I do love to travel; it’s the number one on the favorite things to do list. But, I haaaate to pack. I’ve been looking for that perfect dress for years, but haven’t found it. It should be reversible and on one side you could wear it to a midnight drunken beach party debacle/bonfire or flip it over and wear it to a presidential inauguration. Haven’t found one yet, still looking.
If I ever get rich enough to afford supercilious things, what I want is a personal valet. They wouldn’t have to do much really, just bring me a cup of coffee in the morning, mail back my Netflix movies, and pack when I’m planning to travel. Anyone out there know someone looking for a part-time valet job? Ok, they might get asked to patrol the house for cat fur balls on occasion or go to the drug store and pick out that perfect shade of lip gloss that I can never find. Whatever I buy, I end up looking like a circus clown 20 minutes after application.
I tend to mutter curses and talk to myself a lot when packing. I’m talking through the activities trying to figure out what I’m going to need and combine that into the least amount of clothing and accessories. It occurred to me earlier that it would help to declare a packing day moratorium with Mr. Husband on responding to anything I say, scream or mutter. Unless I address him by his given name and am looking him in the eye, or if I happen to be screaming in pain and yelling “help.” Other than that ignore me completely, please, thank you.
Packing is a pretty personal thing though when you think about it. It gets even more stressful when Hubman starts asking me what he should pack. That overloads my brain. Once I snapped, “just bring everything.” He did…and threw out his back trying to get his suitcase out of the car. This time I told him “honey, we’re going to a place where people’s idea of dressing up is wearing a clean T-shirt, shorts with no holes and a new pair of rubber flip-flops, trust me I lived there, figure it out!”
Hubman and his mom have this thing about preparation that involves talking about it five thousand eight hundred and seventy-two times – per day. This just drives me bat shit crazy. I end up wanting to say rude things like “look, just throw yer crap in a garbage bag, get in the damned car and let’s go! Anything you forgot we can buy along the way. It’s not like we’re going to Botswana.”
But, I’m trying to be a lady about this. I’m still a little raw and embarrassed by yelling at an in-law on Thanksgiving Day. I’ll get over it, I always do. If I didn’t, that would mean big trouble because I say things that even I don’t believe came out of my mouth, often.
**Sigh** Here I am writing again, when I should be doing….well, you know. I guess I’ll go pack.