Why I’m Quitting Stickers

Here they are, waiting to take over my sanity.

I’m quitting stickers, I decided today.

Done. Cold turkey. NOT A SINGLE ONE MORE. Adios, stickers.

From this day forward, I vow to make my household a sticker-free zone.

That includes fancy-schmancy fundraiser nametags that screw up my fake-satin shirt. That includes irrelevant product ads that cover up the front of my newspaper. That includes hanger-on-Frozen-Elsas attached to the bottom of my boot.

Over!

I should’ve learned from my mother.

It was 1989. She was standing in my brother’s newly-evacuated room with a Parkay margarine tub of hot water and a butter knife in hand. There my mom sweated and scraped the day away, trying in vain to remove the saucer-sized Captain America that had leeched onto the side of my brother’s old dresser hutch – like that birthmark on Gorbachev’s head when he tore down that wall. Perhaps it was easier to rid the western world of communism than remove that unsightly blotch.

And now here we are. Wait, where? How did we get here, here covered in goddamn stickers? 

Live to Tell

I’m in awesome company on Tue/Night this week, in a little round-up of 15 women writers sharing their Madonna “Life Moments.” Check it out, and while you’re at it, share your Madge moments here in the comments.

(Or just post pictures of her flawlessness. Because.)

(OR quote your favorite line from her children’s book, “The English Roses.” Said no one ever.)