The Post-It Queen Strikes Again

I’m sitting on the living-room couch with my MacBook, rather than the more serviceable office chair and desktop computer, because this window is where the sunshine is streaming in. We’ve had nothing but wind and storms this week—and although we generally only get 12 inches of rain a year here, in our High Desert climate, the rain has been coming down steadily.

So now I’m on the couch where I can enjoy the sunshine through the big picture-window. On the couch’s end-table here beside me, there are a number of things—including a purple Post-It pad. We’re going to circle back around to that.

Back when I was living on a college campus with cars crammed in on every side (and enrolled in writing workshops, which you’ll soon see is relevant), I used to play a game with people’s cars. Based on what I could see on (and in) the car, what could I tell about its owner? Every car-owner was a potential character in a novel—so if I were the novelist, what was I saying about the character through the stickers on the back, or the license-plate holder, or the items visible on the dash or the front seat?

(Luckily, no one ever took my snooping glances into windows as evidence of any sinister intention…)

It’s a variation on the game every reader plays, in earnest, when facing a new acquaintance’s bookshelves. Right? If I had been on the market in the age of dating apps, I would have required a photograph of a candidate’s bookshelf, never mind his or her face! I always want to know: what books do people have on their shelves (and what conclusions might I draw from their collections)? It’s “legitimized snooping,” since you’re going with what’s visible and available.

The parking-pass sticker on my rear bumper hinted at “strapped student”—the cheapest pass, for the lots with the longest walks. The rear window had decals for both University of Idaho (my school-year school) and University of Hawai’i Hilo (my summers-school). The backseat would have some assortment of texts (ranging from chemistry to poetry), my racquetball shoes & racquet and gym bag. A lei made from seashells, from Hilo Hattie’s, hung from my rearview mirror, and if the weather weren’t frigid, you might find my shoes in the passenger seat. (I would have brought them along in case I needed them, but I’ve never worn shoes when I didn’t have to.)

If it were a Friday morning, there’d be a pretty good chance of finding a carry-on bag packed for the weekend, because I’d be hitting the road after class to drive the six hours to Tacoma, where my boyfriend went to school. There would be other clues about my lifestyle, if our detective noticed the mud-splatters in the wheel-wells, or the canoe rack on top. My hiking boots were probably in the back, or maybe snowshoes, depending on the month. And I usually left some gear like my sleeping bag and camp-stove in the rear, because there was a treacherous mountain pass between home and Tacoma (and bad weather didn’t stop me from driving it, with the incentive on the other side! It’s not only boys who think with their… well… not-brain-parts).

What brought my car-game to mind was finding myself, the other day, performing the same sort of storytelling-diagnostic on my bedside table. Taking inventory, in a sense, with the writer’s eye, again. There’s my Apple watch-charger, and two phone chargers: one for mine, and one for our RV park’s “after-hours emergency” phone. (I’m trying to move away from people calling MY phone—especially when I’m sailing or vacationing or… I’ve answered a work call in the middle of a lake with a fish on!) My little magnetic case for earbuds, because I sometimes listen to an audiobook when I can’t sleep. A Kleenex box. Eyedrops (my eyes get dry when I read in bed). A small book-clip reading light, for those times when I just can’t put down a paper book at bedtime. (Half the things on this table have to do with reading!) If it’s after 5am, there will be a full mug of coffee here, because Jon brings it to me every morning before I wake up. (I tease him that it’s self-defense, so he doesn’t have to deal with me UNcaffeinated… But really it’s just sweetness.)

And… (puzzling drum-roll please)… a Post-It pad!

That pad got me to thinking, wondering how many Post-It pads I actually have spread around the place—so I walked around the house and counted. Seven. Sprinkled all around, pretty much every place I might be likely to sit or lie down (and maybe a couple unlikely spots). Oh, and I shouldn’t forget the two in my car. (Why two? I couldn’t tell you.) And by the way, the one room in the house where there’s not a single one? The kitchen. (There would be no point.)

As I wrote the other day in “Advice for Mr. Pickletoes,” I try to catch every stray thought that might twine its way into a blog post… And sometimes the most surprising combinations twist together into a story of some sort. (Rubber Ducks and Filipino Jeepneys, for example.) So I keep the Post-It pads everywhere, and just like fly-paper traps those little airborne buggers that zoom around your house in summer, sticky-notes are great for catching thoughts that fly through. My writing-desk is usually papered with them.

When I worked in an office environment, I was known as the Post-It Queen, and our secretary even made it a mission to find me new and novel shapes and colors of sticky-notes. In the hallway amid our offices, my team had a whole wall of whiteboard, divided into sections for each team member, with tasks and projects on sticky-notes in their sections. When anyone finished a task, they moved the sticky-note to the “Finished” section and hit the big red button that announced the tagline from Staples commercials: “That was easy!” And all of us would cheer and clap from our offices, every time we heard that announcement.

Project Management by Sticky-Note, that was me.

It still IS me, even though my own projects are the only ones I’m “managing,” these days. As I said the other day, my “forgetter” works better and better as I age—so I’m grateful for my sticky-note flypapers-of-the-mind!

These days, if I were going to play novelist-detective, I wouldn’t look at my car. I’d look at my wall!