Where in the world is Kathleen Davis?

After 30 hours of bizarre stop-and-start traveling with hellish hangover-like layovers, I have arrived back in the land of the bitchy, disenchanted and seriously overweight. Damn, it is good to be back.

And, after dragging two bags halfway across the world, I have put at least half of one in a Goodwill sack to give away. Why I couldn’t have saved myself some time, trouble and grief and simply trashed them in Hamada, I will never know. But, most of my clothes are too damn big, too damn faded, and too damn frayed to keep around. I look like a slightly funky ’70s-esque bag lady with no ass but loose pants wrinkles. Too sad. So Mom picked me up today, and we went shopping.

Well, first we had Mexican food (glory be to spicy food gods in the highest!) and THEN we went shopping . . . which you probably don’t give a rat’s ass about. But, still, I got some damn pants that damn fit and that is damn good.

Now I am wide awake at 11 p.m. Kansas time because it is 1 p.m. (the next afternoon) Hamada, Japan time and I have jet lag something fierce. So, here I am, finally at the computer and typing away after over a week.

And, it was a nice week. Went to Hiroshima with the dad, had a lovely final going away party at a gorgeous traditional Japanese restaurant with tempura and rice and sushi and sashimi and Japanese good-bye songs. Plus, I got great stuffs in the gifts department. Very nice. And, my dad got a cake (his birthday was during his visit to Japan). The cake had written on it: Happy Birthday Pappasan. And, about twenty people . . . yeah, OK, all right, FIVE people . . . came to see us off at the bus station in Hamada. I felt a little like the prime minister of Japan—all famous and shit. But, without the Lion King mane or the strange resemblance to Richard Gere.

Even though the trip back took 30 hours when all was said and done (from hotel room in Hiroshima to guest room at Dad’s house in Stillwater), it went rather smoothly. Just a lot of damn waiting, a good test in patience. I did think we were going to have an issue in customs at Chicago, as the customs official asked me three times whether I was SURE I didn’t have food in my bags.

I wanted to say, “Look, I know I am fat and look like I would horde some snacks here and there, but I am not smuggling fucking food, asshole. Want to look for yourself?”

But, as I was sorta attempting to get a Japanese snakeskin guitar through customs without a lot of questions and hassle, I just kept repeating “no” in what I think was a friendly tourist tone. Or, it could have been a surly, I haven’t had sleep in 20 hours tone, I really couldn’t tell you a lot of difference there.

Still, I got home with the guitar . . . and with some Japanese biscuits that a friend had given me inside a “Hello, Kitty” lunchbox. Hmmmm. It appears I was hording food afterall. I am such a little minx—although I swear it was entirely by accident. I simply forgot.