I am glocky inside. That means mixed up, confrabulated. Ill-at-ease, a touch anxious, somewhat jittery. Not the full-on panic attack, but just the icky, commonly-found-on-Sunday-afternoon gloobiness that is not uncommon to my experience.

We went to see District 9 last night, and that was a mistake. Way too much creepy creature design and violence and the meanness of man versus alien. Again. Like watching a video game come to life. I don't really play video games. I know about them because of my son, but I'm not into them.

And then there are these fires that are burning just to the north of us. Yes, it's fire season in Southern California. Yes, the fires are horrible and they threaten friends of ours who live in the mountains. But we are not directly affected by their potential devastation. I mean, it hurts to breathe in lots of smoke, but we are far away from the flames. And all I do is worry about my friends who live up there. I offer to take them in, but they have other resources, and it appears that their houses are all going to be okay.

But the awareness of the danger and the high temperatures and the deeper meaning of global warming and pollution and air quality and living this far south are not lost on me. It all makes me want to move back to the depressed, moldy, often-dismal Pacific Northwest.

What would I do if I lived in Portland or Washington state? I'd have to find a job, and it wouldn't be easy, that's for sure.

Maybe I could open up that bait shop I've been dreaming about.

Or start my own school. Now there's an idea: Miss Lisa's School for Wayward Youths. But I don't want to deal with wayward youths. Wah.

Glorby. That's how I'm feeling.