When my wife called to remind me about taking the dogs out at noon, I instinctively retrieved a sticky note pad from the desk drawer and scrawled “Dogs at noon” on the top page, then stuck it to the computer monitor — next to a series of other yellow squares with things like “Call about haircut,” “Clean out car,” and “Go to dry cleaners” written on them. They’re all things I should be able to remember, and usually do; like when I’m staring into the closet for a pair of pants to wear.
Later, I climbed into the truck and was gently reminded by a shocking-yellow square of paper to “get gas.”
It was while sitting at the pump a short time later that the notion of dependency hit me.
In the beginning, I was only an occasional user, jotting down out-of-the-ordinary reminders. You know, things like a doctor’s appointment, or that it was time to change the oil.
Then, “Change cat box” and “Take out trash” began appearing on the bathroom mirror or stuck to the alarm clock — painfully obvious to-dos that were reminders in and of themselves.
My life was becoming sort of a dot-to-dot — or in this instance, pad-to-pad — existence, moving from one reminder to the next.
What was next?
“Breathe?”
“Swallow?”
“Don’t drink soda with ‘Alka-Seltzer’?”
(I must confess that I almost reached for a pad to remind myself to check the spelling on “Alka-Seltzer.” Sad, but true.)
So, I decided that enough was enough. It was time to end the dependency!
I reached into my shirt pocket, snatched my last still-cellophaned package of sticky notes and tossed them out the window and into the trash. This was my moment, something I would long remember without a scrap of yellow paper conveniently laced with “stick-um.”
“Excuse me, sir,” the gas attendant said, interrupting my moment of triumph. “You got another gas card? This one’s expired.”
Confused, I thumbed through my wallet as the attendant handed me a yellow slip of paper. “By the way, this fell off the back of your card.”
I took it from him and stared at my handwritten reminder.
“Call about gas card.”
After handing the attendant my cash, I reluctantly stepped from the car and, with no small amount of humiliation, dug the package back out of the trash and opened it — then wrote myself a reminder:
“Get more pads.”

Write to Ned at [email protected], or c/o Siuslaw News, 148 Maple St., Florence, Ore. 97439