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I think I counted forty-three copies of "Breaking Dawn" in three different airports today. Wait, forty-four. I forgot to count my own. Which would you rather be seen with at an airport: A celebrity gossip rag, a book of easy word search puzzles (because crosswords are too frustrating, and you like to circle stuff,) or an over-celebrated high school vampire romance novel? I swear, if I read the words "stone," "marble," or "mmm," one more time, I just might not like reading this book anymore. I'll still read it though. I am ashamed. Don't look at me.

So today I came unbelievably close to vomiting in the back of an airplane for the very first time. It happened between Long Beach, CA and Las Vegas. Perhaps it was the stench of collective moral decay combining with the concentrated number of plastic perky parts smeared with tan in a can, all sitting facing one direction for forty-nine minutes. Or, I don't know, maybe it was the turbulence. Either way, I had to literally talk myself out of throwing up. With my head down, and my frame glazed in a thin sweat, I carefully swallowed back what would have been the story of the century for the OC housewives ready to party at The Palm with their greasy bo-hunks. I could just explain that I'm bulimic and win them all back, probably. It was getting pretty intense toward the end. I prayed: okay...either this plane lands, and I mean like now, or my turkey avacado sandwich is about to be worn by Twinkly-Toes Half-a-Dress sitting next to me here. Thankfully, the plane did land shortly thereafter. Awgh....avacado. Talk about a Ralph Rodeo.

Got picked up at the airport and taken to my new digs in Salt Lake. Yaaaay! Even met the new roommates tonight. Yaaaay! Tonight, I'm going to sleep in. Tomorrow I'm going to hit the temp agencies, replace the shampoo TSA threw out this morning (seriously...one lousy ounce over the limit?) and maybe do some sight-seeing. Hey, as long as I'm feeling good I'll work it. Plenty of time for the panic attacks and cry-fests later.