Writer's retreat is only three and a half excruciating days away. I. Can't. Wait. Actually it's good that I have three more days to prepare. I haven't packed, though I did wrestle a suitcase out of the attic.
I also need to leave instructions for The Man on how to appease the sea monkey tribe. It will involve sea salt, one of those plastic scuba divers that goes up and down in an aquarium, and a ritual sacrifice of a fancy goldfish, (No, not the regular ten-for-a-buck goldfish. We're not chumming, here. That would spur a sea monkey frenzy the likes of which have never been seen before.) There's a delicate balance when dealing with the bathtub sea monkeys. You don't want to incur their wrath.
So once the how-to instructions to mollify the sea monkeys are written, I can get on to the ordeal of packing. It's times like this that my deeply repressed girlie tendencies surface. I always over-pack. You never know what might crop up. I know we're going out for drinks on Friday night. But with the spring weather, there's no telling what it will be like by then. So I pack sandals and flats. A short sleeved nice shirt and a long sleeved nice shirt. A skirt and nice jeans or pants. All for a couple hours at the local Applebees. *shakes head at own pathetic-ness*
The urge can't be squelched. Two complete and mix-matchable outfits will be packed and taking up precious space in the very small rolling carry-on that I was able to wrest from the clutches of the piles of junk in the attic.
All is worth it, though, to go away for three days with other writers, lock yourself away in a room (or not), get meals taken care of for you and just write. That is a little slice of paradise if you ask me. And I. Cant. Wait!!!
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