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Here is what I have…

I have a car picking me up at 4:30 tomorrow morning and carrying me to LaGuardia.  I have an e-ticket to get me on the plane.  I have a shuttle picking me up in Fayetteville and carrying me to Eureka Springs.

I have a full complement of clothing:  Everlast t-shirts and shorts for running.  A dress just in case I get invited out to dinner with anyone.  Half a dozen black Calvin Klein undershirts, just in case anyone forgets that I am from New York.  (Piece of Helpful Advice #1:  “Aren’t those the shirts that Lloyd always wears?  Won’t they make you miss him?” Note to self:  Try not to blow your nose into your new t-shirts as you cry into them.) Interesting socks, including a pair with embroidered renderings of sushi and sashimi all over them, which I tried to moblog for your edification, but said moblog has yet to show up.  Grrr.  Enough underclothing to last me for two weeks, and a little bottle of Woolite so that I can wear them for another two weeks.  I do not have the little charmpot of a, er, foundation garment that I found at Bloomies, as close to a perfect piece of lingerie as ever I’ve seen, in my size, actually useful for support purposes, yet lacy and sheer and delicate enough to send a message, the message being “Please rip me off with your teeth.” I checked the tag:  $70.00.  Please do not rip me off with your teeth.  I looked over my head and saw a big sign that said “Natori” – yep, I had accidentally wandered into Designer Lingerie.  Not now, Bakerina, not now.

Where was I again?...I have a spouse at home, helping me to download my Roadrunner-on-the-road access, so that I might have a prayer of accessing my e-mail.  I will have some form of e-mail access, simply because in a phoneless, cell-less writers’ colony, e-mail is the only way I can communicate with Lloyd on a daily basis.  Until I get there, though, I don’t know what form that e-mail will take.  In other words, if you’re trying to send me an e, don’t take it amiss if you don’t hear from me right away.  I’m probably still standing in the center of my room, clutching a cable, weeping in frustration and bafflement.  Same spouse will also scan all the recipes for the class I’m teaching at the end of the month, recipes I’d really meant to photocopy at the office today, honestly.

I have music to get me through the month, and headphones to listen to the music so that the writers who require absolute quiet don’t kick my ass.  I have Marshall Crenshaw, the Dragsters, Susan Tedeschi, loads o’ Rhino Just Can’t Get Enough cds, Little Creatures by Talking Heads, three volumes of blues sent to me by a good friend, and five discs of David Sedaris doing that voodoo that he do so well.

I have reading material for the plane:  the new book by the aforementioned David Sedaris, the new issue of Fast Company (thanks, Dad) and the new paperback edition of Dancing in my Nuddy-Pants, Louise Rennison’s continuing saga of the exploits of the amazing Georgia Nicolson.  I have moldable silicone earplugs, because I’ve been told that the plane engine will be staggeringly noisy.  For most of last week I have been receiving Pieces of Helpful Advice #2-#whatever from friends, dear sweet friends who are only trying to be helpful when they say things like “that was the most uncomfortable flight I’ve ever been on,” or “No, you won’t get breakfast on that flight.  Frankly, you’re not going to want to eat.” Just when I was about to send my regrets to the Writers Colony and run scarpering off to Vermont instead, I got what I really needed, a soothing, charming and utterly calming e from one of the best guys I know, someone who spends a lot of time in the air and who, were he traveling with me, wouldn’t think twice about letting me grip his hand hard enough to break small bones, and who would feed me truffles every time we hit a little turbulence.  Seriously, in situations like this, you want someone who will remind you of what an adventure you’re embarking on, someone who teases out your inner Wendell Berry as well as your inner Sydney Bristow.  Thank the fates that I’ve got him.

Nevertheless…I have the earplugs, and a stress ball, and a box of Fralinger’s salt water taffy, and a box full o’Dramamine, all for the plane.  If that doesn’t do the trick, then I don’t deserve to travel anywhere.

I have a box of books waiting for me at the Colony, and a desk to put them on, and a window to look through while I let the words travel out my fingers and onto my keyboard, and a deck from which to watch the sun set behind the Ozarks, and a monster-sized Weber grill, just in case I have the urge to invite three dozen people over for a ‘cue.

I have a hummingbird in my chest, a fluttery, manic little bird, careening from rib to rib, stopping at my sternum, where it fuels up on equal portions of nerves, fear, exhilaration and impatience to get down there and get to work.  From time to time, I try to pat the little bird soothingly; there, there, just relax.  The bird is having none of it.

But I have friends, too.  I have friends at LuthorCorp, who are taking care of my workload, who volunteered to take care of my workload, who raised a huge ruckus when it looked like I might not be allowed to go.  I have friends here in the blog world who are taking care of the house while I am gone.  I have friends, online and off, who are good to me even when I fail to write or call, who are a ray of sunshine and a breath of fresh air in springtime, who I adore, even as I act like a neglectful beastie in my adoration.  Dear friends, I adore you, I will miss you, and I can’t wait to share with you all of the beautiful mysteries of life that I will be lucky enough to witness over the next month.

I have 11 hours before I have to get out of bed, 11 ½ hours before my car picks me up, 12 hours before I arrive at the airport, 13 hours before I leave the ground.