Sticky Notes Quotes

The other day I woke up to find my girlfriend already gone from the house, and a sticky note on the fridge that said, "I love you." "Oh my God," I thought. "Somebody's obsessed with me, and they kidnapped my girlfriend just to get closer to me.

A wicked grin crinkled one corner of his mouth as he secured another sticky note on the door before shutting it in my face. I blinked, then read the note. Use the key.

I have my own e-reader, but I hardly ever use it. I need to fold down pages and flag passages with sticky notes. I need to experience books, not just read them. I never go anywhere without a book in my bag, and to travel across the ocean, I'd packed more than my fair share.

I'm so excited. I just bought a new file cabinet, some manila folders, some sticky note pads, and a few highlighters, and I think I'm finally ready to enter into organized crime.

I didn’t feel like buying him the jacket he asked for for Christmas, so I just got him a coat hanger with a sticky note attached that read, “Here’s something for you to hang your dreams on, pal.

With a deep regret, I wiggled out from under him despite his sleepy protests and grabbed articles of clothing as I tiptoed to his door. What amazing willpower I had. What fantastic self-control. I'd come over for one reason, and everything but that reason seemed to be resolved. When I reached the door, I saw what looked like another note. But this was his door, not mine. I peeled it off, then angled it until I could read it by the light of the fire. Is that all you've got? With a smile spreading slowly across my face, I dropped everything I'd just picked up and went back for more.

Get your little sticky note pad and get a new note, Kace. Write this on it. I’m coming, Kace. I’m coming for your heart,

The sign on the front door explaining what kind of meeting: NA-NARCOTICS ANONYMOUS Someone had attached a sticky note that said: EMPHASIS ON THE A, PEOPLE! Ty didn't know wheather to be amused that only in Lucky Harbor would the extra note be necessary, or appalled that the town was trusted with the anonymous at all.

You want me to go back into that house protected by a magic sticky note?” “Don’t even start,” I told him. “It’s working. If it weren’t working, you couldn’t drag me into that place.” “What did you write on here? ‘Don’t die’?” No, I wrote, ‘Don’t be an a-hole!” I headed for the house. “On yours or mine?” “On yours” “Well, in that case, your magic isn’t working. I’m still an asshole.

One night, you will wake with a start in this person's bed, you will discover yourself in this person's arms, and you will disentangle yourself for the hundredth time and dress yourself for the hundredth time and try to leave this person's apartment, but when you get to the door there will be a sticky note over the knob that says, 'but what if this time you stayed?

We’ll make plans on sticky notes and we’ll stick to them. We’ll get married, but only after we buy some milk, cereal, and a book of baby names.

I have notes in my bathroom, yellow notes, and I stick 'em on the mirror, things that happened that were uplifting boosters for me. Notes that say, "Today is special, make today count." And then I have one note on the mirror in the middle that says, "Look at the other notes.

Everything had its place. He was a bullet journal guy, and I was a sticky note kind of girl.

My locker seems to have become the hub for sticky notes and nasty letters, none of which I ever see actually being placed on or in my locker. I really don’t get what people gain out of doing things like this if they don’t even own up to it. Like the note that was stuck to my locker this morning. All it said was, “ Whore.” Really? Where’s the creativity in that? They couldn’t back it up with an interesting story? Maybe a few details of my indiscretion? If I have to read this shit every day, the least they could do is make it interesting. If I was going to stoop so low as to leave an unfounded note on someone’s locker,I’d at least have the courtesy of entertaining whoever reads it in the process. I’d write something interesting like, “I saw you in bed with my boyfriend last night. I really don’t appreciate you getting massage oil on my cucumbers. Whore.” I laugh and it feels odd, laughing out loud at my own thoughts. I look around and no one is left in the hallway but me. Rather than rip the sticky notes off of my locker like I probably should, I take out my pen and make them a little more creative. You’re welcome, passersby.

Work that only comes from the head isn't any good ... You need to find a way to bring your body into your work ... If we start going through the motions, if we strum a guitar, or shuffle sticky notes around a conference table, or start kneading clay, the motion kickstarts our brain into thinking.

You want me to go back into that house protected by a magic sticky note?” “Don’t even start,” I told him. “It’s working. If it weren’t working, you couldn’t drag me into that place.” “What did you write on here? ‘Don’t die’?” “No, I wrote, ‘Don’t be an a-hole!’” I headed for the house. “On yours or mine?” “On yours.” “Well, in that case, your magic isn’t working. I’m still an asshole.

Your whole life and the story of your journey is the landscape picture on the front of the box of a 1,000 piece puzzle. The pieces are each a small sticky note that ends in mid-sentence. You simply need to figure out where each one starts and ends.

Evan …” she murmured, wrapping her soft arms around his neck. Their position had her lips near his ear. She’d lost her headband somewhere. He could smell the strawberry of her shampoo, feel the tickle of her sluggish breath stirring his hair. “Evan.” “Kelsey. Move over here, lie down.” She pulled back slightly, her bleary eyes trying to focus on his. The weight of her head still seemed too much for her neck to support and her hair flowed over his arm. “Evan, I always liked you.” “I always liked you, too, honey.” The way she kept saying his name in that intoxicated purr, savoring the v between her teeth and her bottom lip, was unnerving. Unnerving, hell. It had his dick twitching in his pants. “Come on, girl, you need to sleep it off.” “I mean I like liked you.” […] Her hands caught his face, surprising him. He should have moved away from her long ago, before she could get her hands on him. As it was, he felt like a fly caught in the sticky gossamer of a spider’s den. “Always wanted to fuck you, y’know that? Even when I was a virgin.” He drew in a breath, exhaled it shakily. So much for prudish. Note to self: Kelsey now gets unbelievably horny when drunk.

I grab a sticky note from my bedside table. Reasons It's Okay to Be Me: 1. This is exactly how God wanted me to be. 2. We don't all have to be doctors! 3. If everyone were a genius, we would have no normal people, and then geniusness would be a normality. Without me, Zach is not a genius. 4. Even though it is for Zach, I still get Cheesecake Factory too! Yay!

Rafael even got me more Dramamine pills, plus a few off-brand options for motion sickness with a hotel-branded sticky note that says, Sorry it’s not Xanax, but you can still hold my hand.

Sometimes I want to slap a sticky note on my forehead that says, “I am sick. No, I don’t look sick at this moment. But I am not faking having a disease just because I’m not in a wheelchair, and I am not a freak.” Now,

There’s a neon green post-it note stuck to the window ledge. It says DON’T EVEN TRY —R, in bold capital letters. Yeah, like I am going to listen to a sticky note from my captor. ... DON’T EVEN TRY, my ass. It must be Reece’s idea of a joke. Ha ha, so funny. It’s going to be even funnier when I kick him in the balls the next time I see him.

Your name is Do Kyungsoo. You have short-term memory loss, antesomething amnesia, so you won’t remember what happened last night. But let me help you out. Last night I put my head on this pillow and my arms around your waist. My name’s Kim Jongin. I call you hyung. Yesterday you loved me. Today you’ll love me again. This is where you undressed me. This is where I undressed you. And here I pushed you up against the wall and kissed you really hard (approximately, it was kind of dark) and we thought we should have sex. Here you sat, dangling your legs. I put my palm on your kneecap and you bent forward and kissed me first. We talked about ballet. You hummed a tune and my fingers did an arabresque here, grand jeté onto the floor, fouetté en tourant and then sissonne on the back of your hand. Pas de valse fast up your arm and you smiled. I leaned on this and read your green sticky notes while you went around cleaning up invisible messes. It came to me that all the green looks like grass, and grass is boring without daisies. So I hope you like yellow? And here’s Kim Jongin. Say hello to me?

You know that phrase, “going through the motions”? That’s what’s so great about creative work: If we just start going through the motions, if we strum a guitar, or shuffle sticky notes around a conference table, or start kneading clay, the motion kickstarts our brain into thinking.

Behind his bedroom door, he can sit and put Hall & Oates on the record player in the corner, and nobody hears him humming along like his dad to "Rich Girl." He can wear the reading glasses he always insists he doesn't need. He can make as many meticulous study guides with color-coded sticky notes as he wants. He's not going to be the youngest elected congressman in modern history without earning it, but nobody needs to know how hard he's kicking underwater. His sex symbol stock would plummet.

Set up some reminders on your phone, in your journal or on sticky notes to help remember throughout the day to ask for blessings and assistance.

he was a bullet journal guy, and i was a sticky note kinda girl

He was a bullet journal guy, and I was a sticky note kind of girl.

Ask one question: Would a Millennial (anyone born between 1980 and 2000) look forward to working here? Try this exercise. Take a group of people into a large, open room with tackable wall surfaces or whiteboards. Give them large sheets of paper, sticky notes, markers, and tape. Ask them to create a concept for a work environment (don't say “office”) using the following words: high-energy, collaborative, healthy, productive, engaging, innovative, interactive, high-tech, and regenerating.

Generation X women keep many lists: grocery lists, chore lists, deadline lists, schools-to-apply-to lists, holiday-card lists. Some are on paper and some on smartphones or sticky notes or whiteboards, but they can also seem to loop on a scroll behind the women’s eyes.

I have a sticky note on my desk with a quote written on it that I read somewhere. I don’t remember where I read it or who said it. I catch myself reading it sometimes. “Comfort my lonely soul and still my trembling heart.” For someone to say that means I’m not the only one who feels lonely.

Inside was a box of La Riche Alpine Green hair dye. The color was an exact match for the dress. Graham J. Morgan had a serious sweet side. Curious, I tore open the next envelope. It was a box of green Betty Down There Hair Color with a sticky note that read, I wasn’t sure if the carpet matched the curtains.

Read the sticky note on this personal cup: personal grande sugar-free caramel, caramel affogato caramel blended coffee light. Really? This isn’t a hard beverage to make, but who in their right mind orders a beverage that lists caramel three times? I’m willing to bet this drink was suggested by someone who works here. Bet it was Julie.

Paper is brain interface. Paul Saffo

When I was born, god scattered me endlessly across the universe. I often find myself in notepads and sticky notes, in the margins of used novels and in the scribbles of bathroom stalls. When I recognize a piece as myself, I am delighted. And no matter how odd or unsettling I find the new fragment to be, I braid it into myself without a doubt that it belongs to me.

On weekends especially, the Showroom and Market Floor were packed with families, couples, retirees, people with nowhere else to go, college kids and their roommates, new families with their new babies… a legion of potential customers, clutching maps, bags stuffed with lists of model numbers written on sticky notes.. credit cards burning holes in their pockets, all of them ready to spend.

And this?” he asks, pointing toward one of my sticky notes. “Aut viam inveniam aut faciam,” he murmurs. “What does that mean? You’ve written it on several notes, and you’ve got it stuck to your desk at the office, too.” I raise my brows, surprised he noticed that. “It roughly translates to I’ll either find a way or create one. It’s my favorite quote, and it’s the one that kept me going throughout the years.

to show us the way—the easier life is to handle. 'So, to begin, we have to put a sticky note on the bathroom mirror, or tell a friend to call us first thing in the morning, anything to remind ourselves to set up an expectation for Synchronicity first thing each day. Eventually, it becomes a habit. And once all the mysterious coincidences are happening and our destiny seems to be unfolding, all that is left is to stay in that flow.” He paused dramatically. “And to do that,” he went on, “we have to learn to communicate what’s going on with us to others.” “What?” “Think about what happens when we lose the Flow,” he explained. “Doesn’t it occur because we hit some situation where we have to interact with others who aren’t in a flow, and who can’t readily see the meanings we are seeing? The effect is to knock us out of it altogether.” I thought about what happened to me with the skeptic. It was certainly true in that case. “When I’m in the flow,” I said, “I usually try to get away from most people, so they can’t knock me out of it.” “I know,” Wil said in a mock accusatory tone. “Are you saying' 'I asked, “that I should have taken the time to talk with that skeptic, even though that’s not what I wanted to do?” “No, I’m suggesting that you should have been open and truthful with him, maybe asking him to wait a minute while you talked to the people at the table. He was needling you, but you didn’t lose your flow because of him. You lost it because you didn’t find a way to honestly communicate who you were and what you were doing.” “I don’t think he was interested in hearing anything from me.” “You’re missing the point. I’m not telling you to defend yourself or to convince him of anything. You just have to give him the truth of the situation as you see it, with the main purpose being to keep yourself centered in the flow.

It was filled with a dark paste, rather than liquid. I unscrewed the cap. The smell rolled toward me, and I reared back. I could almost hear growling, the pop of a bone socket. "Civet," Claudia said, unfazed. "It takes a strong stomach to smell an animalic base note straight, don't you think? But a drop or two, down there in the bottom of a perfume? It sends that other message. Death and sex- that's what perfume's all about. You'll understand when you're older." I stared back at her. I knew about death. I knew about sex. I didn't need her to tell me. She held out another bottle, her expression bland. "Jasmine." I was cautious this time, barely sniffing the contents, but the smell was a relief- sweet, white, and creamy, almost euphoric. I felt as if I were floating in it. Just as I was about to put the bottle down, though, I caught a whiff of something else in the background, something narcotic and sticky. I inhaled more deeply, trying to pin it down. "You like it," Claudia said. For the first time, she seemed pleased with me. "Do you know what that is, that note you're searching for?" I shook my head. It was right there, but in that cool, blank room, I couldn't quite name it. "It's shit," Claudia said. She smiled, slow and lazy. "Technically, the molecule's called indole, but a rose by any other name...

I shot him a smile and spun back around to face my computer screen, unable to process what the hell had just happened. That was when I noticed a small Post-It-note pressed against my Dell monitor. Scribbled across the neon pink sticky was a note from Jesse: Evie, what are you so afraid of? -Jesse What was I afraid of? I was afraid of everything. I was afraid of letting people in. I was afraid of falling. But most of all, I was afraid of myself. I was my own worst enemy. I grabbed a blank Post-It note from the container on my desk and pulled a black pen out of my coat pocket. I allowed my hand to move freely, not thinking of my response. Only then, after I placed the pen down on my desk did I read what I’d written. Reality.

Get your sticky fingers away from my cookies,” Ben ordered, without turning his head, to see Jaxton trying to steal one from the cooking tray. “You weren't saying that last night,” Jaxton retaliated, coming up to Ben's side, to give him a nudge. They were both smiling, while looking down at the counter, where Ben was making his delicious rosemary cookies. “In fact, I seem to remember you grabbing my sticky fingers and putting them in your mouth,” he teased, speaking quietly, so that Lyon wouldn't hear them at the other side of the room. Ben turned to Jaxton and abandoned his baking, to catch his face in flour covered hands and plant a deep kiss on his lips. Jaxton opened his mouth, in acceptance of his kiss. ~ From the Heart

PORK AND BEANS BREAD Preheat oven to 350 degrees F., rack in the middle position. 15-ounce can of pork and beans (I used Van Camp’s) 4 eggs, beaten (just whip them up in a glass with a fork) 1 cup vegetable oil (not canola, not olive—use vegetable oil) 1 teaspoon vanilla extract 2 cups white (granulated) sugar 1 teaspoon baking soda ½ teaspoon baking powder ½ teaspoon salt 1 and ½ teaspoons ground cinnamon 1 cup chopped pecans or walnuts (measure after chopping—I used pecans) 3 cups all-purpose flour (pack it down in the cup when you measure it) Prepare your pans. Spray two 9-inch by 5-inch by 3-inch-deep loaf pans with Pam or another nonstick cooking spray.   Don’t drain the pork and beans. Pour them into a food processor or a blender, juice and all, and process them until they’re pureed smooth with no lumps.   Place the beaten eggs in a large mixing bowl. Stir in the pureed pork and beans and mix them in well.   Add the vegetable oil and the vanilla extract. Mix well.   Add the sugar and mix it in. Then mix in the baking soda, baking powder, salt and cinnamon. Stir until everything is incorporated.   Stir in the chopped nuts.   Add the flour in one-cup increments, stirring after each addition.   Spoon half of the batter into one loaf pan and the other half of the batter into the second loaf pan.   Bake at 350 degrees F. for 50 to 60 minutes. Test the bread with a long food pick inserted in the center. If it comes out sticky, the bread needs to bake a bit more. If it comes out dry, remove the pans from the oven and place them on a wire rack to cool for 20 minutes.   Run the sharp blade of a knife around inside of all four sides of the pan to loosen the bread, and then tip it out onto the wire rack.   Cool the bread completely, and then wrap it in plastic wrap. At this point the bread can be frozen in a freezer bag for up to 3 months.   Hannah and Lisa’s Note: If you don’t tell anyone the name of this bread, they probably won’t ever guess it’s made with pork and beans.

TICKLED PINK LEMONADE COOKIES   Preheat oven to 350 degrees F., rack in the middle position. Hannah’s 1st Note: This recipe is from Lisa’s Aunt Nancy. It’s a real favorite down at The Cookie Jar because the cookies are different, delicious, and very pretty. ½ cup salted, softened butter (1 stick, 4 ounces, ¼ pound) (do not substitute) ½ cup white (granulated) sugar ½ teaspoon baking powder ¼ teaspoon baking soda 1 large egg, beaten cup frozen pink or regular lemonade concentrate, thawed 3 drops of liquid red food coloring (I used ½ teaspoon of Betty Crocker food color gel) 1 and ¾ cups all-purpose flour (pack it down in the cup when you measure it) In the bowl of an electric mixer, beat the softened butter with the sugar until the resulting mixture is light and fluffy. Mix in the baking powder and baking soda. Beat until they’re well-combined. Mix in the beaten egg and the lemonade concentrate. Add 3 drops of red food coloring (or ½ teaspoon of the food color gel, if you used that). Add the flour, a half-cup or so at a time, beating after each addition. (You don’t have to be exact—just don’t put in all the flour at once.) If the resulting cookie dough is too sticky to work with, refrigerate it for an hour or so. (Don’t forget to turn off your oven if you do this. You’ll have to preheat it again once you’re ready to bake.) Drop the cookies by teaspoonful, 2 inches apart, on an UNGREASED cookie sheet. Bake the Tickled Pink Lemonade Cookies at 350 degrees F. for 10 to 12 minutes or until the edges are golden brown. (Mine took 11 minutes.) Let the cookies cool on the cookie sheet for 2 minutes. Then use a metal spatula to remove them to a wire rack to cool completely. FROSTING FOR PINK LEMONADE COOKIES   2 Tablespoons salted butter, softened 2 cups powdered sugar (no need to sift unless it’s got big lumps) 2 teaspoons frozen pink or regular lemonade concentrate, thawed 3 to 4 teaspoons milk (water will also work for a less creamy frosting) 2 drops red food coloring (or enough red food color gel to turn the frosting pink) Beat the butter and the powdered sugar together. Mix in the lemonade concentrate. Beat in the milk, a bit at a time, until the frosting is almost thin enough to spread, but not quite. Mix in the 2 drops of red food coloring. Stir until the color is uniform. If your frosting is too thin, add a bit more powdered sugar. If your frosting is too thick, add a bit more milk or water.

Nope- it was not! Ava and her girls that day went, and they cut a class at some point in the day and broke into my baby. Then Ava- ‘Rubbed one out!’ that means that she masturbated, and squirted her lady- juices all over the inside of my car. Yes- and I mean it went all over. It was on my seat on the dash, on the floor, and Ava smeared what creaminess that was on her two fingers on the windows, and driver’s side vent. As her clan, sisters pissed all over the carpet on the floor, and took their dumps on the seat, and left their thongs behind. Alison, she wrote a note on her undies saying- ‘Now you have some pairs to wear!’ It was so nasty! Plus- the outside was covered and wrapped with toilet paper as well as littered with Ava and her sisters used feminine products. What is wrong with these girls? What did I do to deserve this one? Likewise, the other kids thought it was the most humorous thing, which they ever witnessed at the end of the school day. When I discovered it- You know, I was utterly sick to my stomach. I think I screamed so loudly it echoed throughout the land, and started to cry and ran while being pushed around bouncing around off their bodies, I cannot remember- I was so upset, and then the kids were all around me kicking, and pushing me from one place to another. I was just like a hacky sack for them, until I passed out, and dropped to the hard ground. That gave them time for them to spit on me, and dump things like glue in my hair or whatever that shit was. Then what gets me is that she signed her name- Ava on the dashboard with a black permanent sharpie marker, and It reads, ‘Suck on this- Nevaeh- lick, what I gave you all up!’ and she drew a heart, with a line through it also. She wanted me to know because there was not a thing I could do about it. Depressed- to say that her juicy sprays were more yellowish, and a thick sticky white, then clear on my blue and white cloth seats. Yet, Hope had the car towed and cleaned for me inside and out, she could not believe what kids do these days. Therefore, that was the first time that I drove my car to school and the last. That whole thing cost me a lot. I guess it is back to the bus. That is what everyone wants is it not. This completely sucked; I have a car that I cannot drive anywhere other than at home or have locked up in the barn- with the other rust bucket car.

TREASURE CHEST COOKIES (Lisa’s Aunt Nancy’s Babysitter’s Cookies) Preheat oven to 350 degrees F., rack in the middle position. The Cookie Dough: ½ cup (1 stick, 4 ounces, ¼ pound) salted butter, room temperature ¾ cup powdered sugar (plus 1 and ½ cups more for rolling the cookies in and making the glaze) ¼ teaspoon salt 2 tablespoons milk (that’s cup) 1 teaspoon vanilla extract 1 and ½ cups all-purpose flour (pack it down when you measure it) The “Treasure”: Well-drained Maraschino cherries, chunks of well-drained canned pineapple, small pieces of chocolate, a walnut or pecan half, ¼ teaspoon of any fruit jam, or any small soft candy or treat that will fit inside your cookie dough balls. The Topping: 1 cup powdered (confectioners) sugar To make the cookie dough: Mix the softened butter and ¾ cup powdered sugar together in a medium-sized mixing bowl. Beat them until the mixture is light and fluffy. Add the salt and mix it in. Add the milk and the vanilla extract. Beat until they’re thoroughly blended. Add the flour in half-cup increments, mixing well after each addition. Divide the dough into 4 equal quarters. (You don’t have to weigh it or measure it, or anything like that. It’s not that critical.) Roll each quarter into a log shape and then cut each log into 6 even pieces. (The easy way to do this is to cut it in half first and then cut each half into thirds.) Roll the pieces into balls about the size of a walnut with its shell on, or a little larger. Flatten each ball with your impeccably clean hands. Wrap the dough around a “treasure” of your choice. If you use jam, don’t use over a quarter-teaspoon as it will leak out if there’s too much jam inside the dough ball. Pat the resulting “package” into a ball shape and place it on an ungreased cookie sheet, 12 balls to a standard-size sheet. Push the dough balls down just slightly so they don’t roll off on their way to your oven. Hannah’s 1st Note: I use baking sheets with sides and line them with parchment paper when I bake these with jam. If part of the jam leaks out, the parchment paper contains it and I don’t have sticky jam on my baking sheets or in the bottom of my oven. Bake the Treasure Chest Cookies at 350° F. for approximately 18 minutes, or until the bottom edge is just beginning to brown when you raise it with a spatula. Remove the cookies from the oven and allow them to cool on the sheets for about 5 minutes. Place ½ cup of powdered sugar in a small bowl. Place wax paper or parchment paper under the wire racks. Roll the still-warm cookies in the powdered sugar. The sugar will stick to the warm cookies. Coat them evenly and then return them to the wire racks to cool completely. (You’ll notice that the powdered sugar will “soak” into the warm cookie balls. That’s okay. You’re going to roll them in powdered sugar again for a final coat when they’re cool.) When the cookies are completely cool, place another ½ cup powdered sugar in your bowl. Roll the cooled cookies in the powdered sugar again. Then transfer them to a cookie jar or another container and store them in a cool, dry place. Hannah’s 2nd Note: I tried putting a couple of miniature marshmallows or half of a regular-size marshmallow in the center of my cookies for the “treasure”. It didn’t work. The marshmallows in the center completely melted away. Lisa’s Note: I’m going to try my Treasure Chest Cookies with a roll of Rollo’s next time I make them. Herb just adores those chocolate covered soft caramels. He wants me to try the miniature Reese’s Pieces, too. Yield: 2 dozen delicious cookies that both kids and adults will love to eat.

Isn’t this the weekend of Xander Eckhart’s party?” “Yes.” Jordan held her breath in a silent plea. Don’t ask if I’m bringing anyone. Don’t ask if I’m bringing anyone. “So are you bringing anyone?” Melinda asked. Foiled. Having realized there was a distinct possibility the subject would come up, Jordan had spent some time running through potential answers to this very question. She had decided that being casual was the best approach. “Oh, there’s this guy I met a few days ago, and I was thinking about asking him.” She shrugged. “Or maybe I’ll just go by myself, who knows.” Melinda put down her forkful of gnocchi, zoning in on this like a heat-seeking missile to its target. “What guy you met a few days ago? And why is this the first we’re hearing of him?” “Because I just met him a few days ago.” Corinne rubbed her hands together, eager for the details. “So? Tell us. How’d you meet him?” “What does he do?” Melinda asked. “Nice, Melinda. You’re so shallow.” Corinne turned back to Jordan. “Is he hot?” Of course, Jordan had known there would be questions. The three of them had been friends since college and still saw each other regularly despite busy schedules, and this was what they did. Before Corinne had gotten married, they talked about her now-husband, Charles. The same was true of Melinda and her soon-to-be-fiancé, Pete. So Jordan knew that she, in turn, was expected to give up the goods in similar circumstances. But she also knew that she really didn’t want to lie to her friends. With that in mind, she’d come up with a backup plan in the event the conversation went this way. Having no choice, she resorted to the strategy she had used in sticky situations ever since she was five years old, when she’d set her Western Barbie’s hair on fire while trying to give her a suntan on the family-room lamp. Blame it on Kyle. I’d like to thank the Academy . . . “Sure, I’ll tell you all about this new guy. We met the other day and he’s . . . um . . .” She paused, then ran her hands through her hair and exhaled dramatically. “Sorry. Do you mind if we talk about this later? After seeing Kyle today with the bruise on his face, I feel guilty rattling on about Xander’s party. Like I’m not taking my brother’s incarceration seriously enough.” She bit her lip, feeling guilty about the lie. So sorry, girls. But this has to stay my secret for now. Her diversion worked like a charm. Perhaps one of the few benefits of having a convicted felon of a brother known as the Twitter Terrorist was that she would never lack for non sequiturs in extracting herself from unwanted conversation. Corinne reached out and squeezed her hand. “No one has stood by Kyle’s side more than you, Jordan. But we understand. We can talk about this some other time. And try not to worry—Kyle can handle himself. He’s a big boy.” “Oh, he definitely is that,” Melinda said with a gleam in her eye. Jordan smiled. “Thanks, Corinne.” She turned to Melinda, thoroughly skeeved out. “And, eww—Kyle?” Melinda shrugged matter-of-factly. “To you, he’s your brother. But to the rest of the female population, he has a certain appeal. I’ll leave it at that.” “He used to fart in our Mr. Turtle pool and call it a ‘Jacuzzi.’ How’s that for appeal?” “Ah . . . the lifestyles of the rich and famous,” Corinne said with a grin. “And on that note, my secret fantasies about Kyle Rhodes now thoroughly destroyed, I move that we put a temporary hold on any further discussions related to the less fair of the sexes,” Melinda said. “I second that,” Jordan said, and the three women clinked their glasses in agreement

Oh, my gosh.” Savannah started toward the kitchen. The whole wall was covered in enlarged copies of the pictures they’d taken of the murals downstairs, and dotted with colorful sticky notes indicating every little detail they knew so far. “This is genius.” “I know, right?” Jenn handed a marker to Savannah, and one to Brooke. “It’s like our own game of Clue.” “Or an episode of Castle,” Savannah said. “Isn’t that guy adorable?” Brooke said. “Totally. I love Rick Castle’s boyish charm on that show,” Savannah said. “And we were so happy when him and Beckett got together,

According to Fran, Claire Westin had once owned the only video rental store in Palouse and knew everyone in town by name. Just like Ronald Reagan, she was making the big step from movies to

BLUEBERRY CRUNCH COOKIES Preheat oven to 350 degrees F., rack in the middle position.   1 cup melted butter (2 sticks, 1/2 pound) 2 cups white (granulated) sugar 2 teaspoons vanilla 1/2 teaspoon salt 1½ teaspoons baking soda 2 large eggs, beaten (just whip them up with a fork) 2½ cups flour (no need to sift—pack it down when you measure it) 1 cup dried sweetened blueberries (other dried fruit will also work if you cut it in blueberry-sized pieces) 2 cups GROUND dry oatmeal (measure before grinding)   Hannah’s 1st Note: Mixing this dough is much easier with an electric mixer, but you can also do it by hand.   Melt the butter in a large microwave-safe bowl for 1 minute on HIGH. Add the white sugar and mix it in thoroughly.   Add the vanilla, salt, and the baking soda. Mix it in well.   When the mixture has cooled to room temperature, stir in the beaten eggs. When they are fully incorporated, add 197 the flour in half-cup increments, stirring after each addition.   Mix in the dried blueberries.   Prepare your oatmeal. (Use Quaker if you have it—the cardboard canister is useful for all sorts of things.) Measure out two cups and place them in the bowl of a food processor or a blender, chopping with the steel blade until the oatmeal is the consistency of coarse sand. (Just in case you’re wondering, the ground oatmeal is the ingredient that makes the cookies crunchy.)   Add the ground oatmeal to your bowl, and mix it in thoroughly. The resulting cookie dough will be quite stiff.   Roll walnut-sized dough balls with your hands, and place them on a greased cookie sheet, 12 balls to a standard-size sheet. (If the dough is too sticky to roll, place the bowl in the refrigerator for thirty minutes and try again.) Squish the dough balls down a bit with your impeccably clean palm (or a metal spatula if you’d rather).   Bake at 350 degrees F. for 10 to 12 minutes or until golden brown on top. (Mine took 11 minutes.) Cool on the cookie sheet for 2 minutes, and then remove the cookies to a wire rack to cool completely.   Yield: 6 to 7 dozen unusual and tasty cookies, depending on cookie size.   Hannah’s 2nd Note: These cookies freeze well if you stack them on foil (like rolling coins) and roll them, tucking in the ends. Just place the rolls of cookies in a freezer bag,

I don’t like the city for many reasons. My… experience… was the universe’s way of letting me know this is where I should be.” “Seems a cosmic sticky note would have done the job easier: ‘Rick, stay with trees. Love, The Universe.’ Right?

Outcomes, Agenda, Roles and Rules. These four categories spell OARRs, which becomes a memory device, if you think of a meeting as being like a river and your process as being like rowing a boat on it. All you need to do to succeed is “grab your OARRs.

Come here, lass. This is it.” I walked over to his side, surprised when he turned toward me, opening his arms and prompting me to sit on his knee. Hesitantly, I took a seat, trying to think of spilled finger paint, runny noses, and sticky fingers; anything to keep me from concentrating on the hard chiseled body I now found wrapped around my own.  “What does it say?” “This is the spell she used. See, her own notes are written along here.” He grabbed my hand from my lap and, using his hand, guided my fingers along the side of the page. Tingles swam over every inch of my body. Cheetos in the carpet, boogers on the chair backs, pink eye outbreak. No thought helped.  “I see. Will it work to switch us back?” “Aye. I think it will.” He didn’t let go of my hand as he continued. “We need a few items. Mary can locate most of them. But it speaks of my father’s ring, and I doona know where that is. I believe he always meant to leave it to me, but his death was sudden, and I doona think it crossed his mind.” “Well, we can find it, right?” “Ach, lass. I suppose we shall have to. But it says something else as well.” I looked up into his eyes, waiting for him to continue.  “The spell will only work until midnight on the twenty-eighth of December, then ye canna return home.” “Well, we have to find it by then anyway. That’s right around when they think the massacre happens.” “Aye, we shall. Doona worry. Knowledge is the best defense we could have. It willna come to that.”   His left hand laid casually upon my knee while his right wrapped around my back, his palm now resting just above my hip on the curve of my waist. He squeezed me in closer to him, drawing his right hand up to my shoulder so that it brought the side of my face closer to his lips.  “I know I’ve given ye no more than trouble, lass, but I shall be sorry to see ye go.” With that he leaned in as if to kiss the side of my cheek, and I nearly turned us both onto the floor with my quick leap out of his lap.  “Yes. I’ll be a little sad too. I think of you, and Mary, and Arran as friends, and it will be odd to no longer get to see you.” I awkwardly patted him on the shoulder and turned abruptly to make my way out of the spell room, cursing my heated cheeks with each step. I knew they’d given me away.

with Cooper and his old EMT buddies—after way too much drinking and Cooper asking him to slow down, only to end up driving him home—Aaron found an invoice tacked to the microwave with a corner of Scotch tape. It was for a storage unit a few blocks from home, taken out under his name with his credit card. She had left a stack of flattened boxes sitting against the wall next to the front door and a sticky note with Doctor Jandreau’s number tucked into his sock drawer. She

I began experimenting with visualizing the rising sun coming up in people’s chests as I talked with them. It began to transform my listening.

As he listened his knew those beautiful notes would hit the classroom windows and fall unheard on the paving below, to be trodden into crisp packets and the sticky stuff from Wagon Wheels, the chocolate chipped from Curly Wurlys, and get blown into the concrete corner drain with that gutted tennis ball that lived there.

label maker plus extra cartridge tape and batteries pad of lined paper, pad of graph paper pens, pencils, felt-tip pens, Sharpies®, and highlighters office necessities like a stapler, tape, paper clips, scissors, labels, calculator, sticky notes, etc. box cutter, letter opener zip ties, cable ties, or cable clips tape measure and small tools (hammer, screw driver, level) assortment of nails and picture-hanging supplies Moving

Once you’ve narrowed it down to just those books you’re on the fence about, grab some sticky notes and a pen. As you go through this pile, stick a note on each book. Write down one reason to keep it and one reason to donate it. Once you’ve finished, review each note. As you look over the reasons you wrote down, look for clues to what is really stopping you from making a decision about the book. Do your notes reference an old story or a belief that is driving your indecision? Play the story out and see how true it is.

It seems that the behaviour of a few leaders is pivotal to the success of such initiatives. Many would argue that their behaviour is pivotal to the success of the school. Without visible consistency from the top, collaborative agreements are just discarded sticky notes at the end of an INSET day.

In the early evening hours of that long Saturday in March, after more than three years of intense research and development, those sticky notes became Thoughtfully Fit. Little did I know that, before the week ended, I would put those notes to the test in my own life. Those brightly colored, tiny slips of paper would become my lifeline when my husband disappeared from our lives in an instant.

But on a deeper level, collapse was an option. Letting my business fall apart was a real possibility. Beyond the surface of managing bills and trying to stay on top of the daily grind, I made a choice, a conscious choice, that even though my world had turned upside down, the girls and I were going to survive this. Because, for me, letting my family fall apart was not on the table. I would not run, move, or give up, like many urged or predicted. I went back to my Thoughtfully Fit training plan. Guided by the sticky notes and years of success in making other people’s lives work, I became ground zero to test-drive my new model, to help me be Thoughtfully Fit through this crisis.

landscape effectively is one of the biggest challenges in our modern lives. When you set up too many Context Prompts, they can actually have the opposite effect—you become desensitized and fail to heed the prompt. You end up not hearing notification dings and not seeing sticky notes. It’s like living next to train tracks—at first the noise of a train is deafening, then . . . what train?

That’s the important stuff. I could write it on a sticky note, if you want, along with my favorite sexual position. Which isn’t missionary, by the way.” It was right there on the tip of her tongue—then what is your favorite sexual position?—but she bit it back.

In depression, no amount of cheerleading, self-help books, or inspirational sticky notes on our bathroom mirror can overcome the power of the illness.

One tiny yellow sticky note, nine little words, and my stomach twisted into knots. It was only a month into the school year. How could I be failing science already? Do you know how long an hour can feel when you're waiting to find out something like that? Not surprisingly, for the entire class I felt a gnawing sense of anxiety that kept me from focusing. Don't get me wrong; I'm not one of those obsessive kids who cry over an A-minus. And my parents aren't cracking a whip at my heels while they fill out my college applications five years early or anything. I'm really just kind of a regular girl. Above average grades, sure. But I don't exactly lose sleep if a pop quiz doesn't end up being my finest moment.

The head of research for Sesame Street in the early years was a psychologist from Oregon, Ed Palmer, whose specialty was the use of television as a teaching tool. When the Children's Television Workshop was founded in the late 1960s, Palmer was a natural recruit. “I was the only academic they could find doing research on children's TV,” he says, with a laugh. Palmer was given the task of finding out whether the elaborate educational curriculum that had been devised for Sesame Street by its academic-advisers was actually reaching the show's viewers. It was a critical task. There are those involved with Sesame Street who say, in fact, that without Ed Palmer the show would never have lasted through the first season. Palmer's innovation was something he called the Distracter. He would play an episode of Sesame Street on a television monitor, and then run a slide show on a screen next to it, showing a new slide every seven and a half seconds. “We had the most varied set of slides we could imagine,” said Palmer. “We would have a body riding down the street with his arms out, a picture of a tall building, a leaf floating through ripples of water, a rainbow, a picture taken through a microscope, an Escher drawing. Anything to be novel, that was the idea.” Preschoolers would then be brought into the room, two at a time, and told to watch the television show. Palmer and his assistants would sit slightly to the side, with a pencil and paper, quietly noting when the children were watching Sesame Street and when they lost interest and looked, instead, at the slide show. Every time the slide changed, Palmer and his assistants would make a new notation, so that by the end of the show they had an almost second-by-second account of what parts of the episode being tested managed to hold the viewers' attention and what parts did not. The Distracter was a stickiness machine. “We'd take that big-sized chart paper, two by three feet, and tape several of those sheets together,” Palmer says. "We had data points, remember, for every seven and a half seconds, which comes to close to four hundred data points for a single program, and we'd connect all those points with a red line so it would look like a stock market report from Wall Street. It might plummet or gradually decline, and we'd say whoa, what's going on here. At other times it might hug the very top of the chart and we'd say, wow, that segment's really grabbing the attention of the kids. We tabulated those Distracter scores in percentages. We'd have up to 100 percent sometimes. The average attention for most shows was around 85 to 90 percent. If the producers got that, they were happy. If they got around fifty, they'd go back to the drawing board.

Researchers have used the analogy of different sizes of sticky notes to represent different learners’ working memories (Alloway & Alloway, 2015).

But in general, we do not spend nearly enough time on moving critical academic, interpersonal, and organizational routines from students’ working memory sticky notes to their long-term memory.

ubiquitous un-sticky note

One night, you will wake with a start in this person’s bed, you will discover yourself in this person’s arms, and you will disentangle yourself for the hundredth time and dress yourself for the hundredth time and try to leave this person’s apartment, but when you get to the door there will be a sticky note over the knob that says, “but what if this time you stayed?

I take a moment to observe the personal objects on his nightstand. A worn copy of The Great Gatsby has five different sticky notes protruding from the yellowed pages,

There will be no shortage of demands on our resources, so there’s no time like the present to implement a little soul care to reconnect, tune in and calm down. This is when we ask for assistance in getting through the sticky note jungle of tasks. Yes, this is where we get the clarity and support to get through the day with joy, ease and grace. We should not have to function without our biggest source of support.

Jim pondered the little piece of paper. “You want me to go back into that house protected by a magic sticky note?” “Don’t even start,” I told him. “It’s working. If it weren’t working, you couldn’t drag me into that place.” “What did you write on here? ‘Don’t die’?” “No, I wrote, ‘Don’t be an a-hole!’” I headed for the house. “On yours or mine?” “On yours.” “Well, in that case, your magic isn’t working. I’m still an asshole.

I draw the shape of a man sitting on a chair. Okay, it’s a stick figure, wearing pants, but the idea is the same. I add a jacket and a vest underneath, which ends up looking like an apron. Then, a big wide mouth full of sharp teeth. To finish, I draw a speech bubble. Fix your mess, Miss Petrova! A smile pulls at my lips as I tear the sticky note from the pad and attach it to the top right corner of the laptop screen.

Rafael De Santi. The man whose name alone makes people tremble in fear, left me a doodle on a sticky note.

I approach the desk and lift the yellow pad of sticky notes. There’s a doodle on the top piece. A dreadfully done stickman holding the handle of a protest sign in his hand. World’s shittiest employer. I can’t suppress my laugh. Peeling away the note, I take out my wallet and slide the new doodle next to the earlier sketch she made.

It’s been almost four weeks now. He never showed up to run with me again and he never apologized. He doesn’t sit by me in class or in the cafeteria. He doesn’t send me insulting texts and he doesn’t show up on weekends as a different person. The only thing he does, at least I think he’s the one that does it, is remove the sticky notes from my locker. They’re always crumpled in a wad on the hallway floor at my feet. I continue to exist, and he continues to exist, but we don’t exist together. Days continue to pass no matter who I exist with, though. And each additional day that plants itself between the present and that weekend with him just leaves me with more and more questions that I’m too stubborn to ask. I want to know what set him off that day. I want to know why he didn’t just let it go instead of storming off like he did. I want to know why he never apologized, because I’m almost positive I would have given him at least one more chance. What he did was crazy and strange and a little possessive, but if I weighed it on a scale against all the wonderful things about him, I know it wouldn’t have weighed nearly as much. Breckin doesn’t even try to analyze it anymore so I pretend not to, either. But I do, and the thing that eats at me the most is the fact that everything that happened between us is starting to seem surreal, like it was all just a dream. I catch myself questioning whether that weekend even happened at all, or if it was just another invalidated memory of mine that may not even be real.

Practice: Mantras for Patience Pick one or two of these mantras, write them on sticky notes, and post them strategically around your home. Repeat to yourself as needed! I help my child most when I am calm. When the kids start yelling, I get calmer. I choose peace. [Breathing in] I am love. [Breathing out] I can pause. Relax, release, smile. This will pass. Breathe. Just be kind. It is what it is.

My friends seem to think I just came out of the womb loving planners and sticky notes, but the truth is, if I didn’t cling to those organization tools as tightly as I do, my life would have spun out of control a long time ago.

With a snarl of pain, she forced herself to sit up, her head spinning with the sudden movement. One hand touched her temple, sticky with dried blood. She winced, feeling a gash along her eyebrow. It was long but shallow, and already scabbing over. She clenched her jaw, teeth grinding, as she surveyed the beach with squinting eyes. The ocean stared back at her, empty and endless, a wall of iron blue. Then she noticed shapes along the beach, some half-buried in the sand, others caught in the rhythmic pull of the tide. She narrowed her eyes and the shapes solidified. A torn length of sail floated, tangled up with rope. A shattered piece of the mast angled out of the sand like a pike. Smashed crates littered the beach, along with other debris from the ship. Bits of hull. Rigging. Oars snapped in half. The bodies moved with the waves. Her steady breathing lost its rhythm, coming in shorter and shorter gasps until she feared her throat might close. Her thoughts scattered, impossible to grasp. All thoughts but one. “DOMACRIDHAN!” Her shout echoed, desperate and ragged. “DOMACRIDHAN!” Only the waves answered, crashing endless against the shore. She forgot her training and forced herself to stand, nearly falling over with dizziness. Her limbs aches but she ignored it, lunging toward the waterline. Her lips moved, her voice shouting his name again, though she couldn’t hear it above the pummel of her own heart. Sorasa Sarn was no stranger to corpses. She splashed into the waves with abandon, even as her head spun. Sailor, sailor, sailor, she noted, her desperation rising with every Tyri uniform and head of black hair. One of them looked ripped in half, missing everything from the waist down. His entrails floated with the rear of him, like a length of bleached rope. She suspected a shark got the best of him. Then her memories returned with a crash like the waves. The Tyri ship. Nightfall. The sea serpent slithering up out of the deep. The breaking of a lantern. Fire across the deck, slick scales running over my hands. The swing of a greatsword, Elder-made. Dom silhouetted against a sky awash with lightning. And then the cold, drowning darkness of the ocean. A wave splashed up against her and Sorasa stumbled back to the shore, shivering. She had not waded more than waist deep, but her face felt wet, water she could not understand streaking her cheeks. Her knees buckled and she fell, exhausted. She heaved a breath, then two. And screamed. Somehow the pain in her head paled in comparison to the pain in her heart. It dismayed and destroyed her in equal measure. The wind blew, stirring salt-crusted hair across her face, sending a chill down to her soul. It was like the wilderness all over again, the bodies of her Amhara kin splayed around her. No, she realized, her throat raw. This is worse. There is not even a body to mourn. She contemplated the emptiness for awhile, the beach and the waves, and the bodies gently pressing into the shore. If she squinted, they could only be debris from the ship, bits of wood instead of bloated flesh and bone. The sun glimmered on the water. Sorasa hated it. Nothing but clouds since Orisi, and now you choose to shine.

if he found a book misplaced at a bookstore, would return it to the shelf where it belonged. Everything had its place. He was a bullet journal guy, and I was a sticky note kind of girl.

Sticky notes aren’t great assistants. Sticky notes do, however, make fantastic assistants to your assistant. Think of sticky notes like short-term memory. They’re great for holding on to important information for a little bit of time, but if you want that information to stick around (hehe) it helps to encode the information into long-term storage (e.g., your calendar).

She handed over a sticky note with 6969 scrawled across it in Sharpie.

I picked up the rent check for one of the apartments upstairs. The tenant had also included a “You fucked up” note scrawled on a sticky note.

On the first page, a single Plan B pill lay in a plastic baggie along with a sticky note that read, I would apologize for coming inside you, but I’m not sorry. You feel too good. I’d do it again.

I keep this checklist on a digital sticky note on my computer, so I can easily refer to it. Clear my email inbox. Check my calendar. Clear my computer desktop. Clear my notes inbox. Choose my tasks for the week.

Write a letter ‘B’ on a Sticky Note and put it on your victim’s back then tell them that there is a bee on their back.

Stacey S was still preoccupied with college applications. Adelaide found her shockingly ambitious. They had both taken the tests and written early drafts of the common application essay. Alabaster forced them to do all that. But Stacey, with her spreadsheets and bookmarked web pages, took on the college process with ferocity. She had brought a big book of colleges with her on the bus. The pages were marked with sticky notes in different colors.

Wait,” Lacey calls. I turn back, filled with hope. Does she want me to stay? We could kick everyone out and go back to what we were doing. I could kiss the girl that I want more than anything or anyone. I could make her mine. I could pour my heart out to her. I could tell her that I love her and always will. “What?” I ask quietly. “Are you coming to my booth?” she asks. “For the results of the contest?” And watch another man kiss her? I don’t think so. “I have a lot of laundry to do,” I say. She inhales quickly and blinks even faster. “Are you going to meet us for dinner after?” she asks, her voice quivering. “Where are you going?” If I go, I’ll have to see her with her lipstick sucked off her face, and I really don’t want to. She picks up a sticky pad and writes something down. I take it from her hand, which is shaking ever so slightly. “Are you all right?” She nods, looking everywhere but at me. “I’ll see you at dinner,” she says. I shove the note into my pocket, not even bothering to look at it. I

Before she sat, she grabbed the spiral-bound journal she’d been jotting down notes in since she’d first joked about her plan to Lisa, and set it on the table. “I wrote down a few things. You know, about myself? If you skim through it, it’ll help you pretend you’ve known me longer than two days.” Instead of waiting until they were done, he sat down his slice, picked up the notebook and opened it to a random page. “You’re not afraid of spiders, but you hate slugs? That’s relevant?” “It’s something you would know about me.” “You graduated from the University of New Hampshire. Your feet aren’t ticklish.” He chuckled and shook his head. “You actually come with an owner’s manual?” “You could call it that. And if you could write something up for me to look over, that would be great.” He shrugged and flipped through a few more pages of the journal. “I’m a guy. I like guy stuff. Steak. Football. Beer. Women.” “One woman, singular. At least for the next month, and then you can go back to your wild pluralizing ways.” She took a sip of her beer. “You think that’s all I need to know about you?” “That’s the important stuff. I could write it on a sticky note, if you want, along with my favorite sexual position. Which isn’t missionary, by the way.” It was right there on the tip of her tongue--then what is your favorite sexual position?--but she bit it back. The last thing she needed to know about a man she was going to share a bedroom with for a month was how he liked his sex. “I hardly think that’ll come up in conversation.” “It’s more relevant than slugs.” “Since you’ll be doing more gardening than having sex, not really.” “Wait a minute.” He stabbed a finger at one of the notes in the journal. “You can’t cook?” “Not well. Microwave directions help.” “I’d never marry a woman who can’t cook.” “I’d never marry the kind of man who’d never marry a woman who can’t cook, so it’s a good thing we’re just pretending.

Emma pulled open the door in what was probably a sorry excuse for a smile on her face and froze. Sean stood on the porch, his face set in the expression she recognized as the one he used to mask uncertainty. But her gaze only settled on his face for a few seconds before being drawn to his chest. He was wearing a button-up dress shirt and it was pink. And not a tint of pale blush, either. It was pink. “Hey,” he said, handing her a small bouquet of pink-and-white gladioli, the stems tied together with a length of pink ribbon. Her breath caught in her throat as she took them, her mind racing to make sense of what she was seeing. What did it mean? Why was he here, dressed like the man of her ten-year-old self’s dreams? “I, uh…made some revisions to your owner’s manual.” She hadn’t even noticed the journal in his other hand, but when he held it out, she took it. “Okay.” Her voice was as shaky as her hands. She opened the cover and found a bright pink sticky note stuck to the first page. I miss you. “I miss you too,” she whispered, and slowly turned the pages. You don’t take any crap from me. You make me laugh. Missionary is my favorite position now because I can see your face. That made her laugh, even as the sweetness of the sentiment warmed her heart. I’ll let you drive. She gave him a doubtful look and then turned the page. Sometimes. Yeah, there was the Sean she knew and loved.

This whole month was crazy, with all the pretending, but somewhere along the way it stopped being a lie.” “Did you go getting ideas about me, Sean Kowalski?” “I did, and it was one hell of an idea, too. I love you, Emma. I think, deep down, that’s what I wanted to write on that blank sticky note I left on the mirror, but I wasn’t ready yet. I’m ready now. I love you and I want you to marry me. For real.” Words were flying around in her head, but she couldn’t seem to get them into any kind of coherent thought. “I don’t…I…Are you sure?” “I’m wearing a pink shirt.” “I love you, too,” she said, because that seemed like the most important thing to get out there. “And I want to marry you. For real.

But most important, you make me happy.” She threw her arms around his neck and—just to be different—she kissed him this time. And then she reached into the back pocket of her jeans and pulled out the blank sticky note. It was a little tattered now, but she held it out to him. “Wondering what you were going to say has been killing me.” He took it from her and then pulled out a pen that said Jasper’s Bar and Grille from his back pocket. I love you, he wrote, and then he stuck it to the front of her shirt. “So you won’t ever doubt it,” he said in a husky voice. “Let’s go inside and get started on this for-real thing we have going on.” She took his hand and tugged him toward the door. “And, because I love you, I’ll start by stripping you out of that pink shirt.

After they left, Emma returned to her Jasper-burger consumption with gusto. She’d asked Lisa once to find out the recipe for their seasoning mix, but Kevin wouldn’t give it up. Plus, as Lisa had pointed out, it wouldn’t do Emma any good to have it since she couldn’t cook worth a damn, anyway. “So about what I said before,” Sean said after he’d wolfed down his food, “about not wanting them to know we’ve had sex. It’s not that I’m trying to hide it, I just…” “Don’t want them to know.” “Yeah.” “That makes sense.” His face brightened. “Really?” “No.” “Damn.” He’d finished his beer, so he took a swig off the glass of water she’d requested with her meal. “Under normal circumstances, I’d want everybody to know we’re sleeping together. Trust me. I’d put a sign on my front lawn.” “But these aren’t normal circumstances.” “Not even in the ballpark. I have this bet with my brothers I’d last the whole month and I don’t want to listen to them gloat.” Of course he’d have a bet with his brothers. Such a guy thing to do. “But it’s more about the women.” “The women?” “In my family, I mean. Aunt Mary, especially. They might start thinking it’s more than it is. Getting ideas about us, if you know what I mean.” Emma ate her last French fry and pushed her plate away. “So we have to pretend we’re madly in love and engaged…while pretending we’re not having sex.” “Told you it complicates things.” “I’m going to need a color-coded chart to keep track of who thinks what.” He grinned and pulled his Sharpie out of his pocket. “I could make Sticky notes.” The man loved sticky notes. He stuck them on everything. A note on the front of the microwave complaining about the disappearance of the last bag of salt-and-vinegar chips. (Emma had discovered during a particularly rough self-pity party that any chips will do, even if they burn your tongue.) A note on the back of the toilet lid telling her she used girlie toilet paper, whatever that meant. He liked leaving them on the bathroom mirror, too. Stop cleaning my sneakers. I’m trying to break them in. Her personal favorite was If you buy that cheap beer because it’s on sale again, I’ll piss in your mulch pile. But sometimes they were sweet. Thank you for doing my laundry. And…You make really good grilled cheese sandwiches. That one had almost made her cry.

There was, however, a sticky note on the mirror. Gassy? Payback’s a bitch, honey. She laughed and dropped the note into the bottom drawer with the others she’d collected. They amused her too much to throw away and sometimes she’d pull one out and reread it. But that made her feel like some kind of lovesick teenager, so she closed the door and continued the search.

That little shit. If we pull through this I’ll nail his dick to the wall with those logs so hard I’ll make the Reformation look like a god damn sticky note.

Benefits of Using Frosted Film Tint The 1st step, clear the glass on which the movie is to be applied to. By removing an dried [paint spots and washing it with soapy water that's clean. It is because the any filth will give the glass an unpleasant look. Nonetheless, a point to note is to not use any kind of window cleansing spray as it'll harm the film. Place the film on a flat ground and then peel it back on itself. You will then have to spray the glass with dish washing answer as well as your fingers to enable you to slide the film perfectly in place. Carefully choose the movie by its corners and with the sticky facet going through the glass and punctiliously place it not permitting it to wrinkle or crease. Wrap a chunk of material on a bank card and use it to carefully smooth down the movie from the middle shifting in the direction of its edges. Then wipe the excess water since if left there may make the laminate transfer.If there is any extra movie, trim it down with a sharp object. After you're executed and there are still bubbles beneath the film, use a hair drier to push them out. If they persist fastidiously prick them and press again the film. Today, many individuals are overwhelmed when it comes to selecting the ideal window tinting as a result of they do come in useful. One has the choice of choosing various tints and their types. Individuals do select to install window tints as a result of they've advantages which you may not get if your home lacks it. In most family, the well-known tints in use are the frosted tints. They're greatest suited to residing and bed rooms. Window tints are design in another way depending on the place they're to be put in that's the reason you need the assistance of Window Frosting Service professionals to assist you in making sound resolution. The very best Window Frosting Sydney thing about window frosting is that they don't possess the inconveniences usually associated with traditional window coverings. Furthermore, as it is not reliant on obstructing the pure passage of light for creating privateness, you are free to have an area that, inspite of being airy and light, might be your own private chamber. Nonetheless, you should also concentrate on the fact that you might be provided minimal safety against UV rays by the sort of window tint.

Before students leave, I ask for an exit ticket. I have students record on a sticky note one question they have about the book.

Options for Debriefing: Create a class anchor chart that synthesizes thinking that students will need to go back to over time. Ask students to “turn and talk” to articulate their thinking. Next, have them write in their journals to solidify new thinking. Or reverse the order: write to synthesize, and then talk to articulate. Allow students time to reflect on the learning target by writing in their response journals. Have students write a lingering question on a sticky note to help you figure out the direction for the next day. Have students share orally how their thinking has changed since the beginning of class. How are they smarter now than they were ninety minutes ago? Have students share what they created during work time with a partner or a group. This allows students to see multiple models of a product and can help them build a vision of high-quality work.

The Disruption Machine What the gospel of innovation gets wrong. by Jill Lepore In the last years of the nineteen-eighties, I worked not at startups but at what might be called finish-downs. Tech companies that were dying would hire temps—college students and new graduates—to do what little was left of the work of the employees they’d laid off. This was in Cambridge, near M.I.T. I’d type users’ manuals, save them onto 5.25-inch floppy disks, and send them to a line printer that yammered like a set of prank-shop chatter teeth, but, by the time the last perforated page coiled out of it, the equipment whose functions those manuals explained had been discontinued. We’d work a month here, a week there. There wasn’t much to do. Mainly, we sat at our desks and wrote wishy-washy poems on keyboards manufactured by Digital Equipment Corporation, left one another sly messages on pink While You Were Out sticky notes, swapped paperback novels—Kurt Vonnegut, Margaret Atwood, Gabriel García Márquez, that kind of thing—and, during lunch hour, had assignations in empty, unlocked offices. At Polaroid, I once found a Bantam Books edition of “Steppenwolf” in a clogged sink in an employees’ bathroom, floating like a raft. “In his heart he was not a man, but a wolf of the steppes,” it said on the bloated cover. The rest was unreadable.

Few things in life make me more zen than knowing that one can take notes on an almost infinite variety of colors, shapes, and sizes of sticky paper. Ever since I was a kid, the sheer possibilities for organization- the thought that no matter how unpredictable life gets, there are tools to neatly catalog it- have been massively appealing.