Honesty is such a lonely word

This topic has been trying to hatch in my brain for some time now, but I successfully had convinced it to remain in its shell for at least a few more weeks. That was until Pink Lemonade Diva - or more specifically, her mother - unplugged the idea incubator and handed me the pen.

You see, PLD's mother told her that during her weekend visit home she wanted to:

A) teach her Gammy's secret recipe for double chocolate brownies? Delish, but no.
B) talk about their annual summer trip to the Cape? Not even close.
C) DISCUSS THE CONTENTS OF HER BLOG? Ding ding ding ding!

What does she win, Don? In my world, this would equate to standing on my head in front of my parents and my 1991 youth minister with nothing on but barrettes.

I had an immediate visceral reaction to this posting. Alert! Alert! It was the sick feeling you had in high school when your mom came home early; your underwear was somewhere in the hallway and you and your 17-year-old, acned boyfriend were engaged in heavy petting on the bottom bunk. It was the reaction when, in the heat of an argument with a parent, you first immaturely blurt "I hate you!" only to see the slap of disappointment hit them square in the face.

My uneasiness only circled the issue in big black ink yet again: despite a close relationship, my parents only know part of who I am.

The Kris they know and love was an honors student who did the right things. She sang Neil Diamond's Coming to America in the fourth grade talent show clad in a white ruffled shirt and aqua pants. She didn't drink her first Bartles and James wine cooler until she was almost free of high school. Their Kris ran coffee hours and screenings of Cary Grant movies at nursing homes. She was awful at sports but knew how to make a mean chocolate milkshake.

Their Kris would never have hitched a ride across town from an unknown Camaro-driving man who she met pumping gas at the Chevron next to her house (and she certainly would never have gotten into his backseat). She would not have picked up a smoking habit - even one she for all intents and purposes would eventually kick. God love her, she would never, ever have gone further than heavy petting, and wouldn't under any circumstances have done it anywhere near the living room floor of her childhood home.

And another thing. She would certainly never share with perfect strangers those things to which her parents would never be privy.

But would it be so bad if she did?