I forgot my grocery list. I’ll try to reconstruct it here for your personal enjoyment:

Dry Swiffer

Toilet wand refills

Half and half

Shampoo and conditioner (My daughter goes through about a bottle of these every two weeks. She also never rinses the tub. If I slip and fall and die in the shower, you’ll know why.)

Razors (to cut myself on my way down)

Shave cream (for soft legs in my coffin)

Makeup wipes (for my daughter to remove her mascara after my funeral)

Tissues (for the rampant tears)

Toilet paper (no explanation necessary)

Paper towels (to wipe up dog pee in the kitchen)

and… I have no idea what else.

I guess I’ll just wing it. Story of my life.

I just returned from an amazing vacation in Portland, Oregon, for my brother’s wedding. After the nuptials, some of my family and I packed up and headed to the shore. It’s weird there. Grass grows all the way to the water’s edge, and cows graze in pastures a mile from the beach.

One of the best parts of the vacation was meeting my two-month-old niece. She is absolutely sweet and snuggly, with a full head of hair. At one point I was holding her in our beach house, and I whispered in her ear, just loud enough for my sister to hear, “Let’s blow this beach town, kid. We can run away and start a new life.”

Ah yes, the dream of a new life! One free of shopping lists, bank loans, property taxes and school fundraisers. I could have just grabbed that baby girl, stuffed her in the back seat and run for the Canadian border.

We could be American refugees, expats. We’d live in the car! I’d feed her baby formula I’d stolen from the grocery store until I could find some odd jobs milking beach cows in order to make enough money to send to Wells Fargo for my monthly car payment.

Later, through a secret email account, I’d contact my other kids and send for them too. School be damned! I’d teach them myself. We’d busk on the street corners of Vancouver; I’d teach them how to diagram sentences and add fractions in the glow of the car dome light.

We could get new names! I’ve always wanted to be an Erika (with a “k”), and I’m sure my kids hate their names, too. We could name the baby together, if we could agree on a name (I’m voting for Ruby, because she’s a bit of a ginger). It would be epic!

Ah, but alas, the feds (or the Mounties, or whoever) would probably catch up with us. And I’m sure winters in Vancouver are too cold to endure while living in a car, even a luxurious SUV such as the one Wells Fargo is kind enough to let me drive.

Instead, I suppose I must return to my life here at home, and reconstruct my grocery list. We’ve been gone a while – I probably need to just buy everything.

Which reminds me, I wonder if there is a Trader Joe’s in Vancouver.