I must be out of my goddamned mind.
I am here in balmy California, where this evening I strolled through the obscenely wealthy downtown of Palo Alto and listened to live jazz music as it streamed onto the sidewalk, where palm trees sway and it smells like June, where I am sure there is an abundance of things to see and do, and all I want to do is go the fuck home. Really.
I have been to four conferences or trainings in six weeks and my little brain is zapping out with homesickness and mommy guilt and the longing to just give my fella a great big hug. I'm about as educated in my profession as I can stand at the moment, I have projects waiting for me stacked to high heaven, and I can't wait to just sit down and dispatch for a while, then go on home at the end of the day.
I miss my bed, my craft room, Scott's shoulder rubs, cuddle-time with Jordan and Maya, AA meetings, and my workout routine (no, even in health I will not work out in the SoFit facility).
I don't care if I have a feather bed. I don't care if this place is blanketed with crepe myrtle. I don't care if I'm a spit and a whistle from Fisherman's Wharf. I'm done here. Just done.
Now please, someone, anyone, print this post and stick it on my forehead in, say, March. I promise by then I won't remember one word of this rant, and when reminded will consider having myself retroactively committed.