When we last saw our heroine, she was bemoaning the lateness of the hour and the need to wake up early, which, as we know, is not her strong point. I'm pleased to report that although I only managed an hour of sleep, I got to the airport on time. I think. The whole morning is a little hazy in my memory.

The airport was nearly empty at 6:45am. I stood in a short line to check my suitcase and went through security without a beep or a pause. There wasn't even a line. I could have gotten at least another half-hour of sleep.

I have no memory of waiting for the flight to be called, boarding the plane, the faces of the others in my row. I remember that I had a window seat and a bad headache and that I slept until we landed in Pittsburgh. I changed planes in the same sleepwalking fashion, got another window seat, and slept most of the way to Fort Lauderdale.

For the first time since 9/11, I wasn't "randomly selected" to have my backpack searched. I think they pick me to fill their random-search quota of passengers who aren't men with Arabic features. Otherwise, they'd get accused of racial profiling, and we know how wrong that is.

Putting together a seder for more than thirty people is no easy task, but my father's side of the family likes a crowd. My aunt and an array of first and second cousins bust ass to pull it off every year. This year, two cousins came in later than usual because they had to work. My parents and I pitched in (well, I cut cooking parchment and greased pans; cut me some slack, I can't cook) and somehow, the show went on.

Other relatives take care of getting the function room and arranging the caterers and keeping my grandmother calm. The director and emcee for the seder is a second cousin, whose father, along with my late grandfather, presided over our seders for years. Second Cousin married back in 1996 and, of course, brought his new wife to the seder. The new wife brought the dog.

Yes, the dog. The dog, Bijoux, was a tiny, silent, passive creature in a Louis Vuitton pet carrier. I don't think it made a noise all evening. Still, it was an actual live dog, and it was the subject of countless whispered debates throughout the night.

My grandmother, never an animal lover, was irate. A dog at her seder! It was unthinkable. The word was passed that my grandmother had laid down the law: no dog. She is the matriarch of the family; I considered the matter settled.

The next year, Second Cousin and Wife arrived, accompanied by... the dog. In his carrier, with food and water bowls and a blanket on which to sleep during the evening.

I was amazed. No one crosses my grandmother. But Second Cousin is also very powerful, and while his irresistible force met my grandmother's immovable object, Bijoux slipped by again.

I couldn't decide where I stood. My grandmother had made it clear that the dog was not welcome at what was, after all, her seder; on the other hand, the dog, again, was silent as the grave.

My grandmother knew damn well where she stood and issued another decree declaring Bijoux persona non grata, or canina non grata, as the case may be.

You can guess what happened next year and the year after and so on. Bijoux's silent presence was as reliable as the sunrise. I had to admire the Wife's civil disobedience, if only for her remarkable consistency. And really, what difference does it make? Why should we shut out Bijoux?

One of the seder traditions is to fill a glass of wine for the prophet Elijah and open the door to invite him in. (I opened the door a few years back and a caterer hauling trash bags slipped through, thanking me. Priceless.) If we regularly invite invisible friends to join us, I see no reason why we shouldn't welcome a flesh-and-blood, if suspiciously silent, little dog.

The day after the seder, some relatives in Miami had everyone over to hang out by the pool and laugh together. I spent most of the day in bed. My back has been hurting lately; I made it through the seder and the drive to and from thereof, but my endorphins went on strike after that. When I woke on Friday, I knew I wasn't going anywhere.

And I didn't. I stayed in bed in the hotel and watched television. I don't have cable at home; I almost never watch television. Access to cable makes television impossible to resist. Over my days and nights in Florida, I watched Erin Brockovich (thumbs up), a Discovery Channel show about giant squid, a skateboarder breaking his leg on RealTV (yuck), a couple of variations on the theme of cop cars with cameras, and -- the best part -- an hour and a half of NCAA gymnastics (PAC 10s). I'm going to be in trouble if I ever live with cable access. Exposure to Ahmad Rashad has been shown to decrease mental functions.

I had a flight out of Fort Lauderdale at 7:45. I made it through a shower and got everything packed. Then, just before I left for the airport (5:30ish, my father had seen long lines for security), someone turned up two beautiful Vicodin tablets. I downed one and got in the car.

It hadn't quite kicked in by the time I tried to get in line to check my suitcase outside. There was a large group of people, mostly sullen teenagers, with a lot of bags blocking the sidewalk completely. I tried to get by politely, but no one moved out of my way. My back was hurting and I was pissed off. What the hell was wrong with these people?

Over the din, I heard a skycap yell, "Who's next?"

I have to get out of here before I kill someone. I took a deep breath and bellowed, "I'M NEXT!" Heads swiveled my way. They must have heard me in Tallahassee. I used to be a cheerleader, remember?

I picked up my bag and shoved through the crowd to the skycap, who was already laughing. I felt cleansed. Refreshed. I can still make 'em laugh and I can still make 'em move.

There was, again, no line at security. I slept the whole way home; take the southbound trip, reverse it, sub Charlotte for Pittsburgh. I barely had to open my eyes. I snagged my suitcase at Logan and settled into a cab with a sigh of relief. "Where you goin'?" the cabbie asked, shifting into drive.

"Home," I said.