Distraction

Oh technology. You confuse and confound and (sometimes) amaze me. 

As threatened, I waded back into the Twittersphere, thanks to the recent vacancy. And I tweeted, or I posted a few tweets. I’m not quite sure on the verb choice, but it doesn’t matter, because I don’t think I’ll be around for long. 

A reasonably well-known actress and high-profile Twitter personality posted a comment that I objected to, though I agreed with 90 percent of the rest of her (many) tweets this weekend. So I commented, noting my objection. And surprisingly, she responded, almost immediately. She kindly acknowledged my concern, clarified her position, and added a few additional details, for context. We chatted back and forth for a minute or so, and then I put down the phone and walked away for a short while. When I returned, I found that at least ten other people had added their comments. And I wondered “who are all of these internet randos inserting themselves into this conversation?” And just as quickly, I realized that I myself was an internet rando who had inserted myself into the conversation. 

Ask not who is the Twitter troll; she is me. 

*****

Twitter was fun for a few minutes, but I’m not going to make a habit of it. After a few more minutes of acknowledging and responding to the other tweeters’ comments (all of whom agreed with the actress with whom I had disagreed), I was all tweeted out, but I felt that it was necessary to tell my vast internet audience that I wasn’t ignoring them; I was just exiting the thread so that I could go for a walk. I don’t think I’m cut out for an endeavor that makes me think I have to explain myself to total strangers. 

*****

In other technology news, I’m writing this on my brand-new Chromebook, delivered into my hands this very day. It took me all of three minutes to set this thing up, and now here I am, telling you all about it. 

You might remember that I bought a Chromebook three years ago, but I gave it to my 10th grader when schools closed and classes moved online. When my old PC died, I decided to replace it with another Chromebook. It’s a beautiful little device; nice to look at and hold and wonderful to use. Now I just have to get accustomed to Chrome OS again. I have a lot of keyboard shortcuts to memorize. And Google Drive is its own thing altogether. But I like a challenge. I like to learn new things; at least, I like to think of myself as a person who likes to learn new things. 

*****

I finished wiping the old computer and now it’s ready for recycling. Setting up the new laptop took a hot minute, but shutting down the old one took forever. Apparently it’s harder to destroy than to create. That sounds like a metaphor for something, doesn’t it? 

As a rule, I avoid New Year’s resolutions. I have plenty of character flaws, and plenty of things I can try to do better, but it’s a process, not a once-yearly to-do list (though I do very much love to-do lists). But it’s the beginning of a new year and I think that one thing I should resolve is to try not to be the kind of person who is made so easily happy by new things. This new Chromebook makes me pretty happy. It’s clean and pretty and the backlit keyboard responds so well to my tapping fingers. It’s nice to look at and it’s fun to watch the words appear on the screen as I type. 

There’s nothing wrong with that, I suppose. But I wish I was less attached to the things of the world. I’m watching impeachment coverage and that’s only one of the ten million things that are more important than my new Chromebook.  

*****

So I’m too materialistic. But it’s not only material things that make me happy. I’m watching the fading winter light right now at 5:15 PM. Not only is it pretty, but it’s still light at 5:15. And the days will keep getting longer; at least until June, and that’s ages away. So that’s a happy thing. 

And here’s another thing. Capitals hockey begins tonight! No, I can’t go in person, but I do get to wear my new reverse retro screaming eagle jersey while I watch on TV. OK, so the jersey is a thing, but that’s not what I’m most happy about. And then there’s Donald Trump. He’s desperate to tweet, and he can’t, and that makes me happy. Vindictively happy, yes; but happy is happy and I’ll take it. 

*****

How did I end up here, anyway? Didn’t I start with technology? I did. At least I maintained some thematic consistency with the Twitter references. Adult ADD is a constant struggle for me, especially now when I can’t look away from the news for more than five minutes. I guess we’re all in that together now. Everyone in the United States has adult ADD this week. New stuff can’t change the current state of affairs. Neither can hockey. Not even a winter sunset can quiet the noise and chaos. But I welcome the break. I welcome the distraction from the distraction. 

Wild and domestic

I drove home from work on Monday night, anxious and panicky about the annual spring onslaught. Every time I thought that I had an organized list of things to do in my mind, I'd remember yet another thing that I had to do. I arrived home at 6:30, feeling completely overwhelmed and not nearly equal to the tasks at hand. Sometimes, all I can do is wait for the panic to subside; but sometimes, exercise helps. With 45 minutes or so of daylight remaining, I decided to take a walk.

I was about two blocks from home as dusk began to fall, and I saw what I thought was a medium-sized red dog running across the street about half a block in front of me. And then I realized that dogs don't have big fluffy tails. It was a fox. It stopped in the middle of the road and looked at me for a second, and then it kept running.

Crap, I thought to myself (as opposed to thinking to other people, I guess). They're not still supposed to be out in daylight, are they? I mean, it was getting dark, but it wasn't dark yet. What if it's rabid? What if it's aggressive? Should I turn and walk the other way?

No. If I'm brave enough to walk right past a snake (yes, I know that it was an imaginary snake, but I didn't know that until AFTER I decided to walk past it, so bravery credit still applies) then I can be brave enough to walk past a fox that has, after all, already run away. Unless it's lying in wait, ready to ambush me.

A stick! I have no hope of outrunning the thing, but I can fight it off with a stick. My neighborhood is full of trees, so there's no shortage of sticks, and it took me only a minute to find a nice stout stick with a sharp, pointy end suitable for fox-poking. Nothing in my entire life has prepared me for hand-to-hand combat with a wild animal, even armed with a stick, but it was better than nothing. I walked the rest of the way home without incident.

*****
I have a crazy neighbor. You'll have to take my word for that, because I can't share much detail. In addition to being crazy (or perhaps it's a symptom or manifestation of his craziness), he keeps his house in a state of disrepair that makes "ramshackle" a kind description of the place.  Unsurprisingly, he has a problem with rodents, including raccoons. Being crazy, he decided to set traps to catch the raccoons.

Crazy or not (crazy--trust me), he's a competent raccoon trapper, because he caught one right away. Then he called my husband.  In all fairness, everyone calls my husband. He's can fix almost anything, and he's very good in a crisis. And although my neighbor is a batshit raving lunatic, I share his conviction that a trapped raccoon in one's backyard is a crisis. I don't, however, agree that the solution to that crisis is to call the neighborhood police officer and expect him to immediately come and shoot the raccoon with his service revolver.

See? I TOLD you he's crazy. After my husband diplomatically disabused him of the notion that police officers can moonlight as raccoon hit men, crazy neighbor decided, as a crazy person would, to leave it in the trap until it died. I'm no friend to rodents, and raccoons are among my least favorite of these vile creatures. But leaving it a cage to starve in the freezing cold is beyond the pale. I told my husband to call animal control. He sighed. "I will," he said. "But he'll give me a hard time about it."

"Why?" I asked. "They'll come and take it and release it on the Henson Trail, and he won't have to deal with it. Problem solved."

"That was what I told him to do," my husband said. "He didn't want to release it, because he's sure that it will make its way back."

Again--Crazy. The man has two broken windows and a gaping hole in the siding on one side of his house alone. When the snow came (yes, snow, on March fucking 20th--Maryland weather is an asshole), every raccoon in Silver Spring sought shelter in his house. He's lucky that we don't have many bears around here, because there's nothing stopping one from hibernating in his garage.

*****
As the rest of the week passed, I had no interaction with the animal kingdom, until today (Saturday). My 13-year-old is taking care of another (not crazy) neighbor's cats for the week. Our neighbor dropped off her keys on her way out of town; she had already fed the cats but encouraged my son to stop by to visit and give the cats a treat.

Both of the cats are old; 15 or so. The male, an orange tabby, has been with my neighbor since he was a kitten, and she told us that he is very friendly and comfortable around strangers. The other cat, a gray and white mixed breed, is new to the household. My neighbor adopted him when her friend became too ill to care for her. She told us that the gray cat is skittish and afraid of strangers.

The cats were exactly as advertised. The male tabby, Enu, is a cat-dog. He ran to the door and greeted us happily as we entered. Kelly, the shy cat, ran down the basement stairs as soon as she saw us, and she never appeared again.

Enu followed us eagerly around the house. We petted him and fed him treats, changed his water, and checked the litter boxes, and got ready to leave. The cat followed us to the door. "Don't let him out," I told my son.

"He likes to go out," my son said. "I almost forgot--Mrs. V said to let him out in the yard for a few minutes."

"OK," I said. "But let's make sure that the gate is closed."

I no sooner said the words then the crazy cat took off running and got right through the barely cracked front door before I could close it. I ran after him.

Remember that this cat is 15 years old. He's also obese, probably morbidly so in cat terms. I hadn't expected that an elderly, overweight cat would be a flight risk, but trust me, this geriatric feline fat-ass could run like the damn wind. But then he stopped, right in the middle of the front yard. He didn't appear winded; I think he just wanted to drink in the sunshine and freedom for a minute.  So we waited as he scampered around the yard, sniffing at trees and rocks like a dog.

"OK," I said to my son. "It's time to go. Let's bring him in." The cat allowed me to pick him up, but he started to fight me as we got nearer the house, finally breaking free and running back across the yard.

Remember again: This cat is about as old as cats get, and in serious need of diet and exercise, at least one of which it was getting by outrunning me (which admittedly is not hard to do). I chased him across the street, and managed to direct him back again to his own front yard. Fiendishly clever, he ran under the car and then catloafed, tail contentedly wagging, keeping time like a metronome. He knew that I couldn't get to him from where he was, and I knew that he knew, and he knew that I knew. We had ourselves a cat-human standoff.

The cat, smug and compact, was obviously enjoying himself tremendously. Every part of his body, from the serene face to the paws cozily tucked close to his body to the rotund torso to the thumping tail seemed to ask "What now? What are you going to do?" And I didn't know, other than to either crawl under the car (no) or to just wait him out. And then I heard a rustle.

My son had run back inside to get the bag of treats. "I just remembered that Mrs. V said to shake the treats, and he'll come back in." And he was right. Between the freedom of the outdoors and a delicious cat treat, there was no contest. Fatso couldn't resist the siren call of food, and we got him safely inside.

*****
It's Sunday night now. The rest of the family are on spring break, and I'll be joining them on Thursday. For now, it's three days in the world of people with (I hope) no unwanted encounters with the animal kingdom, wild or domestic.

That's not my name

I've written occasionally about my run-ins with wildlife. It's usually deer, with the occasional snake, real or imagined. And squirrels. And spiders. And a few birds here or there. That's usually as far as it goes. I live in the suburbs, after all. 

Last Sunday, I went for a walk on the Matthew Henson Trail. There's a vernal pool on a little side trail that leads back to the street. The county parks department posts signs near vernal pools, urging passersby to avoid disturbing them. As if I'd touch a gigantic puddle of standing water encrusted with green scum. But the green scum isn't the grossest thing about this particular pond. The grossest thing is the frogs. 

No, I'm not afraid of frogs. I'm not especially fond of them, but they don't bother me. Unless, of course, they launch themselves like missiles out of a scummy green pond and right toward my unsuspecting head. Picture frogs being shot out of cannons. Picture yourself at a sporting event, and it starts to rain frogs when you're expecting rolled-up t-shirts. 

Yeah. 

So, I made a mental note to give that little corner of nature the widest berth possible from now on, and I went on my way. And that's all there was to that. 

Until Tuesday. 

Which is when I went for another walk, at about 6:45 or so. It was still pretty much broad daylight at 6:45, but dusk falls earlier now. And dusk means one thing.

BATS.

I'm not afraid of frogs, or spiders, or most of the other creepier wildlife species, but I do not like rodents at all. I know that bats are generally harmless, and that they control the insect population, and blah, blah, blah. They're also flying rodents with fangs, and if I never see one again, it'll be too soon.

Bats are always out at night around here, and normally, they don't bother me, because I don't see them. The sky is dark, the bats are dark and they blend right in, and out of sight is out of mind (usually). But at dusk on Tuesday, the sky was a stunning shade of dark bluish gray, and the outline of the bats (hundreds of them!) was clear and visible against the blue-gray backdrop. They didn't dive-bomb me or anything, but they swirled and circled just a few yards overhead, and I pretty much ran the last few blocks home.

No run-ins with wild animals on Wednesday. Only a mysterious, one-word text message--STASI-- from an unknown number. Why Stasi? Who would text me this? I responded "Sorry, but who is this?"  but whoever it was didn't reply. It was probably a person who doesn't know how to spell Stacy. Or Staci. Or Stacey. None of which are names that I answer to. Or maybe it really was the Stasi. After all, why would they identify themselves?

I'm still in the middle of The Crisis Years, which is taking entirely too long to finish; and I'm heartily sick of the Cold War, normally one of my favorite topics. I wonder what the members of Ex-Comm would have thought about smart phones. Or sonic attacks.  Or projectile frogs, which could probably be weaponized. Or the fact that Castro outlived all of them.

I think I need to get out of my own head for a bit. I think I need to read something else. 

A few notepads and a Scrabble dictionary, and we're in business

I'm down to the last few pages of The Cazalet Chronicles, and I have to stop, because I'm not ready to let go of the Cazalet family. I've never taken this long to read a book, but it's actually five books in one, and over 2,200 pages, so that's how long it takes, I suppose.  Elizabeth Jane Howard seems to have understood people, and life, better than most writers. Female writers who write about family life and relationships--you know, humanity--tend to be dismissed as non-serious, and non-literary. Maybe that's why I had never heard of this great novelist until I started reading the Cazalet books. I'll miss them.

*****
Sunday: The sun came out! It's 8:45 AM and I just came in from a walk. I wore gloves, in May. But the sun is out. Yesterday's gloom was so heavy that I thought it would push me right under with it.  I even took a nap, which I almost never do. Everything seemed gray and ugly, and so I slept through it. Today, it's still too cold (again--gloves, in May). But drenched in sunshine, everything looks clean and cheerful again. I'm wide awake.

And the Capitals won last night. Like most other Washington Capitals fans, I'm a little cynical during the playoffs. And we're nowhere near out of the woods yet. But we avoided round 2 elimination, for now.

*****
Summer is fast approaching. Another summer of swim meets and weekly swim team emails and hanging around at the pool. Oh, and work, of course. I do have a job. Last summer was the first summer in nine years when I wasn't either working from home or working part-time. And surprisingly, it was still a lovely summer, full of swimming and barbecues and even a road trip. I returned to work full-time because I needed to, financially. But I've found that although I miss hanging around with my kids, I also really like working. I like being busy. I like being needed. I like that my job is interesting enough that I think about it when I'm not actually at my desk, and I get ideas, and I keep a notebook with running lists of things to do and things to write about.

*****

If the making and management of lists was a profession, then I'd sit alone atop its pinnacle. I'd probably have my own company. Or I'd be one of those NBC News special correspondents, called upon to comment when a big list-making story breaks.

List-making and spelling. These are two areas of endeavor in which I excel; sadly, however, demand for these rather rarefied skills is pretty scarce. There's not a spelling draft, because if there was, I'd have gone pretty near the top of the first round. There's not a list-making event in the Olympics, because if there was, I'd have been featured on the cover of Sports Illustrated, weighed down under pounds of gold.  Or maybe I'd have a media empire, built on my extraordinary spelling accomplishments. People would get sick of me. They'd sigh every time I showed up on TV. "There's that spelling bitch again," they'd sneer. But I wouldn't care. I'd cash the checks and let the haters hate. Eventually, the underpaid Harvard graduate who managed my social media would write an anonymous "Devil Wears Prada"-style tell-all, and the whole thing would come crashing down.

By all means, rely solely on spell-check.
You know how that thrills me. 

*****
That, right there, was adult ADD in action. I folded laundry, unloaded a dishwasher, and looked for my next book to read, right in the middle of that paragraph. Just a few more pages to go, so I can no longer delay my parting with the Cazalets.

One of these things is not like the other

I'm reading one of those books of funny essays written by popular bloggers.  This one focuses mostly on modern suburban motherhood; the author is a renegade who just doesn't fit in with the Botoxed, superfit, Pinterest-pinning, organic/gluten-free, hypercompetitive, pumpkin-spice-latte supermoms who are apparently EVERYWHERE in the town where she lives, sharing homemade muffins and passive-aggression with the lesser mothers (like the author) who can barely manage to (Fill in the blank: put a meal on the table, comb their hair, shower, wear non-stretchy clothes, etc.)

It's funny, I suppose.  As a person who is inept at all crafts, hates (REALLY HATES) to bake, finds Pinterest ridiculous, and believes that pumpkin should be consumed only within the confines of a pie, I should probably feel a more robust sense of tribal affiliation with the author.  She's one of my people.  But although I know more than my share of the other type of suburban mother, I don't think I've ever noticed that any of them bake or decorate or overexercise or garden or push their children to excel for any reason other than that's what they want to do.  I don't recognize the smug, superior Mean-Girl mothers described semi-hilariously in this book, and I can't summon the appropriate resentment against their supposed tyranny over the rest of us.

There's a huge irony present in the very existence of this book, which is based on a blog that revolves around a similar theme, which is very popular with readers who often comment about their oppression at the perfectly manicured hands of the  bitchy queen bees in their own neighborhoods.  It's us against them, the author seems to assert: the slightly frumpy, just-holding-it-together mothers against the Little Miss Perfects, damn them.  But of course, we have the words on our side.  Most of the people who write or blog about the alleged raging Mommy Wars are in the former camp, and we can write stuff that makes us look cool and funny and down to earth, and that makes them look humorless and uptight and lacking in all decent human qualities.  Who's the mean girl in this scenario?

*****
I was watching Morning Joe this morning; just a short break from the All-Pope, All-the-Time programming that has constituted my only TV consumption this week.  Rick Perry was a guest.  I'm not very political anymore, and I don't have much of an opinion of Rick Perry one way or another.  Joe Scarborough finished the interview with Perry by sharing a story that Rick Santorum had told him.  Apparently, at a Republican debate (I missed a few words, so I don't know if this happened in 2012 or 2015), Santorum noticed that of all the candidates, only Perry wasn't taking notes throughout the debate.  Perry did, however, make a quick note when Santorum was speaking about his daughter Bella, who has Trisomy 18.  At the end of the debate, Santorum made a point of looking down at Perry's notes when the men were shaking hands, to see if he could see what Perry had written.  He had written three words: "Pray for Bella."

It was a touching story, and Perry didn't react to seeing Scarborough tell it on TV the way I'd have expected him to.  He was neither embarrassed nor piously smug.  It was just something that had happened.  Perry said that he remembered making the note, and that he still prays for Bella Santorum. He also prays for Barack Obama.

*****

There should be a better segue between those two stories, some neat metaphorical connection between the mommy blogger and the conservative Texas politician.  I'm not going to bother looking for it, though.  Ten years ago, I'd have been nodded my head in recognition at snarky portrayals of Mommier-than-thou types who apparently rule suburbia with iron fists.  I'd have also rolled my eyes at Republican politicians who claimed to pray for anything.   Maybe my politics have changed, but I think that it's a shift in something other than politics.  Us versus them in any context, which has always been unkind, now seems downright boring.  A Texas Republican could maybe teach me how to pray for my enemies.  A supermommy could maybe teach me how to make a nicer dinner.  It doesn't matter who's teaching; I have plenty to learn.

Don't cry for me, Argentina

Today was a surprisingly productive day.  I crossed a larger-than-expected number of things off my unrealistically long to-do list, kept work on deadline, and serendipitously timed my swim to end at the very moment the thunder rumbled, prompting the lifeguard to whistle swimmers out of the pool.  Success on every front.

Not every day is like this, because I have the attention span of a fruit fly.  Yesterday, for example, I was working peacefully as clean clothes tumbled in the dryer. When the timer buzzed, I got up to fold the clothes, then I noticed some dirt on the family room floor, so I abandoned a t-shirt mid-fold and plugged in the vacuum cleaner.  As I vacuumed, I wondered what the family room would look like if I moved furniture piece A to spot B, and then furniture piece B into spot A.  It didn't work as well as I thought it would, so I moved the furniture back to where it had been.  Not, however, before vacuuming the spots where the pieces had been, and then moving a few other furniture items to vacuum underneath,

Back to work.  But wait, the clothes weren't folded!

The report that I was copyediting contained a discussion of a country whose fiscal position is untenable; however, that country continues to increase spending and cut taxes ahead of looming elections.  The day of reckoning will come, I suppose.  As I worked, I thought that I saw a metaphor for my life amid the talk of debt-to-GDP ratios and impending fiscal collapse.  I should have written it down, but at just that moment, I noticed some dirt on the kitchen floor.  The kitchen floor, once clean, made the countertops look pretty squalid by comparison.  By the time I had brought the countertops up to my standard, the metaphoric connection between my life and a South American economic disaster, which was already tenuous to begin with, had evaporated altogether.  All wasn't lost, though.  The laundry was done, the kitchen was pretty clean, and I met my deadline.  South America should be so lucky.

 

The personal is political

I suppose that should be modified somewhat; what's really true now is that everything is political.

A few days ago, I was on Facebook.  A Facebook friend (a person whom I've never met personally, but we connected at some point through blogging, I think) posted a sad lament about how she'd been forced to unfriend someone, an actual close personal friend, because the former friend had revealed a political opinion that the poster found offensive.

It's probably not all that remarkable that someone would drop a friend (remember, this was an actual friend, not just a social media connection) with whom she disagrees politically.  I think that happens all the time now.   What made this particular post stand out was the tone of genuine grief and anguish, and the person's deep conviction that she had been forced to drop this friend; that she had absolutely no choice but to end a treasured friendship because the friend holds distasteful political opinions.

I suppose there are situations in which it would be reasonable and even necessary to end a friendship or friendly acquaintanceship because of politics.  If you learn, for example, that your friendly and courteous neighbor or colleague, a person whom you once liked and respected and considered becoming better friends with, is actually a KKK member, or a Holocaust denier, or an ISIS recruiter, then you'd obviously want to end your association with that person immediately.  But how is it possible that a person with whom you've been close personal friends for many years is suddenly revealed to be a Nazi or a white supremacist or a terrorist?

The point, of course, is that the political offense that ended this particular friendship was probably of a much lesser magnitude.  There is a small, but vocal (and growing) cohort who genuinely believe that perfect conformity of thought and opinion on every social and political issue is not only desirable among friends, but necessary.  This group of people feel absolutely obligated to end friendships, cut off family members, and shun neighbors and acquaintances who don't adapt quickly and completely to new modes of thought on everything from gender theory to income inequality to the real or perceived privilege of one group of people over another.  Those people, who either cling to opinions that were not all that controversial 25 years ago, or who just aren't aware of how quickly and completely their friends' outlooks have changed, are not given the smallest amount of slack.  Once someone reveals herself to be slightly behind the curve socially or politically, she is cut off, cast out into outer darkness where there is, presumably, wailing and gnashing of teeth.

Aside from the obvious cruelty of an approach to relationships that places politics and ideology over people, you have to also wonder about the futility of this approach.  If you're convinced that your understanding of humanity is the only reasonable and correct one, wouldn't you want to try to convert others?  Wouldn't you respond to perceived errors in thought or speech with persuasion rather than ostracism?  Something about flies and honey; I can't remember.  Maybe Frog or Toad would know.

You can't make some people happy

Those people being me, of course.  Just two days ago, I felt overwhelmed with work, not sure how I'd fit everything I needed to do this week into this actual week.  Just like that, though, some incoming work was delayed, and now I'm at a loss.

I learn something new every day, and one of the things that I'm just now learning about working from home as a contractor is to always have a back-up plan.  Not necessarily a back-up plan for making more money (although that, possibly, would not be a bad idea) but a plan for how to spend time set aside for work when the work fails to materialize.

A long to-do list, no matter how overwhelming, is pretty easy for me to manage.  Unscheduled blocks of time, however, are another matter altogether. In The Screwtape Letters, Screwtape explains to Wormwood that his job as a demon is to take a person's soul and to give as little as possible in return.  The demon's goal is to make the victim realize, far too late, that he wasted his life doing neither what he should have been doing nor what he wanted to do.  This is what I'm afraid of, every time I have unscheduled, un-spoken-for time.

This too shall pass, and probably much faster than I want it to.  Meanwhile, I have more work coming in tomorrow, but I think that I need two lists: What to Do if the Work Comes in on Schedule and What to Do if it Doesn't.  Foiled again,Wormwood. Foiled again.

A list

Frog and Toad is, in many ways, the sum of all wisdom. If you're not familiar with the stories, you should remedy that right away. Cliff Notes:  Frog and Toad are a large, upbeat, energetic, optimistic frog and a small, dumpy, fearful, neurotic toad who are best friends. In almost every Frog/Toad scenario, I am Toad.

In one of my favorite Frog and Toad stories, "A List", Toad decides to write everything he needs to do for the day on a list. Beginning with "wake up," and proceeding through "eat breakfast," "brush teeth," and "get dressed," he lists every single thing that he needs to do. Toad is absolutely delighted with the simple ingenuity of his plan, which will allow him to efficiently plan his day and accomplish everything he wants to accomplish.

If it didn't get crossed off the list, then it didn't happen.

"Oh, that is very nice," says Frog, in typical kind and indulgent fashion, when Toad enthusiastically shares his list with his friend. Frog, of course, lives in the moment, and it would never occur to him to waste time in the first place, so he would never have to worry about making a list to be sure that things get done. Frog just gets things done.

Frog invites Toad for a walk; Toad, consulting his list, notes with satisfaction that "take walk" is in fact one of his listed activities for the day, and the two happily set out for a walk through the woods.

It's a beautiful day in the woods, but it's windy, and the wind carries Toad's list away just as he's checking to see what happens after the walk. Toad, being Toad, panics. Frog, being Frog, reassures Toad and calmly and reasonably advises Toad to run and catch his list.

Wait for it.

Toad CAN'T run after his list of things to do, because running after his list of things to do isn't on his list of things to do. Frog runs after the list, but it's gone, lost forever.

******

I have learned a few things about myself, and one of them is that if I'm not held to account in one way or another, I'll postpone and procrastinate and forget about all of the hated minor chores that always seem to be hanging over my head. If I didn't make a list, no phone call would ever be returned, no email ever written, no bill ever paid. So I make lists; weekly lists and daily lists. But just like Toad, I don't just need the list to make sure that I'll do everything that needs doing. I need it to feel the sense of accomplishment that comes only with crossing an item off a to-do list.

Lists, in fact, have to be very specific. If I have two returns to make, then I list them separately. After all, I might only have enough time to get to one store on a particular day, and it would be just terrible to have completed a task, but then be unable to claim the reward of crossing it off the list, because it's only half-finished. Worse still is to tackle a particularly irksome chore, and then gleefully run for my list, only to find that I FORGOT TO WRITE THAT THING DOWN IN THE FIRST PLACE.

******

That was a break; I had to recover my composure.

At the end of "A List," Toad, despondent, sits for a few minutes doing nothing. He has lost his list; there's no hope of retrieving it, and so he can't do anything now, anything at all. Necessity is the mother of invention though, and Toad doesn't live in the woods for nothing. He finds a stick, and writes "go to sleep" on the ground, and goes peacefully to sleep. His day now completely crossed off, Toad is finally able to rest.

It's been a long, though productive work day. My weekly list grows longer by the day, but I was able to firmly cross out two things, and I feel hopeful about my crossing-off prospects for tomorrow, too. Good night.

Should I stay or should I go

It's a beautiful day, and I just spent part of the afternoon catching up on work that fell behind schedule as a result of Friday's pain/Tylenol PM debacle, and now it's time to get out of the house for a bit.  It is Sunday, after all.

Maybe, though, I can just write something quickly and then go.  I had a great idea (well, I had an idea, anyway) during Mass this morning, but I can't remember what it was now.  I'm confident that the idea will return, because I do remember that it had something to do with one of my ongoing preoccupations; I just can't remember which of the many ongoing preoccupations it was.  I think that they revised the DSM because of me.

And just that quickly, I remembered what I was going to write about, but it will take too long to do today.  Preview: Frog and Toad.  Until tomorrow.