I am pathetic, I am funny, I am listmaker, hear me roar.

I make a lot of lists, although I occasionally like to smoke some crack and think that I'm not exactly ruled by my to-do list. My troubles of scribbling down multiple lists—and subsequently losing them—have been cured by my December procurement of a Handspring Visor—quite possibly one of the best purchases I've ever made.

Trips bring out the worst listmaker in me. Especially, in this case, when I will be travelling quite far from home, and will end up in a different climate than the one I'm beginning in.

For my birthday, my friends gave me this fabulous spiral-bound notebook that now contains everything from poetry snippets to plants I want in my flowerbeds to random sketches of my cats.

Tonight, with ten days to go before heading out to Victoria to visit Brad, I made my first trip-related list. The same categories appear on every list: clothing, toiletries, weird/other, to-do, to-bring. The lists morph and evolve as I refine what I want to take (this time, as I know that I'll be checking a bag, I'm not quite so worried about fitting everything into my tiny overhead bag), and more importantly to me, the things that I need to get done before leaving on the trip.

I gain a queer sense of satisfaction of checking off the last items in my to-do list before a trip. Plants watered? Check. Arrangements for kitty-feeding made? Check. Photocopied my passport? Check. Made arrangements for the trash to be put out while we're gone? Check.

Thus, my first version of my to-do list. Scrawly handwriting and all.