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.

Jeff has been notified, and Fang is on standby. The plan, inasmuch as someone like me could ever be described as having a plan, is to fly to Birmingham, be driven home, then collapse on the nearest comfortable and horizontal surface while allowing Fang to swarm over me.

'Course, I gotta get home first, and is that will be quite the dance. LAX to Phoenix. Since that's one round trip, I have to pick up my bag at the carousel, then re-check it. Then I pick up my other round-trip; I fly from Phoenix to New Orleans. No bag re-checking, but instead, I get to do the Plane Change Dance. Fly from New Orleans to Birmingham. Find spouse at baggage claim. Hopefully find bags at baggage claim.

Crawl home.
Crawl into bed.
Cuddle Fang.
Apologize to Fang.
Apologize to Fang.
Apologize to Fang.
Apologize to Fang.
Apologize to Fang.
Apologize to Fang.
Apologize to Fang.
Apologize to Fang.
Apologize to Fang.
Apologize to Fang.
Sleep.

Entries will return when I'm back home, I manage to get some sleep, and my temperature returns to normal. Or after we get back from seeing Return of the King on Wednesday. Whichever comes first.