Shokufeh is... home

Number 15!

It's 12:45 in the morning. I should be sleeping. Or doing some work. But, instead, I'm blogging.

You know why? Because it's November 1, the first day of NaBloPoMo. I'm wondering why the flip I signed up for it again this year. Especially since I'm traveling 10 of the 30 days of the month. What was I thinking?! But there's no backing out now. Sure, I've yet to put the NaBloPoMo badge on my sidebar. But, people, I am member #15 of NaBloPoMo! Out of more than 3000! As I said, there's no backing out now.

The other reason I'm blogging: procrastination, stress, wondering how I'll get it all done. I'm not one of those people who thrives on lack of sleep. Saturday, I leave for DC. Between now and then, I need to fix the lapel on my coat, hem my pants, take care of a buttload of correspondence for LSA (is it disrespectful to use such a word in this context? what is it about leaving town that compels me to take care of things I've dragged out for a while already? in my defense, I spent much of last week in a fog), figure out what I'm wearing to a fancy work-related function Friday night, figure out how to conceal my stitches/greasespot for said function (though I'm really owning the stitches these days, something I've been meaning to write about), attend the function (and miss out on putting MrMan to bed for my last night in town until next Wednesday night, when I return at a time when he will already have gone to bed), get all my plans in place for the conference I'm attending, print out some pictures of MrMan to give to all the relatives I'll also be seeing in DC, take care of some things at work that can't wait any longer.

Oh, yeah, and try to squeeze in some time with the fam, especially MrMan. This will be the longest I've ever been away from him, and I don't think I'm looking forward to it. I'm suddenly thinking about my dad's cousins. When they first came from Iran many years ago, they left their parents and little sister behind. When they missed their sister, they would take out a baby shirt of hers and sniff it. Maybe I should take along one of MrMan's oatmeal-crusted tshirts.