I make lists. Ask my friends. I'm a consummate list-maker. My bestfriend thinks this is one step away from the rubber room, and she may well be right, but at least when I arrive there I'll be certain to have everything I need with me. Why? Because I made a list. It's what I do. It's the only thing that protects me from my hideously poor short-term memory.
Take today for instance. I have seven hours left before the Mother's Day Supper. Somewhere in that time I have to do a bunch of stuff. Only problem is, when I try to remember what that stuff is, I forget half of it. So I write it down. Make a list.
1. Make potatoes and carrots for the supper (I already forgot to buy the rolls, if I mess up on the vegetables, I can kiss good-bye any chance of staying in my family's good graces)
2. Work out. If I don't, I have to pay the aforementioned bestfriend who mocks my lists $5. I don't have $5. So on the list it goes.
3. Research agents who are going to the RWA conference because I have to book my appointments tomorrow morning and I still haven't decided which would be the best agent to accost...ahem...I mean meet with, to try and convince them that they really need to sign me up because someday soon I'm going to be brilliant and make them lots of money.
4. Figure out how I book the appointments on line.
5. Make something for lunch tomorrow so I don't resort to eating yet another bowl of cereal which I am rapidly running out of.
6. Finish chp 21 and that friggin' love scene which I am ready to just erase and replace with 'They screwed. It was lovely.'
7. Work on the baby blanket I'm about 4 inches into for my niece/nephew who is bound to arrive early just to annoy me and make me look bad.
8. Clean my writing room, which still remains a fire hazard, clean the remaining two bathrooms and deal with the pile of crap that is currently hiding my coffee table.
9. Brave the wind/rain storm going on outside and drag wood in from the shed, which thankfully hasn't blown away as of yet.
My last day off before Monday and it's chockful of a bunch of crap I have to do. God I hate that.