An Open Letter to the Note-Leaver at Target

Why thank you, dear, for the suggestion that I be more careful and respectful of others. I am so sorry your door was dented.


When I parked there were at least two spaces on each side of my car. I remember thinking, “This is the perfect time of day to go to Target! I can park as close as I want and no one is even near me!”. Then I joked with my kid, with whom I was having one of those rare and sparkly days when we were both happy and joking even though I had the kind of menstrual-induced crankiness that would make me drop-kick Santa Claus in the face. That we were having a great day in the face of my mood is, without hyperbole, a miracle.

You sea donkey fuck stick moron.

If I knew who you were, or what kind of car you drove, I would leave you this note:


You presumed without fact, and it nearly ruined my day.

Without watching the security cameras, it is impossible to know who parked beside you or when they arrived and departed.

I can only assume that you are the kind of person who believes that everything

is the fault of another. I’m sorry for that. It must be an unpleasant way of being. Stressful, I imagine, and frustrating.

Please don’t assume when you don’t know.

Also be careful of what you say, and kinder to others.

And yes, my tendency to let the opinions of others govern my emotions and moods is completely unhealthy. I’m working on it. I don’t expect any improvement for awhile though, because all of my mental energy is being used in my quest to not sleep away my entire summer. This means that I am rising early, and I don’t like it yet.

xoxo bitches. I’m making more coffee.


Long story short. I’m dragging laundry up the stairs at 10:30 p.m. while the rest of my house is asleep. I have a thought about this birthday of mine, set down the laundry and head to the computer. Between frigging with the computer, attempting to locate my blog (similar to loosing your car in a parking lot? maybe), and loosing two attempted entries. I have no clue what I was going to say. But I guess that is it.

Write shit down, because you are going to forget everything.

I am covered in Post-Its of various colors, and have cryptic notes scrawled on both hands and up one forearm. While in the aisle at Target today, I wrote down the date of an appointment with a half-inked pen on the cover of my checkbook (while watching my son systematically pull the knobs off all of the cute kid’s humidifiers, probably positioning them all as little humidifier animal penises). I went to Target to get a humidifier, but left with a headache, a coffee, and some paper towels. I hadn’t written it down. I remembered thirty minutes into my drive home. Shit.

But that is it. If we don’t write it down, it’s gone. The subtext to this post is my constant fixation on language and text and how we use it and Are we all going to die in some textless, glam-ignorance-fueled apocalypse? A fear that is fanned by the shooting of Gabrielle Giffords among other things. Regardless of the motive or influence that drove the shooter, language is powerful; the sooner we recognize that we are responsible for what comes out of our mouths, pens, and keyboards, the sooner we can get about this growing up business.