LITTERBUG

We all have our quirks, but now one of mine was on display for the entire neighborhood. My biggest quirk is my obsessive-compulsive note-writing habit. I don’t know what it is, but if I don’t write my sticky-note reminders to myself I fear I’ll forget everything. Ok, this is not as bad as the guy in Memento. It’s not that I’ll literally forget everything if I don’t write it all down, but I have to admit that I over-worry that appointments will be missed, logins and passwords will be forgotten, and to-do’s won’t get done. My sticky notes clutter my desk at home. My bathroom mirror sometimes gets a little tricky to see into. I stick sticky notes into my flip-up cell phone and also stick them to my blood-sugar monitor. I have sticky notes in the ash tray of my car and all over my kitchen table. Hmm, now that I’m actually writing this it does seem a little abnormal.

I had to backtrack the course of events leading up to this embarrassing discovery. It baffled me. How had this happened? What was responsible for this mess? A dog? A cat? Surely something had gotten into my trash to cause this mess. By the way, it’s been nearly three weeks and I’m still finding the occasional sticky note outside my house. One was found two weeks ago under a broken hand-painted flower pot in my backyard. That was weird. Another was found in the front yard grass while I was mowing the other day. I think the wind just keeps blowing them around the neighborhood.

Here’s my Memento version of how my personal life via my compulsive sticky-note reminder obsession came to be scattered about for the whole world to see:

Monday: It’s trash day and I’m outside noticing lots of pieces of trash strewn in the bushes along the side of the house, some in the neighbor’s yard. Apparently the wind had had a chance to do its work on the trash before the garbage man had. I go closer to pick up the pieces as I always did—yes, I’m that neighbor you see who would actually step into the street to pick up a piece of trash to throw it away properly. While bending over and grabbing trash bits from my neighbor’s bushes, I notice something familiar. Sticky notes. My sticky notes. My hand writing on those sticky notes. It was my trash that was strewn about in my yard and neighbor’s yard. I look across the street and see one of my neighbors eyeing some trash at the edge of his grass-lined yard which he keeps neatly trimmed. He’s obviously trying to assess what it is and whether he should pick it up. I see him kick it into the street instead. No doubt he’s confident the wind will come by soon enough to remove it for him. I realize it’s one of my tissues. I’ll have to go pick that up later, I think, after he’s not there to see me do it. I’m embarrassed at the realization that it is my trash that has been blown about. And even more embarrassed being uncertain exactly what messages my sticky notes may have contained. How personal were they? I read the ones I’d picked up and so far all were harmless.

Saturday and Sunday: As typical here in Colorado, the wind roared heavily for a couple days, an average of 30 mph they say but also kicking up to 60 or more at times in some regions. Personally, I’m sick of it. Is there anywhere where it doesn’t blow all the time? Because of that wind, I’ll have more yard work to do tomorrow, or as soon as this wind subsides, I told myself. I’m a little bit of a neat freak when it comes to my yard.

Friday: The lone ant had indeed wandered during the night and had made his way upstairs and into my bedroom. I use a tissue to capture him off the wall. He scrambles to escape and not wanting to crush the little fellow, I think quickly and toss the tissue and him into the trash bag beside my desk. It’s a good thing I’d left it there for that quick maneuver. I decide to take the trash bag outside now, scurrying ant inside it, so I gently clasp its top edges and carry it out. It occurs to me outside that if I tie up the bag, the poor little guy will surely meet his death. Ants can’t gnaw their way through plastic bags can they? I don’t have time to ponder nor Google, so I decide the most humane thing to do is to just leave the bag loosely clenched as I place it into the garbage bin. As an extra precaution against the wind, I place it under another trash bag. This way, the loose bag won’t blow away and the ant still has some of his own free will.

Thursday night: I’m up late. I decide to finally tackle some of the sticky notes that cover and clog my computer desk in my bedroom. The important ones get placed in a pile for keeping, while the obsolete ones get tossed into the trash bag near my desk. The trash bag is mostly filled with tissues, but now with all my thrown-away sticky notes it’s full enough to be taken out to the trash pile. Since it’s late, I decide to leave it there and take it out tomorrow.

Thursday afternoon: Mortified by the ant crawling the wall beside her, Abby gets up from her perch, and we humanly capture him by using a measuring cup and some plastic lid to something and free the creature back outside. I spray the window edges and creases a second time. As the evening progresses, another occasional rogue ant is spotted on the wall. After saving the lives of three of these misguided souls, I am growing weary of my good-natured efforts. How are they by-passing the bug spray? I wondered. Hours later one more had somehow made his way in, but I say nothing to Abby who is secured comfortably in her spot. I don’t want to send her into another tizzy. If she doesn’t notice, I won’t have to get up and save this one. He can wander for the night. I’m too tired, I think to myself.

Abby, who is nearing her 13th birthday, has been displaying typical teenage behavior for approximately the past seven years. She sits in the living room chair, sideways, lap top within reach, cell phone within reach, finger-nail beautifying supplies within reach, remote control for the television within reach, paper, pencils, can of Pepsi, and Uni her favorite stuffed animal all within reach. That scene has now become Abby’s spot from which she rarely moves. To try and get her to do so is only asking for trouble.

Thursday morning: I don’t have to look at the calendar to know it is summer. Actually summer isn’t official for another couple of weeks or so, but all the signs of summer are here. I had remembered to buy a big new pump bottle of insect spray at the store today and was securing the usual areas. Especially around the windows outside and also along the front door frame. The bottle lists “ants” as one of its promised targets, yet an ant is spotted on the wall in the living room even after I spray. I manage to catch him and put him back outside. Spraying to prevent them from coming inside is one thing, but killing them outright is another. Among my quirks, not having the heart to kill an insect is one of them. Spiders, now that’s a different story. If there’s one in the house I can kill it because intense fear of spiders is another of my quirks. But a little ant? I couldn’t kill an ant. Besides, how much trouble can one little ant cause?