“Why do you always clean the house before we leave on vacation?” my husband inquired as I dusted behind the refrigerator.

It was T-minus 12 hours before our plane was leaving for Florida with my very brave in-laws, who generously chose to celebrate their 50th wedding anniversary by treating us to a week of Disney World both on land and at sea.

“We are about to board four planes and one boat,” I replied, “and I just want to be prepared, should our cruise ship take the same path as the Titanic.”

“Which killer iceberg are we going to hit in the Caribbean?” he asked, “And why do you always wait until vacation? Why don’t you do this all the time?”

“As long as I’m around to keep people from looking under the sofa cushions, there is no point in pulling out the vacuum attachments,” I explained, as if we had never had this conversation before. “That instantly and irreversibly changes once I’m gone.”

“Julie,” he persisted, “you realize most accidental deaths occur within five miles of the home. If anything, we are decreasing our odds of dying.”

I sighed as I pulled the piano out from the wall, where I found a toothbrush and three permission slips from the ’08-’09 school year.

“Too late,” I told him. “If you really want to talk me down, you can do it while you replace all the burned-out light bulbs in our house. I’m on a mission.”

The blank stare on his face told me that, even after having this same routine before every vacation for the past 16 years, he still did not get it.

“Not only am I packing for the six of us” — I had already separated hotel clothes into one suitcase (the red one) and cruise ship clothes into another (the black one), as well as swim gear (pink one) and toiletries (the duffle bag) — “but I am also prepping the house for unforeseen catastrophe, like getting kidnapped by Somali pirates, before a judgmental group of mourners descends to make my final arrangements.”

And, with the clock ticking, my list was miles long. Toss out all the expired condiments. Touch up the paint on the exterior trim. Return all the CDs to their proper cases. Take back the muffin tin I borrowed from my neighbor. From our last house.

My husband had just asked me to find Somalia on a map when the doorbell rang.

“That must be Matt,” I said.

“Our attorney?” he correctly guessed. “We’re signing our will tonight?”

There was no way I was putting our family on a plane without bequeathing our many debts to my unwitting siblings.

He rolled his eyes. “I’ll let him in and sign the will if you promise to go to bed when he leaves.”

“Throw in a back rub,” I told him, “and you’ve got a deal … “

“Fine,” he agreed.

“… just as soon as I update my Facebook status.”