Packing up for the wint… I mean, um, Fall

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We’re headed out again, on our way to Texas. October is a hard month to pack for. It’s already pretty chilly in Ohio, but it’s still hot in Texas. It’s a crapshoot in between the two: fall weather is as erratic as the spring’s can be. This, combined with the fact that I don’t know how long I’m going to be out, makes for some heavy duty bag-stuffing.

My husband doesn’t have the same problem, because he’s an alien and can wear shorts and a hoodie in the Arctic Circle and be perfectly warm. He has his daily “uniform” that consists of a Dickies work shirt and cargo shorts, and if it’s 30 below or so, he’ll throw a sweatshirt on over his work shirt. I find it highly suspect that someone who collects jackets like belly button lint doesn’t feel the cold.

Everyone knows space in the truck is limited, and the itty closet in the Cascadia is perfect — for one person. My husband never says anything about what I try to cram in the closet. I think by the second trip out with me, he kind of decided to pick his battles and figured that one was a moot point. We have an unspoken truce — I won’t try to polish my toenails in the truck anymore and he won’t tell me what I can smash into the closet. As long as I can get it to latch, we’re all good.

“Hey, will there be room for my hats in the cabinet?”

“I don’t think so. I have a bunch of winter clothes this time.”

“Why so much? We’re headed to where it’s warmer. You might not need that many sweaters.”

“It’s October. It has to be cold somewhere we’re going.”

“You can only wear one at a time.”

“As a matter of fact, I can wear as many at a time as I damn well please. I may just put them all on and pretend to be the Michelin Man.”

“The Michelin Man would make room for my hats.”

“Well why don’t you go ask the Michelin Man to ride with you?”

“Oh come on, babe. Just let me squeeze my hats in here. Why did you pack the toy karaoke microphone?”

“In case I get an interview with Sasquatch. We don’t have a mic, and I can’t do an interview talking into my thumb, pretending to have one.”

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“Well I guess that makes perfect sense. Can’t have Sasquatch talking into your thumb, either. Imaginary creatures always want a play karaoke microphone for their interviews.”

“You know what I’m imagining?”

“No, but I’m fairly certain it’s frightening on every level.”

“Damn skippy. Be afraid. Be very afraid and take your damn hands off my microphone.”

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