I don't think I can function on a day-to-day basis without making lists. I remember my mom telling me that when she was dating my dad, she went to see a psychic, and the psychic told her that my dad was walking around her aura, "making a list". That is so my dad. I can visualize this so well, too...Dad pacing in circles through the orange haze of Mom's aura, tapping his temple with his black felt-tip pen, jotting notes down on his pink "While you were out" notepad. I know I get my thirst for order directly from him. And I'm okay with that. I've accepted that I need the calming effect of putting everything down on paper in order to somehow feel like I have control over it. Maybe it's a writerly thing. Maybe I'm just a control freak. Or just a total freak. I believe in the power of taking things out of your brain and pouring them out in visible ink.
So I went and bought this organizer, and I was so psyched about it. It is orange and white pleather and it looks like it came directly from someone's retro 70's kitchen. I keep a pen tucked inside it and it has space for my special cards (ATM, Banana Republic gift card, Costco, Queens Public Library card), cash, a change purse, a calendar, even a little secret place to stash condoms, should I ever need them again. I love my organizer. I love how it makes me feel formidable, drunk with the power of control.
I wrote things in it all day the first day I got it, like the number for this homeopathic doctor I'm going to see tonight, like songs that I heard on Pandora.com at work that I wanted to remind myself to go home and download on Limewire. Like the description of a pair of boots I saw some chick wearing on the subway. "Look for grey 1980's Human League-type slouchy boots", I think the note said. Like every appointment and goal and all the shit I needed to remember for the foreseeable future. Now the only thing I have to remember to do is open it every day and look at everything I've reminded myself to do. That's the challenge.