Sorry, Texas, but I'm really sick of the rain.
The dog needs some exercise, but won't go out in the rain. Don't blame her.
I've been sick since Sunday. I hate being sick. My week has been wasted with tissues and cold medicine. I'd like to be well soon.
I don't know if I like the farm. (Remember, it's raining and I'm sick; I might like it tomorrow.) Certainly the farm doesn't feel like home. It somehow feels like a vacation, but I still need to cook, clean, school, and do all the other routine tasks that make a house a home, but I am struggling.
I've spent some time thinking about why I'm on-the-fence about the farm. I enjoy the quietness and it is definitely picturesque, but the house isn't our home.
I'm still rearranging furniture, which I hate to do.
Nothing has my stamp of creativity on it. It's beige walls with our stuff inside. Blech.
I need to "nest," but don't really want to dig into any process. It's as if I don't want the farm to become our home.
I hope that's just sickness talking.