Note to world #8332

I’ve been trying to follow along on Facebook and Instagram and Twitter, people, but I still have no idea what’s going on – not even the fake stuff sticks. That social media highway is just moving too fast for me and I don’t want to be that one single person who says, “Uh, when did you get divorced/pregnant/canned from work/disowned by your relatives/your hair dyed”, etc.

Can’t we just meet for coffee and call it a day? Or even better, make plans to meet for coffee that we then cancel after which we trade a few mild guilt-ridden texts or emails to catch up ?

That’s my kind of socializing.


Note to world #9394

It’s true.

I ate half of a live grasshopper at lunch this week. And not on purpose. It was covered in sesame ginger dressing and wiggling it’s arms weakly at me after I bit into its crunchy thorax.

You’d imagine it would have tasted nasty or otherwise “different” but it was the cafeteria and most of the things there taste gross to me. Eating there is about staying alive, not about enjoying the taste of the food.

The cafeteria manager, who I happen to know quite well, told me that the grasshopper was a sign of how fresh the salad was, that a few live grasshoppers was the price to be paid for “locally sourced organic” produce.

I spent the rest of the day drinking boatloads of water and thinking that a prickly leg was still caught in my throat.

And that was kind of the end of the “farm to table” movement for me.

Note to world #7777

Her favorite work time stress reliever – totally old school – was to crumple up sheets of paper in frustration and throw them around her work area.

But since the company took away all of their personal trash cans, she’d been a little down in the dumps. The collectively shared, socially responsible, skinny bins had the most narrow slot for inserting paper, one that did not accommodate her many balled-up sheets of torn notepad pages.

Now, at the end of every day, she stood around smoothing out the sheets at the institutional gray recycling bin and felt the pleasure drain out of her psyche.


Nancy’s husband died Sunday

and a sad shadow fell across

my memories of the pure happiness

with which Nancy loved her Donnie.

For Nancy, there had never been

a time before Donnie. They had been

married forever, or so it seemed.

Nothing came between them, and

nothing was more important

than each to the other. Nancy would tell

me so, big smile across her tiny face.

And now there was just Nancy and I

felt like maybe the world was

a little bit worse off without their

wholehearted love in it anymore.

It was certainly not going to be my

contribution to society.

Note to world #8431

Her well-intentioned friend gave her a lovely and expensive silk scarf. “It’s time to learn how to properly accessorize,” the friend said. “You’re a mature professional now!”

And with that, the friend also handed her a 127-page book entitled, How to tie a scarf – 33 styles – who even knew such a thing existed ?? She flipped all the pages, and quickly surmised the title was actually just code for “how to hide yourself in pricey and pretentious business attire when you hate all of your upper body parts.”

Good grief. So much time and effort.

She didn’t feel prepared to age as a professional woman, with all the hair dying and makeup and now… the layers of fabric camouflage. It was exhausting even thinking about all the nap time she was going to be giving up for this shit.

note to world #774

it had been a very long week at work, with many early morning meetings and late nights of writing wedged in between the very long drives back and forth to the office.

So it really should not have surprised her at all to discover that she had left her work phone at home today.  In fact, her housekeeper discovered the phone tucked nicely inside the sheets of her bed. Which she had made this morning in the dark.


she eats her lunch alone,

in a noisy crowded cafeteria

the sentencing of Nassar

playing in the background.

“this is not my story,” the judge says

“this is the survivors’ story”

which she hears above the din

head buried, tears slip into her soup

because no matter how much

time passes, some wounds

never heal – no matter how hard

she fights to overcome them,

some injuries linger on in

her mind and her heart

and it takes all her energy to

lift herself, to eat her lunch and smile at

the co-worker, the janitor, the cashier,

to carry the ancient unresolved

pain of her own silent survival