Duffle Bag Hell

Before I delve into the 5 day road trip that got us here, I feel like I need to explain what’s taking me so long to get around to it.

This is day 22 of my living out of a duffle bag.

Let that sink in.

I started a brand-spanking new, professional job, almost three weeks ago, and I have been living out of a duffel bag that entire time.

Now, I don’t like to brag, but I am pretty much the best at packing for business trips. The best ever. I have mastered the art of 3-1-1. I smile patiently while other fools deal with their lace up shoes as I slip off my ballet flats, pop my laptop onto the conveyor belt for the x-ray, and quietly tsk as people exclaim, “What do you mean I have to throw away my water?!” Apparently, this is limited to trips of a duration 4 days or fewer, because this is what my duffel bag looks like unpacked.

They’re organized, but it’s top secret. Also, shut up.

Guys, I can’t even defend myself, because there are things in those piles I can’t even wear because they don’t have anything that match them in any of the other piles. And this doesn’t include everything that’s waiting to be washed, the pajamas I’m currently wearing, or the clothes I wore to work today. Or the suiting I have with me, which I actually hung. I’m some kind of mess.

So, I’m dealing with that, a three hour time change, and living in a large room with all of our pets.

Weirdly, the pets? Actually getting along better in the single room than they have in ages. I, on the other hand, am consumed by mom-worry. You know, the kind of worry that your mom engages in about stuff that’s totally not bothering you but her worry winds up causing permanent psychological damage? I’m now doing that to our pets.

I had all of these grand plans to wake up each day at 3:45 a.m., work out like normal, go to work, kick butt, come home, make dinner, play with pets, get 8 hours of sleep, lather – rinse – repeat. I didn’t really think about the hour long commute, the three hour time change, apparently I’m not 21 anymore and the rest of my body neglected to tell my brain. Who knew?

Totally unrelated, but if you follow me on Twitter you know that my name is Patti, actually Patricia. As a woman in her 30s it’s pretty important to me that people stick to Patti or Patricia when speaking to me. For some reason, my name, more than any other I know, inspires people to shorten it however they please, to a ridiculous extent. For example: I can write an email and sign it Patti or Patricia and someone can respond to that email, include my original email in the response, and address me as Pat. It’s bad enough when people spell my name with a “y” instead of an “I” at the end, but changing my name into a totally different name – my FATHER’S name – is a clear signal that you do not give two craps about me. You may want to really consider how that’s interpreted, particularly if you’re trying to sell me a service. (I have been known to actually introduce myself as “Patti, with an i.” Or, when people ask me how I want to be addressed to say, “Patricia or Patti is fine, but if it’s Patti it has an I, please. And not Pat, Pat was my father.” I’ve also been known to take a fair amount of shit for this introduction, but usually from someone named Jeff, or Greg, or Beverly.) Related to that? Please, for the love of god, never tell a woman, in a professional setting, that her name is cute. Ever.