As I pressed my foot to the pedal of my trusty green Prius, we sliced Slauson at a cool 83mph traveling down La Cienega, Mario Andretti-style in order to make the 7.15am LAX->JFK plane. I'm telling you, I even impressed my car-crazy advanced-driver son who said things like "Hey, nice move, Mamma" as I squealed between lanes and left Porsches and Mercedes in the dust. The sun was just rising so there was a little soft yellow and blue glow in the sky which was still dotted with stars. It wasn't rush hour yet, so we got away with it, but peeling into LAX at 6:25am to catch 7.15am flight isn't my idea of fun, especially when there is a ridiculous Gays in the military debate on NPR (really? are we really debating this?). I just hate leaving my son at the airport (a hasty text reports that he is on the plane and so is Jessica Alba) and I find the house just a tiny bit colder when he's not in it. I drove home slowly, chastened, watching the light poles change from pink to green on Century Blvd, back to the lesser & greater spotteds and their new winter coats, to my Mamma in her hut, ferociously reading the Lady Antonia Fraser memoir, to a house filled with clementines and a boy(20)-shaped void.