Chick Wit: Old school
OK, summer is over and we're collectively bummed. The consolation prize is school supplies. No, I'm not 12 years old.
OK, summer is over and we're collectively bummed.
The consolation prize is school supplies.
No, I'm not 12 years old.
But I still love school supplies.
If I could buy a protractor, I might be the happiest person on earth.
Or even a pencil case, which I can't justify since I don't even use pencils.
Or how about a ruler, an old-school wooden one, but I don't measure even my waist anymore.
But still, maybe I could buy a pencil case and put things in it, like a laptop.
Nothing makes me happier than a fresh pack of printer paper, even though I can't remember the last time I printed anything.
And I need new printer ink, so I can put it into my printer and let it dry up.
But, truly, I do love new legal pads, canary yellow and ready for fresh litigation.
Please tell me I'm not the only alleged adult who feels this way.
Who finds her internal clock geared to the school year, even though she's not a student anymore, and even though the student she raised has grown up and moved to New York City.
It's just that at this time of year, I usually find an excuse to get myself into Staples, where I lose three hours browsing three-subject notebooks.
I look at every type of Post-it available and choose carefully which colors will change my life, or failing that, organize me better.
I'm thinking that the lure of school supplies, as you get older, has more to do with a wish for organization and productivity.
In other words, the mental riff is something like, the air is turning colder, and I'm getting back to business.
No more fooling around.
Summer is for losers, and fall is for winners.
Now I'm going to make myself into a winner, and get things done!
I'm going to write things down and do all the Things on my Things To Do list.
'And for that I need, obviously, pink index cards, double-sided tape, binders in different colors, and special dividers with tabs you can see through and perforated white inserts that are too small to fit your handwriting.
Also, multicolored file folders for bills I never file.
And a desk organizer for paper clips I use to pick my teeth.
A metal easel with a giant pad for plotting novels, though I have never outlined a one.
My surprise endings come as a surprise to me.
And, of course, pens.
I don't think it's because I'm a writer. I think it's because I'm a human being in September, but the fact is, I have a primal urge to go out and acquire pens.
I'll spend an hour in the pen aisle in a quest for the perfect pen, searching through an array of fine-point, medium-point, and big-ass-point pens.
Also called bold point.
Guess which one I picked.
I identify.
And not just because of the aforementioned ass, but because I'm not a fine-point kind of girl. I'm not subtle or delicate, which you know if you're a loyal reader of this column.
Nor am I middle-of-the-road, neither here nor there, so medium doesn't appeal to me.
I like the biggest point possible, to make the biggest point possible, and also, frankly, so I can read it.
Because I'm not 12 years old.
So, of course, what always happens is that I buy a bag of pens, bring them home and think they're perfect, so perfect that I practically hoard them, and, then, God knows how, I can't find them anymore.
Every September I buy too many pens and yet, somehow, I can never find a pen in my house.
The other day, I had to write a check and I went to three different rooms looking for a pen and ultimately found one in my purse.
On the pen it read, Marriott Hotels.
Go figure.
And have a great school year.
Look for Lisa and Francesca's new humor collection, "I've Got Sand in All the Wrong Places," and Lisa's new novel, "Damaged," in stores now.