DIH has wrapped up her travels and returned home. The house is trashed, the bills are unpaid, and the plants are dead. Oh, and the car's been towed. I have no idea where it is right now.
It's a good feeling to know that when you really need to write uninterruptedly to meet a deadline you can escape the responsibilities of home life and lie low at a friend's place until the task is completed.
It's a bad feeling to think what one might be returning to back at the ranch. Ripped-up pizza boxes all over the place and the dog yakking up bits of cardboard. Dishes piled a foot high in the sink ("You have put them in the dishwasher." "But the dishwasher was full!"). The bowl of oranges you set on the table is still there, still full of oranges, covered with a patina of mildew.
I'm telling you. There's no place like home.