Trying to Pack For New York, Five Hours Before I Have To Wake Up.

The bus I have to catch to get to SeaTac leaves at 4:37 am and it's two miles away. I really, really, do not want to walk two miles in the dead of night carrying my luggage. I would leave now and just sleep in the airport except the bus has stopped running. (It stopped an hour and a half ago, at which time I was still at work. Boo Seattle and their non-24-hour transit.)

After some exhaustive research, during which I learn that none of the scheduled transporters leave early enough to make my flight, I finally decide to just take an effing cab. I console myself that I will take the bus BACK, at the normal traffic hour of 7:30 pm on a Monday, when there will be plenty of people out and so forth.

Packing is difficult. In spite of reading Lucky like it's required for my job, I have no idea what "normal but stylish" people wear in NYC, so I've packed: A lot of black. My long underwear, because daytime forecasts show a high of 38. A scarf, a hat, and my armwarmers. Sweaters. Button-downs and sweaters. (Hey, I look good in them.) Running clothes. (Just in case.) And a dress and boots, just in case. And one drape-y top.

Plus my longest coat, obviously.

And a snippet from the "duh" files:

I was sitting with a sorority sister of mine recently, in from out of town. We were in my apartment, and it was the last few hours I was going to see her for some time, and she was chatting away, and I had to check my work email, and my computer started behaving so badly that I cursed at her. She stopped talking, startled and hurt.

"I'm sorry," I quickly apologized. "Just give me a few moments of silence to get this worked out."

Once I had hurt her feelings, the laptop worked like a charm, of course. I finished my business. As we walked to the car, I felt terribly guilty.

"I'm so sorry," I said again. "I don't know why things not working the way they're supposed to drives me into such an uncontrollable rage."

She looked at me with long-suffering tolerance. "Possibly because you make things work for a LIVING," she pointed out. "Every day, your job is to make things work. I'm not surprised that when things don't work, it's an insult to your very being. You know you could design it better."

...

I stopped dead on the sidewalk. Titan sniffed a plant. "Holy CRAP," I said. "That never occurred to me. Ever."

"Hey," she said, herself no slouch in this department. "I'm a lawyer. Interpreting situations is MY daily job. I get you."