Tasks, organised by type (freelance, personal life, money owed, money loaned, etc. Long-term projects get their own special separate lists)
Shopping list
Things to pack for a given trip
Talking points for given events... or just to have a handle on what I want to say if I have my hand raised
Things I'd like to watch, and who referred them
Things I might read, and who referred them
Books I've read—the longest list running in terms of seniority. I think it's about six years old?
Shows I'm currently watching and have completed, plus notes on who referred them and how I generally feel about them
Articles or stories I'd like to write
Articles or stories written on a given day, and the word count (20.000 words at MIP alone!)
People I hang out with (full name, current job title, date, location, what we discussed, photo)
Things I may like to buy—a list I often forget about, but that's by design. When I open the list again, sometimes years later, I buy the thing if I still want it and the timing is right. Or I delete it, because it's otherwise taking up room on the list
Potentially cool book ideas
Potentially cool business ideas
Patterns I'd like to knit—possibly my youngest list
Things to be grateful for—not often updated, but generally updated in times of duress. It's a good exercise
People to buy presents for, and/or presents to buy people, and why
I think that's everything, but I can't really be sure. Written out like this, it seems a bit manic. But the funny thing about lists is that they become religions, planets around which I orbit, gravitational anchors to keep from spinning into chaos.
It's possible that I do this because, like marketing people frenetically counting Likes, it's an easy way to mark progress. And maybe at some point, these small demarcations of a life will yield a deeper thing I'm trying to keep track of but can't quite put a finger on.
The ad above was made by RPA to advertise the Honda Accord, with help from the imagination of a four-year-old named Ethan, who transforms the Honda into a rocket to save a princess from a dragon.
The first feminist treatise I ever heard was when my fourth-grade teacher started ranting at us about how maybe the Mushroom Princess in "Super Mario" doesn't want to be saved. I can't remember what brought this on. In my recollection, we all stared wide-eyed while she spat and sputtered about the lame fictional heroics of our favourite Italian plumbers. A girl sitting next to me leaned into my ear and whispered, "I don't think she knows about Bowser."
I am probably a little older now than my teacher was then, and I get what she was trying to convey. The message would perhaps have had the chance to stick if she didn't do other weird things, like try teaching us about mass and density with an example about when she can, and cannot, fit into her boyfriend's pants.
Too soon, Ms. R, too soon.
Anyway, all this is to say that very little has changed, apart from that more little girls are perhaps more willing to say "I don't want to be a princess" and "I don't need to be saved." But there are still little boys who want to save princesses from dragons, and there are still advertising agencies who still imagine the default princess as a curly-haired blonde in a pink prom dress.
Ad slave, wordsmith + co-founder of Hurrah and AdVerve (podcast and blog). French-American, Bay Area-born. My mission: Understanding how we make meaning. That seems important.
This is where my personal ditties come to die. To read the pro stuff, visit Muse by Clio.
To engage me in Jedi battle, shoot me a line at angela [dot] natividad [at] gmail [dot] com ... or just follow me on Twitter if you want to keep lurking. (It's okay, I lurk too.)
