John Scalzi has a feature on his blog where he takes a picture from the hotel window when he travels. I am much entertained by this feature, not because it's inherently interesting, but because it fits in well with my sense of collecting. In particular, the collecting of trivial, odd things. I had started taking pictures of hotel hallways, but, well, not all hotel rooms come with hallways. Windows, now they all have those.

I had Jessica's last name spelled wrong in a tag and she didn't comment. I wonder if that means she didn't notice.

No matter. Fixed now.

I stayed at Jessica's last night. The thought being that since we're both on the same painfully early o'clock flight out of Chicago, staying over at her place was easier than both my getting up on time at Dad's and her detouring in the morning to pick me up. I was good with it, because it meant that I could stay in bed as long as possible, maximizing the important stuff: sleep.

So, ten minutes before we were scheduled to leave, Jessica woke me up. I dutifully rolled out of bed, put on my shoes, walked to the bathroom, walked out of the bathroom a minute later, grabbed my luggage, dragged it upstairs, put it all into the car, and waited for Jessica. Having a small child to say good-bye to takes more than those 10 minutes did, which left me time to wonder about the important things in life.

Like, should I have brushed my teeth?

We ended up leaving right on time: 3:40 am. That's right, I was awake at 3:20 am, central time. And, stayed awake. That second part? The STAYED part? Yeah, I don't know how either.

I managed to stay awake on the drive to the airport, despite Jessica's offers to let me sleep. I didn't particularly feel good about that, I mean, she was driving, and all I needed to do was sit there. The least I could do was stay awake and chat with her. I managed to stay awake and drag my tired butt through the airport AND stay awake until take off. I'm still not sure how I managed it.

I also managed to stay awake until we boarded the flight. Jessica totally rocked yesterday and checked me in, so I had a ultra-low number and managed my favorite seat on the plane: just at the back of the wing, close to the exit, on the aisle row. The flight was so empty (yay, Tuesday morning, early o'clock flights) that we had our own rows, and I slept most of the flight.

Yay, own row!

Jessica was not so lucky in the sleeping department.

Apparently, there was a guy sitting across the aisle from me. He was in one of the very few rows with two people in the row, the other guy was in the window seat. The aisle guy seat had lost a diamond up this nose and was attempting to retrieve it mid-flight. Two knuckles up his nostril, with no worry about the possibility of sinus infection, or what-not, because there's gold up them thar nose!

I asked Jessica why she didn't just turn away.

"I couldn't! I just couldn't! It was so disgusting!"

Ah, train wreck with booger boy.

What a way to start a day.

I hate to think of my parents as old. Aside from the fact that such a thought means I'm old, too, it also brings thoughts of loss too close to the surface. Jessica commented on some picture of Mom not too long ago, saying, hey, she sure looked old. I think I refrained from saying, "You're no spring chicken yourself, sweetie," but I can't be sure. The sentiment certainly applies to both of us, too.

If you're lucky, you manage to capture some of your parents' essence, the part that makes you smile. You know, like those pictures of the jolly old man sitting in a chair, usually with some kid on his lap? And he has that look of contentment on his face? The picture that fills you with warm fuzzies?

No kid, but I did manage one of my dad that makes me smile. Fits right in with the not-so-subtle orneriness of that man.