Mysterious Messages to Myself

As I grow older, not only do I have an unreliable memory to contend with, but my handwriting is deteriorating as well. The combination of the two is both exasperating and hilarious. I am constantly writing notes to myself so I remember things and then I don’t remember what the note means, it’s too cryptic or abbreviated for me to figure out, or I can’t read my writing. I use this nifty mnemonic aid called a dry erase board. I write things that I need to remember on the board, because if I don’t write it down it doesn’t happen. I value this tool above my adjustable crescent wrench—that’s high praise. But the board is only effective when I can figure out what I wrote. Same goes for all those post-it notes that ring my desk. For instance, the notation DRD made me crazy for days before I remembered that I needed to buy a birthday card for DAD. Then what the heck did “tonion” mean? I don’t’ have the patience for good handwriting anymore (it takes too much time). The tonion was tuition. I needed to pay Akili’s college tuition so he could register for class. Carol. Who was that and what was I forgetting to do for her? I remembered eventually that it was caroil—I needed to take the car in to have the oil changed. Compost Biz. I could read that one, but what did it mean? Was I supposed to go into business selling compost? I remembered when the raccoons dragged compost all over the driveway again—it meant I needed to secure the compost so they couldn’t get in. Sex. Am I so ancient and feeble that I need a reminder to have some? No, it was sox. Sudi needed new sox. Phew, that’s a relief.