* When I’m in a public restroom and a lady comes out of the stall, I really want to stop saying “Thank you” to her when I pass her on my way in. And I mean, I really thank her in a genuine way, every time. There is no need for this thank you. It’s not like I was about to pee my pants. If anything, all it does is draw attention to the fact that I’m about to use the toilet she just finished using. I will be in her “pee space,” as the mother of an ex-boyfriend of mine used to say when she’d scold him for using the bathroom before I did.

That has also stayed in my head forever, so I will now share it with you. She said when boys pee they stand in front of the toilet, and there’s a “stream of pee space” that is created that is exactly where my head goes when I sit down to pee right after him.

* I need to work on not being so obsessed with the pee space.

* I need to figure out why there are wasps in my backyard, and not just decide that the entire backyard forever belongs to the wasps.

* I lost my glasses about a month ago, but I can’t seem to admit to myself that I’ve actually lost them. Since I only leave the house about 13% of any given week, it seems unlikely that I left them somewhere out there. I’m always here! How can I lose things out there? I’m so rarely out there, you guys! And now with the wasps, I’m even more in here than I was previously. I also lost my favorite bra, which just seems like something that shouldn’t happen once you don’t live in a dorm or with a roommate or go outside to do your laundry. I haven’t attended any ERA rallies; I haven’t gone to a Tom Jones concert in the Seventies. My bra should be easily findable at one of three locations: my underwear drawer, the laundry basket, or my boobs. And yet, no bra. No glasses, no bra. My very personal personal items are turning up missing, one at a time. If my coffee pot disappears in the next couple of weeks, THERE WILL BE BLOOD.

* I recently met a girl named “Machine.” This isn’t something about me that I need to work on, I just feel the need to tell absolutely everybody that someone out there thinks that her name is Machine. I say this because I don’t assume her parents named her that, I feel like she turned eighteen and was like, “I will now be called Machine,” or maybe some cult leader man blessed her with this name during a life-blood ceremony or something, but I keep thinking about how she was like, “Hi, I’m Machine,” and I know I wasn’t the only person who met this girl at that moment but — you guys — everybody acted like that was no big deal. Just a room full of people all, “Oh, hi! Sally. Paula. Have you met Machine?”

In her defense, I didn’t ask her to spell it. Maybe it was Mesheene or something like that. Misheen. That’s actually kind of pretty.

* I need to stop trying to mentally justify the crazy actions of strangers just to restore world order in my head.

* No, but for real: I really need to stop thanking stranger-ladies in the bathroom for leaving their stalls.