Where was I? Oh yeah. I was barfing in Charleston.

So that was fun, those naughty naughty crawfish and their bellies filled with iodine. But all fun must end, and Friday night found me, not at the swank Charleston Place, but speeding back up I-26 toward the North Charleston Motel 6. Can you tell that work would only pay for one night? Yes?

I'd been planning to poke around Charleston for an evening, bellying up to many bars and catching a band or two, but after a night of vomit and a day of NIH investigators, I simply retired after a sedate two-drink dinner. On the way up, my cab driver expressed shock that I had been able to find a room with "everyone coming in for the trial". There's apparently a high-profile murder case involving a 15-year-old boy who shot his grandparents and is blaming Zoloft. Apparently the drug companies have amassed more lawyers than the boy, and the press can hardly keep it in their pants.

Motel 6 is a decent place to stay, but at that point it was all I could manage to finish my aphasic-referencing article and roll up under the sheet to watch some tube. I hadn't really zoned out to crazy television antics, with no productivity on the agenda, for quite some time. Bad cable movies soooo do not count. By the way, can someone tell me which telenovela involves a 19th century Southwestern ranch, an ambush disguised as a big ole pile of rocks and a frantic search for "El Papa!" Seriously. Write in if you know. Also? Kudos to Mujer de Madera: who knew you could defeat a ninja with a pitcher of water? Why doesn't anyone in kung-fu movies know that ninjas melt?

The next morning I headed out bright and early to the Charleston airport to head for home. I had a good 8 hour head-start on my flight in order to get home early via stand-by, but still wound up with a ton of time to people-watch. One of the things I noticed about Charleston was the number of women proudly wearing what was obviously real fur. And yes, they were all women, I'm not generalizing. Have you seen a man in fur? In Charleston? And every single time I saw them, I had to wonder if these women knew two things: one, how animals live and die on fur farms and two, how tempted I was to set their wigs on fire. I'm losing my patience with being a vocal but pacifist minority in Jesusland. Those who live wearing anally electrocuted coats can die by them. Or is that too harsh?

Also, as has been noted by several other people (including my vaguely horrified father): you can always tell when you've found the right airport gate for Vermont. There's a lot of fleece, a lot of North Face wear, and a lot of left-wing sweatshirts (seen this weekend: "Vermont needs a Liveable Wage Now!", "Barbara Lee speaks for me", and various Deanaphernalia). Oh home. Also waiting for the flight back to BTV this weekend: a couple who named their two Ritalin-eschewing sons Ethan and Ira. Yeah. Just take a second with that.

What? Oh. Um, Vermont was founded by brothers Ethan and Ira Allen, who kept Vermont free (mostly from New York) by either dressing up as, or sneaking around and stealing, chickens. It really depends which textbook you're reading.

Oh the sweet weirdness of home.

This trip also marked the first time I didn't freak out on an airplane, despite being completely sober and un-sedated. Decisions which came back to haunt me between Charleston and Washington-Dulles when the turbulence picked up. I just kept repeating to myself, "I am divine energy, and energy cannot be destroyed, it can only be transformed." Meaning that even if we fell into the sea and became fish mulch, that fish mulch would be simply divine. (It's a pagan joke. Yeeeah. You'll be seeing quite a few of those here in the next little while. It's called "acting out").

So yes, I was the muttering girl. To be fair, my seatmate was traveling with a cat who was even less excited about turbulence than she was, and had had Benadryl to boot. I never know what the right thing is there, to drug the animal or not. They can't give consent, and I wonder what our people-drugs do to their animal brains. Is it scarier for an animal to be on shaky ground sober in a mesh carrier, or through a brain fog? I'm guessing the latter.

I got back to Burlington around 6pm, with nary a puff of turbulence over Vermont, despite all the scary blizzard graphics distributed to meteorologists nationwide. I'd even taken a Dramamine as extra insurance against the snow; I figured one more heave and my face would just fall right off into the pocket of the seatback in front of me. In case of shellfish, your head can serve as a flotation device. But no, all was right with the world. I even located the devoted El Yo in the cavernous labyrinth of BTV International in record time.

And of course, by 9pm I was out like a light, sleeping off my adventures. Next time I'm just sticking to lettuce and vodka.