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They emailed my itinerary to the wrong email address, one that I can only access in Boston. But *sneaky laughter*, I searched delta.com for the flight I usually take, entered in my Frequent Hostage (er, I mean Flier) number, and voila(*)! There I am! So I have three hours or so to wash clothes, do dishes, buy some various travel items, and get out of here. And I've been so lazy today I haven't even showered, I'm sitting here in a bathrobe eating cherry PopTarts cruising old LJ entries and goofing off. Ah, a lazy weekend morn, they're so damn rare for me lately.

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(*) Voila, to an American, is the epitome of cheesy stage magic. A handful of plastic flowers pulled from a sleeve, voila! So when I was in France and Monaco a few years ago, and everyone said voila, from the conductor punching my Europass to the hotel desk handing me my key, it was hard not to burst out laughing. I know: ignorant, idiotic American.

Portrait of a Bachelor in Preparation for a Journey

There is a mountain of clothes in my kitchen, sitting in front of the door to my washer/drier. I am completely out of jeans, so I start out by wearing my least-dirty pair. The first batch of laundry cycles through, lowering the mountain slightly. I remove the jeans I'm wearing, throw them into the washer with the next batch, and pull a very old pair out of the dryer. I can barely button them and, true to my guyness, the first thoughts in my head are not "Am I gaining a couple?" they are "Boy, these jeans have shrunk." The second load is cycling through. In a little over an hour, I will hold open the suitcase, pile clothes into it in a matter of 10 minutes, zip it all up and head out the door.

I picked up some microwaveable tamales from the store earlier. Not the frozen cardboard kind or the tamales-in-a-jar-of-battery-acid kind, but actual corn-husk wrapped masa-based beef tamales in the deli section of the store, unfrozen. They aren't half bad! They needed the hot sauce I poured all over them, but not too bad at all!