Vicarious Rocky

I think I need Franklin Covey to stop over and help me sort out what things need the most attention in my life. I am constantly forgetting things to the point where I am chronically dependent on lists. If I don't write down every single thing I have to do in a day, I just blank out entirely on what isn't listed. Like what would that be, you might wonder? Sending mail, buying milk or coffee or Tylenol, eating, maintaining the car, taking Indy to his activities. Or how about putting in my new laptop battery that Sage got me two weeks ago? Nope. Instead I've just misplaced it like some kind of mad retarded scientist.

Is this what working motherhood is like for everyone? You know, it probably is, and I'm blogging right now (I have time for THAT) to throw myself a personal pity party. I know the answer to my own problems, and I know how this Covey visit would go down . . .

Franklin Covey comes in, hands me a planner in a two-toned faux-leather case, tells me structure is my friend, and reminds me to lower my expectations and make time for myself. Then I open the planner, take the pen out of its snug loop, and thrust it into his eye.