I took the purple-handled scissors and snipped off the 'HSV' tag left on the bag from Jeff's last flight. In the world of baggage, his trumps mine; back, many years ago when my parents gave me a set of inexpensive luggage as a gift, I'm not sure they ever envisioned me flying, much less taking these bags with me.But the bags survived four years of college, more road trips than I can count, and moved with me to Alabama. I learned just how frustrating it was to cart unwheeled baggage through Atlanta's Hartsfield airport.

I have a confession to make. It will surprise a few of my friends, but not Jeff, who has insisted in the truth of this statement for quite some time, to my disbelief:I am a chilehead.

* * * * *

Ages ago, someone who didn't know me very well asked me what my favorite restaurant was. (Anyone who knows me well would inherently recognize the dangers and long-windedness inherent in such a topic, and would steer clear. It's almost as bad as asking me about my cats.) My response was typically obtuse, yet truthful:

"What kind?"

"Oh, any."

I wish I could remember the gist of my response, but I told the truth. If I want to go to a Japanese steakhouse, I have to go to Tuscaloosa, to have Ben-Kei's shrimp sauce. If I want sushi, it's Vancouver. Blue crab? The little shack that Andy took me to a few years ago. Cheesesteaks? Philadelphia. Indian? Little Rock.

So here I am above palm trees so straight and tall
You are smaller, getting smaller
But I still see you.
  — Jimmy Eat World - 'Goodbye Sky Harbor'

Never let it be said that I don't ever let anyone take photos of me. Jody, not a word from you, boy.

Noah says: "Make sure everyone knows that these are just snapshots, and not my usual artistic stuff."

We drove south from the Grand Canyon through Flagstaff, marveling at the random slashes of aspen through the pines of Cocanino National Forest, making our way toward Sedona. There's no quick way to get to Sedona from the north, as far as I know; to my knowledge, the only way to slide from one to the other requires a jaunt through Oak Creek Canyon.

We were laughing and tired as Kara drove, tired from the walking and the altitude, upwards to the canyon. We realized we were being beaten over our heads with instructions to pay attention to the scenery, by means of repeated warnings: "Scenic Overlook 2 Miles." "Scenic Overlook 1 Mile." "Scenic Overlook ½ Mile."

Or, as Kara said, 'We get it already! We'll stop! We swear!"

Oak Creek Canyon overlook
by domesticat.

Whether or not what I have could be correctly termed "Martian Death Flu" is somewhat irrelevant; anything that forces you to sleep for over eighteen hours a day - while you're on vacation, no less - counts, as far as I can tell.

For those of you who hated the sunny, cheerful phone calls I made from the beach, revenge is yours. I have spent the last 24 hours huddled up on Noah and David's couch, under blankets, alternately sneezing and snuffling, and making the blindingly-obvious statements that I always make when somewhat feverish.If ever there was a hint that perhaps it was time to go home, this is it. True, I need sleep, as I also need hydration and probably a few calories (hard to get interested in eating when all food tastes like unsalted cardboard), but what I really, really need right now is some kitty ministrations.

I apparently don't have as much of my hearing back as I thought. Earlier this evening, Jeff came into the computer room:

"That music's really loud."

"Hrm. This sounds like my usual volume level..."

Jeff shakes his head, gives me his best "I love you but you are one crazy deaf wench" look, and says no. Apparently I was shaking a few rafters.

Oops.

twinkle, twinkle, little star

you're older than you feel you are

Christmas, twenty years ago. Events stay the same. It's we that change.

I am, however, required to notify you all that due to circumstances beyond our control, Chris and I are sponsoring a new holiday this year. Say hello to Christmas 2: Electric Bugaloo.