I can’t find my little black book, you know, the one with all my lists and ideas, the one that substitutes for the blog or e-mail when I have a moment to write, the one that substitutes for my BRAIN.

I think I left it at Target when Carmen cried and Matt and David were still in the checkout line.  Or maybe I put it on the top of the car–I never have a pocket or anyplace to stick it–when I was loading Carmen in her seat and left it.

I have everything from April and May in that book, ideas and tasks and numbers and appointments that I hadn’t yet been able to enter into my computer.  I have prescriptions I might need to fill, and cards to write and mail.  And now it’s all gone.  I’m trying to remember everything in it, but I’m worried about what I forgot, because the whole point of writing everything down was because I thought I’d not remember (willingly or no). 

I called Target and they said it didn’t turn up.  Who would want to take my little black book?

But maybe it’s not at Target at all.  Maybe I left it somewhere else.  The playground?  The co-op?  Maybe somebody took it.  Maybe it’s in someone’s trash.  Maybe it’s in the middle of San Felipe getting run over by Land Rovers and BMWs.  Maybe it’s at the dump already.

Panic panic panic.