You have to know things are bad for me when I start to get weepy while scrubbing my stove top. But it's my stove top, people. And I reeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeally don't want to leave it for another stove top.
I'm about two seconds from searching for "most depressing songs that will make me cry so I can rationalize feeling sorry for myself when really there are waaaaaaaay worse things in life" on YouTube. Hell. Where's that damn breastfeeding montage? That's enough to send me right over the edge.
Honestly, I've been pretty gung-ho about the whole thing.
Woo! Little Rock! Yeah baby! *she says with incredibly forced excitement that makes her look like she either needs to take shit or just took a really bad one (in her pants)*
Thank goodness my kids haven't figured out what that look really says (other than the poop part) because then the cat would be out of the bag. And then I wouldn't have to just be mildly sad that we're leaving when really it's more like the gnashing of teeth as their father drags me out of the house, my nails leaving indentations in our thrice-vacuumed carpet kind of sad.
Dramatic much? Nah. Me? Never.
But damnit I will not cry. Who cries for Atlanta? Not me. Nope. No way.
(Thanks for the link to cheer me up, Deb).