I'm Leaving, on a Hairplane . . .

We're getting ready to take a trip to the great state of Texas. P and I are celebrating ten years of (something resembling) wedded bliss. So it's a combination "anniversary/vacation/visit the relatives" sort of trip. A has been telling everyone that she is taking a Hairplane to Texas.

My to-do list has approximately 2,782 things on it. P's has . . . well, he has no list. He can't remember what I said to him five minutes ago but God forbid he should write anything down.

Last night he was working so it was just me and the kid. I was working on packing our suitcases while she dipped random stuff in the dogs' water bowl. She also watched "Favorite Children's Songs" by Baby Genius (the bastard son of Baby Einstein, I think). The funny (well, not that funny) thing is that she has scratched up this particular DVD so badly that when it gets to "Farmer in the Dell" it stops and goes back several songs, to "Old MacDonald." This means that the DVD is caught in an infinite loop and whaddya know - we can watch the same DVD alllllllll night without touching a button. Good times.

So here I am, packing everything from baby Tylenol to swimsuits to pajamas to diapers. I packed a bag with fun-stuff-to-do-on-the-plane-that-will-actually-only-occupy-her-for-thirty-seconds. I printed up the TSA guidelines to make sure I have a thorough understanding of the "three ounces = okay, four ounces = we're all gonna die" regulations. I checked the kid's car seat to make sure it meets airline regulations (and bears a sticker to that effect). I made arrangements for our dogs, cats, and fish. I printed up directions from the airport to our final destination. Isn't there an old saying about needing a vacation from my vacation?

My darling husband, on the other hand, will do this: knowing that we need to leave for the airport at 8:30 a.m., he will head down to our basement at 8:15 a.m. and grab a suitcase. He will then throw in three pairs of underwear (for an eight-day trip). He will ask me what the weather is like there. Five minutes later, he will announce that he is ready to go. When we get to our vacation spot, he will ask me things like, "Hey, did you bring some toothpaste for me?" At some point during the trip he will ask me for some obscure item, like a wooden spoon or a meat thermometer, and act incredulous that I failed to pack it.

But, payback being what it is . . . guess who gets to sit next to Short Stuff on the hairplane?


Lainey-Paney said…
...from a Texan!


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