Home is Where the Heart (And a Whole Pile of Fed-Exed Packages) Is.

27 Oct

The airplane wheels give a little scritch and the plane is down. You are home safe and sound.

The plane after a really long pause taxis to the gate. The captain turns off the “fasten seat belts” sign. The rows clear out ahead of you. Three rows ahead some guy finally rouses himself and retrieves his bag from the overhead. (Hey, no rush, Stupid.) You enter the airport. Home– safe and sound.

Your ride (which has been waiting in the cell phone lot with a very persnickety phone) pulls up to the curb. Kisses. Hugs. Bags slammed into the trunk. Ah, home safe and sound.

The traffic from the airport to the freeway is jammed due to construction. (A nice change of pace from delays due to accident, rain, lost tourists, drive-by shooting or Obama visit.) It clears and your chariot swings onto the 405. It’s good to be back home.

The miles go by fairly well with conversation about your trip and the non-doings at home. You pass the big Santa Claus in Oxnard. (That used to be a more welcome sight when he lived closer to Santa Barbara.) Then the best sign — “Santa Barbara County”. Good, home safe and sound.

Walking around a little zombie-like, checking phone messages, e-mail, twitter, snail mail and prizes won on E-Bay auctions. It’s nine, here but midnight for your body and three a.m. for your spirit. Get in pajamas. Fall into bed. Moe purrs and kneads the little space next to you. Then he is lifted up and rudely displaced by that guy with the white hair who is just so unbelievably stupid. Free at last Moe plops down next to you. Warm and fuzzy as a super-sized kitten. Home at last. Safe and zzzzzzzzzz.


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