I don’t even know why I’m posting. I should totally be packing. We’re leaving in the morning on a three-week trip around the state (Again, I’m gay for Florida. That’s right, I said it. Come and get me, PRIDE!) and instead of packing, I’m writing. For free. Which is fine, because I do this for the love. Totally.
Back to packing (I know it’s only been a sentence for you, but I’ve been on Facebook, played a stupid game, and watched half an episode of Cheers): I am not packed. I mean, I am, sort of, but I’ve packed too many clothes and not nearly enough in the way of toothpaste and the like. I also feel like I should bring some books. Or something. Maybe knitting.
God, I’m pathetic. Actually, El Cap is my savior here. I’m busy packing knitting and textbooks, and he’s trying to figure out if we have room for three types of rum. That makes him sound a lot boozier than he is, but three weeks is a long time, people. Plus, the RoadTrek just ain’t that big, and, well, honestly, I can be kind of a bitch. Truth? When I think about it, I’m shocked he thinks three types of rum is enough.
So he’s portioning out the amaretto for the trip (hey, just because someone likes an after-dinner drink doesn’t mean they have to over-indulge. At least, that’s what I’ve been told) and he goes to throw the bottle in the recycling bin. Which, he points out to me, is all beer bottles, empty liquor bottles, and one two-liter Pepsi bottle (for pizza).
Yeah, it sounds bad to me, too, but I swear, we don’t sit around and drink all night. It was just a week of cleaning out the fridge and dumping stuff out and re-packaging the Kraken (it’s a rum; I don’t actually travel with the Kraken, although how cool would THAT be?) for travel. We don’t normally fill our recycling bin to overflowing with booze bottles, and I am totally not just saying that because my mother reads these posts and is completely paranoid that I’m becoming an alcoholic.
So he brings in the laundry (because, yes, ladies, I am just that lucky) and mentions to me that our recycle bin looks like one of the beach dirties (my words, not his, he’s actually far classier than I am) because of the mounds of empty beer, wine and alcohol bottles. What can I say? How do you combat that? I settle for telling him we’re just like Nick and Nora, only green (this link totally doesn’t make my point; you’ll just have to watch if you haven’t seen it). This does not appear to make him feel better, but I’ve taken to calling The Most Interesting Dog in the World “Asta” now. She doesn’t appear to notice.
So, yeah, once again, not a point to this blog entry. Evs. Stay tuned, though, because tomorrow I start three weeks in a small van with another human, and if we don’t go all Copernicus on each other, it’ll be a good trip. Either way, it’s bound to be interesting.
Note: We really are like Nick and Nora, except we don’t solve crimes. And we don’t drink enough. The rest? That’s us. Totes.
