This, that, the other.

I didn’t post anything about the weekend because I’ve been having this feeling that I should be writing real stuff, and not just “What I did on Saturday” stuff, but then I thought, is that any less real? And I realized that even if such posts are largely idle chatter, sometimes when I go back to them, they spark something else.

Translation: Even though it’s Tuesday, I’m writing a weekend wrapup post.

I’ve been in nesting mode, more often than not, this spring. Partly, this is because work is busy, and even though I generally like the people I work with, by the time I get home, I don’t want to deal with people. Especially, I don’t want to answer questions. This is why I’d never have made a good teacher; I’m impatient, and I don’t like repetition.

I’ve realized that I also don’t like it when people don’t try finding information before asking. No, this isn’t directed at anyone, and maybe it’s just a me-thing, but, it’s become a pet peeve lately, that I’m called upon to provide answers that are easily accessable. (Okay, it is directed at someone. Mom: You have highspeed net access in your home office If you need an area code or zipcode, you are just as capable of going to smartpages.com or usps.gov as I am. It is not my job to do this for you. Those sites work just as well from a computer in La Paz as they do from a computer in San Jose.)

I haven’t been to the gym in two weeks, and I can’t believe this, but I miss it. Just as I miss music, when I’m not around it, I miss having something physical to do. I’m going tomorrow morning, no matter what.

No, really.

So, anyway, the weekend. It was nice. We lazed around on Saturday, and then went to Jeremy’s concert. His group was joined by the SJ Peace Chorale, and I swear I’ve never seen a more dour group of singers outside a funeral mass. No, even in a funeral mass. I’ll accept that some music is serious, but there’s a such a thing as taking oneself too seriously, and this group was an example of that. Also, their director’s hair did not move. At all. Not even when she was conducting really wildly. This disturbed me, both because I’m certain this is a woman who doesn’t care if she uses aerosol loaded with fluorocarbons, and because it’s just not normal.

Anyway, we came home, and I changed clothes because I was cold, and then we went out for our monthly dinner with the Group. Somewhat frustratingly, for me, these group dinners coincide with the heaviest day of my monthly ‘visitor’ and I’m always overtired and a little on edge, so quieter than usual, as a result. Still, dinner was nice, conversation was fun, hey, even though I did NOT get coffee (my fault), I did get to spend time in a bookstore. This is never a bad thing.

Sunday, we slept most of the day. Well, Fuzzy slept most of the day. I left the bedroom to write, and ended up reading Harry Potter fanfic and watching cheesy movies, between naps, and then in the evening we hit Target, and the fabric store at Westgate, because my mother needed Pellon fleece and Schmetz sewing machine needles, and Beverly’s was out of the latter, and while there, I bought a quilting frame, even though I don’t quilt, because they’re great for doing large embroidery pieces.

We went to Friday’s after that, more because neither of us was in the mood to cook, and neither of us had eaten at all, and I was pleased with one of their Atkins offerings: two cheeseburgers (no bun) and a side salad, which I replaced with a side of broccoli. It satisfied my meat craving, and didn’t give me carb crash. I just wish they didn’t succumb to this paranoia that meat is only safe if it’s charred halfway to destruction.

And there we are, a quiet, completely unproductive weekend, in which I failed to write anything of interest, and accomplished nothing except managing enough laundry to provide us with fresh sheets, and clean underwear.

I think I’m feeling apathetic this week, but I’m not sure….

CC BY-NC-ND 4.0 This, that, the other. by Melissa Bartell is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.