And so it begins . . .

Forty-two days in Bali. Six days and counting. Well, really, five days; our plane departs from SEATAC at two in the morning on Wednesday. I have a hard time separating that from late night Tuesday. Further, we have a five hour car ride from the Oregon coast to Seattle. Shite. Five days and counting. 


My check-in bag is already packed, off and on for the past five weeks. Yes, I am what normal people call an anxious traveler. Travelers call me outrageously uptight and boring, if they are tactfully restrained. If I was to fill out a dating site form (and I may have to after this trip), I would NEVER state that I love to travel, nor would I respond to some dude who claims to be "spontaneous" and a "world traveler." Yet, that is who I have married. We might as well be James Carville and Mary Matalin, a democrat and a republican. 

The spawn from our unbalanced union is Auggie, a crazy, whirling dervish five-year-old that will charm the discipline right out of you. Example: the other day, I opened my mouth to yell at him to stop riding his scooter in the house when he slid around the corner, gave me "the eye," and said, "Hell-oh Beautiful." He rocketed away, I coughed to cover my laughing. He was scooting circles around me  fifteen minutes later as I sat at the computer, creating a new on-line savings account labeled "Auggie's Future Bail Fund." Feel free to contribute. 

Well, I'm off to bed. That's a lie. I'm off to try the valium prescription the doctor gave me for the flight. It will be the only way I can talk to Andre about his decision to leave Auggie and I on Bali for eight days while he goes on a surfing side trip to G-Landia. Seriously, what wife doesn't need to be doped down to keep her s**t during that conversation? In his defense, when he first brought this up, I said it was okay, despite the "sweet" camp name. I didn't know it was for so long. Nor did I realize who he invited to stay with us in his absence. 

But that is another night's story.