Crazy Insane Horseface Steve

The funny thing -- not Ha Ha funny but crazy insane funny -- is that when I came back home I tried to stay with my parents.  The lying, deceitful part of me which screams the loudest and gets the most attention hypothesized that I could relieve some of the trauma my leaving caused by spending time with these good and decent people.  The quiet part of me, truthful and honest, knows I was trying to save some money.  It was not inexpensive making such a big move and I hate to see the money flowing out and not flowing back in.  It has been the cause of some anxiety.

My parents have a small house which is stuffed to the rafters with "antiques" and "collectibles" and "keepsakes" and "crap that should have been thrown in the dumpster 37 years ago."  They aren't scary pack rats, hoarding newspapers and empty soda cans -- at least from what I can see.  There are a lot of big piles scattered about so the newspapers and soda cans might be in there somewhere.  They're people who grew up during the depression and worry that the money they could get from something that might be worth something to someone will come in handy some day.

I came back to help with a big project that is ongoing at my company.  I'm frustrated easily right now, understandably so with all of the big change, and have been losing my temper over little niggling things that normally wouldn't give me pause.  On day two of my stay I'm sitting in my very small childhood bedroom, having kicked my elderly father out of his bed, trying to link up to an unsecured wireless network coming from a neighbor's house, under some pressure to get the work done from my unreasonable boss.  I had a big argument with him a few days before which I should have written about already if I were interested in keeping any continuity with my writing.  The argument wouldn't have been as strident as it was if I had had access to the internet, which I didn't have.  I was able to occasionally piggyback on the neighbor's system for short, frustrating bursts.  It would almost have been better if I hadn't been able to get on at all.

"What am I doing?" I muttered. 

I called a hotel that offers a weekly rate and booked a room.  I tried to gently tell my folks I was leaving so that their disappointment wouldn't be too severe.  They didn't seem too disappointed.  They didn't try to stop me from leaving.  As in: not one word. 

I think they were relieved when I told them.

I'm sitting in my hotel room right now in my Bambi PJs, eating a block of cheese the size of a car battery and watching "The Simpsons."  It's pretty great.