Oh, procrastination, why do you plague me so?

My in-box (virtual, of course, as documented on my oh-so dot.com whiteboard located conveniently next to my overflowing not-so dot.com bulletin board) depicts my overwhelmingness of everything.

I have work. I have freelance work. I have more freelance work. I have overdue freelance work, due tomorrow freelance work, due Thursday freelance work. I have a spare bedroom that resembles the aftermath of either the Tazmanian Devil (a la Loony Tunes) or a three-year-old’s remains of a quite efficient tantrum. I have a closet that is straining to hold the overabundance of clothing that I added to it last night in preparation of NewRoommate’s arrival. I have a dead Palmetto Bug in my third bedroom that I inadvertantly killed after knocking its back two legs off, an act of cruelty that I’m still feeling a bit guilty about. (Oh, bleeding heart, why do YOU plague me so!?) I have a cat that keeps eating the dried flower wreath as well as the fronds from my infamous grass skirt, resulting in said cat puking said fronds into the communal water bowl, just to annoy his over-frazzled owner. (Note the restraint it took me to not say ‘mother’ there, since I’ve come to terms with the fact that cat owners are notoriously known as crazy. Not me, no sirree.) I’ve got shower presents to buy, websites to update, campaigns to track, blogs to read, and suitcases to fill with inordinate amounts of clothes that, while lessening the strain on the already-overburdened self-built closet, will surely heighten the strain on already-overburdened and sore Aubrey-arms while traveling. You see, Aubrey is about to become Aubrey, Intercontinental.

And what am I doing?

You guessed it, procrastination.

Why is it, when our to-do lists are miles upon miles long and we’re frazzled to the tips of the much-needed-to-be-cut ends of our hair (Update: Great Clips closed at 9. I was still at work. Damn you, Great Clips.) we find it almost seducing to put off all that needs to be done, instead tending to all that we want to be doing? It’s the IM syndrome of life – when you have seven windows open on your computer, responding to the blinking IM is sometimes the easiest way to feel that you’ve accomplished SOMETHING.

As is this post. Instead of droning on about my work (already did that), my destitution-turned-to-mere-poverty (again, been there, wrote that) or my less-than-pristine house (yep, that too), I shall stray and address a topic more near and dear to my heart. Travel.

My friends, I’ll let you know a little bit about Aubrey, Intercontinental. She packs like a champ. Yes, this ravishing blonde (self-flattery helps when overwhelmed, you know) has been known to fit a ball gown, a ghetto-fabulous velour running suit, clothing suited to both NYC and San Diego in December, as well as adding the treats from a H&M shopping spree, into a carry-on. Please be in awe when you note that this trip was for 8 days. Yes, she is flexible. (And not only in the former-gymnast sort of way.) As such, in a repeat performance astounding shocked onlookers, Aubrey, Intercontinental, will again be performing her marvelous packing pursuits as she fills her carry-on with dresses for a bridal shower, work casual clothes, work not-so-casual yet not-so-businessy clothes, work not-so-casual-but-oh-so-chic-for-wine-tour-and-SanFran-Bay-Cruise clothes, travel at the ungodly hour of 6am two times in one week clothes, DC out-to-a-party clothes, DC out-to-a-bachelorette-extravaganza-clothes, and still manage to have the perfect pair of shoes. Boys, are you hearing this? Aubrey doesn’t overpack.

If that doesn’t make me “take-home-to-Mom” material, I don’t know what does.

Except, of course, my chocolate chip cookies.

Just call me All-American Aubrey. I’ve got the rights on the action figure.