I. Love. Making lists and crossing things off. Especially, crossing things off. Then, wadding up said crossed off list and really showing it who’s boss. Slam freaking dunk.
Now, you might be thinking, “You’re pretty freaking tech-geeky-savvy, Joules… why not use your iPhone (#177)?…”
Been there, done that, bought the app for that. And, while I do admit, it is slightly satisfying watching the item *poof* disappear when you check the box, 1) I’m not really a check in the boxes kinda girl, and, 2) slam dunking an iPhone is just asking for trouble with Siri.
But really, all I was trying to do, is explain that all those post-it notes behind me in the photo are not a mess. They are my preciousssss…lists. Organized chaos, if you will.
Those particular ones were all the rabbit trails of my brain in regards to a couple weeks ago, in which my Amanda Michele Freaking Evans got MARRIED, graduated college, moved back to the Evanshire—where she and her now HUBBY will be living for the summer while they work and raise funds for a 10-month mission trip with YWAM Wales this September. (To follow their adventures there and back again, click HERE.) Also, my Mikeyy moved out of the Evanshire and in with his big brother, my Mateo, on campus at UC. Then, we moved the groom’s things into the Evanshire.
If you’ve ever done a Rubik’s cube with your feet while blindfolded you understand the logistics involved, that bigass bottomless cup of coffee, and all. those. precious. lists.
There is one list that freaks me out though. It’s the one list to rule them all: The Bucket List.
When I got cancer, of course I sat down and wrote Bucket List at the top of a page. After all, isn’t “Thou shalt make a bucket list” at the top of the What To Expect When You’re Kicking Cancer’s Ass Big Ten list? I’m pretty sure it’s either #1 or #2, but I forget which. And of course, I totally “blame the chemo” for that—which, I’m positive, is #9 or #10. But I digress, which isn’t really on the list, but sometimes I like to write things in just so I can cross them off.
That’s how much fun I think crossing things off is.
Except for, come to find out, on bucket lists.
Don’t. Want. To. Slam. Dunk. That. One. Don’tevenwanttostartthatlistthat’showmuchidon’twanttoEVERfinishit. To me it’s more like “the list that must not be named”. So yeah, I might have panicked and maybe sweat a few bullets, staring like a deer in the headlights of that freaking blinking cursor of a number 1. It went down a little something like this:
Me: (retrieving the yellow #2 pencil from behind my ear, twirling it in the right to open up the noggin to pencil channel, left elbow on the table, left hand cradling the chinny chin chin, left index finger in the shhh position so I can hear the light bulbs popping up, which I would then upcycle into thought bubbles-cuz I’m green like that-in which my version of 1001 things to do meets Arabian Nights meets Lambchop-from which I would transcribe my list that doesn’t end…
1. (staring you down all Clint Eastwood style): “Go ahead, make my day. Fill in the blank, punk. Do ya feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk?”
Me: Not particularly, actually. I have cancer. Duh. (Yeah, I’d say duh to Clint Eastwood if he asked me a stupid question like that at a moment like that.)
At which point, cue the melodrama and fade into the theme from Love Story… “Where do I begin?” I think you see my dilemma?
Where? To begin? At which point my pencil showed its true color shining through and experienced stage fright as if said blinking cursor was not only channeling Dirty Harry, but on Speed : “STAY ON OR GET OFF, PUNK”
Way. Too. Much. Pressure. At which point I put the pencil back in my ear and crumple up the list which must not be named. I mean, stress causes cancer and stuff, so slam dunk that, if ya know what I mean.
Or maybe kick it instead. Yeah, kick the freaking you-know-what-list. For three points and the win!
And with that, please tune in next time when the ucket-bay list takes a ride along the Pacific Coastal Highway with Thelma and Louise.