By the time you read this, I’m probably on my way to BlissDom. Or possibly I’m already there, depending on what time you read this, though if you don’t read me as soon as you jump out of bed in the morning, I’m not sure I can understand how your mind works.

While there, I plan to have something called “fun”. Since I only get out once or twice a year, I sometimes forget what “fun” is, but I’m sure it will come back to me quickly. How could it not when I’m rooming with Jennifer, who i’ve only seen ONCE in the past year.  (god, the withdrawals!)

Also, I’ve been officially dubbed as one of “Megan’s people,” which I think includes VIP passes to her dressing room. Or maybe I’m supposed to iron her clothes. I need to clarify what being “Megan’s people” means before I get stuck doing something like Pedi-Egging her feet.

Even though good times are ahead, it never fails. Each time a pending trip gets closer, I find myself wishing I wasn’t going.

Why do I do that?

It doesn’t matter the destination. I could be headed to my own private tropical island with Daniel Craig as my love slave.  As the clock ticked down, I guarantee I would start coming up with reasons (none of which would have to do with me being a married woman) I wish I were staying home.

Some of my reasons for staying home this trip are as follows:

Mardi Gras starts this weekend. I’ll miss parades!

It’s my birthday Sunday. I’m going to spend 7 hrs of my birthday on I-65?

My poor boys. Their dad will have to get them dressed, which means they won’t see the proper side of color coordination until I get home.

The money I’ll spend on this trip could go towards finishing my kitchen redecoration. (Here’s a picture of the blue.)

I could buy my new window treatments, an accent table, add the shelving and decor that I want!

Because that’s a potential story I could tell my grandchildren one day.

Oh lord, honey-chil’, let me tell about this one wild time when I could have gone to Nashville and hung out with one of my BFFs and had a rip roaring good time, but instead, I stayed home and redecorated the kitchen! Your Granny? Could not be tamed in her day!

Um, yeah.

Surely I’m not the only person who does this, the cold travel feet thing? Even though I do get the cold feet, I usually end up doing it, just like on my wedding day. I’m going.  Or I’m gone. On my way!  And this time, I pack only my best underwear.

But that isn’t saying much.

Frankly, my “good” panties aren’t looking that good anymore. I guess I could do something really exciting on my trip and shop for new underwear. Except underwear shopping stresses me out. The shopping stress is right up there with swimsuits (#1) and jeans (#2). There’s an entire host of potential panty catastrophes involved when shopping for new skivvies.

Will they be ass-crawlers?

(I hate throwing away good money on underwear, especially in this economy, and it crawl up my ass. It’s not like you can return it.)

Will they fall below the fold? Like BlogHer ads, this is a no-no.  And by “fold,” I mean that forever post-pregnancy loose belly skin.

(Does anyone NOT have loose, flabby skin on their tummy after pregnancy? Speak up in comments if you do because I have some openings on my list of people I hate that need to be filled.)

String bikinis are made for 14-year-old boy bodies that don’t keep reproductive fat on their hips.  I won’t even look at granny panties because such abominations are against my religion, and I won’t approach the aisle of pre-packaged underwear either.

(Only men should buy their underwear in packages of three)

So if I tell the truth, I’m off to BlissDom and I packed my as-good-as-it-gets underwear. My spanxs are not included in the luggage. It’s hard to drink with everything squeezed in like that, and I do intend to drink until I can nod my head and say, “well fuck yeah, I’m domestically blissdicated, I mean blussfully dimedicated, err, blissfull…where the hell am I again?”

Besides, Wally said no one will care what underwear I pack, and he doesn’t either as long as a garter belt doesn’t make its way into my suitcase.  And that settles that.

So anyway, I just wrote a blog about my underwear.

Could my blog topics get anymore awesome?

And I talked about my underwear in conjunction with BlissDom. I’m sure Ali really appreciates it and is drooling like a rabid coyote to get me to sign as the official spokesperson for BlissDom ’10. I’m looking for the contract in my email any day now. In fact, I’m checking my email for it as we speak.

Hmm, that’s odd. I don’t see it yet. Well, while I wait, let’s sum up my various Blissdom promotions:

#1 I may smell like tuna and a gynecologist may be brought in to the conference to make sure I don’t have some funk on up in there.

#2 Now I’m talking about the underwear I’m taking.

After that recap, I’m sure you want to follow me on twitter and find out what I have to say about the event as it occurs.

You wouldn’t want to miss knowing that my underwear is up my ass, now would you?

This entry was posted on Friday, February 6th, 2009 at 5:33 am and is filed under Evidence File for The Betty, Royal Holiday, You Got To Have Friends. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.