To complicate my packing this time around, I have three sloth children going one direction for a week and another sloth-child going a completely different direction (and climate) for two weeks. Dancer Sloth can pack her own darned bag, but even though the eldest sloth is 15...well, if I leave it up to him, he'll spend two weeks in Maine with the pair of underwear he has on, a pair of mismatched shorts and a t-shirt, and a smuggled X-box. To further muck up my plans (and my budget, you know, since I'm not yet famous) he's grown about 6 inches in the last week. He'll be needing some new jeans.
Fia Sloth has taken my packing as a sign of "it's time to go NOW!" While I was sobbing in the floor amongst a pile of mismatched socks, she was looking for her shoes and handing me my keys. And while I'm not going to say here how many days we have left or when we'll be gone and such (I don't want to broadcast for anyone looking to come in and clean my carpets while I'm gone) let's just say, it's not tonight. And in two-year old world, it may as well be next year.
The final complication here is that I have nothing in which to pack our stuff. The dog ate my suitcase. We're going high-class with laundry baskets, I guess. I mean, I have bags, but nothing worth of the amount of clothing I'm needing to shove into them. I'm giving Cody Sloth the only remaining large gym bag. I think the next step will be to give us all mullets.
|Image links back to original site. Go there. It's funny.|
Well, I should probably go make a packing spreadsheet or something so that my procrastination has purpose.