I got what I wished for.

We're officially staying put for a few more years. Which, as you know, is exactly what I wanted, in that if I can't have what I really want then I don't want anything kind of way. I would rather stay here than move some place I don't want to live, even if that means being incredibly lonely at times.

The funny thing is, I'm kind of bi-polar when it comes to choosing where, because one moment I'm perfectly content in moving to the city near J's family. The next moment, not so much. I have never felt at home there and the only pull I feel is the benefit of babysitters and to instill the importance of extended family in my children. Plus the cheese steaks don't suck. Then the manic part of me suddenly wants to become a vegetarian and move closer to my family for the same, obvious reasons. Only I prefer lobster rolls up there - wait, can vegetarians even eat lobster?

The good part about staying put other than the whole not having to pack up a young, pants shitting (well two of us - I'm not telling which two) family of five, is not having choose where to be. I don't want to pick. I don't want one family to feel like we chose the other instead, even though it has little to do with what we truly want and more to do with where the job offer comes from. Even then it still won't matter to some people (read husband's people). They are relentless and really just want us all to live in one giant Kennedy-ish compound (seriously, this was mentioned). One where I get to mind all the kids and most likely change the Depends of the elderly along with the Huggies of the young.

They've promised there will be wine but I don't trust 'em. Not a single one. Hell, the husband introduced himself as Jamie - so I married him because I loved the way Jamie and Europa looked inside a heart with glitter. TRUE LOVE FOREVER. Five years later his name was Jim. I wouldn't have married a Jim. Jim looks like shit when written with my gold gel pen.

Deception runs in the family, I think.

Even if there is wine they'll probably make sure I wait until 5 pm and limit my consumption to a respectable two glasses because grown ups don't get drunk. And that's when I will frantically grip the bottle of wine and begin running around the compound in my thong yelling "YOU'RE NOT THE BOSS OF ME, YOU FUCKERS!"

And that, my friends, is probably when I'll be moving back to Maine.