It’s supposed to be 82° on this first day of fall and I’m driving 180 miles to get two things I left at our summer cottage: my planner and my diary. Without the planner I don’t know when to cut my nails never mind meet my deadlines. I do have a Blackberry, but it stopped synching with Outlook a good 8 weeks ago and the support people can’t sort it out no matter HOW long they stay on the phone reading from their Help menus. Plus lately it’s decided to randomly match the pictures of my 500 Facebook friends with people in my 1200-person address book so when I go to call up say the info on a fan in her late 70s I get a picture of some young guy with his shirt off drunk in a bar.
I’m about done with the Blackberry to be honest. Schedules and contacts are too important to me; diaries too. What’s coming up, what’s just past: these things I really need to be able to ponder, the way other people need to breathe into a brown paper bag when they’re anxious. I haven’t written in my diary for three weeks now and so much has happened on my inner landscape plus let’s face it: summer’s over. The mice are moving back in and my little mosquito pal finds he much prefers the climate in our steamy soap-scented bathroom to the outdoors where even a warm day like this one the nights are downright COLD. Last week this maple just panicked at the thought of what’s ahead, trembled once and blushed clear down to the roots of its hair.