Fish are people too...

Well, kind of.

If you haven't noticed, I am quite the animal lover. I come by it honestly- from both my mom and my dad. One of the family friends always says that if she is reincarnated, she wants to come back as one of  my family's pets. They have it good. Even the fish.

When I was a junior in college, I hit a little bit of a low point and decided that I needed something to cheer me up. My friend, KTO, and I were at Wal Mart when we found the solution. Bettas! Almost simultaneously, we picked out our fish and had the same exact thought "I shall name you ------ and you will be the best Betta ever." Well, I don't really know if that is what she thought, but since she doesn't have her own blog, we won't ever find out.
 

My fish was Levi the Leviathan (swimming in the sea of Galilee... glub glub glub) and hers was Moto.

Little did I know Levi the Leviathan was about to teach me a big ass life lesson. When you are depressed, buying a fish will not fix anything. It only makes things worse. Especially if they are an anorexic fish and your roommate's fish is a huge fatty. Katie and I would feed our fish at the same time and you could hear Moto chomping down on his fish niblet from the next room over. Levi, on the other hand, would suck in a pellet and then, in a French accent, spit it out and say "peh... you call this food?" I hated him and his stupid fish guts.

At some point, I tired of my Betta and passed it on to my mother. She says she can't remember what happened to him, but I am pretty sure he was given a funeral at sea... before his time.

I don't know what happened to Moto either, but at some point KTO purchased another Betta, whom she named "Blech." Her reasoning was that she would never have another fish as good as Moto, so why even try. Blech didn't wait around for Levi's fate. He went ahead and did the job himself by jumping out of his bowl. I would too, if my owner named me Blech.

I reestablished my relationship with the fish world last December. Around Christmas, my mother made the mistake of sending me to PetCo with her credit card. I purchased what was on her list, but also came home with two Bettas. One for me and one for her. My parents' cats immediately tried to befriend the fish:

As you can see, Coconut was incredibly friendly. She was just trying to say 'hello':

Rastus, on the other hand, was just a little thirsty. I mean, can't a cat catch a break?

My mother laughed at the inter species interactions for about thirty minutes straight and then immediately got over the idea of owning a fish. She selected her fish (the red one) and walked to the neighbors house. She let herself in and told the two girls that lived there (ages six and nine) "look at what I got y'all for Christmas!" This was immediately met by squeals of delight and their mom looking at my mother with a real sarcastic "Thanks, Cathy." (Sorry, Sherry...)

While my mom's run of owning a fish lasted less than an hour, my fish, Frederick, made it back to New Orleans, where he is alive and well.

No fish were hurt in the writing of this blog.****


****Except for these:

Mmmm mmm KTO says. Gimme that fish/seaweed.

Mmmm Mmmm some bigger fish says. I already got your fish.
Mmmmm Mmmm I say. I like Modelo.

A Direct Message from the Karma Gods...

My parking situation at work is not ideal. There is only street parking and when school is in session, finding a parking place within a five minute walk to work is a blessing. In fact, one time I almost killed a biker while I was pulling into a spot. I was too busy trying to beat my coworker to the spot to notice any pedestrian action going on around me. We both saw the open space and made U-turns to get it, and I pulled out in front of a car and zoomed into the spot. Was it worth almost knocking that man straight off his bike? Maybe.

Needless to say, summer brings the joy of a few extra minutes of sleep and access to a lot more parking. However, my coworkers and I still get excited when we see that perfect spot- NOT in a 2 hour parking zone, and only a stone's throw away from the front steps of work.

Therefore, a few months ago, when I saw one of these parking spaces that came with a "is this too good to be true" moment, I pinched myself- realized it was true- and then put on my blinker to parallel park.

At this point in the story, I think you should know that my "Driver's Education" consisted of me driving my "instructor" to the mall and us going shopping for a cowboy hat for his girlfriend. The majority of that two hour driving session was spent between Spencer's and PacSun. Needless to say, parallel parking was not a high priority in my education. This does not mean that I do not know how to parallel park. I can and I often do. But if I am in a high stress situation (e.g., the Mercedes SUV behind me pulls straight up my butt and then loses patience and speeds around me while scraping their wheels on the curb by the street car line), I get a little unnerved and don't perform my best p-park job ever.

So after the Mercedes a-hole sped away, I calmed down and backed my car into the spot and slightly bumped the car behind me. (They're called bumpers for a reason, right? Right?) I got out of my car- looked for any scuffs or scrapes and saw nothing. I exhaled out of relief and leaned into my car to grab my bag as I noticed something move out of the corner of my eye.

A bobble head doll.

Of Jesus.

On the dashboard of the car behind me.

Shaking his head while casting his judgmental gaze upon me.

"Awww Christ," I murmured as I walked my incredibly short walk to work, "this is going to be a really bad Wednesday."

My favorite "room service" ever

No, it's not what you're thinking- that is, if you are thinking something gross. If you are thinking something along the lines of an individual sized pizza, some tater tots, and a hot fudge sundae, you are close- but no cigar. The best thing I ever had delivered to my hotel room was a live gold fish. Or at least it held the "best room service" title for about two hours.

During one of my work trips, I found a great deal on The Hotel Monaco in downtown Portland. If you have not had the chance to stay at one, a Hotel Monaco is pretty swanky. Almost to the point that I felt like someone would escort me to my room while holding a stereo that was playing a walking theme song of my choice. Mine probably would have been Gangsta's Paradise. Just saying.

After my usual 'scope out the room and then flop on the bed for ten minutes' routine, I picked up the hotel's guide book. I was thumbing through it when something caught my eye.

Whhaaaattttt!!!???? Now this really tickled my fancy. I immediately threw the book on the floor and, trying to hide the high level of excitement and anticipation in my voice, called down and requested a fish.

I eagerly paced the room while I waited for my new friend to arrive. I already imagined all of the things I was going to tell him about and all of the great photos I was going to take of him. It was a dream coming true- a pet of my own on the road with me.

When there was a knock on the door, I made myself wait for at least five seconds before I opened it. "Yes?" (I pretended to have forgotten why someone might be knocking). "You called for a fish?" "Oh yeah- just put it over there." The dream deliverer set up my new best friend on my bed side table and then put a little placard next to the bowl: the fish's name. Andy Warhol. Clever.

I was so excited. I called my then boyfriend and woke him up (it was pretty late his time).
"Guess what!?"
"what.....?"
"I got a gold fish delivered to my room!!!!!"
"Ok?"
"No- you don't get it. He is a real fish and his name is Andy Warhol."
"It's midnight."


While he was right- it was getting late, and I had a lot to do the next day, I just couldn't sleep. I stayed up and watched tv and kept stealing glances at Andy.

Me: furtive glance

Andy:

Me: another furtive glance


Andy:

Things were going well between me and my new friend.

I finally started to calm down and realized how worn out I was, so I decided to get ready for bed. At this point, I noticed that Andy was not looking so hot. He was swimming kind of funny like. Really fast spurts, then not at all. Then for a while on his side. Also, the water had changed colors pretty quickly. Now I'm no goldfish expert, but I knew something was not right.

I called the front desk and let them know that something was wrong with my goldfish. I could almost hear the eye roll from the receptionist. As I waited for a knock, I gave Andy some encouraging words. "It's going to be ok, buddy. Just hang in there."

Pretty soon the "dream deliverer" returned to check it out. He took one look at the bowl and said "ohhh yeah. Something is definitely wrong. I'll go get you a new one." A new one? I hadn't even gotten to know this one yet. Just give him some medicine and he'll perk right up. But, alas, Andy was whisked away and I waited patiently for my new friend. I wonder what he will look like. I wonder what his name is. Will he like me?

The man returned quickly with my new fish. He got him all set up in the same place and then left the room. I went over there excitedly to meet my new friend, then I saw his name card.... Andy Warhol. Well, that was about all I could handle for one night. My first friend died after hanging out with me for only two hours and then my new friend wasn't even good enough to get his own new name. This was horrible.

I decided enough was enough and went to sleep. As I turned the lights off and got in bed with a big sigh, I didn't even say goodnight to "Andy."

Category: Things I Eat With a Spoon

Some things in life are too good to enjoy as intended. There are a few delicious items that make me forego a knife, fork, or suggested "serving size." Who makes up these serving sizes anyway? THREE AND A HALF servings for basically anything you buy in an airport store? Who do they think I am? A freaking hobbit? Surely that 3 is there by mistake... it only felt like there was .5 servings of goodness in that bag of gummies.

I digress.

Before I even get into the food that makes me go weak in the knees, let me reveal a little quirk of mine. I HATE big spoons. HATE them. They are just unnatural. They feel weird in my mouth and hold too much. I just don't need that many cheerios at one time. I don't want that much soup in one bite. During my freshman year in college, I would stand in the cafeteria and pull spoon after spoon until I found a teaspoon. Even now, I would rather hand wash a teaspoon (and I don't hand wash anything) rather than use a big stupid clown spoon. Unless of course, it is while I consume the following items.

Get ready peanut butter.... here I come!

• Peanut butter. I am seriously considering naming my first child George Washington Carver (regardless of the gender) to pay my respects to the man that invented the heavenly bliss that is peanut butter. Often times, I intend to eat it with an apple, but then find myself two bites into the apple when I just turn all of my attention to the peanut butter. One of my favorite tricks when I am a few drinks in is to roll a big spoon full of peanut butter in a bag of chocolate chips. This is a move that I am always impressed with at the time, but then question later when I go to make a recipe that requires a whole bag of chocolate chips (without dried peanut butter flecks in them). 

Screw you apple! I lurve peanut butter!!!

• Caesar salad dressing. Thank god for the Romans for inventing this concoction. Wait, it wasn't invented by the Romans? Then why do they call it Caesar? That's plain wrong. Nonetheless, there has to be some sort of voodoo mixed into its creamy deliciousness. It's probably unicorn horns. The grocery store near me sells their Caesar salad dressing in bulk- it is there right next to the "Betta Chedda" dip (which my dad loves, but I don't really like... so I am not sure how it is Betta than anything). I sometimes find that salad needlessly limits the amount of dressing I can consume, so here I will opt for a big spoon to get the job done.
• Chocolate syrup. If I am only given one option of the type of chocolate syrup- I will take it, regardless of the brand. But if given an option, I will always opt for Magic Shell. That shit is heart stopping, spine tingling, speech halting, universe shaking good. They really nailed it when they decided to name it Magic Shell. Actually, they probably should have just dropped the "Shell" part. Another one of my favorite tricks involving spoons and food is to fill a big spoon up with some Magic Shell and stick it in the freezer. Most of the time I get too impatient for it to freeze completely, but I am never disappointed with the results. If I have the urge to eat it as designed (over ice cream), I go with the ratio of three parts Magic Shell to one part ice cream. 
• Soft cheese. Crackers should be ashamed of themselves for insinuating that they are the perfect accompaniment for cheese. As I mentioned in my blog, I do have a soft spot (no pun intended- get it- cause eating a lot of cheese can give you quite a few soft spots AND soft cheese is the only cheese you can eat with a spoon) for goat cheese (especially with some balsamic vinaigrette.... mmmmm mmmm). When I am at a function with other people, and have to behave like I am a part of society, I will dip a stupid cracker into the cheese. But at home, if the urge strikes, I'll go at that cheese with a big shiny spoon.

A typical day in the life of...

Yours truly. This little gem is from last summer- I wrote it to my friend after I had an amazing trip to the grocery store.

You wanted an email so here goes. So- after I dawdled at work for a long time because I had nowhere to go and no one to go there with, I decided I would treat my self to a bottle of wine. So I went to Robert's and while I was there, I decided to buy some food, as well. Because we have very little food in the house and apparently last week, when Dan pulled some pop corn out of the box, it came out with a roach. And we all know- I don't do roaches. So until Dan is back in town- I am not consuming anything out of the pantry- unless Sophie is right there to attack if a god forsaken creature should show up. P.S. I just typed anything out of the "panty" and not pantry- and it took me a while to realize what was wrong with that sentence.

So anyways- I am purusing Robert's, trying to decide what I will consume tonight when I decided I wanted something to go with ketchup. Naturally, I grabbed a bag of regular zapps (naturally)- and I would like to point out that I made the decision to grab the little bag (that feeds four to six) instead of the big bag (that feeds an entire village)- so I should get some credit. I was also next to the crackers, so I grabbed some so if I decided to eat some cheese, I wouldn't have to eat goat cheese with a spoon (and honestly this is just me trying to maintain the idea that I am a self sufficient, somewhat respectable adult. I really think there is nothing wrong with goat cheese on a spoon, but I am really trying at this whole adult thing).

I was headed to the wine when I began recounting what I had eaten today: part of a blueberry muffin, some of a mocha granita, some mash potatoes, and a Popeye's biscuit (or 1.5 biscuits, or 1.7--- probably actually just two whole biscuits). So let me go over that again: carb, carb, carb, fat, saturated fat, fat, carb, fat, carb, carb, saturated fat, polymonotrioctoquadro saturated fat, carb. At this point I decided I should probably get some vegetables- just to give myself a healthy option. And in case you didn't know- I have an unending love for canned asparagus. That stuff is so good it will make you want to slap your momma (that is when I don't already want to slap her- which isn't often. Hi Mom). Sometimes Everytime I eat it in front of people, they bitch about the smell and how disgusting it is, but I think they are just jealous that I love canned asparagus more than I love them. It is especially good with French dressing. Anyway, I wandered on over to the canned asparagus and grabbed myself a few cans and then selected a fine bottle of wine (yes! Rex Goliath is on sale for $7!) and then went to check out. Well- this is when my adventure really begun.

The girl checking me out was a young, heavy set, blond girl that kind of eye balled me when I walked up (not in a mean sort of eyeballing way, just in an eyeballing way). And she rung up my 5 items (chips, crackers, wine, and two cans of asparagus) and then looked at me and said "are you just getting off of work?" and I said "yep." And she said "getting some stuff for dinner?" And I said "actually, getting dinner, doesn't it look good?" At which point she looked through my bag, eyeballed each item (and in the bad kind of eyeballing way) and then looked at me and said "no- this is really unhealthy. The least you could have done is bought fresh asparagus." Whoa whoa whoa. Back it up here. We went from small talk to 'what the fuck' talk in about pernt five seconds. So then I told her I bought the canned asparagus because I wasn't so sure I was going to eat it tonight and didn't want it to go to waste. She then looked at me for quite a while- up and down- up and down- and goes "hmph, well at least your skinny." Which I got defensive about (like 'bitch, why you callin me skinny- you don't know me') and told her "yeah, well I work out" (because apparently I had to offer an explanation on why I could select my dinner items and maintain my girlish figure). So then she starts telling me about how she lost ten pounds and then gained it back and is trying to lose it again but her parents keep bringing her cake (.......what?).

While she was unfolding her life story to me, I put my wallet under my armpit (as I often do, because it is really f-ing big) and collected my belongings. At the point that I was all sitcheated (read situated, but in a fun way), I tried to grab my wallet and I realized the zipper was stuck on a loop on my sleeve immediately next to my armpit. I stood there and struggled with the wallet and tried to make small talk about this girl's cake problem until it came to the point where I had to interrupt her extremely interesting story and ask her to pull it off for me. I had to lean way across the bagging area and let her rummage around my pit for a while until she got it untangled. At which point, I looked at her and said "Well that was awkward- have a nice day" and booked it home to have my chips, ketchup, cheese, and wine.

If people watching were an olympic sport...

I'd have a gold medal.

My mom said that when I was a baby I would stare at people so hard in the grocery store that they would get that paranoid feeling and turn around to find the stalker. I am sure they were soon comforted when they realized they were not in harm as it was just an innocent bald-headed baby checking them out. However, I wouldn't be surprised if their new found ease was soon replaced with uncomfortableness when I continued to stare blank face.

Twenty something years later I am still staring. People are just bizarre. And they do bizarre things. And dumb things. And things where they hurt themselves. And for some reason (I blame it on being raised on The Three Stooges), I find it hilarious when people hurt themselves (not badly, just enough to curse loudly or cry a tear or two). This little thrill of mine ties in nicely with my pastime of people watching.

Last weekend, I was fortunate enough to enjoy some laughter at the expense of another. My parents and I were at the final Harry Potter movie (which is a whole other bundle of confusing emotions within itself- last HP... I've known these kids practically their whole life... they are so old... wait that means I am so old) and because the theater was so packed, we had to sit in the handicap row in the front. (Before all of you ethical people get all up in arms I would like to say that we were not stealing the seats from people in wheel chairs and their dates- there was no one in the theater that specifically needed those seats. It was not like that episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm where Larry uses the handicap bathroom and all hell breaks loose).

There were about five seats on our row and the other two were taken, as well. The one closest to me  (but actually about 8 feet away) was taken by a kid probably in his late teens. About half way through the movie, a woman got up to go to the bathroom and as she walked by the kid, she tripped over his feet and fell. Like a tree. She fell hard. She didn't put her hands out to stop her or anything. The kid bent over to apologize and she angrily brushed him off and pretended like she was OK (which is the appropriate response when you bust your ass in front of a bunch of strangers). I tried hard to concentrate on the elder wand drama on the screen in front of me, but all I could think about is how that woman fell like a muggle trying to learn quidditch. I suppressed a smile and finally got back into the movie.

When we left the movie, I was all giggles when I brought it up to my parents. My Dad was not fortunate enough to witness it but my Mom was. She agreed- that lady fell hard*. It was then that I realized that the last two times I went to the movies with my parents, I got to watch more than the movie--- I got to people watch. I don't know what magic is at work that makes this true, but this realization made me want to pull them back into the theater just to see someone else do something stupid.

My dad and I got to witness a great Three Stooges move one time when we were leaving the theater. We had gone to see something that my Mom was not interested in (probably Lord of the Rings or some other badass sci-fi middle earth type production) and when the show was over, we started slowly shuffling out of the theater. As we reached the aisle we watched a kid (no surprise here- boy in early teens) decide that he was not in the mood to wait for everyone else to make it down the steps- he had places to go and people to see. So he took it upon himself to cut everyone in front of him. By hopping over the side of the stairs. What this idiot did not think about before he did this was the ramp at the bottom of the stairs leading out of the theater is a downward incline. So while it looked like he was only three or four feet up (if the stairs were on a flat surface)- the ramp added another drop. We heard a big "mmmmmphhhh" as he hit the ramp six feet below. Dumbass.

Our other glorious people watching movie moment happened when we went to see The Forty Year Old Virgin. My parents and I were settled in our seats near the top of the theater waiting for the movie to start. In this theater, the stairs at the top get wider and there is a rail in the middle of the stairs that starts about two thirds of the way up to divide the seating on the side from the seating in the middle. A group of ladies were making their way up the stairs at the exact time that the lights went down. One of the women had not scoped out the area she was walking into and walked straight into the metal rail. Square in the crotch. As the rail reverberated, her friends broke out in loud laughter and she repeatedly yelled "SHIT" through gritted teeth. It was wonderful.

I can only hope that I get to experience such great acts of humanity in my future movie adventures with my parents.

*When I was telling a friend about the woman falling like a tree, they responded that it was dark so she probably couldn't see to put her hands down. This logic cracked me up. Like when it is dark- your body does not react the same- so don't expect your involuntary bodily reactions designed to protect yourself to kick in when the lights are a little low. It's just not going to happen.

Tampering with a smoke detector is a federal offense...

But being a class A asshole is not.

Oh, travel woes again. I am pretty sure it is just my destiny in life- to get on any plane that is having some issues and to happen to board that plane with all of the biggest jackasses possible. Anytime I get caught up in some travel mess, I find that it is not the situation that I am in that I hate- it is the people that I am in the situation with that make it so terrible. As Sartre said "Hell is other people." So right indeed.

So this flightmare occurred on my way to Bahston for the 4th. I took a late flight out of NOLA and expected to arrive in Beantown around midnight. I had about an hour layover in Detroit- should have been plenty of time to grab some food, pee (I DO NOT pee on planes..... EVER), and get to my next flight. But, to paraphrase an old Mississippi State coach, after the plane took off 'lots went wrong.' (God bless Mississippi, the only state that looks Louisiana look good).

I was fortunate enough to have randomly selected a seat in front of a guy who made the cast of Jersey Shore look like Rhodes Scholars.  He was apparently in New Orleans as a construction guy but was based out of Michigan. At one point, he asked the guy sitting next to him where he could see alligators because he really wanted to wrestle one and that "it couldn't be that bad, they were always doing it on tv." Really, if you think about it, that is a beautiful way to live life. I mean- magic must really exist, as do vampires, Jedis, and love stories where the nerdy person suddenly becomes hot and gets the cool kid in the class. To sum up the genius in seat 23B, I will give some stats and some quotes.

• Number of phone calls made or answered while still in the air: 4
• Number of times he used the phrase "I am going to make it rain": 20+
• Number of times he told his friend sitting next to him that he had a blind date: 12
• Number of times he referred to his blind date as a "bitch": 10 (as in that 'bitch' is going to looovvve me)

• While talking to the girl next to me: "Where are you flying to? Maryland? Where is that?"
• While talking to the girl next to me: "What's your name? That's a weird name. Where are you from? Where? West Africa? Is that like in Africa Africa?"
• While talking to the girl across the aisle from him: "Where are you from? Louisiana? No- I mean like are you French or something cause you look French. Oh- well I am French. Like good at French kissing, if you know what I mean."

We got to Detroit and began to circle the city. Around and around and around and around. The Captain made an announcement about bad weather in Detroit and needed to delay our landing. At this point, Einstein got really fed up and begin to make his first in a series of phone calls: "Man this is bullshit. This asshole says there is bad weather. I don't see shit. I am looking at the sunshine. Yall better wait at the bar for me. I am buyin shots for EVERYONE. I am gonna make it rain, yo." While ole' boy gave his experienced opinion on the meterological situation, a child three rows back screamed the ABCs for the 7th time. The child's mother interrupted him long enough to see if he wanted anymore candy. I cannot think of a recent situation which better highlighted the range of assholes that epitomize America. Don't get me wrong- I love this country- I get all choked up when I hear patriotic music- but it never ceases to amaze me how many people feel that their right to "Freedom of Speech" actually means that they are informed and strangers actually want to hear what they have to say.

In order to not completely lose it, I had to really focus on my breathing and start composing this post in my head. I quietly smiled to myself as I thought of multiple ways to describe this guy's stupidity as I counted his wonderful catch phrases.

After circling The Motor City for 45 minutes, the Captain made an announcement that we needed to land in Grand Rapids to refuel and wait for the weather to blow through Detroit. As you can imagine, this announcement did not go over really well- especially with the guy who was now standing up his blind date. There was a massive uproar and many a groan in which people bitched about their plans (emphasis on their because they were the only ones that had plans- honestly- when I fly- I usually just fly about without any plans). We landed in Grand Rapids, and I texted my friend in Boston to let her know what was going on. For some reason, my iphone kept autocorrecting Grand Rapids to Grand Rapists which leads me to believe that Apple has more advanced technology than they claim since apparently they could now autocorrect my words to match my situation and my mood.

We sat on the ground in Grand Rapids for about 45 minutes while the storm blew over Detroit. During this time, the asinine guy behind me somehow proceeded to get incredibly drunk even though I never saw a flight attendant serve him a drink. At one point, someone from the ground crew had to get on the plane to get an oxygen tank for another plane which prompted the idiot to shout "What!? I mean- Jesus Christ- if they need some help just send them to a fucking hospital." I would be incredibly upset, too, if I was missing a blind date with someone I had already nicknamed "Bitch."

We eventually got off the ground and got back to Detroit. When I got off of the plane- I checked the monitor- and realized that my flight to Boston had been delayed- it was 12:02- and I had until 12:10 to get to the flight. OK- not a problem. I can get there. Then I checked the gate information. My flight to Boston was at Gate A75. I was currently at Gate A6. That's right, A6. I took off. I sprinted between each moving sidewalk and then powerwalked on the sidewalks. I passed groups of people leisurely ambling. I was running like a bat out of hell in flats, a regular bra, jeans, and a long sleeve shirt. I swear that the concourse was over a mile long.

I got to the gate breathing like a heavy set mailman who has smoked his whole life and just got chased by the neighborhood dog. I was also sweating profusely. Grossly profusely. Like a dude. The great news was the plane was still there. I could not have been happier. Despite my life lesson of 'always carry underwear,' I did not have an extra pair on my person and was going to be an unhappy girl if I found myself sleeping on the airport floor again (for the second time in two months) with unfresh underwear.

I got on the plane and found my seat without making eye contact with anyone. I felt really bad for the woman who was sitting next to me. I used my long sleeve shirt to wipe the pools of sweat off of my face and tried my best to put my hair up in a way that didn't look like I just went through a natural disaster. I failed. We sat on the runway for a few minutes while other passengers got on the plane- the same passengers that were walking through the airport as I sprinted by them like a Kenyan in the Olympics. I got to Boston safe and sound- a little sweaty, gross hair, hungry, tired, and with a full bladder. But I got there. Surprisingly enough, my luggage made it too. While I skipped showering before I went to bed (so I would not wake up my friends), I absolutely put on some clean underwear and happily fell asleep in my final destination, with visions of alligators attacking idiots from Michigan dancing through my head.