It Ain’t Easy Being Green

I ask you, internet- is this luggage horrendous? Is it horrible, obviously purchased by someone with little to no taste? Would you be just humiliated and embarrassed to walk through the airport with these bags? Or do you see the potential- never worrying about grabbing the wrong bag, identifying your luggage the minute you hear the baggage handlers claim “Look at the beautiful green luggage! I simply cannot wait to put it on the carousel, next to all of the boring black bags. This green luggage, it makes my soul sing.”

WH would contend that my kelly green luggage purchase is yet another sign of an unhealthy mind. You would have thought I had gotten another tattoo. I carefully explained that I had forsaken the matching luggage tags that look like huge daisies, just for him. He was not impressed. With my sister on her way for the weekend, I laid in wait, willing my reinforcements to hurry. When she arrived, and everyone got settled on the porch with margaritas, I called in my new troops.

That finking bitch took his side. What the hell good is a sister if she’s going to back your man?! Worse than that, she said it was something my Mom would do. Well, I can reject that criticism right out of the box- Mom would never have bought the beautiful green luggage, because it was on sale. Mom would only have paid extra for green, not less. This, my darlings, is the work of my cheap father’s genes.

Yes it was on sale. Yes, the sale price was incredible. No, I did not buy green luggage just because it was cheaper than black. It pains me to admit this, internet, but I actually like the green luggage way better than black luggage.

Many times I neglect my tastes for things. Living with a man who has a better eye for space and color than you do means that you hardly ever get to pick anything out on your own, but it also means that your stuff always looks good and you don’t ever do stupid things like collect Christmas snowmen. Mom has at least 30. She puts them all out on the hearth- yes, the hearth, because they have a gas log fireplace that they never, ever use. Anyway. This interior decorating inferiority has both protected me (I do have horrible taste genes) and stifled me. Surely, I thought, a girl should be allowed some personal expression in the purchase of something as benign as luggage.

Internet, I was wrong. WH is not amused.

In other, better news- I am making lists, fast and furious, so that when the mean green lands, I have everything I need to put in them. Did you know that having a dog is almost equal to having a kid, luggage-wise? He has his own bag, a Nature Conservancy tote- and I might have to upgrade him to a bigger bag by the time I get everything on his list in there. Yes, internet, I am neurotic and obsessed and overprotective, and my dog has his own list for vacation.

12 days to go, 8 working days to go.

By the way, if you’ve somehow figured out where Paradise is, and where my own private piece of Paradise is, so that you can break into my house to punish me for being stupid enough to announce my absence, please run the vacuum before you leave and don’t let the cats out. You’ll need a hand truck for the tv. You can take the table it’s sitting on too, we’ll use the insurance money to replace it with a flat screen. Thanks!

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