In some strange, bizarre way, I actually like driving on the freeways of Atlanta. Spaghetti Junction. The Vehicle Accelerator. The Watermelon 400. I can now officially say that I've done 'em all.

We head for home in approximately ten hours. I have been here since one a.m. on Saturday morning, and I've come away with the same feeling that I always have when I visit here: Tull is my home in a way that no place else can ever be, but the chances of my ever living here again are very, very small.

I am thankful for kitty purrs and coconut-milk desserts and dinners with friends. I still love the feeling of driving over the I-55 bridge over the Mississippi River, and I still am secretly thrilled when Jeff approves of something that I do. I still can't remember the name of all the reindeer without singing them, and I think it's funny that this year is the first year, ever, that my father has put Christmas lights on his house.

I'm home from vacation.

Looking for pithy commentary? Look elsewhere tonight, please. I had a nerve-wracking morning. The details of this morning's events concern the well-being of a friend; and I am unsure of how much detail I can go into on this website. For now it must suffice for me to say that I was (and am) upset, worried, and hoping that the person in question is doing better than they were this morning.

* Amy is on vacation. She returns home on Friday, December 14; her almost-daily commentary will return shortly thereafter.

There were three ways to get in and out of Tull, and in the grand scheme of twentieth-century road construction and enforced commuting, none of them were exactly optimal.