I bet YOU don't have a plastic bag full of vomit

But I know where you can find one, if you'd like to drive to Kensington, Md., and fish it out of a Dumpster.

Devon and I drove down to DC to see Misty, his friend who was visiting from Colorado. She was a little nauseated after spending an hour in the car looking for a section of town that we never found because it probably got sucked into the Hellmouth. Devon thought a helping of homemade ginger ale would be just the thing to settle her stomach, and it did -- the hard way.

It's weird -- now that I don't live in DC, it no longer feels like the soulless, oppressive, empty shell of a city I remember. Or maybe that was just the company I was keeping at the time. We got to tour the Capitol building, which I'd managed to miss in the two years I was there, before meeting up with Pukemaster Ewegen.

And I got a bitchin' bread machine for my birthday, the kind that sends your bread back in time so little old ladies can knead it with their freakishly strong hands and make it smell like homemade awesome. Yes, it's that good.