chavvah: (oh dear evelyn)
So the other night when we were at [livejournal.com profile] pyroclasticgrub's place, my mother busts this one out on me. (I should preface this by saying that she'd had a few.)

"You're so moral. You have always been like that, ever since you were a child. You have a sense of morality that I would say is quite Victorian. I don't know where you got all those morals from. It certainly wasn't from me!"

I just had to share. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did.
chavvah: (Default)
So tonight I have to start packing for my trip. This is more of an ordeal than one might think.

See, first I have to do laundry so that I actually have clothes to pack. Invariably there are at least two essential items left out of the first run of laundry because they were hiding in very odd places, such as underpants on the stove*, skirt thrown casually over the balcony railing, socks in the bathroom cupboard, etc.

Then I do a practice pack, which is never intended to be just for practice, but I always forget like sixteen things and so I have to unpack it and pack it again. This is why I start packing on Saturday night for a flight that leaves Friday morning, even though I have Sunday and Monday off. I need those days to work through the stages. You see, when it comes to packing, I go through stages that are very similar to the five stages of grief.

First, denial: What, pack? I don't need to pack. I'm only going for a few days. I'll just throw some jeans and t-shirts in a backpack and I am set. They will have shampoos and everything at the hotel, right? Eventually reality sets in when I remember that I am travelling with my mother, who will not be impressed if I wear each pair of socks twice and have to wash my one pair of underpants in the shower every night.

Then, anger: When the shit am I going to find time to do this? How am I going to fit everything I need to take in my tiny stupid fucking suitcase because my big suitcase is damaged from when some asshole at the airport decided to stand on it?! I don't have time to go away! My work/home/dog/significant other will fall apart without me! GRAH! This stage usually subsides after I have put on some music and had some wine. Mmm, wine. Wish I had some now.

Next comes bargaining: Okay, if I put my sandals in my carry-on and wear three pairs of underwear on the plane, I can get everything in there. Oh crap, what about pajamas? Well, maybe I can make some room if I ditch the extra batteries for my camera... Generally this lasts until I pop a seam on my bag, or until the wine runs out and I have to start hitting the gin.

Depression: Why am I even going on this trip? I can't afford it. Plus I should be paying more attention to finding a better job and a boyfriend, so I don't end up a crazy spinster cat lady living with my equally crazy spinster cat lady mother** at an age so advanced that we will essentially be of the same generation at that point... At this point, I usually find it helpful to go and visit my mum, who is far more crap at packing than I am, and who also goes through the Five Stages of Packing. She will be a couple of stages behind me, reeling about with a half-empty bottle of gin in one hand and four pairs of white linen pants in the other. When I arrive she will clutch at me and demand to know if I have room in my suitcase for three urgently-required pairs of shoes. All black, all sandals. Seeing this will remind me of the futility of what I am attempting to accomplish.

Acceptance: Fuck it. I just need to make sure that I bring my birth control pills*** and my neck pillow. If I've forgotten anything else, I can live without it or buy it there.

And there we have it.

*Not really! Can you imagine? I once did find a bra on the kitchen counter, but in my defense, I was quite drunk the night before.

**For the record, I don't know where this line of thought comes from. My mother doesn't even LIKE cats.

***For medical reasons, not because I'm planning to score. How's that for an awkward conversation with your mum? "So if you see a bra on the doorknob, mum, you have to go somewhere else for like an hour. Because I will be getting down, nasty, and freaky, in that order. Okay?"
chavvah: (Default)
chavvah's mum: Poor kid. What are you going to do tonight?
chavvah: bake a pie, then drink most of my liquor cabinet. Then eat pie.
chavvah's mum: That's my girl.
chavvah: (Egypt)
chavvah: Mum, do you really need seventeen pairs of pants? We're only going for ten days.
chavvah's mum: Seventeen? Fwah. Three!
c: ...fifteen... sixteen...
cm: All right, all right.
c: Keep going. You still have two identical white pairs of pants in there.
cm: They're very light. I need them.
c: you don't.
cm: I do.
c: You don't. You also only need one cardigan. One. ONE!
cm: You said cardigans. This is a jumper.
c: You don't need it.
cm: It's very light. Besides, it goes with my white pants.
c: Where is your bathroom bag?
cm: There isn't room. Can I pack some things in your suitcase?
c: *vaguely murderous* No. You've packed your bed, you can bloody well lie in it. Do you even have a hat?
cm: Oh...! Hats!
c: Hat, singular. I will pick one for you. You can wear it on the plane.
cm: You're no fun.


I won't reproduce the rest of the conversation, because it gets repetitive, but I would like to point out that my mother's suitcase is about twice the capacity of mine, and I managed to pack enough clothes and my bathroom bag.

If you hear tell of a young woman in my neck of the woods brutally clobbering her tiny English mum with an enormous, overstuffed suitcase, fear the worst.

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chavvah

January 2010

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