The majority of my day at work was spent in a grueling, nearly seven hour meeting. A bunch of us sat like lumps in a room, grazing on a bunch of fatty but satisfying foods, while making a series of decisions. The first few hours were kind of speedy and lighthearted, the next few were all about business, and then, during the final hour, my mind went numb and shutdown completely. I had my elbows propped on the table, head in my hands, as I tuned out the ongoing discussions while wishing myself to a happy place. Very professional. At that point, giving a presentation on the inner workings of the telephone to a room of 200 people would have been a happy place. That's just crazy talk, but clearly I was exhausted and out of my mind.

When it was all over and I could finally hide out in my office to recover, I had the strong urge to take up smoking. I've never been what you'd call a smoker, but sometimes it just sounds really good. It's a bad idea, though. My sister and I indulged in a couple cigarettes while out one night, and the next day I had the tiniest little cough, which naturally I assumed was my new smoker's cough. I started telling people that. When my sister caught me making this claim, she turned to me with an amused look and called me out, "A smoker's cough, Megan? After one cigarette? God."

I miss my sister and nephew lots. I'm slowly cleaning up the apartment after the chaotic Trav whirlwind. Vacuuming up Elmo crackers that he ground into the carpet. Dealing with piles of dishes and laundry. Scrubbing smeared baby food off the chair cushions. I'm leaving the little baby handprint in the dust on the TV screen, though, because I love it.