Day 1 - The uninteresting but essential business of getting there

I am not sure if moms are allowed to go on vacation, but Jim is a saint for making me go.  My biological system is refusing to shut down though, because every time I hear a baby cry in this airport, I immediately think it’s mine only to experience the wonderful sensation of realizing it’s some other parent's problem. Large grin. 

I have so many goals and aspirations for this vacation though, I think I may need more than a long week to accomplish all of the book writing, eating and castle seeing we have planned.  It’s always better to have too much to do, than too little though, right?

The TSA agent at the front of the security line has already made this trip worth it.  He was like a anecdote vending machine.  Plug in a word like “ipad”and hear five minutes oh hilarious diatribe about C-pap machines and his wife who doesn’t listen to him.  We were loathe to leave him behind to play the Russian Roulette that is getting through security.  We’re flying one of those new airlines where they charge you for everything from sneezing to using the restroom.  Like a kantankerous toddler it becomes a game to see how much you can get way with.  I refuse to pay 80 dollars for a carry on (Carry on!) so pack for a whole week in just your “under the seat” personal item? Challenge accepted. 

Of course, I would have failed miserably without bringing in the experts (in this case Julie), who loaned me everything from super compact warm clothing to a shoe hanger for the outside of my bag.  I felt like i had a giant stamp on my head in security that said “CHEATING!”, but they let me through without fussing about anything.  Now just to successfully shove this thing under the seat after we board.  If worse comes to worse, I will just wear and hang everything on my person. I figure I’m small enough, that I could attach all of my belongings to my person and I’d still take up less space than some of the passengers.  Crossing fingers.

I rolled everything up and suctioned it down in ziplocs.  My other belongings are organized by category and all of my Ipsy bags are all filed like a colorful records room. Since my usual packing motto vacillates between “though the bear minimum in a bag and figure it out later” and “pack everything but the kitchen sink”, I’m quite proud of myself. 

Of course what organized people fail to tell you is  you have to actually remember where you packed everything.  I have entirely emptied my bag three times now trying to find something, despite it having a well ordered system.  I think I’m a hopeless case.  I told Andria she should take all of my money.  Jim’s hoping I can keep track of at least my passport. 

Four hours in though, and so far so good.  Only another two hundred and sixteen hours to go.  :P