When I’m driving—which is to say, when I’m stuck in the car, cruising along and unable to do anything other than contemplate the meaning of Sam’s favorite song (“Fireflies,” a song that gives “MacArthur Park” a run for its money in terms of its general air of having a much deeper meaning than anything that’s actually said ) if he has control of the iPod, or belt out a few of my own favorites (I favor “If You’re Gonna Play in Texas, You’ve Gotta Have a Fiddle in the Band” and a few other classics at the moment, I get a LOT done. I liken this imaginary furor of activity to the spending of imaginary money I like to do while looking at catalogs: do enough of it, and at the end, you’re so exhausted that you feel like you’ve shopped, worn all the stuff and are now completely tired of it.

I make all these grandiose plans for my evenings. I’ll blog, respond to emails, set up summer things, do Lily’s birthday evite, clear out my closet, get a head start on tomorrow’s writing, order Lily’s birthday presents so that no speed shipping is required and…

It sounds so good when I’m in the car. So feasible. But when I get home? Well, at least I’m here.