So we're off to Mexico on vacation tomorrow. This is our first vacation since we bought the house last year... My poor b/f hasn't been off the island in almost two years. If you've ever lived on an island you know how crazy that will make you. I traveled a bit last year; true, it was for work and not really a vacation, but still. I got off the Rock. I kept my sanity. But my b/f? He's a hero for not having lapsed into nervous tics or worse.
Why didn't we travel? We have four dogs. Yes, four. And now we have a giant yard that I've managed to fill with plants (not full enough, as far as I'm concerned). If we leave, both of us together, who's going to feed the dogs and water the plants? It's a full-time job (especially the plant part), and we didn't want to inconvenience our friends like that. Plus, we were (still are) so in love with the house that, although we took time off from work, we were happy to stay put and go shopping for... oh, you know. Cushions. Curtains. Cupboards. Cool kitchen stuff. And, of course, I would shop for plants. Pots and pots and pots of beautiful living green things. And then I'd spend five days up to my elbows in Miracle Gro soil, building flower boxes and garden boxes, lining the entire property with flowers (where there's sun) and beautiful shade plants (where there isn't).
But now a friend -- a good one -- is getting married, and we haven't been to Mexico in a while, and I'm quitting my job soon, and I'm starting my own business which involves stuff from Mexico... So it added up. Let's go to Mexico for a week or so. Yay, right? But now I'm sitting here worried sick that our housesitter won't be a good dogsitter (or good enough), that the plants will be nothing but dry and crackly piles when we're back. God.
And instead of packing, I'm sitting here (at 9 pm) writing a post on my blog. Define procrastination: Guilie.