Well, in this case, it really was faster coming home. 5 airborne hours out, and only three when flying New York-bound. I still did not make it to JFK until 7 am, after which I had to get a cab home and pass out for approximately 2.3 seconds, before heading to work. I kept passing out in the car, and waking up with a rather disconcerting "WherethefuckamI?!?" start every time we hit a red light.
The trip home was fairly standard -- 'Zona picked me up at the airport, and after a thoroughly fruitless search for a late-night eating-place, he brought me to my sister's house. The next three days were taken up with moving couches just a little bit that way, setting clocks, plugging things in, horrifying my mother with my hairstyle, and in a reversal from the last time I went home, starving to death. I did get to buy some new shoelaces, and mom sent me home with a silver tea service, some egg shirrers, and a gigantic pitcher-sized cocktail shaker.
On the flight out, by the way, I watched an episode of Wolfgang Puck's little cooking show. He went to freakin' Siegfried and Roy's house to whip up some stuffed cabbage, and I wanted nothing so much as to have Art and Sea and company around to stare in uncomprehending horror with me. The screen full of Austrian accents was truly both preposterous and delightful, as was Roy's penchant for gesturing theatrically at any pot that Siegfried was stirring.
(Speaking of Sea -- expect a book in the mail soon. It is truly horrible and pretentious and arrogant and I think you just might get the tremendous kick out of it that I have. Oh yeah, and send me your address again.)
I am going to take a break from nodding off at my desk to tuck into my fantabulous Chipotle burrito. I flew all the way to Colorado to get one, you know.