Time to confess. Nothing illegal, of course. I’m not stupid. Besides, anything illegal that I might do should be legal anyway, so..yeah. No, I’m going to come clean on a few of my less than stellar moments in life and apologize for them. I figure you’re either asking why I’d expose myself in this way or if you know me, you just murmured, “No surprise there. It’s about damn time!” The truth is, I’m trying to lead us all into the light, one petty confession at a time. Come this way.

So, you know how you’re trying to fall asleep at night or you’re sitting at the Methadone clinic and something you did just pops into your head, something kind of morally or ethically questionable? Yeah, you know. My husband told me he had no idea what I was talking about so I suggested that he might be a sociopath. He didn’t respond. Sociopath.

First, the little stuff:

I apologize to “Football Head Eric” for, obviously, nicknaming you “Football Head Eric”. However, your head was totally shaped like a football. From the side, football. From the front, football. I know you had a crush on me when we were about, what 9 years old? You were super sweet and walked three blocks to show up on my front porch with some flowers. Instead of opening the door, I used our cool ass, 70s one-way security glass to just stare at you. OK, I sucked but I was NINE and at nine years old, a head shaped like a football is a deal breaker, as is a head shaped like a lightbulb, Frankenstein or a piece of toast.

I apologize to Mrs. Carmichael. I called you “farty face” and obviously, struck a chord because you ended up on my front porch telling on me (SNITCH!). My father listened patiently to your long, winding story which, apparently, led up to the worst thing that had ever happened to you in life: a smart ass neighbor kid calling you “farty face”. Look, I’m sorry, Mrs. Carmichael. Maybe you were sensitive about your face or maybe you were exhausted from relentless flatulence or perhaps combining those two things was a bridge too far. But, you’ve got to ask yourself what was going on in your life that you found yourself, 40ish, on the neighbor’s porch blubbering, snot running everywhere, because some kid said your face was “farty”. What in the hell does that even mean? I don’t even know what I was talking about. But, ok, whatever. SORRY.

I apologize to the woman on the tour of the Louisiana plantation house for letting you go off in the wrong direction when the rest of the tour had gone the other way. It’s just that you were “that person” in the tour group that tries to help the tour guide with your less than extensive knowledge on absolutely everything and I needed a break.

Other tour group person (upon entering an expansive interior room): “It sure is cool in here for a room in the middle of the house!”

Tour Guide (pointing to an electric fan in the corner): “Ah, we’ve cheated a bit. There’s an electric fan.”

You (loudly and smacking gum): “That fan was nice for the slaves though. They wouldn’t be so hot working in here.”

I knew you’d eventually find us or one of your friends would notice you were missing but when I saw you wander off, I just let you go and closed the door behind me. You looked happy.

Now for a little heavier lifting.

I’ve got to say this first or I’ll be crucified.  All babies are precious. All babies are a blessing. All babies are innocent. All babies are beautiful. All babies are the best things on earth. All babies are everything good in the world. All babies, all the time, ALL good. Babies!

I apologize to the toddler whose picture I came across on the internet. I apologize for thinking you were so funny looking that I kept your picture on my phone so when I felt a little down, I could pull it out and see you with your crazy hair and little buggy eyes and laugh hysterically. Yes, I know, I KNOW. Before you rip me a new one, let me dredge up some sympathy by admitting that I’m no stranger to those “rough spots” some of us go through growing up. I was freakishly gorgeous up until about 12. From 13 to 16 you could say I suffered a few setbacks. Years later, my mother told me, “We didn’t think you were going to make it. We thought we might lose you.” As in, I was so homely, they thought it might actually kill me. My OWN MOTHER said that. It smarts to think my parents were just shaking their heads every time I passed them in the hallway or bumped into them in the kitchen wondering when they’d find me dead from “ugly”. I went back to being really, really good looking (yay, me!) after a few years so everything is copacetic and you needn’t worry. I just wanted you to know that I’ve suffered too. Anyway, there is something inherently hilarious about a toddler who looks like Ernest Borgnine. Go ahead and tell me how awful I am but I’ll stand by that all day long.

Finally, I apologize to the donation collector man at the Goodwill drop-off spot for reporting you to your supervisor for being surly and argumentative. “Oh, sweetheart,” you’re thinking, “of course you should have reported him. He had no right!” Well, did I mention he was mentally handicapped? Yeah, I drove home, found the number on the Goodwill receipt and phoned in a complaint about a mentally. handicapped. volunteer. I even went so far as to leave a message after no one picked up so I imagine somewhere out there, my message from a decade ago lives on. He was surly, argumentative, unfriendly! He questioned the integrity of my donation! He isn’t good with people! I said all of that…and more. I must have been having one helluva bad day.

I just read this back. It is a blindingly beautiful example of “sorry, not sorry” and for that, well,…I’m sorry.

Final analysis? I’m not leading anyone toward any sort of light and Goodwill dude had it coming.

I’m headed straight to hell. Come this way…

No Reason Not To

It is going to become apparent very quickly that this isn’t the place for high-brow literature so let’s just do this. For about a year now, I’ve been living in Silicon Valley, a place of external smiles and internal organs covered in a shit storm of stress. The friendliest people in my neighborhood are the elderly couple who bring us cucumbers. They told us our house was formally “the drug house” and had a suicide. Yay. Second place goes to the Germans across the street. I assume they’re German because they invited us to a sausage party or something at their house once and they have accents. Third place for the guy next door. His property is a little worn but he’s quiet, rarely home and smokes weed in the backyard which causes the elderly couple to worry a lot. Until I got my medical marijuana card, I used to hang out by the fence hoping to run into him. Everyone else in all of Silicon Valley sucks. You’re thinking that it’s probably me. You’re thinking I’m just weird and socially awkward, aloof and unapproachable. Nope, that’s not it. It’s totally them.


I keep using Meet-Up and it keeps being a bit of a bust. My first book club meeting was good enough but women sure will talk about really personal stuff to a room full of strangers while trying to act like they’re relating it to the book. One woman announced that men don’t really care as much about their mistresses as they do about their wives and then proceeded to tell us that her husband had left her for his secretary. One lady, I’ll call her Candida, sat on the far end of the room, unblinking (seriously, she never blinked) and seemingly pissed off that she had driven herself to a book club meet-up. Whenever someone asked her to repeat herself -she was kind of far away, after all – she’d say, “I already ANSWERED that!” and then look out of the window all exasperated and everything. That was priceless. Priceless. Another reader, “Zuzu” had so much Botox I thought someone was throwing their voice when it was her turn to speak. Only the eyes moved. Her implants were as big as my head and while I don’t have a massive, pumpkin head that children point to and laugh at on the street, I do have a “I don’t try hats on in public” sized head. Every hat is just perched at the top of my head, even beanies. Zuzu wore stilettos to the damn book-club meet-up and clothes that were very tight and stressed out. She went on and on and on and on until I had no idea what she was talking about. Her comments always started out in relation to the book but ended up someplace else entirely. We learned that she lived in two HUGE houses (apparently, simultaneously) and was just going to have to sell one! We learned that she got real close to a husband and kids but no cigar. We also learned that she didn’t finish the book. Candida was pissed. When Zuzu asked Candida to weigh in on one of her points, Candida’s eyeballs popped out of the sockets and she yelled, “How should I know? I’m not a college professor!” Candida was making my day. Another lady was trying to learn to like men again that month and shared that she’d told her neighbor that she was sure the neighbor’s son was autistic. Moreover, she was certain that the neighbor woman herself was autistic; right there on the spectrum with her son. I piped up and told her I didn’t think it was a good idea to mention that to the neighbor. To this, I got a lot of agreement and I felt like a fucking boss.

Believe it or not, I went to the second meet-up.There were only four of us. The most unexpected quote of that day: “I don’t like on line dating because men keep asking me if I’m transexual.” To which I mumbled something really stupid because halfway through my response I got confused about transwoman vs transman and said, “Oh, you don’t look like a man, um, or a woman, you look great!”

I’m going to a Serial Killer meet-up pretty soon so I might not ever post here again, something for which we might all be grateful. I joined a walking meet-up. I’m fit, nobody else was. The lady who walked next to me tripped on every curb. I found it really distracting but I always asked her if she was OK. See how nice I am?

When I lamented to my eldest daughter that I was lonely and finding it hard to make friends, she suggested I try OK Cupid and assured me that I could find straight, female friends who just want to hang out. Yeah, you can imagine how that went. It is now obvious to me that no one reads the notes you put on there about what you’re looking for. Only men messaged me. One offered to come to my house dressed as a cop and arrest me for being “too cute”. The women either wanted another woman to share with their husbands or to exclusively date women. I want to thank my daughter for taking the piss. Everyone was all like, “What did you expect? It’s OKCupid, duh!” Well, I thought that if I explained, quite clearly, that I was married and just wanted to find some buddies to hang out with, it would all work out. That shit didn’t work out. OK Cupid has made me rethink what the German sausage party may have really been about.

Anyway, what was I talking about? Oh, right, why I’m doing this. I make up stories about people  in my head. I’ve decided to write them down. Sometimes, I’ll write about something that has really happened to me like when I was living in Taiwan and accepted friendly checkout lady Emma’s invitation to meet for a language exchange. Emma told me she had a lot of “one night stand experience” which I thought was a peculiar thing to share with me during our first meet-up at McDonald’s but a few minutes later she pointed to her vagina and shouted that she knew that in English, you could call it a PUSSY! Ya gotta love a language exchange. Then, there was the time the AstroGlide that was in my bag -notice I didn’t say it was mine, it was just in my bag-got confiscated at security in a Thai airport. Thailand, remaking its image one bottle of lube at a time.

I think it’s better to have these people, real and invented, running around amongst you good people than crowding each other in my head. I hope you agree. If not, no hard feelings.