And after spending 30 minutes trying to make one, think it’s money well-spent.
It’s a purse-sized paper datebook for the next year.
I’d love to use an electronic version, but each time I’ve tried (two machines, two times each, for six months each test) my blood-pressure went up every time I made an appointment. The last one even moved dates around on me. (I triple-check my entries. I even added a code to the text to say the date, to ensure it was my machine and not the hairdresser or my ears. Yep, it moved them.)
A datebook is supposed to be a rock that you can stand on to reach the heights. If you can’t count on it, then it’s worse than worthless. It’s like a wobbly ladder. Sure, it does the job sometimes, but you spend too much time setting it up, or fixing it. Even worse, it encourages you to stretch, and then breaks — and you hit the ground hard.
I even gave the hand-me-down BlackBerry Torch to my husband. (Admittedly, part of the reason was my PlayBook is acting up badly enough that it needs a factory reset, so I don’t trust them, and, despite what Husband did with his, I can’t use the same BB ID on both the phone and the PlayBook. When Mom wants to move on from her new Android, though, I’m on it!)
The new schedules from the choir and school have arrived. That little “future dates” page at the back of the 2013 book is full.
How hard is it to find a 2014 template and make my own datebook? Not perfect, just good enough to use until the better ones reach the dollar store? Thirty minutes of experimenting, and the answer is clear.
The $14 was worth it. Expensive for a mass-produced 15 pieces of paper, printing and some staples. Cheap for a battery-free, instant-on device with character-recognition that you can sketch on.