As I've said before, the weekend is a magical thing. And I'm in it. Give me 72 hours, and I'll be a whole different person, slightly melancholy and bored, wondering what Cary's doing more often than I'd like, wondering what to really do with my life. But not now. Now, I'm completely in charge, as managerial as that sounds. No work. No time constraints. Limitless possibilities when it comes to friends, food, exercise, and entertainment. The Vault or a poolside barbecue. Church or a bike ride around town. Give the dog a bath. Prevent the cat from yanking on the screen door by simply taking the screen door off. (Brilliant!) A big breakfast out. A bowl of Life cereal in. Shopping? Wait until the next day? Do I need groceries? Nope--a Caryless benefit. The Sunday movie on TV or the DVR, or online Netflix.
Like I said. Limitless.
But my favorite part of the weekend is over. Friday driving away from work. The Ikea-looking building and old trees growing distant in my rearview mirror. The neck muscles relaxing, thoughts of ways to word the benefits of attending a mapping software event fading. Ah. The earliest possible point in the weekend, when everything lies ahead like the yellow brick road. I sleep sounder. Sometimes from the wine. Sometimes because I forget about moving from corporate writing to creative writing. Sometimes because I forget about moving. Even more time is devoted to this here blog, posts no longer sandwiched between errands, pet care, and a freezer dinner and salad with one ingredient.
You know, it takes effort not to think of my pets as people. And the guilt is killing me. No longer does skipping a morning run affect my belly but my dog's too. And with a name like Butters, she has to be trim; otherwise, she'll start thinking the name is a description instead of an ode to South Park. And Dot. Well Dot is just a bitch ever since she wasn't the only little girl in the house. No more screen door to rattle when I put you out. Take that! And then I worry maybe this is what I'll do to my chirren. My and Cary's offspring cute at times, precocious at times, doing and saying things that are, like 'awww,' and, 'oh, that reminds me of Cary," and 'oh, he has his smile, and she has your natural leanings toward comedic writing.' But all this will be trumped by the facts that I want to lock them outside with a bowl of water and a ragged stuffed animal, or leave them in a crate with a chew toy and blanket that needs washing. And then I remain selfish forever. And then... And then. The weekend comes, and I can have a little more time to go for a run or cuddle the cat and forget about bad parenting. And stretch marks.
Jamie will be a good dad. Bounce his son on his knee.
FMO overlooking Barton Road?) No, not those. But the loose cotton leggings anchored to sail boat sail tautness by the bottoms of your feet. I loved them from age five to eight. Pair them with a bright T-shirt and a bun, and I was ready for Cirque du Soleil. Oh Marshall's. No, I didn't get them.
bougainvillea. I must say, it is doing well as you can see, but a splash of fuchsia in our otherwise pathetic backyard from mid-April to mid-May is not all that enjoyable or cool. And I hate cooking. Horrid, horrid, future mother. Wait, I like baking! When's the last time I baked? This next week. This next week, I swear. Fantastic. My kids will be fat and type II. Fuck it.