Trust me, the tablecloth is a memory. I have a new carry on ready to be stuffed and have not begun to gather the stuffing. I’m not terribly worried since we are both taking off all of Friday and the plane doesn’t take off until 8 something PM. But it looms.
Also listed under ToDo is the paperwork that cannot go up in flames in our absence (why does Honey call me paranoid?) that I have designated to the Chevy trunk until we return and secure that safety deposit box currently sporting a sticky note with our names on it. The paper pile includes but is not limited to insurance policies, pictures, genealogy records, tax returns, passwords, and bank records, and especially the 300 year old family Bible entrusted to my care for which I purchased unbleached muslin in which to wrap it. (we must be careful to not end a sentence a preposition in)
In the meantime, overtaken with curiosity over my own statements concerning the dining room table, I took an inventory:
Clear bags for small stuff in case we are inspected, gum for takeoffs and landing, outfits for the grand-babes, bubble wrap – apparently it didn’t make it into the return-this-horrible-outfit bag, potscrubber heads picked up today because they were on the list, batteries just in case, sexy strappy sandals with the potential of snapping an ankle bone, huge bag to pose as a purse which doesn’t count as a carryon, purse to be packed in the bigger carryon, pictures printed before the chip is erased forever, paper shredder still in the box, roofing samples, bandaids which aren’t necessary until you don’t take them, and last, but not least, junk mail waiting for an opportunity to burn it in the fireplace. Oh, wait — I have a shredder!
I am seconds away from overload, a short trip for someone who knows how to organize but has never once enjoyed it.
Isn’t Boston Legal on tonight?