I booked my flight to go home for about a week and a half from the end of August through the first week of September. It’s always one of those bittersweet tasks for me. I love so many things about San Francisco, and while I do love my family, each member of that family drives me up the wall so that I know I can never sanely be home for that long. I told my mom I booked my flight. These are some excerpts of how she responded:

“I’m not trying to be nosy, but can I ask (that’s code for: I’m about to berate you and yes, I am nosy): Why are you staying for such a short time? You should be coming for at least a month. You should do things that make your mummy happy.”

“Just tell your uncle that you are coming home. You told who? Don’t tell anyone else. Did you hear me? Don’t tell anyone else.” (that’s code for: don’t tell your aunt who lives upstairs because I’m mad at her for some nonsense I made up because I enjoy being mad at someone at all times).

“Are you going to be working while you are here? You should take some time off and spend it with me. Always working. You never spend enough time at home. You need to think about me more.” Right.

It could have been worse. This was very mild in the overall scheme of things.