Rough Rider

It seems this throwing up on planes is becoming a thing (thanks for not being openly hostile, LA to Auckland and Auckland to Christchurch seatmates).  My brother, who intercepted a shoe-full one memorable flight when I was about three, will be not at all surprised, but I had thought of myself as a normal, non-airsick person for many years.  Ah well.  A mere two flu-shivery nights in Christchurch later, I was privileged to board this big gray guy and fly down to the Ice once more (didn't throw up on this one!).

Now that I'm back in an office with my own computer, and my boss keeps the TV on (muted), my sense of geographical isolation has diminished.  I also realized how static-y hair gets down here, and, that it is cold.  (-4F not counting wind, for inquiring minds.)  When you're not scampering between ovens and grill tops and heaving hundreds of pounds of trash into bins, an extra sweater becomes necessary.  Even, dare I say, gloves.

There are no deep drifts, but it was blustery and dusk-dark with snow last night.  I had a drink with friends and cringed at karaoke before giving into a firefighter looking for a second person with whom to perform "Rawhide" (you know, that song from The Blues Brothers?).  And so the third season begins...