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I Get My Best Stuff Done When I’m Driving

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.


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