Home again, home again

Thursday, petting Tim's fuzzy, shaved head while he tried to exercise around me, I said, "I am ready to go home."

"Me, too, back to our kitties, and our own space."

"I'm glad we're considering it home now."

So I assumed the kick in the stomach I was feeling as we drove to the airport was actually excitement to return south. But it really must have been more like a premonition.

We got home Saturday night to an upright bass sprayed with cat pee, a $200 lab bill for a Chlamydia test I never requested, a food cabinet filled with strange black bugs, and no good Thai restaurant down the street from which to order take-out.

So we dealt by yelling, then retreating to our own corners of the apartment to do the only things we could handle: clean. Somehow I only feel motivated to deep-clean the bathroom when I am very, very angry. And thank god Tim does all the cat clean-up. I like that our relationship doesn't involve much yelling at all, but when the urge arises, we take space to calm down, then come back together when we're ready. And cleaning or unpacking speeds the recovery process, because it's more fun to hang out than actually work.

Then we opened a bottle of champagne, and watched some Arrested Development. It made the homecoming infinitely more tolerable.

But I hate being back. I like the slower pace of life, but I feel this big hole in my chest, where family and friends, and tall buildings and el trains, Indian spice markets and handmade paper stores, and good sushi and quiet bars with good whiskey used to be. I'm trying to figure out why I was looking forward to being back.

Getting to laze around in 70 degree weather in January is a compelling reason, though. And getting to see the kitties, who were very happy to have us around again. And being by ourselves again, in our own space. I forget when in Chicago at other people's houses, how much more comfortable I am in my own.

So we're home. And work starts tomorrow, and I hope it helps stop up this hole inside me.