Sticky Notes: a musing
The other day, as I was purchasing a couple small things at the drugstore, and happened down the stationary aisle to toss a package of Post-it’s in my care, I suddenly realized how much I loved those things. And how indespensible they are to my life. And how much they represent how my mind works.
The next day I arose, went to grab the milk out of the fridge to make my children’s cereal before school, and was greeted by a yellow sticky note on the milk. “This milk tastes funny,” it read, in my husbands early morning chicken scratch. These are some hard working pieces of paper in my house, saving us from ruining 3 bowls of cereal. I grabbed the note off the bottle, and poured the milk down the drain. (I guess I should mention that somehow I have become the official milk taster of the family, and the priviliege of deeeming it “good” or “bad” and then dumping, resides only with me. Why? Why, indeed. Perhaps I’m the only one who can stomach pouring $4.00 down the drain.)
But back to my dear, unfailing, constant, bright and cheery, sticky notes.
I use them constantly and in all aspects of my life. They are found as notes to the teachers stuck on the homework folder, tabbing my favorite or next-in-line-to-try recipes, they hold early morning reminders to myself on my keys, wallet, or purse, and have dotted my wall calendar, covered in quickly written phone numbers of friends, family, or play-date parents, until they are tossed or committed more permanently to my address book. Most prominently, they dot the edges of all my books for school, marking important or related passages.
What would I do with out sticky notes. Thank you Art Fry and Spencer Silver for inventing them. What would I have done, if I was born before 1968?