Well, I didn't write a short story Wednesday, and I didn't write one yesterday. I'm not going to bother making excuses, and not having any ideas is no excuse. I just didn't make time for it and I feel guilty about it. And I'm not going to write one now, and this weekend I'll be packing and preparing for the two-week cruise. And you can bet I won't be writing short stories during the two weeks I'm gone. If I happen upon a reasonable online connection, maybe I'll stop in once in a while.
I can't even guess what I'm going to do there. I went to the Royal Caribbean Web site, I looked up my cruise, got the right name of the cruise, right name of the boat, and somehow pulled the itinerary out of the swirling ether. I went home last night, so proud I managed to pull off this research, eagerly talked it over with my wife whose expression suggested I suddenly lapsed into the Navaho tongue.
I thought the Web site said we would be spending 2.5 days in London and take off from Harwich. Apparently, we will not be spending any time in London, outside of Heathrow Airport, and we will be in Harwich only long enough to catch our boat.
So, actually, I have no freakin' clue what's going on.
Prior to being married, I was a bit of a flake but still largely competent. I could plan a trip, pack for it, and come back in one piece. I don't know what magical element there is to becoming a husband that has robbed me of that power of cognition. The end result is that I stumble around in a haze and frustrate my wife who ends up taking over everything.
I'm pretty sure I'm going on a cruise. If I login from work Monday morning, you can guess that something went very wrong.