One more sleep and we’re on holidays. A motorcycle holiday, no less. We have a hotel room in Trail, BC for a base and will take day trips from there.
The Viking lovingly freed Jolene from her winter clothes and checked her over for any possible concerns. He bought a new GPS since Jolene’s is making noises about retirement and wanting a pension. He also bought a dash cam. Don’t worry though, it doesn’t have a microphone in case cursing happens and an insurance adjuster or a cop needs to see footage. It just makes sense to proactively avoid offending anyone who may or may not approve an insurance claim.
I, as usual, am in charge of making lists and piles of things we need to take with us. The Viking is in charge of packing it all in bags and wedging them into Jolene’s trunk and side bags. Because he’s a control freak and doesn’t think I have the skills to pack a bag. I do, of course, but I’m not prepared to die on that hill when I can just sit back and watch him do all the work. I just offer drinks and snacks while I play Solitaire.
“How’s it going in there? Do you need a drink or a snack?” I don’t even bother getting up from the computer.
“NO! Why in the fuck do you need eight different jugs of lotion?!”
“Because I have eight different lotion requirements for my body. Face lotion, hand lotion, foot lotion, arm lotion, leg lotion, and three different lotions that overlap so no part of my old lady skin is left un-lotion-ed.” I answer over my shoulder.
“For fucksakes! You get ONE LOTION!!”
Control Freak. “Fine! But, if I pre-maturely age while we’re on vacation it’s your fault.” Heavy sigh. “If I am forced to choose, and you are forcing me, I need the face lotion because it has sunscreen and then the hand lotion because face lotion is too expensive to use on my whole body and hand lotion doesn’t have sunscreen.”
I hear the rattling of lotion containers bouncing across the living room floor. There is muttering and cursing, but I don’t even pay attention anymore. If he wasn’t such a control freak, he wouldn’t be in this situation.
After about 10 minutes. “WHAT THE FUCK?!”
I was wondering when he would get to that. He took so long I thought maybe he missed it. Or, more likely, knew immediately that I was fucking with him because he’s a control freak and just put the extra-large jar of pickles to the side without a word. The 8 jugs of lotion were on purpose, too, but he fell for that.
And, sure, I suppose I shouldn’t fuck with him when he’s in the middle of a complex and grandiose packing plan, but I can’t just let the whole control freak thing go without some sort of punishment, can I? Give him a pass and what’s next? He’ll be organizing my purse or going through the freezer and pointing out things that have been in there since 2017. Or insist on driving whenever we go some place together.
Wait…
…
…
I probably should have been on top of this way before now.