By the time this is posted I will be on a plane, on my way home to Florida. This weekend I went to mom's house up in Illinois, for her 90th birthday party. While I'm sure I had a very good time, and nothing worth writing about happened, I won't know that until this is already posted. This is being written on Friday, December 2nd, and I have other worries. First of all there is the packing. I am going from temperatures in the mid seventies, to possible freezing rain and snow. I am trying to stuff all my warmest clothes into a carry on bag that will fit snuggly in the overhead compartment, yet will still allow me to look my best in Chicago. I don't think that will happen. I know that no matter how hard I try, when I put on my pants and shirt for ma's party it'll look like I just crawled out of a sleeping bag with my clothes on.
When I finally had everything in my bag, Mark started up.
"Do you have socks?"
"Do you have enough underpants?"
"Gloves, hat, scarf, sweaters?"
"Yes, yes, yes, yes."
I have packed my bags for years before I met Mark, and I never had a problem. Not packing something is not what I am worried about. I am eating a hole in my stomach with worry about Mark and the animals. For just over forty eight hours Chandler, Sasha, and the two kitties in the back yard will be at the mercy of Mark. Mark, a man who has never, ever, walked a dog, fed a dog, has never picked up dog shit, the guy who calls me to rinse out his shower after Sasha pissed in it. That man will be taking care of the living things in my house that I most care about. Okay, non-human living things. I am truly worried that I will come home to starving cats, dog shit in my office, or worse. It's not that I don't love Mark, and care for him, but I told him the first day he moved in here fifteen years ago, "My dog comes first. If I ever go away and come home to a dead dog, you'd be wise to disappear."