I am sick in bed and in between unconsciousness-raising doses of NyQuil, I am just lying here dosing before dozing and feeling sleepily wistful about traveling the world…and wishing so much that I was somewhere else seeing glorious places and extraordinary things. Hoping perchance to remember and dream of sweet French apples on my tongue and my handsome husband serenading me with Elvis Costello as we strolled arm in arm down the Champs Elysees one fine night in Paris.
My bag is packed. Then again…my bag is ALWAYS packed. Quite literally. You never know when you may have to jam.
In the meantime:
Inane Muff Fact #827:
I am an EBULLIENT ADVENTURER, PATHOLOGICAL PACKER and RABID ACOLYTE of The Rick Steves Method…and can effortlessly pack for three days OR three months in my BELOVED garnet carry-on suitcase…because Mama don’t check bags. EVER:
Three black dresses, black cashmere cardigan, five pairs of Granny Panties, two pairs of black tights, black bathing suit, black Havaianas, Target schmata to sleep in, jewelry satchel with two pairs of black drop-ball earrings and five choice brooches, two vintage lady scarves, moisturizer, sunscreen, crystal deodorant, toothbrush and toothpaste, travel package of baby wipes, black Ace comb, medical-grade tweezers (I’M SICILIAN, BITCHES), small black umbrella, writing notebook, MACBook and charger, and a single tube of glorious MAC Russian Red lipstick because I am a fancy motherfucker.