A Girl...

Off We Go Into the Wild White Yonder

Our bags are packed, we're ready to go...And of course it's pissing down rain and blowing down snow in the Sierras, halfway between here and there. A bumpy plane ride is in my future, I fear, but one worth suffering to get away from work project hell, which had me two deep breaths away from tears this morning.

Our seven days away will be a whirlwind week, and I'm crossing my fingers that it will be pleasant and relaxing, hitting that sweet spot of not too short and not too long and not too much airport drama. Come next week we'll have been on four planes and in three different states, including one I don't recall having visited before. (Dad, weren't we within a few miles of Four Corners in 1989 or 90 and you executively decided that it wasn't worth the drive, thereby crushing my fragile ten-year-old heart, which could think of nothing more magical than having each limb governed by a separate political system at the same time? One hand could buy alcohol in the supermarket while the other would have to go to a state-owned liquor store! Neat! Provided that both hands were 21 years of age and detachable, of course, which they weren't on both accounts.)

We're looking forward to the trip and we've packed well. "Will I need gloves for Salt Lake?" Simon asked. "It's going to be about 20 degrees the whole time," I said. Looking me up and down--standing in the hallway at 10 p.m. still wearing the coat and scarf I never took off when I got home from work four hours earlier--he said he couldn't imagine me growing up in a place that has real, actual winter, with snow and ice and sleet and windchill, considering just days before I had a minor tizzy over finding patches of frost on the green grass in our front yard because WTF, this is California. The difference, I told him, was that in places where they have real, actual winer, they also have real, actual heaters in their homes, and then I slipped off into a delicious dreamland of eating breakfast sans mittens and waking up sans snotcicles dangling from my nose. If home is where the heat is, I'll be a Salt Lake City girl no matter where I hang my hat.

Speaking of which, it's time for me to don my Dr. Zhivago-style faux-fur hat and take to the skies. Wish me a flight as smooth as good vodka.