Once upon a time, in a land far far away, I used to spend hours making extensive 'To Do' lists. I'm not even kidding y'all, no task was too trivial to be documented by me. I never quite mastered the art of it, being the stress freak that I am. "Pay bills...hmm, that's important. Do I put Pay ALL bills? Or do I need to specify. I better specify." Erase Erase Erase. "Pay Rent. Pay Electric Bill. Pay Phone Bill. Pay Internet Bill. Pay Credit Card Bill. How about the gas? Is that a bill? I mean, I guess it is, but it's not monthly. It's a one time thing. Do I put that under Bills? Or Gas? Gas is a bill. Maybe if I write it with a * next to it, that'll let me know it fits in two categories. Should I add a legend to my list? What if somebody else needs to decipher it? (scribble, scribble, explanation that only a psycho would care about) That's better." And so would go my listing, I was pretty obsessive about it. I had color-coordinated lists. Morning lists, afternoon lists, and evening lists. Things to do before and after I left the house lists. Mini lists stuck to the main list like so many grubby handed kindergarteners stuck to my legs . It was nuts.
And then one day, I just quit. Stacks of notebooks with clean fresh paper pouted in the corner, unnoticed. Oh yes, they still beckoned to me with their straight lines and comforting coolness, but I neglected them. Like a fickle lover. The only place my fingers lingered lovingly, bringing order to that which was previously chaotic, was in my hair - the original rat's nest. I think about that now, how if I were able to line up all the hairs on my head one by one, and put them into their own separate categories and one ultimate list, how they would lay flatly on my head and swing around independently, like the Pantene girl.
That's not to say that I don't miss the lists. On the contrary, I do. I miss the lists like I miss allyoucaneatcrab at High Tide Harry's. It is excruciating, the missing. I stand in the shower and think about lists like this:
To Do:
1.) Contemplate rug.
Insert mental picture of rug here. For those of you who do not live in my house or in my head, I have taken the liberty of inserting a picture. See:
2. Decide whether said rug looks like the surfboard it is supposed to resemble, or if it is in fact closer to what DH, in his Georgia O'Keefeian appreciation, suggested: A Vagina.
3. Decide that rug looks like vagina.
4. Shrug.
5. Turn out lights and kill more fish before dragging self to dental sick call.
6. Expect unforeseeable wait with no immediate relief from THE! POUNDING!, and no appointment until after Thanksgiving, by which time you will addicted to pain killers ala Matthew whateverhislastnameis from Friends.
And then after I realize the complete and utter un-necessity of lists like that, I wonder if something is happening like my brain is expanding - able to compile all tasks in a single bound, but then I remember the time my husband asked me a question while I was in the shower and I became so distracted that I forgot to shave my other leg and had to walk around quite literally putting my best foot er leg forward, and then I know that I'm just lazy.
Blame Jennifer Love Hewitt for the lack of substance in this post. I Rhapsodied her album "BareNaked", and while I thought perhaps she was just getting a raw deal in the music biz, I now realize that I was sorely mistaken. Her album, it's crap. She's pretty to look at, though. See:
And if that doesn't make you feel all warm and fuzzy, I don't know what will. Maybe the vagina rug. Pray for me while I'm at the dentist.