Day it was actually written: today.

Why? 'Cause I haven't been able to find the crowbar, the only possible way to pry Neal away from the computer lately. He's even more addicted than usual, and I have no idea why.

Number of Christmases people should have: 1 or 2.

Number I had: 4.

Why? My trip up north for the holidays wasn't too eventful, except for it being like a giant two-state tour of Christmases and presents and music and children. Here's how it went: Fly to Ohio. Sleep. Shop. Neal's family. Sleep. Christmas Eve. Sleep. Christmas morning - my immediate family. Drive to Pittsburgh. Dad's side of the family. Day off. Mom's side of the family. Sleep. Friends of family. Sleep. Drive back to Ohio. Fly back to Florida.

All the Christmases were warm and good and happy and fun. When I say "warm," I mean in the Charlie Brown kind of way, because I froze my ass off for seven days.

Presents Neal got me: 3.

What? A beautiful amethyst and diamond star pendant, a suede and feather coat, and an electronic puppy. Could that list make me sound any more like a spoiled little princess? All I need is a tiara and a butler. Wait, I got a tiara for my birthday.

The flight home on Saturday was the drama of the holidays.

Hours of sleep Neal and I meant to get Sunday night: 5.

Hours of sleep we actually got: 1 and 1/2.

Time our flight should have left Ohio: 6:40 a.m.

Time our flight left Ohio: 8 a.m.

Why? I don't know. But we should have had an hour layover in Detroit before catching our next flight to Florida. The delay left us with 22 minutes.

Time our flight should have left Detroit: 9:14 a.m.

Time our flight actually left Detroit: 3:50 p.m.

Why? Man. Don't get me started. Wait, too late. The airline had many, many technical problems with the planes. Yes, planes. They switched planes and brought in a new one to take us 3 to 5 times. I lost count because I couldn't keep my eyes open, and spent much of my time in that shit-covered ball of shit of an airport in De-freaking-troit curled up uncomfortably in an airport chair, drifting in and out of sleep, sometimes reading a Marie Claire, covered in about 3 different black coats. I kept looking around in wonder and thinking about how much the freaking gate looked like a refugee camp.

The poor and huddled masses... the men in camoflauge with guns... the hungry and dirty children lying on the floor, crying...

There was also a point where I tried to bribe airport employees with Pez in the hopes of either getting a definite time of departure, extra credits, or a class upgrade. I wasn't successful.

Then, I went in the bathroom and looked in the mirror... My face was all puffy, with huge dark circles under my eyes and sleep lines all over my face. There was an especially deep indent running up my entire right cheek, created by the metal zipper on Neal's leather jacket. The employees were probably like, "Look at the poor, disfigured retarded girl brandishing the Santa Clause Pez dispenser. She probably doesn't even know what she's doing - and she won't even remember if we don't offer her anything."

I didn't mind the delay TOO much, because we didn't have to be anywhere. But it would have been better if they'd just said, "We're going to be delayed for 6 hours." Instead, they did it in 1/2 hour to hour increments, and Neal and I never felt like we had time to stand in the humungous food lines. I'll be damned if we were going to miss the flight waiting for a $7 soggy corn dog.

So we starved, and were like ravenous beasts when we finally hit Sunny Florida.

Once we finally got on a plane, we had to sit there for over an hour, waiting our more technical difficulties. Stomachs grumbling.

Dollar value of combined airline credits the airline gave Neal and me to put toward our next flights - you know, to make up for our trouble and inconvenience and, oh yeah, HELL ON EARTH: $250.

So that part wasn't bad.