Don’t Tell Dad.

If you want to trace the source of my neuroses, you don’t have to climb far up my family tree. While running off a copy of the 2004 ACEE evalution results for personal review, our wireless, networked color laser printer/fax machine/copier combination [we have this monstrosity in the living room but lack a conventional loaf of bread in our kitcen; I made my sister and me grilled cheeses on organic cracked wheat bulkie rolls or something. I won’t complain, however, about our whipped compound butter infused with garlic and herbs. To be fair, I’ve staked out the kitchen table with a laptop.] ran out of paper.

Earlier this week we took a family outing to Staples to pick up some RAM and some printer paper, having anticipated running out. For nearly twenty minutes my dad and I argued over whether to buy paper with a brightness level less than 98 and 28 lb weight. For half the price we could’ve walked away with paper with a 97 bright measure and 20 lb weight. It just wasn’t heavy enough for him, so we paid $10 for 500 sheets of paper.

Well, the crisis hit but dad wasn’t around to save me. Not knowing where he hid the new paper, I supplied the printer with my clumsy 84 bright and 20 lb 30% recycled paper left over from my school days. I hate to admit that I can both see and feel a difference and that I now secretly side with my father. Screw the environment. From now on, I only proofread my drafts on cardstock. I’m don’t even care that I’ve increased my exposure to papercuts.

Mathematicians, I am told, have the highest incidence of alzheimer’s by profession. Paul gives me until 34. I guess it didn’t help when I refused to address him as anything but Jimmy for a full conversation with him on St. Patrick’s Day for effect. [Note: this never happened, but we told Carol it did. For effect.]

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