I have so, so many things I need to do that I have an A5 Filofax notebook just for my lists. It has tabs like “Budget” (a section I generally ignore) and “Property” (stuff we need to do on the grounds), “House”, “Clinic”, etc. The “Gentle Paws” section is nicely mangled and well-thumbed, with lots of useful info and checked off lists of things. The book has a closing tab, and little pockets I taped in with clear packing tape for small slips of paper I don’t want to lose, and stamps and other sundry important stuff. It is an obessesive-compulsive person’s wet dream.
However, the only glitch to this marvelous system of mine is that whilst I love making lists, I am not always so great about following them. Once the task is listed, I feel that I have done my duty for the time being and that I will eventually get to it. I think I just like lists. That’s my South American mother in me. Manana on those things.
But today, aside from necessary cleaning, I didn’t address any of the priorities I need to do. I didn’t reorganize the downstairs clinic for the imminent DEM inspection. (It still looks like the storage room for which it was used during our downstairs renovation). I didn’t write the curricula for the courses I’m teaching next fall (due this coming Monday). I didn’t tackle the sanctuary garden. I didn’t wash any of the eight piles of laundry waiting for me in the basement like a hulking behemoth.
Instead, I: 1)organized my winter sock drawer, as the use of those socks will not be necessary for another seven months, and thus in directly inverse proportion to how quickly I needed to do it, I decided it was imperative that I do it this morning,
2) cleaned out the painted secretary in my bedroom, where I discovered four pairs of reading glasses that are too weak, receipts from 2009, a set of animal tarot cards for which I’d be searching, and a birthday card I meant to send my friend Kathy (but didn’t because I forgot where I put it), and
3) organized all my silk scarves on little hanging rings (whereupon I discovered I have approximately 100 scarves I never wear because I live in T-shirts that can get abused by dogs who have just come in from muddy places. My Hermes and Gucci scarves and silky black trousers have been hanging forlornly in my closet, talking quietly to each other about how I never go anyplace anymore with them. My jeans and sweatshirts laugh derisively, knowing that they are out and about all the time now. They sneer in contempt at the designer wear. “Ha.” they say, “You’re probably not even her size anymore.” Cashmere and fine tweeds, velvet evening wear, jaunty little capris in every colour of the rainbow. Suede elf boots and pumps with smart little kitten heels. Clothing that I once wore every day (and evening) in a life that I am no longer living.
4) discovered a fabric-covered box of silky nightgowns I’d forgotten, the kind that are clearly meant to be worn for about twenty (?) minutes before they are removed hurriedly by the object of my seduction. I might have worn one or two in the early days of my relationship with Patrick but they ended up boxed up in lieu of slouchy, soft cotton stuff that would actually be worn while lounging about the house. RIP sweet little nothings.