My whole life weighs 85 lbs.

Packed! Kind of. After two solid days of cleaning out my closet, I rid myself of seven trash bags chock full of clothes and narrowed down what to pack for five months, which is no easy task, let me tell you. Got it all to fit, no problemo, until mother dearest hits me with another of her stipulations: weight limits. Oh yeah...that. I'm allowed thirty-five pounds per checked bag. I was extremely confident that I had packed lightly and ignored madre's rants. WRONG. Waited to the last minute when we were about to head out the door to weigh the bags only to discover I was seven pounds over in one suitcase, and five in the other. Unpack. Repack. Okay, cool. Momma is rushing round the house, doing laundry, baking cakes, the usual. Derek is getting yelled at about homework in the next room. Dad is MIA. So typical.

Again:
"Melissa! Meeeeeelissa! Where are you?"

"I'm right here, mom, geez. What?" (I was literally RIGHT next to her.)

"Your carry-on, that can only be 15 pounds too."

Whoops. I had moved everything out of the checked baggage to my carry-on instead. So unpack, repack, repeat.  Dropped 15 pounds of stuff and we're out. Finally. I just needed to get out of that house so I wouldn't have time to think about what I could possibly be missing. Rush 'round town and head to STL.

My mother wonders what in the world I'm going to do without her.

1.

2.

3. Nothin' but a thang.