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.

It appears that, once again, the world's ended and everyone forgot to let me know ahead of time.

I knew something had to be up this morning when I woke up and Jeff informed me that 1) he wasn't feeling well and 2) that he was taking a sick day. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, the McSpouse that is only slightly more likely than me to continue soldiering on through dismemberment and slight cases of death, actually took a sick day.

I brought him the sandwich he wanted from Publix (foot-long, on white, no mayo, and all kinds of stuff that would keep me from snitching bites like banana peppers / onions / pickles), the particular species of chips that appealed to him, and the makings for more Kool-Aid.

A bit of a break was required after Friday's posting extravaganza.

The house is quiet. The front wooden door is open, leaving just the glass door closed. The cats awakened from their second nap of the day when I came home a few minutes ago. The fans are on, the kitchen's mostly clean, and I'm sitting here, waiting for my friends and Jeff's parents to show up.It is over. It is really, truly over. I saw him graduate with my own eyes—graduate regalia slightly askew, squinting to find his friends and family in the crowd, thousand-watt smile.

I called Andy and Brad on my cell phone while waiting for everyone else to get ready to go home, and said, "It's over. It's really over. It's really really over."

I fear the days you stand outside my door,
too timid to ring, too determined to leave. Your
presence comes and goes, waning and waxing with the moon's
movements, from new to crescent to full. A tune

composed of someone else's notes, you are
as familiar as my dreams and fears and as far
removed from my life as I could have made you.
Was I wrong to sacrifice you to the hesitant altar

of selfishness, ambition, greed? It is easier to think
of planned vacations and toys than to sink
emotions, time, love—myself—into the bringing of life,

More often than not, inferences about my life can be drawn from what I do not write about here on domesticat as well as what I do write about. Since beginning this weblog-turned-journal-turned-something-else-entirely a while back, there have been events in my life that I have not written about here.

Each time, the choice to withhold has been a deliberate one, made after much thought. I've come to grips with the fact that my life is, to some small degree, on display here—but that's for another story, another night. Tonight I'm tipping into the wider half of a bottle of Chardonnay, left unfinished from a night that we had friends over, and trying to dredge up a bit of bravery.

I'm going to step back for a moment and give you an uncharacteristic taste of what it's like to be me.

Repeat after me: *squealy squealy boingy boingy bounce bounce boing!*