I need to pack.
I hate packing. I'd rather be doing almost anything else. No, really. Anything. Almost. Am I packed yet?
I'm off Sat. on what should be a grand trip to Alaska. In fact, if you're reading this, I'm already in Seattle at the start of the journey. It's just me and mom from this household, and we're meeting up with mom's best friend since college. They'll room together, and I'll room with a writing friend.
I'd like to think my husband and sons won't do well without me, that they'll be drowning their sorrows in light and root beer. In fact, I'm going to run with that and ignore it when I get home and find them well fed, rested, and the house cleaner than I left it.
I'm supposed to blog again during the trip, so I'll try to upload pics and such. But don't worry if you don't hear from me. I probably haven't been eaten by a bear or run off with a lumberjack (beards and plaid are SO not my thing!). I'm probably enjoying my vacation and trying to keep mom and her friend from wearing lampshades and dancing on tables. Or I'm busy joining them.
Hey, what happens in Alaska, stays in Alaska.
I have to go pack my muse. And where did I put those high heel snowshoes?