I know I haven't posted in a week, and I also know that I said I was going to try and write everyday--one might conclude that I have somehow broken that pact I made with myself. But naturally I found a loophole in my own rule. Actually two, one of which is slightly more devious than the other. Here's the first: I said I would write, not post, everyday. So I have written everyday in my own little journal, but there are a few things I don't like to put on the internet, like my address and the issues I have with my lower intestine, and I think everyone is probably better off for that. The second loophole is that I can change the date on these posts so if I were super motivated, I could trick everyone into thinking I did actually post everyday when really I wrote seven in one day and changed the time stamp. Very clever. I know.

Anyway, not much has happened in the interim. Thanksgiving has come and gone, which I will probably reflect on later, and I have come and gone from New Orleans--which was both a trying and enlightening experience. A few highlights: I met my spirit guide, Tony, going from New Orleans to LA. Riddle me that. I never, I repeat never, talk to strangers on planes. It's the worst. I thought I had made a huge mistake when I told Tony the flight was always full, I do this trip all the time (only half true, I've never been to LA from NO before, but I have flown out of New Orleans a lot and it's always full, so I'm giving myself partial credit here) and the conversation went from there, but two G and Ts later and I thought, hey, maybe this isn't half bad! He gave me some priceless life advice, like marry for money and become a corporate litigator, and I gave him a piece of gum, and then he waltzed off the plane and into the LA sunset. I then spent the flight to Oakland (riddle me that) deciding how much real interaction I could have with a figment of my imagination, because that's what Tony the possible spirit guide and dispenser of invaluable life advice might be.

My week at home was, as always, delightful. Too short. I was crawled back into the cozy embrace of my native land and my people with ease, and that was great. Perhaps more on that later. Then I flew back to my New Orleans home, which was slightly less eventful but still lovely, in a funny way. I really like the Portland airport a lot. I know where everything is and which security line is fastest, and usually when I get to the airport it's the first time I'm by myself again, which sometimes is good and sometimes is bad. I have gotten very good at doing things by myself, and I think I forget that when I go home, so the airport is somehow peaceful, a little gateway back into the self I've worked so hard to build, the self that gets crowded out sometimes in the midst of my family. When we took off, the skies were clear and the mountains and valleys were bathed in a lavender light that made me feel very content--see you soon I think and then I take a nap.

When you fly into New Orleans from Denver, you fly over the swamp--some days I love it, some days I hate it. Today it looked brown and not promising, full of dark and slithery things. I don't always want to know what the swamp whispers, I'll be honest. I was a little cranky anyway, and the crank factor was compounded by the fact that once I was in the airport I was consumed by a slow building fury--I couldn't find a bathroom for the life of me. There were ten thousand men's bathrooms and not a single women's. It was dumbfounding. Thus began my inner diatribe about the efficiency, or lack thereof, of New Orleans. I have this conversation too often, I think, but you know. Lighten up Francis.

But in the taxi on the way back to my cozy home, to the world I have worked so hard to get to know and to love, I relaxed. I took in the familiar sights with a tired tenderness in my heart, let the sunshine put me back together, and now here I am. Ready for the worst two weeks of the year.



xoxo, Lauren