In a few hours I will be leaving on a jet plane. Or with my luck, some rusty tin can which only seats 10 and vibrates so badly the bolts wiggle loose holding the engine in place thereby causing the plane to crash and me to have a full-blown panic attack while begging God Himself to save my rather pimply hairy arse.

Good times.

My husband says I have an over active imagination. He may have a point.

I’m a procrastinator. Always have been, at at this advanced age, I don’t see that changing any time soon. This means that even though I have to be at the airport in less than four hours, I still have to pack for myself, my children, shower, find the new kittens I brought home in a moment of mommy stupidity, trap them in the laundry room, feed them along with the birds, the hamster and the mouse, find my dog and push his fat wiggling arse into the pet carrier, take the kids and the dog to my MIL’s house, appropriately show my appreciation for having her watch over my brood while I play in the States, write a note to the hubs pointing out the premade dinners in the freezer thus ensuring he will eat something other than corn chips and hot dogs while I’m gone, water the plants, find my freaking passport, blog and get gas so that I can make it to the airport which happens to be located in buttfark nowhere with no gas stations along the way.

I’m not worried. I thrive under pressure. Heh.

I’m spending four and a half days soaking up the sun in the sunny state of California. Except I’m told it’s not always sunny in San Francisco and the current weather forecast calls for fog and not great temperatures.

That’s just my luck. I fly to another country, to a state specifically known for it’s beaches and bikini clad women and it’s colder there than it is here up in the wilds of Northern Canada.

I must have horseshoes tucked in my bum.

Heh.

A little cold weather never stopped me before. So when I pack my suitcase, I’m putting in my bathing suit. I have long had a dream of running down the beach a la Baywatch style and pretending I’m Pamela Anderson (without the Hepatitis or the fake boobs or the millions of dollars) and bending time to tick by in slow motion as I frolick in the sand.

Of course, no amount of fake yellow hair is going to transform me into some young hot thing bouncing along on a Californian beach.

So, when you see someone who looks like this running down the sandy strip while tourists and locals stare at the crazy Canadian, just know I’m having the time of my life.

Even if I do get sand in my crack and frostbite on my pink parts.

I’ll be back on Monday. Have a great weekend, everyone.