I am truly madly deeply exhausted. And I wish to note for the record that my prediction re: Boston weather upon my return was correct. As Dorothy Parker once wrote sullenly of Paris, la belle, la brave, la raw, la rainy.

Here's the follow-up to the American Airlines legroom boast: they're not kidding, but I think they took it out of the aisles somehow. It's weird. There's more individual room, but you're at slightly greater risk of getting clipped by a passing beverage cart or backpack. My feet actually did reach the floor on these flights (sort of) but I still kept wanting to put them on the armrests of the seats in front of me to keep them from dangling.

A side note: I just got a wrong number caller, a woman I don't know who said my number showed up on her caller ID. Not only have I not called out all night, I have a caller ID blocker on my line (couple of bucks at Radio Shack, people). How bizarre is that? If you've got any theories, let me know.

Florida still sucks. I was so grateful to be off the plane and in a Boston cab I could have cried (I didn't). The cabbie asked where I'd come in from, and after listening sympathetically to my dislike of Florida (flat, humid, sprawling, bug-infested), he reminded me that we can blame Florida for Dubya now too.

The cabbie in Florida had left Boston in 1995 or so and wanted to know if the Big Dig was done yet. Heh.

But it was good to see the relatives and quasi-relatives and assorted family friends. The best part was that someone actually brought a child to the seder this year. A totally enchanting and gorgeous eight-year-old girl named Rebecca. We were all a little giddy from her presence; we're just in between generations, I guess, and no one's got kids, so the age limit for traditional children's games has been upped to 35 at our recent seders. Man, did we love this kid.

On a less cheerful note, since when is it the law in Florida that hotel rooms must be sterilized and sanitized with room sprays and carpet powders bearing an overwhelming floral stench? The first room they gave me was like a packing room at a Glade Air Freshener factory. I'm chemically sensitive to that shit, which means that I itch all over and cough and my eyes burn when I'm exposed to it. I backed out fast and went back to the desk.

"They're all going to be the same," the little assistant manager told me apologetically. "It's a law." Don't they get complaints? "Yes, we get a lot of complaints about it."

Okay.

She gave me different room keys to different rooms of floral hell, and I finally told her to give me a smoking room, figuring the tobacco smoke would give the Glade Industrial a run for its money. And it did. I was still itchy, but at least I could breathe. What exactly is Florida trying to accomplish?

Anyway. I'm home. I need sleep. What did I miss?