There's Something Wrong With You

Lately, when my mother has a whiff that I've gone round the bend, she takes a breath and half laughs "well, there's something wrong with you", like she's not feeling the exact same way.

We shared a moment earlier this week when we both admitted to a frightening case of "get me the hell out of here". Mine, due to the fact that I've been living in temperatures normally reserved for Arctic expeditions; hers, due to the fact that she lives in Cincinnati, and they've been under a blanket of ice for the better part of 4 days. I don't think they're comparable, but to be fair, there are no hills here, so I can't really say.

Luckily, mom is gainfully employed, so she's heading off on vacation soon. I can already smell the surf for her.

I find myself, on the other hand, contemplating whether it's better to jump on a plane to Florida or continue to sit in the cold, dark wintry mix that is 60660.

After much thought, I've decided that, while I love my father, and should probably go visit, I'm staying home. The daily job forecasts are depressing and make me want to scream, but I'm beginning to think that massive assualts on recruiter inboxes are the only way to come out of this successful.

Plus, there's the slim chance that my application to be on Oprah goes through, and well, I just can't miss that call.

I know, there's something wrong with me. Get in line.