Ode to a List

I often lament over being in a house too big for me. I also lament my ability to be neat. I am clean, but neat can pass me right by. It's some place under the pile on my kitchen table.

Some things I know almost by instinct where they are. I have been in this house for 30 years. I might keep things in odd places, but I can find them in a second. Swim fins I haven't used in 25 years? On the second set of shelves in the basement, third shelf from the top, next to the old hair dryer you can actually sit under. Extra car key? In the candle holder on the top shelf in the middle section of my main bathroom's medicine cabinet. Of course it's the key to my daughter's car that she doesn't have any more, but I know exactly where it is.

I usually figure I know exactly where something is or I have no idea at all. No idea at all is a Very Bad Thing in this house.

My Christmas list is hand written on a few pages of typewriter paper. I would say printer paper, but it's older than that. I reuse it every year, writing out all cards by hand, adding some names, deleting others. The last time I rewrote the list from scratch was maybe 15 years ago. My friends must be pretty stable. I always keep it on the top left cubby of my desk that is in the middle bedroom upstairs.

I just decided a few minutes ago that I need to get the list, get the cards out, and get this done today. The list is not where it belongs. I have some very, very vague, very faint recollection of moving that list, thinking, well, if I want to find this again, I will have to reorganize better. I will find it, but I don't know when. I hate it when I move things.

If you were expecting a card from me this year, it might be six months late. It will be winter in Australia then; we can pretend we went on a walkabout. My list sure did.