I make lists. List of things I need to do, things I want to write, songs I want to download and meals we are going to eat. I make lists for myself. I make lists for other people. I make lists while waiting in the carpool line. I make lists while talking on the phone. I make lists when I can’t sleep and I make lists when I am too tired to keep going. If I don’t have paper, I write on trash from the floor of the car. If I don’t have a pen, I use a crayon. If I don’t have either, well, I go a little crazy. My husband and children are not surprised when I call and ask them to write down a non sequitur series of words and phrases. Doug still tries to convince me to use technology for my lists, but there’s something tactile about holding a piece of paper in your hand that a poorly transcribed e-mail just can’t provide. I use a paper planner that is filled with scribbled notes, ideas and lists.
Sooooo, knowing my compulsive need to put pen to paper, why does my family keep moving my pens? The spot under my computer monitor where I always store a pen? Empty. The car ashtray filled with loose change that I like to use as a pen holder? Nothing but pennies. My purse which is really just a mobile desk? No pen. Why? Why must they move my cheese?