One of my father’s biggest faults was his inability to accept gifts.  He was uncomfortable when people did favors for him because he felt pressure to return the gesture.  He didn’t even like getting birthday gifts, which was odd since he was generous with others.  He was always picking up the bill in restaurants, even when others wanted to split the bill.   Rather than finding this quality endearing, I found it somewhat petty and insecure.   But he was the oldest of three brothers, and never grew out of the role of the “big brother,” so I understand where he was coming from.

I’ve inherited some of these tendencies.  Oh, I’m not as bad as he was, but at times, this insecurity just pops out. 

Like this morning.

In the blogging world, there are some special bloggers who go out of their way to make the blogging experience as personal as possible.  These bloggers don’t only write comments on your blog, but send you an email after you comment on THEIR site.  I really find this an endearing gesture.  Of course, I rarely do this myself.

One of these special bloggers is named Abby. (I’m using Abby as an alias to protect the identity of Alison of Ali Thinks).

After writing a typically dumb comment on her blog, I received a humorous email from her.  At first, it made me laugh, but then, immediately, guilt set in, both for writing such a shitty comment to begin with, and for never sending HER an email when she writes a comment on my blog.  Like my father, I didn’t feel comfortable with our uneven relationship. Why should she send me an email when I rarely send her one?

Out of total anxiety, I wrote her the stupidest email I’ve written in a long time.

Dear Abby,

As much as I adore getting emails from you in response to one of my dumb comments, you don’t have to always write back to me.  I won’t be upset.  I know you love me either way!  I just hate that I’m giving you all this extra work.

Neil

A few minutes later, Abby wrote back:

Dear Neil,

 It’s habit, Neil. And the truth is, sometimes I don’t write back. The funny thing is that as I was hitting send on that last e-mail to you, I thought “He doesn’t want to answer that stupid question you’re writing him, Abby!  Don’t respond to comments with questions!”

If it bugs you, I won’t answer your comments. But trust me, I like to do it.

Abby

At this point, I was totally embarrassed.  Does she really think it bugs me that she is such a kind-hearted person?  Did I just insult her by saying I hated her emails?  I quickly wrote back:

Dear Abby,

Shit, I should have never wrote you that last email.  I DO LIKE you writing to me.  In fact, I love it!  I was just trying to make it easier for you by telling you that I wouldn’t feel bad if you didn’t.  Jeez, this is so neurotic.  I was worried about you, not thinking myself worthy of your time to write those emails.

Neil

Abby wrote back:

Dear Neil,

And I was thinking that I wasn’t worthy or your time and attention!  Gah!  Neurotic! Insecure!

Abby

After laughing a bit, I wrote to Abby again:

Dear Abby,

Two people pleasers trying to please the others.  Just like I wrote about in my blog post a few days ago.  But since I’m trying not to be a people pleaser anymore, I’m going to start asking for what I want.  And yes, I do want you to email after a comment.  In fact, I demand that you do it every time!  Or else.

Neil

After I sent off the email, I thought about how this ridiculous exchange would make a great blog post, so I sent her my fourth email of the morning:

Dear Abby,

I might just write a post tonight based on our email conversation.  Wouldn’t that be interesting?  Of course, I won’t mention your name, unless you want me to.  Is it OK?  Again, if you don’t want me to do it all, I’ll understand.  Is this being neurotic?  Email me!

Neil
 

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month:  A Tribute To Teachers

Sometimes I feel a little frustrated with blogging, mostly because of you, my dear reader.  While I enjoy our interaction, try as I might, I still don’t feel I really know you.  Mathematically speaking, am I being too generous in saying that you only get to see about 15% of a person by reading their blog?

People are complicated in general.  It’s hard enough knowing yourself, so knowing someone else is especially difficult.  For all my time with Sophia, I suspect I only know 25% of her.  She’s always doing things that are surprising to me.   Last night, we played Texas Hold ‘em poker with some friends, and she bluffed with a two of diamonds and three of spades.  That just wasn’t her!  It was shocking.

I love my mother, but having never seen her in her wild single days in Coney Island, I suspect I’ve only seen 35% of her true self. 

I don’t understand myself at all, especially with all my self-deception, so I gather I only know 60% of myself.

As a "writer," I’m supposed to understand characterization, but in truth, people are way too mysterious.  My interest in the human psyche started at an early age. 

When I was a kid, I remember my parents being involved in a  Jewish social group that met at our apartment every month.  There were about twenty members of this group.  On this night, my parents would let me stay up late.  Sometimes, I would come out in my pajamas and play a song on my clarinet,  or do a magic trick (I was a budding magician who did shows at childrens’ parties).  After doing a trick, Abe, a hefty optomotrist, would give me a quarter "tip."

I bring up this monthly event because something odd happened in my apartment every single month — something that became legendary in my household.  After all the guests left, we would find that one of the toothbrushes in the bathroom was missing, and we would then find it sitting in the bathroom hamper with the laundry.

The first time it happened, we assumed it was some weird accident.  But every month it would be the same — a toothbrush in the hamper after all the guests left.

My mother suggested that we hide all the toothbrushes, but my father, being an overly nice guy, didn’t want the culprit to know we were onto him — and make him feel bad.   My father worked in a hospital and was very understanding of all sorts of neurotic people.

One night, a year and 12 discarded toothbrushes later, my mother had had enough.  She gave me a secret assignment, something I wasn’t supposed to tell my father.  I would watch TV in my parents’ bedroom during the evening.  With the bedroom door slightly ajar, one could get a perfect view of the bathroom.  Each time someone went into the bathroom, I should make a note of the person, then run in to check the status of the toothbrushes as soon as they left.

I was on toothbrush patrol all night,  and I must have run into the bathroom at least 10 times for an examination, each time with my father’s handkerchief covering my face, protecting me from any smell and making me feel like a real sleuth. 

Then came the big moment.  

Abe had just left the bathroom.  As he passed from view, I ran inside — and there was the proof –  my father’s toothbrush was gone!  I opened the hamper and laundry scattered all over the floor.  On top of one of my t-shirts, was the toothbrush!

I rushed into the kitchen and told my mother.  It was Abe!  She said we should talk about it with my father later. 

After everyone left, I told my father about my investigative reporting.  He was not surprised, but insisted that we never bring it up and embarrass Abe.  The next day, my father and I went to our local dime store and bought a 12-pack of toothbrushes, enough to keep Abe happy for a year of throwing toothbrushes into the hamper.

My parents were friends with Abe for many years.  His weird toothbrush fetish was never brought up.  Why did Abe do this?  Did he have a bad experience with a dentist when he was a child?  Did he want us to launder the toothbrush?  And why only one?  Would he have remained friends with my parents if they confronted him? 

Did they ever really know more than 2% of the real Abe?

People are complicated and mysterious.