The Un-Joys of Weekdays, Parenting, and Watering

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.

I was shopping the other day, preemptively ringing in the weekend with a trip to Marshall's--with the cash flow from my poor husband's huffing and puffing and ballistic screaming and studying, when I spotted these. Stirrups. Not the OBGYN tool that splays all of you to a view of Loma Linda. (Has anyone else noticed this about the 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.

I was watering our one plant the other day, cactus and a muddy lawn don't count, a chore that spans weekdays and weekends, and I realized that a year of watering a plant is not worth a month of blooms. Seriously, nature is jipping us. I religiously fill a pitcher with water every evening and pour it onto our hot pink climbing 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.

What are these flowers by the way? I have no clue and want to plant some so I can gripe about watering them. Come on all you domestic, pretty friends of mine who probably don't bother reading my blog because you're so busy cooking and gardening and taking care of your husband's who make way more money than Cary and I combined. Tell me. Or find out for me because apparently my journalistic online research skills are on the fritz. Aka, Google is acting funny right now. Oh, and I love you. And I could use some of your food via care package to give my microwave a night off.