My Face is Sponsored by Olay Regenerist

At the Rite Aid, the clerk and I said hello, he told me I had a nice smile, and I set my items down: a travel sized toothpaste, a deodorant, and a bottle of Bacardi 151. He looked from me to the bottle and said, "How old are you?"

"Uh..." I couldn't remember. I started digging for my license.

"How old are you?" he asked again, gruffer this time.

"I'm uh, I'm... 27." It was a discovery. I'm 27, yes, that sounded right. I knew for sure I was old enough, that was certain at noon on a Friday. The rest, well, it was anybody's guess.

He looked from the license up to me, suspiciously. I guess most people remember how old they are.

"You don't look 27."

"Well thank you," I said. I took the license from him and stuffed it in my purse. I can only assume that young women, such as myself, don't generally spend their lunch break buying rum.

I'm scatter-brained for all the packing. I've made mix CD's, filled my 256mb CF card full of mp3's, charged every battery that was chargeable, washed everything, stacked most of my crap in the living room, checked and rechecked my lists, and sacrificed a goat to keep the rain from falling. I plan to be offline for the next week, but when I come back I'll have pictures! That doesn't sound nearly as exciting as it does in my head.