My get-home ritual has become rote at this point, with six months of repetition to drill it into my head.  Drop all bags by the door.  Peel off all uncomfortably sweaty, dusty, straw encrusted (and other stuff encrusted) clothing - some may make it into the laundry hamper and some may not.  Jump into shower and take the quickest wash in all of history.  Jump out, hair still soaking wet, and spend the next two to three hours reading, writing, and generally dripping water everywhere.  No interruptions, no phone calls, no television, no distractions.  Occasionally I'll venture out, scavenge for some food, check the mail, and drop off recycling and then it's a quick retreat back.  My home is my sanctuary, is my fortress of solitude, is my tall, tall tower with no entrance, is my cave hidden away in the mountains.

By luck of the draw (or the gods' intervention), my apartment has the WORST cell phone reception known to man.  Even worse than the dorm room my freshman year when T-Mobile hadn't yet glommed onto every cell phone tower in the Austin area.  I get two bars of service, if I'm lucky but it's usually the dreaded "E" signal.  We may chat for five minutes before the call is dropped.  It's a convenient excuse to have for not talking long, particularly when I'm in my zone.  This is my decompression time and trust me, you do not want to see what happens when all of that pressure builds up with nowhere to go.  America may have an ice cream shortage at that point in time.

In other news, I'm never moving, not ever.  What about you, what's your get-home ritual?