Lined paper makes me feel bad about myself.

I woke up this morning and decided to take on my day by watching three episodes of Greek on Hulu because I was too hungry to make breakfast.  Next, I remembered I had no milk so I watched a fourth episode.  Last week I discovered a bagel store with a breakfast sandwich that is edible if you know to substitute Swiss for the default American cheese.  We should be ashamed, America. I wish I had a bumper sticker that says: Not my cheese. My car is one of the last remaining cars on the road, save the cars in Santa Cruz, CA, that can sport bumper stickers at all.  Just last week I peeled a faded “I brake for penguins” off the rear end of my Jeep.  The disrobing left a naked black rectangle that is in such crisp contrast with the rest of the vehicle that I think I might coat my body in bumper stickers next time I don’t want a sunburn.

The woman in front of me in the bagel store was digging through her change purse looking for loose change that would sum up to the price of a coffee because she felt bad using her credit card for such a small purchase.  I waited patiently with my headache and cramped Hulu neck and finally the cashier decided to help me while the woman proceeded with her digging.  I specified my Euro-cheese presence and ordered myself, and the woman who now had around sixty-five cents, an old fortune, and the perseverance of an over-achiever strewn across the counter, a cup of coffee.  Then, I paid with my credit card.

First edition print of "Orbiting the Giant Hairball" by Gordon MacKenzie. Ugly dolls (including handmade child, Aqua) for scale.

While drinking what was prematurely tepid coffee, I played Pac-Man on my phone but wished I could muster just a smidge more effort to pull out the copy of “Orbiting the Giant Hairball” by Gordon MacKenzie I had in my purse.  This isn’t any old copy of “Hairball,” it’s a first edition copy that a coworker let me borrow.  Its supple leather binding, frayed canvas cover pages, and interspersed slices of notebook paper are a tactile senstation.  At some point, I will start reading.

Instead, I cracked open my new Xetoc notebook.  Xetoc is my go-to brand for small (4×6) notebooks.  I use Pearl spiral bound and Kunst & Papier cloth bound for large (9×12) notebooks.  Sometimes I attempt to merge other notebook brands into the rotation because trying every pen in the art store stones me into purchasing paper, but inevitably I give up on the impostors and go back to my regulars.  I purchased this particular Xetoc in June at my first visit to The Container Store, an establishment I’ve always wondered about but have never felt right purchasing anything from because I’m somehow averse to purchasing things to hold things I’ve purchased. It’s like buying a case for your laptop. You shell out $3000 for the computer (If you’re going to get a computer you might as well get a good one) and the thought of another $40 for a case is paralyzing.

Dear computer company (duh, Apple),

Here’s a tip: bundle MacBook Pro purchases with a case of the customers choosing.  Mention this on the price tag, add the extra $40 to the cost, and we won’t blink.  We’ll be ecstatic to have a case included.

Signed,

Someone who needs only the smallest nudge in justifying the purchase of pretty things.

As I cracked open the teal-covered Xetoc, a wave of panic flowed through my unexercised core.  Lines. There they were, marring every page of the otherwise perfect playground.  I looked around. Nobody in Michigan seemed to be bothered by my lines. Lines! On paper! I feel sick just thinking back to this morning, though I’m guessing that part of the current sick feeling has to do with my late lunch of ice cream and a buttered bagel, in that order.  I can’t function with lined paper. My thoughts are stifled by the endless stream of parallel, and my chicken scratch feels ashamed of the repetitive perfection.  Lines taunt me. Doodle on them and they are still there. Rotate the notebook 90 degrees and they form an impenetrable thought prison.

My day of anticipation triumphing over ambition ended at this very second.  The tactile “Hairball” combined with my love of teal and the consistently inspiring prototyping by Tom at Red Cover Studios sent me home determined to make right in this DIY world.  I sliced the teal cover off of what is now just an expensive stack of ugly scrap paper, and got to work measuring, folding, cutting, and sewing blank pages together, resetting them in the teal cover and inserting a leather binding as supple as the one on “Hairball.”

Deep breaths.

Now, I have a notebook I feel confident enough to use in public, and I’m going start in on “Hairball” until Hulu calls.

The offending lines are sliced out, and new, touch-happy pages are added with a bit of leather love along the binding.