her. I asked her the same question.   She answered it.  “Oh, O.K.,” we said simultaneously.  And then, as if we had walked through a heretofore unseen wall, we started talk openly about all sorts of money matters: how much money the family lost after the IRS caught up with some early-80s tax-filing shenanigans; “Mommy’s” financial situation; how much we had saved for retirement.  It was an inexpressible relief to discuss our family’s complicated relationship with money. The short story: my mother’s father made …

Learning the Truth About My Real Father

Growing up, I never knew my name. I mean, I had a name but I never knew it because I was called “Piggy” since I was born. Story goes, when my mom gave me a bottle, I curled my hands and feet like pig’s hooves around it. How fucking adorable. Just call me bacon why don’t you?! We lived in Crown Heights, Bedford Stuyvesant, & Prospect Heights, Brooklyn in the late 60s and early 70s. You could say my mom was a rolling stone and wherever she lay her hat was her home. By the age of 25 she had seven kids by six different daddies. Yeah, I know. My mom was rolling more than her hat back in the day. No judgment! My Dad must have loved my mom because by the time they met, she’d already had three kids by three different men. He still wanted to be with her. I love my Dad for his persistence in getting with my mom but looking back, they broke up mainly because my mother continued …