We move a week from tomorrow. My husband is in Vegas for the week on business. I have a barfing child in the heezy. "This is a really important time for you to buckle down and pack," you are probably thinking. And you'd be right, thinking that, but if you actually SAID it to me right now, I'd probably start flailing all up in your grill, re: the aforementioned traveling husband (HOW CONVENIENT, J), and the barfchild, and the sheer volume of Stuff to Do, and then you'd run away. So, here's what I've been doing instead of packing:
1. Getting misty every time I walk around the neighborhood.
2. Humming "Memories" to myself, frequently.
3. Frequently to the point that I become distracted, trying to remember if, when Tom Hanks sings to his mom in Big, it was Barbra Streisand's "The Way We Were," or "Memory" from Cats.
4. Oh, whatever, you sit there all haughty because the titles are different, but "misty watercolor memories of the way we were" and "memories of my days in the sun" are CONCEPTUALLY SIMILAR.
5. Don't even get me started on my issues with Cats. Or that a cat is, in that song anyway, telling us that if we touch her, we'll understand what happiness is. And seriously, that is the least of my problems with Cats.
6. Googling to find the answer regarding my song question, and then discovering this gem.
7. Watching many episodes of My Drunk Kitchen. ("So, the worst part about baking is everything about baking.")
8. Trying on basically all of my shoes for no apparent reason.
9. Same with my Princess Kate Hat.
10. Admit it, you want to invite me over for tea now, don't you?
11. It's okay! Don't fight it! Such is the hat's power! Can you, please? So I don't have to pack? I like tea!
12. Eating sesame sticks like it's my job.
13. Hovering over the "checkout" button on account of this dress, but -- upon further consideration of white linen in August in New York -- letting sanity prevail.
14. Buying this instead.
15. Making packing LISTS. (That totally counts for something, I don't care what you say.)
16. Reading my old journals under the guise of Organizing, but really, so I can read my poetic gems, such as "Angst," which, no, will never, ever get old.