Posts Tagged ‘post-it notes’


The other day, while writing my blog post, I had a brilliant idea for a post.  Now, I usually make notes right away.  My home is littered with post-it notes, writing on the back of envelopes and the covers of magazines.  And, there is a good reason.


Because I have no memory.  So, the other day, I said to myself, “I will do that right after I finish this post.” 


It was to be a brilliant post, witty, short, with a broad appeal to all post.  I remember thinking I should have thought of it two days ago, when ‘something’ happened.


Well, it’s gone.  Lost in the mush that is my brain.  All that brilliance wasted!!!

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Oh, those of you out in Blogland, you are being misled by the ready wit of Braindebris. But, I am here to tell you, that she wasn’t always such a cheerful, happy person.   


While daughter of eleven had a wooden box to pile her toys in. She was born with a touch of the pig in her and it was the only way to be able to walk across her room, Master’s Daughter a/k/a BrainDebris was born with a touch of the compulsive side of our family.

Being two years older than other daughter, and being obsessive about keeping everything she ever got her grubby little hands on (Do you remember those Post-It Note Wills she puts on our possesions?, she had a tad more stuff than other daughter bothered keeping. In fact, Master’s daughter’s room, by the time she entered kindergarten, consisted of three walls of shelves full of “stuff.” And, pity the person who moved any single item on these shelves. But, I skip ahead. 

Never mind the pile of toys, her first Christmas she stole the dog’s new rawhide bone and was very upset about giving it back. Now, this dog was not the friendliest dog in town. He was known to chew up little girls and spit them out. He did have a soft spot for her but, darn it, he wanted his bone back. 






She wasn’t even too picky about where she got her drink either













 And, if you wonder just why the tent looked like it did, see what BrainDebris did to our tree.  

We were ending a visit to my mother’s house one day, when Braindebris was about two years old. 

“Time to pick up your crayons, dear.” 


“Braindebris, pick up your crayons. We have to go.” 


“Braindebris, you pick up those crayons right now.” 


Whereupon, I put my hand over Master’s daughter’s hand and began picking up the crayons. Notice here, that “I, began picking up those crayons.” Brain Debris’ hands were cradled in mine, but trust me, the little bull head did not do one bit of picking up that day.

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