Look out, Mouse!

Well, I have to accept the fact that I’m not good at this keeping-up-the-blogging thing. I can’t do it at home, because Webkinz (I think they’ll have to form support groups for the elementary school set who have become hooked on these things!!!!) and Club Penguin and researching the 5th grade class project have invaded our home’s cyberspace. That, and I hate people HANGING OVER MY SHOULDER when I’m trying to tie the frayed remnants of thoughts together to form a cohesive train of consciousness. So, I try to blog at work (I know, bad employee, but hey, I never get my contracted-mandated 30 minute lunch and 2, count ‘em, 2 15-minute breaks), but then the phone rings, or someone does come in and I don’t want them reading my most personal thoughts because none of them know I blog, or I actually need to get some work done. Well, no one is in the office now, so I guess I’ve got a chance to redeem myself, since it’s only been……… Oh My God, SIX months since I blogged last.

We’re going to the Land of Mickey in eight days. Eight days. Until Monday, I was just focused on getting the taxes done. Now I have to focus on this. Let me preface this by saying that I am the organized one in the house. I have three males in the house, and me. That’s one dyslexic-unorganized-possibly-ADD-husband, one 11-yo who is focused only at this time on making sure his MP3 is loaded with the latest tunes and is working on his list of “must-do” rides, and one head-strong, dyslexic-and-working-the-sympathy-vote 7-yo. The 7-yo is the one who responded to my “How did this get to be my job?” open-ended, said-to-no-one-in-particular outburst last night with the retort “Because you’re the mom, that’s why. Dads don’t do that stuff!” (BTW, I’d like to thank DH for teaching the kids about gender roles….).

This combination plus DH’s harumphing around when something is forgotten (harumphing is that sound that someone makes when they’re disappointed in you) means that I am a woman of lists. Lists that I check and recheck and recheck some more. My friends tease me that I am always prepared. What they don’t understand is that it is an emotional defensive mechanism that my husband and kids have helped hone and that my parents (very organized listmakers, those two) instilled in the first place. Lists mean that you don’t forget anything, don’t disappoint anyone, don’t let anyone down.

And when you depend on a non-listmaker to pack? Well, having DH do his own packing for a summer weekend getaway to Santa’s Village in NH (BTW – AWESOME place for Christmas-lovers) resulted in having to buy tshirts, as he forgot to pack his (not to mention the one he had on had a hole under the arm, apparently for ventilation). Last month was the best one, though. I had a retirement planning workshop I’d signed up for on a Thursday night. We were going to drive down to RI the next morning for my DB’s Naval College graduation. Well, New England weather being what it is, the forecast for the next morning involved precipitation in at least three, if not five, forms: snow, sleet, slush, freezing rain, and rain. The decision was made at about two in the afternoon to go after my workshop, and get down to Newport at about midnight, missing the storm. I told DH that I was counting on him to check the packing. He did. The next morning, at the hotel, we got up at about 6:30 so that we would have enough time to get breakfast, get ready, and leave for the graduation ceremony at 9:00. At 7:00 I turned on the iron and looked for the boys’ shirts to quickly press the collars. Guess what didn’t make it into the car?!? The boys’ dress shirts and sweaters. I went into drill-sergent mode (I don’t care if you need coffee, honey, we need to find a Target or Walmart and get them shirts!!!! No, YOU stay in the car and I’LL get directions from the front desk!!!). Twenty-five minutes later, I was charging $18 worth of blue dress shirts, and we were on our way back to the hotel.

So, my lists are out. We’re going to attempt to do this vacation with only the clothes and essentials that can fit in a backpack. I don't want to deal with checked luggage that could get lost (Harumph). I don't even want to deal with a rolling carry-on, as the last time we flew, the lovely Delta gate biotch in Atlanta ripped them from my hands (as she did with all the other coach passengers) because they had SOOOooooo many people on board. Of course, if they had restricted the business class folks to one instead of three bags, there probably would have been room for the one-bag-per-person-allotment. I don't want to even deal with the TSA regulations regarding liquids that could change overnight. I'm shipping a box down with that stuff in it (some money, but my sanity is worth much more).

I’ll let you how it’s going…