Where did the weekend go?
This is not a rhetorical question. Where the hell did the weekend go?
I had a three day weekend and still can't figure it out. It seems like just a minute ago that I was flying out of work with the prospect of 72 hours of blessed freedom. And now I'm in the middle of the laundry catch-up/forced kid showers/weekly meal planning/picking lint of off my scrubs/whaddya mean you forgot to mention you have book report due tomorrow? go-round.
We had a productive weekend.
We picked 68 pounds of apples. (And got them free, thanks to the sweetness of a co-worker).
Surfer Dude and I went and had a lovely, very spur of the moment dinner with some friends last night and had a wonderful time.
I bought a truck-load of firewood to be delivered to satisfy the fireplace junkies that live in my house.
I braved the wilds of Home Depot to get a storm door and saran wrap for the windows.
Gumby was in a play on Saturday and did a great job.
We had a meeting in our (not) lovely capital city to learn the details of a 19 day Europe trip that Sasquatch has been invited to do next summer.
Of course it wasn't all skittles and beer.
I got a flat tire picking apples, which, although fixed at the time, meant that I had to buy a new tire unless I want to have a blow out at highway speed, which I'd really rather not. I can never get that steer into a skid/steer away from a skid thing down. Especially at 70 mph.
I'm still hungover from the dinner out last night. If you're going to hang out with the brewmaster of a kick-ass microbrewery, you have to be prepared to pay the piper. I have been. Paying the piper, that is. All day.
The firewood guy was supposed to be here late this afternoon to deliver the wood. He's either been abducted by aliens or he's off schedule. Or maybe he knows the brewmaster, too.
The concept of a full-sized storm door and a sub-compact car escaped me until I was just about to pay for the door and realized that I had no way to get it home. The FX graciously went and got it the next day, but I was very cranky at having to ask. I started out cranky at the cost of the door. Jeez. It's not like it's platinum or anything.
There is no downside to Gumby and his play, except that he decided that he wanted to do the next session since he'd had so much fun this time around. Ka-ching! Again!
Through a Seinfeld-esque comedy of errors we ended up not making the trip meeting. Surfer Dude and I were suffering through a three hour tire change that is worthy of a post all its own, or will be when my head stops spinning. I have to stop now or I'm going to need meds. Trust me. It was memorable. Now... breathe...
On the plus side, I'm sitting right where I like to be on a Sunday night. The house is full of food, the meals are planned for the week, clothes are clean (even if the house isn't), kids are washed, homework is done, and even though I know I'm going to cuss when the alarm goes off in the dark tomorrow...I'm ready for it.
Gumby and Surfer Dude have just made s'mores in the fireplace, by tomorrow the air will be thick with the aroma of cinnamon apples drying, and I wasn't even there when the tour leaders told everyone that this trip was going to cost twice what we thought it was. You'd think I'd be satisfied.
You'd think so. But I just want the weekend back.
Monday, October 6, 2008
Posted by the rotten correspondent at 12:02 AM