"THOSE WHO CANNOT DO . . . "

I had a fourth grade teacher who encouraged my creative writing, so (imagine the Groucho Marx tone and cigar), "I got more and more creative as time went on (wag cigar and huge eyebrows)."

Once the concept of a diary registered completely on my pre-adolescent brain, I immediately began to commandeer every possible journal, old calendar log and spiral notebook that came anywhere near me and began to stockpile.

That may have been where my (bordering on criminal) obsessive relationship with office supplies.

Some people dream of being locked up overnight in the Louvre - winning a million dollars in the lottery - having 3 minutes to grab all the diamonds they can at Tiffany's.

I fantasy about being let loose in an Office Depot - Staples - Office Max.

Even aisles B-4 through B-7 in Target.

But I digress (which is why I have a blog - I can digress as much as I want - so there).

Proportionately to my fixation on office supplies, my writing steadily increased over the years to the point where the Bic Corporation petitioned me to at least allow ink production to catch up to my use.

When I joined the LDS church in 1976, and was introduced to the church counsel of keeping a journal, I already had nine years of recording completely random events, observations, mood elevations (this was before antidepressants were commonly prescribed), and catty remarks about people I didn't like.

Oh, wait, a journal is supposed to be uplifting, spiritual records of your mortal progress?

Hell, NO.

My journal/diary/scribbles are where I gripe, complain, whine and belly-ache.

However, tomorrow I am responsible to teaching a class of twelve-year olds about record keeping... which I can loosely translate into journal keeping... and hopefully turn into an actual journal -entry session.

Let's see how this goes.