Next week I am going overseas. I am going with my husband to Los Angeles and New York to spend time with my good friend Simon Baker and appear on Saturday Night Live.
Of course, I lied about the Simon Baker part, but the rest is true. Except for the SNL part, which is also a lie.
It's a heady feeling, knowing you've got an overseas trip coming up without the kids. I mean, it's not that I don't adore my children, but a long haul flight is bad enough without having to wipe up your family's regurgitated airline food from your lap. (Of course, that could still happen, but I'm hoping my husband would have the sense to vomit into a bag.)
And I really some alone time with my husband. We need to reconnect as people, not just parents and homemakers. We need to remember what it is we love about each other. We need to see each other as who we are, away from the pressures of work and home.
Oh, who am I kidding. I just want to go to the States and shop.
The only problem with travelling overseas (apart from the great expense, securing child care, and retrieving the Visas we accidentally threw out from the bin) is packing. I am an utterly useless packer. I inevitably pack seventeen pairs of undies and no bra, or six tee shirts and no warm jacket, or four bikini tops and no bottoms (and none of the seventeen pairs of undies match).
I forget my extra special face cream, without which I will immediately revert to looking 117 years old. Or I forget my extra special eye cream, without which my face will still look sparkling and fresh, but my eyes will recede into hollow, wrinkled sockets. Or I forget my extra special hair oil, without which I look like Afro Woman from Seventies Frizz Town, and give everyone an electric shock when they touch me.
I forget my phone charger. Or my phone. Or my laptop. Or my credit card. And I take three carefully chosen novels to read on the plane, one of which I finish in the first hour and a half, and the other two which turn out to be crap.
Worst of all, I forget my sleeping pills, and have to stay awake the whole flight, eating horrid airline food, watching stupid airline movies, and feeling sick about wasting $64 on books I discarded after the first paragraph, all the while worrying worrying every time I hear the engines change, and fearing we are going to die.
Still, apart from all that, I'm very excited about my holiday. If I can just get over the packing and worry and guilt and expense and fights with my husband (who presumably will want to do more than shop, though god knows I can't imagine why), it's going to be great.
Oh, and I'm especially looking forward to attending that Pilates session at Madonna's personal studio.
Except I lied about that. I mean, Pilates with Madonna? Please.
I would never do Pilates.