How to pack your puppy -- and 2 months worth of shoes!

I'd forgotten how difficult it is to pack for being out of the country for months on end.  White Girl Problems, I realize, but it's hard work having to effectively plan out being gone until, at a minimum, the middle of October with no switch-outs to my (or my sister's) closet, no CVS down the street, and no Ann Taylor Loft to keep me company when I'm bored with my closet, or having a fat day, or simply having to use the 40% off coupon that showed up in my email.

Throw in the change of seasons that's happening while I'm gone (it's "winter" going into spring right now...and by that, I mean, it was probably 78 today and 60 tonight), and I had no idea what to pack.  Couple this conundrum with a personality already prone to, umm, preparedness (AKA overpacking), and it makes for quite the challenge.  So I sent in for reinforcements...

Some of you have not been properly introduced to my little stowaway yet...and unfortunately, that's not going to change today.  Why, you ask?  Because the poor precious boy has been in our lives for almost a month now and STILL doesn't have a name!  The darling little thing is actually now responding to "Puppy."  Not good, people.  We've tossed around all kinds of ideas that we thought we liked at one point or another, but there's always someone who objects (i.e., no, Mom, we are NOT naming him after a Harry Potter character), or a name that's ok but doesn't floor people.  At this point, I'm not sure anything is ever going to meet the apparently sky-high expectations we've set for naming this little fella, but...any suggestions are welcome!

(For those who are acquainted with all of the canine creatures in my house and are wondering where Gracie was during all of the packing fun, see below.  She was sulking downstairs, because by now, I think she knows what it means when I drag the big grey suitcases out.  Poor girl and her sad, sad face...)

In case you're incredibly observant and are wondering why I have a pair of giant purple wiffle ball bats in my packing pile...there is a reason, and it's not because I'm a completely ridiculous person.  It's because my co-worker is.  Before I left, I asked Aaron, the guy who runs our Kenya office, if there was anything that he and/or his wife wanted me to bring them from home, thinking that he'd likely ask for something along the lines of Oreo cookies & Reese's Cups (his wife is 8 months pregnant).  Oh contraire.  Not ultra-competitive (and generally child-like) Aaron...  

His response: "Hmm...I think we're actually ok, except, what would you say your access to wiffle ball equipment is like?"

Me: "Umm, you know.  I'd say it's pretty good.  That's what you want??"

Aaron: "Yeah, actually.  That'd be really awesome.  My wiffle ball bat has taken quite the beating lately.  It gets pretty serious..."

I just had to ask, didn't I.

So, after several hours of folding, stacking, and rolling, 2 trips to CVS, the quest for the all-important wiffle ball bat (cursed Wal-Mart was the winner), and 2 pharmacy visits to pick up various and sundry prescriptions (ahh, tropical disease precautions), packing success is mine!  Better than the hurricane wreckage that Puppy and I had created earlier in the day, that's for sure.

So off I go, with 2 massive plastic bats in my bag.  Boys and their toys...

However, so as not to appear totally sexist and unfair, here's our  version of toys, ladies.  This is what a basket full of 2 months' worth of shoes looks like...

Next up, reports on 24 hrs' worth of flying, 1.5 hrs' worth of customs lines, my new digs, and a partridge in a pear tree  ♫♫