I flew down to San Diego on Friday night to visit my family in their new home, and aside from the woman in the row behind me shouting "OH GOD, IT'S CRASHING, WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE!" as the plane took off into some (admittedly) rather stormy skies, it was as enjoyable a weekend as I've had in a long time.

In my parents' new house in San Diego, there is a bathroom without a door. Well, that's not strictly true, I suppose; there is a sort of archway dividing it from the bedroom. But if someone walked into that bedroom while you were in the bathroom, well, hoo boy, you'd get to know each other pretty quickly. If they were at the sink or in the bath, you'd definitely see them. If they were standing in the shower? Then you'd see a whole lot of them. 

Well,  I'm all ready for my trip to the Bahamas on Tuesday. I've bought three different kinds of sunscreen, a package of Dramamine---or Wal-Dram II, as the Walgreens store brand is ominously named (can't you just imagine a pompous stockbroker named Wally Dram the Second?

Hello from Exuma, the most beautiful island in the Bahamas! Do you like my balcony? Funny thing about that balcony, actually, IT ALMOST GOT ME KILLED. Well, that's not exactly true, although it certainly could have, had I acted on Plan A this afternoon when I found myself in a certain situation. Since I rather sensibly acted on Plan B, however, it merely---how shall we say this?---mildly inconvenienced me instead.

I always get the most bizarre injuries when I go to the Bahamas. Last time, if you'll cast your mind back, I sprained my foot by slamming into some rocks when I was running down the beach and then did something to my bottom lip that made me look like Octomom gone bad. (Or, I guess, Octomom gone worse.) This time, I got scratched by a swimming pig.

Yes, I said a swimming pig.

In case you're wondering what I did in the Bahamas, there was a little of this:

And some of this:

At any given time in America, I am willing to bet that there is a woman on a plane, with her laptop open in front of her, studying a wedding spreadsheet. There was one such woman on my plane this morning, in fact---it wasn't me, it was the girl in front of me, but what are the odds?---and a second woman, who was pacing the aisle with a fussy baby, happened to look over her shoulder. 

This is a picture of my Christening, where my parents look approximately twelve. (They weren't, of course, they were more like 29, but don't they look startlingly young?) My mother sent this to me the other day, not for the comic relief of me looking like a bald deer in headlights, nor for the hilarious glimpse of my grandma, peering through the gap between my parents while looking like she's searching for a dropped contact lens. 

The other day, on our early morning flight from San Diego to San Francisco, a baby was crying across the aisle from us. I mean, of course he was crying, poor thing: he'd been dragged out of his crib at four in the morning and made to sit in a cramped metal tube with a hundred strangers who glared at him. Have you ever noticed how people glare at crying babies on planes? Because that's going to help, isn't it: affixing a poor defenseless four-month-old with your iciest stare. Why don't you just steal his lunch money and insult his sister's virtue while you're at it?