Last month, my column was about traveling with my husband, The Brit, and our grandson, the Britween. For good measure, I wrote of the many travails of traveling with my mother. I then ended on a cryptic request about my trip this month with all three of them together. Let us review: “I have planned the ultimate journey to Hades for all my transgressions—a trip with The Brit, Britween, and Mom to that Sin City in the desert, Las Vegas. … Until then, dear friends, please pray for me.”
As I sit here penning my final notes (OK, I’m actually tapping them out on the computer) before boarding Flight 666, I already feel the trepidation that comes with going anywhere with the devil’s own version of the Three Stooges. It all began where every trip to hell does—in a hand basket or, in this case, a suitcase.
Packing for the two Britishers in my house is akin to giving birth. It’s like trying to squeeze a camel through a drive-through window at McDonald’s. I know—with a 12-year-old boy to feed on short notice, I’ve driven through many a McDonald’s.
I have learned from experience how to pack efficiently. When I was young, I packed everything! If it was in my house, it had to come with me, whether I was leaving for two days or two weeks. But with age comes the wisdom that you have to schlep all of that stuff around. Did I really need a different pair of shoes for every day of my trip? Was it truly necessary to haul along my hand weights? Hauling the multiple suitcases was more than enough of a workout. Now my idea of a workout is hauling the recycling can to the sidewalk once a week, and that thing is on wheels. And my favorite shoes of choice are all slippers.
I come from a family of packers. I remember my grandfather arriving for a visit once with two suitcases and a carry-on, in which he had packed his shaving kit, two clean shirts, and two pair of clean underwear. One of the large cases was full of crisp Washington apples! That little Italian guy actually packed a suitcase full of huge apples and carted it from Spokane, Wash., to Garden Grove, Calif., so that we could enjoy fresh fruit from home. He must have really loved us. God knows, I sure loved him!
His other suitcase always came with him. We called it “The Mystery Suitcase” because it was always locked and no one was allowed to open it. My mother and her sisters used to speculate about what or who he had in there.
My Aunt Lorna is a pro at traveling. She’s been all over the world, and her motto is: “Pack it, then trash it.” She packs items of clothing she plans on getting rid of so, as her trip is winding down, she leaves them behind at her hotel and travels home carrying next to nothing! Now that’s pure genius! Once she had a hotel maid in Italy chase her down to return a pair of old shoes she had ditched.
My mom is a methodical packer. She carefully wraps each item of clothing with a layer of tissue. You’d think she was transporting the Shroud of Turin. When she unpacks, she just as carefully folds each tissue neatly back into her suitcase so that she has them to pack when she leaves. This woman has tissues that date back to the Roosevelt presidency, and I don’t mean Franklin D.!
The Brit and Britween each have different needs and senses of style. So packing for them requires a sort of yin and yang ideology. The Brit’s idea of heading to Las Vegas is to go as a high roller. He rolls an IOU onto his body with a roll-on deodorant, throws on a clean shirt, and he’s ready to roll!
Britween is not far from that. How is it possible that the small boy, whose neck I once snuggled smelled like vanilla, now emits an odor that is an amalgam of root beer, Doritos, sweaty socks, and swamp gas?
The Brit will be attending a cigar convention in Vegas. Once a top-selling sales rep, he is now retired from the business and plans on visiting with old friends, co-workers, and customers. His day-to-day outfit at home is soft T-shirts and loose athletic pants. Shopping was a must, and I have outfitted him with comfy slacks and Panama-style shirts. He now looks like a Cuban cigar mogul, but with a Cockney accent. What could be sexier?
The Britween, on the other hand, steadfastly refuses to wear slacks. Shorts are his uniform of choice. He has his eyes set on becoming a soccer player. I have told him that if soccer doesn’t work out, he’ll end up working as a park ranger, crocodile hunter, or pool boy, unless he puts on a pair of long pants. I managed to get him to agree to wear slacks to go out to evening dinner in Vegas. “And no, we’re not eating at McDonald’s,” I sighed.
This boy believes that anything goes and that plaid goes with everything. He has a collection of plaid shorts that he wears with striped or logo-printed T-shirts, accessorized with mismatched socks. Shoes must be skating sneakers, and all of this is topped off with a flat-billed cap.
Finally, I pack for myself. As I gaze at the remaining space in our suitcase, with barely enough space left for a skirt, I ask myself, “How am I going to fit my lingerie in here?” My brassieres alone require their own plane ticket!
Nonetheless, I repeat to myself the mantra of Project Runway mentor Tim Gunn: “Make it work!” Somehow I cram my no-iron palazzo pants, two tops, a sun dress, a pair of shoes, and lingerie into a space meant to hold a hankie. My work here is done! Next time: Vegas, baby!
Ariel Waterman is ready to pack it all in. Send tissue paper via her editor, Ryan Miller, at rmiller@santamariasun.com.
This article appears in Jul 24-31, 2014.