I like to make lists. I make a lot of lists; to-do lists, grocery lists, travel lists… I started making a list of my favourite things: (and I hope it keeps growing)

Indian rugs. Persian hospitality. French Merlot. Pinot Grigio.  Dirty martinis. Napolitan pizza. Japanese girls. Argentine Tango. Salsa dancing. Belly dancing. Beach volleyball. Snowboarding. Swinging hammocks. Galloping Thoroughbreds. Icelandic horses. Arabian horses.  Chopin nocturnes. Rachmaninoff piano concertos. Steinway grand pianos. Antique Instruments. Used bookstores. Old Maps. Polka dot bikinis. Nonconformity. Spontaneity. Adventure. Couchsurfers. Chimes. Happiness

Then I thought of making a list of things that aren’t my favourite, like when cockroaches fly; when condensation drips from a cold glass; when people drive crazy; when idiots boast; talking rudely to people; and I dislike being disliked. (but I like that this list is shorter)

I made a list of stupid things I once believed:

• That brown cows make chocolate milk.
• That you could kick a street lamp to turn it on.
• That it was hottest in the south pole.
• That smart phones were too smart for me.
• That I could be a lot of things but never grow up.

And then I made a list of things I don’t understand (answer if you know):

• Why doesn’t the moon cycle west to east?
• Why do people underachieve greatness when they’re great?
• Why is it normal to drink soft drinks with a straw but not beer?
• Why don’t all pretty people know when they’re beautiful?
• Why do I have man hands?