The worst torture was legging it off my tiny puddle-jumper plane from Charlotte, only to stand around kicking the ground and waiting for my luggage – the last piece out of the hold.

After not laying eyes on Doug for three months, I got my first, second, third, fourth and fifth glimpses of him from the airport tarmac, because I could see the gate area’s window and he was leaning patiently against it. This definitely wasn’t a romantic first sighting of me, either – no hair gently blowing back over my shoulders, no easy slow smile breaking over my face, no glamorous appearance out of the jetway. Instead, my hair was a ragtag mop being tossed in the wind, and I kept swiveling my head and squinting up at the window to make sure it was really Doug standing there, at which point half my hair decided to swirl right into my mouth. By the time I straggled into the airport, my body was somewhat less than upright, my gait was slow with a ragged quality, my eyes had bigger bags than my actual suitcase, and I was sneezing from the climate change. "Hi," I managed, before throwing myself against his chest.

God, he looked great. He’s got these greenish-gray cargo pants that do wonders for his posterior (on butt-related news, read Alice’s ode to her husband’s derriere). He wore a yellow T-shirt that was just tight enough… ooh. Doug is a fine specimen. Every time I see him, he’s cuter. I’m supremely fortunate. I could stand there all day, my arms wrapped around his waist and my head resting just-so against his torso, his chin or cheek brushing my hair.

After a quick nap and a shower for me, we grabbed some lunch and hopped into Doug’s red Mustang for the five-and-a-half hour drive to Princeton, N.J., where his parents live. We crossed the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel, which is exactly what it sounds like – part bridge, part underwater tunnel so that Navy ships can cross – and passed through stretches of Virginia, Maryland and Delaware before entering New Jersey.

I love driving in East Coast states because they have a completely different feel than the western ones. I’m not even sure how to describe it, because the entire aura changes from coast to coast. Spanish-style houses and palm trees are replaced with more lush foliage, and red brick or clapboard. Summer feels more luxurious, more of an indulgence, more of a delight, because it’s a fleeting time of year, soon supplanted by snow and sleet and naked trees.

And NASCAR is more popular. Every pickup truck we passed had the number of the owner’s favorite NASCAR driver; sometimes nearby, a mischievous Calvin urinated on a rival number. Most times, though, Calvin’s bladder activity involves Ford and Chevrolet, where the owner of one model truck proudly affixes a sticker where Calvin golden-showers the logo of the other.

Calvin does quite a lot of peeing.

Doug correctly pointed out that Calvin never loses – we never see a bumper sticker in which a maniacal, cackling Ford logo pees all over a prostrate Calvin. But still, even in victory, it’s a disturbing legacy for one of the country’s most beloved cartoon characters. Had I spent a decade charming the nation with my stuffed tiger and our buddy-comic antics, I’d be a tad put-off at being immortalized not for this, but for a pissing penchant I wasn’t even aware I had. Calvin is frozen in time, locked in an eternal pissing match without consequence.

I was a bit giddy by the time we pulled into the driveway, hungry and sleepy and desperate to stretch my legs. Doug’s parents greeted us warmly with hugs, and we proceeded to stuff ourselves on the ribs and New Jersey corn they’d prepared. I absolutely love seeing Doug with his family, because he’s so close to every member, as I am with my brood. The dynamic is so easy and infused with love and humor, underscoring all the qualities that make me love Doug so much and cementing what a solid and spectacular person he is.

I crashed early, exhausted from a day of travel, but completely at peace and happy and surrounded by love.

reading the raymond carver book, still watching promos for the new NBC fall season, and i have to say, it makes "friends" look pretty good this season -- but that's why the ad department gets big bucks eating pop tarts, because i'm going home in three days and don't want to go grocery-shopping what it all means that i'm 24 and i'm still eating pop tarts, which is sort of pathetic