A couple of nights ago Mr. Sparky and I found ourselves poking through the calendar racks at Books-A-Million, shopping for the upcoming year’s calendars. I can never bring myself to pay full price for a calendar, so early January usually finds us browsing for bargains, and this year was obviously no exception.
We always buy two calendars. There is the public calendar that I keep in the kitchen. And then there is the personal calendar that hangs on the wall of my bathroom. It might seem strange to you that I keep a calendar there, but I do it for a couple of reasons.
The first reason is that I’m more likely to think about what I need/have to do when I’m brushing my teeth or getting ready for my day. If it’s written on a calendar in front of me, I’m more likely to get by without a phone call from someone asking if I forgot _______ (The answer is always yes. Yes, I forgot.).
The second reason is that every year I buy the same calendar for my bathroom. 365 Days Of Italy. Every month focuses on a different region. Every day has a photo. Of course, it’s not the exact same calendar every year. The calendar-makers mix it up with different regions and photos and captions. It’s not the same old man on the bench in Rome every year, and I’m sure those are different pigeons on the statue in Florence. Well, probably.
Someday I want to go to Italy. I want to enjoy the art and the music and the food and the fashion and the culture. I don’t know when it will happen. Right now I look at the list of things that need to be done around here and it seems that by the time they are done and we can save up the money to go, I’ll likely be too old to make the trip, which is a bit depressing. But in the big picture, it probably doesn’t matter all that much if I never get to go. Once I leave this planet I step directly into eternity, and I’m sure it’s even more awesome than Italy. Maybe there’s even a copy of the Sistine Chapel somewhere in eternity, and I’ll not only get to look at it for as long as I want, but I’ll get to give Michelangelo a hug and thank him for giving me something to dream about seeing during my time on earth.
At least that’s what I’m telling myself.
My kitchen calendar varies every year. Mr. Sparky likes something a bit more publicly acceptable than the Honey Badger calendar I wanted, so we got one that has drawings of three chefs on every month. It’s a bit quirky. Not as quirky as the Extreme Ironing calendar we had one year which had photos of people ironing in places like rock walls and icebergs. No, I’m not kidding. We paid good money in tribute to someone’s vast creativity and weirdness, though no doubt only 50% of what they originally asked for it. Because as I already said, that’s how we roll when it comes to calendars.
I used to live by my kitchen calendar. But now that I have an electronic brain for those things, I barely remember to write anything on it. My upstairs calendar gets all sorts of notes, but my kitchen one, not so much.
Oh, and I did buy that Honey Badger calendar. I gave it to the Jr. Spark so I can go visit it and giggle at its inappropriate hilariousness. Nasty!