Finally back home after not one but several mishaps (okay, that’s too nice a word, let’s call them fuck ups, since that’s what they were) at the airport. Long story short, I should have been home Monday night. I got home Tuesday night.
I love visiting Toronto, my hometown, but for some reason, the traveling part never goes smoothly.
I am now sick with a cold or the flu (I can’t tell which) and I’m totally panicked at the thought of diving back into revisions for Creep. I haven’t worked on Creep since I left home almost two weeks ago. I can’t remember what I was revising. I know I need to cut six thousand words, but I can’t remember which six thousand I was planning to target. I stayed up late last night catching up on bill paying and everything else I let slide because my trip home to Toronto was not planned (I went back for a funeral… the last three times I’ve gone back have been for funerals), and I slept terribly because the cats were so excited to see us that they wouldn’t stop bugging us all night. Not that I blame them, they’ve practically been alone in the house for two weeks (we didn’t have the heart to lock them out of the bedroom). And did I mention I woke up sick this morning?
Going back to Toronto is not the same thing as taking a vacation. It’s always great to see our family and close friends, yes, but it is utterly, utterly exhausting. Eerily, this past trip was almost an exact replica of my last visit in June 2009, which I blogged about here and here.
I woke up this morning confused about what my definition of home is. Home used to be Toronto, unequivocally, which is the city where I grew up, where I went school, and where the majority of my friends and family are.
But now I feel like home is Seattle, where my husband is, and where my house is, and where my pets are.
I feel all out of sorts.