Notes to Self – Note # 41

Dear Self,
• How old are you, again?…
• Really, I mean c’mon…you:

a) behave like a two-year-old at an after-school daycare birthday party
b) be a bigger pothead than Spicoli ever was – and forget important shit
c) insist on impossible things – rendering yourself impossible to please

• If a guy has been in your company for 48 hours and only then says something along the lines of

“You know…? You’re fuckin’ hot…”

Time to go ahead and take another inventory of things
• If the same guy makes the seemingly random suggestion of “painting your bedroom” or “gardening” the instant he comes over for the first time, take another inventory of things
• If someone posing as a “poet” seems UNABLE to leave the topic of themselves for very long, they are likely full of horse shit
• When a man believes that he needs lifelong reaffirmation and/or reassurances as a result of being let down a few times by a parent, or being cheated on by his ex-wife – GAME OVER. GET OUT.
• The above described situation is what I refer to as a “Conflict of Reality”…nobody wins
• It’s really too bad it isn’t physically painful to be a fucking sniveler – I think there would be far fewer crybabies in the world, if it hurt
• Plotting to kill someone while you are doing yoga or jogging or swimming still totally counts as plotting to kill somebody; doing it while engaging in healthy activities DOES NOT change anything about that



I’m crying a lot again lately…the Holidays, I assume…

the point of my post is not to gain pity from anyone reading this, it’s simply an observation that I’ve made over the past week about my own tears and the way that they seem to work.

I blew my nose this morning after a disgusting sneezing/coughing fit (yes, I have the creep and bronchitis still…), and was somehow given the cursedly magical flashback of a time during Boo’s earliest years alive – she was probably around 3 or so; she inherited her mother’s schedule-bending allergies, and I flashed upon the time she was learning how to blow her nose. I was overcome by the memory of holding a wad of tissues to her little button nose and directing her to blow from her “booger holes” as hard as she could – and the experience that followed my instruction – the one in which I learned how well my only child can mimic me; she blew with all her might into the tissues and never had a runny nose again, to my recollection. People always used to trip out about the way my toddler regularly retrieved a tissue and blew her little faucet nose, without being told to do so.

She was such a miniature adult, always….

I cried for about an hour after I finished blowing my nose.


Next, were the stupid Candy Corn Rocks in the box of Halloween decorations that I begrudgingly pulled out at my roommate’s out-of-character request (wtf???)

The year before she left my life, Boo and I painted some river rocks that we had started collecting right after I came home from the hospital; the collection had grown over the handful of years, and we spent a lot of time and attention on finding rocks that were specifically reminiscent of Candy Corns, because when we started out with it, she was too young to differentiate shapes very well and it was one she could easily identify. It had been her random idea to paint them in time for what would become our very last Halloween at home together. When I see them, I feel both endearment and bitterness; one of my hands wants to throw each rock as far away from me as I can manage; the other hand wants to somehow wrap each one up and protect it from anything and everything because it’s Boo.




I can’t help but to continuously find myself sitting in any one of a million random circumstances, pondering my own sanity and reality; anchoring a new, however, just as miserable, snapshot of myself into the very essence of my own perception. The resulting mental pictures are always cataloged away and eventually posted to the vast cork-board within my recall deposit account– perpetually building a story of my experience that only I can touch upon as time goes by.

When your existence has been picked up from beneath you, the flow of blood in your very body stopped like a clock and then poured tragically down an elusive drain that you will never locate again afterward; when your most prized (and only) belongings are stripped from your being down to the marrow and then that too, is sucked dry by the heat of the desert and desolate place that your carcass is dropped to rot away…

It’s impossible then, to make any sense of the photo-collage in your brain anymore – being only able to recognize your own face and the faces of the people you’ve always loved scattered throughout the piles of aesthetically chaotic history in scrap form. Any of the rest of your time feels wasted, outside of the time that you spend wandering around the darkened corridor between those images on deposit– reaching in vain for the seemingly tangible after-shadows that scatter to quickly fade the closer you gain on them; tears of frustration stained permanently down your weathered and surprisingly unfamiliar face; your only regularly practiced routine comes in the form of the persistent, panicky breaths that drive you forward into the unknown.

Reality, as it turns out, smiles freely upon the Evil.

Real Life doesn’t pulse crimson liquid through any collectively fed veins – and, all that this thing ‘Reality’ holds any appreciation for at all is the death throes of something inspirational, something that’s elegantly and beautifully filled with a light that’s been snuffed out and frozen in archaic darkness; Real Life only recognizes the glass when it’s half empty. Reality remains just that – reality: incapable of bending the parameters to shape into anything other than itself. Reality plays favorites. Reality is not a team player, and if it were, it would be on the opposing team; waiting to clothesline me at the waistline. No, reality has never been a friend to me; it has only come to elude me more and more as the years of my life –


what was supposed to have been my life – my family – my motherhood – my memories…

have passed through time painfully, without meaning or satisfaction or fruition.

The photo-board in my brain is beautiful. It holds mental snapshots that are sacred to me; the moments in time that manage to stand out against the vastness of eternal space behind them – bright and colorful with the most vivid of my senses attached to each one somehow: the smells of the autumn ocean or a funnel cake; the unexceptional sight of a faltering kite as it struggles in a losing battle with the dying evening wind against a burning-red sunset; the mundane sound of a child calling out to its mother from a short distance away; the feel of a warm afternoon’s slowly shifting breeze dragging its way through the neighborhood – each description coming to the forefront of a snapshot for a turn to tell its story.

The mental deposit account I call my own is full of life and love and loss and laughter and tears; just the same as anyone’s would be; there is so much data there that it can be confusing at times to tell which year a certain image should be filed under or with which file. Year after year of my recollection vault, there remains an abundance of snapshots to look through in my quiet moments alone; and then, something changes. 

It’s like someone pressed pause and everything stops – no colors or senses, no emotion or psychological stimulus of any kind…no photos, no moments snapped into my time log for good because I have that much of a desire to keep them always. No nothing. When the board slowly begins to display cerebral imaging again, they are dark and gruesome – out of order and have unfamiliar, hollowness attached to them. There, a story is trying to unfold through the chaos of the board, trying to come together to paint a picture as vivid as the ones of the cherished times before.

The desperate scattering of images across a bloodied crime scene that is freshly taped off at the edges, cutting a bright yellow streak around the perimeter of my mental cork-board – warning me not dig any deeper for the answers that I seek in order to understand the story behind the snapshots on its surface…

The Blues


Yesterday, I saw a lone bluebird high in the pomegranate tree, apparently eating her own emptied nest. Upon seeing this, I immediately felt a kinship with the little, winged creature. It almost gave me the inclination to go inside and start taking bites out of my own reminders of my former life as a mom – to somehow find my own way to gobble up the residual evidence of my daughter’s days at home. I envied the bird for being able to erase the pain of such a life-altering flight; she must have been so proud and disappointed all at once to see the small, blue blur of motion as it fluttered into the distant sky on its own – finally after so much effort and concern; the mother bird must have been so torn on that day, the day that she later consumed the very twigs and fibers that her small family had been living in since September.

I watched…out of nothing more than my own curious and empathic nature, I continued to observe this odd avian ritual. Eventually, the bird poked and picked at the bunch of sticks until the few remaining in design simply collapsed and appeared to dissolve into the air below her. She bleated out strange and un-birdly sounds then, looking all around in a seemingly obvious desperation to understand why she ate her home; I couldn’t watch any more after that and went inside, getting myself lost in other varying household chore projects for the next few hours.

I’ve noticed since then, that the beautiful bluebird has not vacated the pomegranate tree since the demolition of her own nest; instead, she has taken to the very tips of a sturdy branch that juts out among the furthest reaches of the tree’s skeletal form – unnaturally exposed, but wanting to be apparent to her children should they happen to pass by in the frenzied high of flight. My heart sinks today as I watched her – droplets beading around and down iridescent, azure feathers slicked to her stubborn shape perched in the rainy grey world – cold and alone and rapidly losing hope of ever being anyone’s mom again. I guess “human” nature does not stop at the perimeter of our species’ existence at all…

Note #6

Dear Self,

Women aren’t supposed to smoke and cuss; people always seem so shocked to learn about my extensively compartmentalized, high-dollar tool collection, too…it’s annoying. But having .00 gauged micro for every set I own is a little too much. Don’t expect for the guy you’re dating to feel secure with the fact that you out-tool him, by a landslide.

Time to sell some tools…

Guys like cheerleaders in terms of football + women; they don’t want to see a female head coach or listen to woman sports announcer. 

So it’s not okay, after all, for you to watch football and love the Niners. the ladies look down on it, and the guys apparently become enraged and overtaken by a child-like, poor sport’s persona when you can recite stats more accurately than they can.

(Shivers) Geez…..

When your longtime and well-respected boss is ready to retire after 35 years in the tax business, and you can only remain consumed by the ways in which such a change is going to ruin your whole gig, that kinda might make you a bad person. Chew on that one, Self…