Note to world #4493

She knew she had a tendency to buy socks and tights when she wasn’t feeling good about her weight – after all, socks were mostly one size and her feet rarely got chubby … the last time being almost 20 years ago when she had been pregnant during a hot summer.

But when she started unpacking all the boxes from her online shopping adventures and wrapping holiday gifts, she realized she had unconsciously purchased over 10 pairs of socks and tights for herself over the last few weeks – and pretty much nothing else.

Maybe she should return all the socks and buy some sessions with a personal trainer instead………..


Note to world #3241

I dread my yearly eye exam – I don’t like having any objects near my eyeballs. I have flashbacks to that terrible scene in Clockwork Orange every time. So there’s a lot of cursing (the doctor) and squirming and sweating (me). Everything takes twice as long as it should.

But even I can’t stand to watch when I put in my own contacts every morning. I actually look away when I put in my lenses and then squish them into place through my eyelids.

Maybe it’s a control thing? I’m not sure I understand my behavior so I just chalk it is as “weird” and move on.

Note to world #9954

The day started at 5 am. By 9 am, she was already taking deep breaths. She had to remind herself to be open to change, that all the tiny remarks being made were not criticisms but opportunities for improvement.

And still, she could not wait for it to be over. Only 32 more hours left.


My daughter called it “fake Thanksgiving”, and in doing so, touched on the one constant fear I have had about all of my post-divorce holidays.

When I was a child, family holidays approximated the typical dysfunctional dark comedy -and I was comfortable with that – but I really wanted that Norman Rockwell Thanksgiving, the one depicted in the painting entitled, “Freedom From Want”.  And especially when I started my own family.  But fast forward to the demise of my marriage – in which my spouse actually moved out the day after Thanksgiving – and I knew that there would be no chance of any future picture perfect nuclear family holidays.  And as a divorced mother with no family nearby, I was on my own to produce the entire mise en scene – the food, the coziness of a good dinner and the simmering psychodrama, none of which I had completely mastered (especially my stuffing – which is more like stale bread served with sausage bits).  And in my mind, I was competing not only with my own childhood desires, but also with my ex-husband’s family Thanksgiving gathering which my children attended each year – and Aunt so-and-so’s amazing stuffing.  So naturally, I’ve always scrambled to put together something “special” – even if it meant staying up all night to cook every last scrap of food to be consumed and inviting clusters of total strangers to create a chatty crowd around the table.  Plus my own fatigue swirled with teenage hormones virtually guaranteed a side of deep melodrama as well.

And yet, it never seemed quite right.  Not quite “real” – and definitely not sustainable for a working woman who didn’t get enough sleep on a regular day.  I tried to create “traditions” for our new tiny family unit through sheer force of will and ingenuity, ideas cobbled together from my imagination – making everyone write about gratitude on slips of paper for a few years (i still have all those slips of paper, by year, in a notebook in our library) and hanging candles from the tree limbs out front (which I still love and still do now) — so while it had never come close, it was definitely the best I could make up, and I was mostly okay with that.  So it caught me off guard and hurt me deeply to hear my daughter call it “fake” this year — I know she says it from a place of pain and anger herself – but I wanted her to keep pretending with me – or to even just be okay with it and its oddness.

Maybe she will. Maybe she won’t.  But it’s all I have, and I think it’s pretty good.

Though I know she probably longs for that Norman Rockwell holiday, too.

Note to world #8354

Our family dog has been seriously ill for the past two months.  

At first, I thought maybe the dog was just being more anxious than usual. And I wondered about how I would explain my own flatulence now that the dog barely farted anymore. 

Every day, the babysitter and I would come up with two to five logical explanations for the dog’s growing disinterest in smelly socks, dirty tennis balls – and then with more alarming frequency, food …. then water.  

And it’s become a full blown emergency now – still with no explanation.  Even the vet uses a lot of fancy words – like ‘idiopathic’ – and runs a lot of tests – all of which essentially means he doesn’t know what’s wrong.  I’m worried when doctors don’t know.  For now, it’s wait and watch.  And I hate waiting.