How to pack the whole world in a Ziplock bag

So, in a few days the man and I are leaving on vacation. Being the free spirits that we are, we will not hesitate to jump on the Harley and zip off for ten days with no particular destination. Yep, ten whole days. On a motorcycle. Two of us.

While on the surface this sounds idyllic, let's look at the practicalities. Here is our mode of transportation for said ten days.








Notice the failure of adequate packing area? Holy crap! And this has to hold everything for TWO people. The last trip was for seven days, and I'm pretty sure I had to buy new underwear to make it through. Now it's time to make a plan of attack on this issue. Let's start at the top and work our way down. (That's what he said.)

Hair and various products to make it not appear like a taxidermied pelt. Travel size washing and rinsing agents are readily available. And cute. Various blowing, drying, curling and straightening tools. Not gonna happen. Most reputable motels with the exception of Chunky Bob's Love Palace provide hair dryers, so I guess that just leaves curling my hair around empty beer cans before bed every night. It's like recycling, folks! Hopefully the motel dumpster will provide enough Old Milwaukee cans to leave me looking like I'm ready for civilization.

It takes a daily plethora of potions and volatile solutions to prep this face for the world. I will be culling this down to the bare basics. I will only be packing the necessary items needed to not scare and/or scar children and/or small animals. The rest of world should just look away.

Clothing. Herein lies the problem. Sure, we could skip on undies and ride commando, but over a thousand miles on a small leather seat with the seam of your new cool jeans wrapping around your ovaries makes one testy. Seam chafing your labia majorly? Seam rubbing the jay off your vajayjay? "Insert your own disturbing phrase here."

Since we will not be attending any grand affairs or red-carpet events, comfy jeans and cute tops will suffice. Throw in some t-shirts for the man, and we will be all ready for All-You-Can-Eat-Barbeques and roadside flea markets.

Shoes. There will be arguments over the packing of shoes. Namely cute shoes. I choose to live in denial for now. Or at least until the fighting begins.

Various technological devices. *sigh* Dear Laptop-on-which-I-am-typity-typing, I will miss you. Please do not think that I have abandoned you for another. I promise to return to you with tales of wonder and will google all the places that I've been. I will upload pictures for you to see and download any new music that I find while I'm away. Yes, the new camera and the newer ipod will be making the journey with me, but only to keep me amused while we're apart.

The man will probably make me pack practical things like rain suits and sunscreen. I will argue for cute shoes. He will win as soon as I realize that it's vacation and I dont' care. Just don't expect any pictures of my feet.

Damned memories

Something today sparked a memory. This evening in the course of dinner conversation the subject of cussing arose. Now, while I personally am a BIG fan, and a veteran in the practiced art of cussery, I generally frown upon the chirren blaspheming. As they morph into the teenagers that will be the death of me, I'm sure the words will become more frequent. It's part of growing up and expanding and finding boundaries. Fortunately, that's not the story to tell today. ("Cause I'm long-winded, ya know.)

When the eldest was about four years old, one of the hilljack aunts decided that she needed a parakeet for Easter. Sidenote: I don't like birds. As a matter of fact, I hate birds. Especially up close. Or in my house. Yes, it's irrational, blame Hitchcock. Whatev.

Unknown to the hilljack aunt, she had purchased the world's oldest parakeet. Guiness Book of Records old. Ought to be drawing a social security check old. I didn't know feathers could wrinkle - old.

Fast forward a couple of weeks full of me cussing birdseed in the carpet and annoying bird noises at 5:30 AM to one bright Saturday morning. I had planned to take the chirren to see their grandmother for the day, and in the process of breakfast, face-washing and clothing the offspring, I look up to see one dead bird in the bottom of one messy cage. Thanks to it's height, the kiddos hadn't noticed it yet. Being the non-dealing-with-shit type mom, I rushed us all out the door and into the car. One quick cell call to the hilljack husband to DEAL WITH THIS, was placed entirely in code. Or pig latin. I can't remember.

Remember the hilljack? Milkdud? That dumbass that I was married to? Yeah, that one. Well, he decides to go one a mission to find an identical bird to replace this one, hence leaving the chirren clueless and happy. It was a nice thought, I suppose, but we all know that those never play out well. Seeing as how he has the attention-span of a gnat on meth, he disposed of the WHITE BIRD WITH BLUE SPOTS, and purchased a BLUE BIRD WITH WHITE SPOTS. (Big diff, dud.)

The eldest childs comment to me upon seeing the new bird for the first time?
"Someone painted my damned bird!"

*At this point the mother went outside, crawled in the backseat of the car, and laughed until the pee in her pants almost dried.