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One more three day weekend just might kill me... [Jul. 7th, 2008|10:44 am]
Sure, I'll admit it, I don't have a lot of recent experience with "free time". The last time I had a three day weekend completely free, without travel or hosting a major event was...um....oh, maybe...nah. Okay, I have no idea. I'm sure it happened sometime in the last decade. Maybe.

It wasn't easy. We had to actively fight off several lovely invitations. But I was determined to be strong. The only invites I would accept would be non-driving, mellow, neighbor invites. Admittedly, in both cases, we managed to make those "into the wee hours accompanied by copious amounts of rum" events, but still, they adhered to the basic mission -- and that was to have the maximum time available to devote to house and yard. The Captain had a previous officiant committment so he managed to escape for a few hours each day for wedding rehearsal and the wedding itself.

So, the bedroom has been cleaned out -- several bags of trash, an entire bin of paper recycling, books all dusted, reshelved, furniture rearranged, since we've been clambering over stuff for near a year, as the Captain moved in before the ex's stuff completely left the house and well, as I, the Captain, the Ex and the Ex's girlfriend are all "people who have a hard time throwing stuff out", shoe-horn and pile were the operative words. I've managed to clear out bookshelves and drawers so less stuff can live on TOP of the furniture. Well, okay, so I've made room for the cats. Maybe they'll get the hell off the bed.

But there's walking around room in the bedroom, the basement is prepared to receive the Halloween props and equipment (so that we can start the reno on the room that it's been stored in) and the worker bees have been busy creating a new front and side entrance to the house itself.

Good heavens. Turn your back for a minute...okay, a couple of months...and the freaking porcelainberry and bindweed move in and invite all of their viny and sappy friends. And whoever's been feeding my butterfly and viburnum bushes growth hormones, cut it the hell out.

And the Quackgrass...I've managed to get it out of large sections of the front garden, but it takes so damn long to really get at it and get most of the roots out...that each year I run out of time, leave a giant patch of it and then, when I'm otherwise distracted, it Napoleonizes the garden again. Bastard!

But still, 7 lawn and garden bags filled all by myself. By Sunday afternoon, I was laying on the couch, trying to nap, mostly because I had reached the point where very cell in my body was conspiring against me. EVERYTHING hurt. Badly. The knee locked up, the ankle decided to go weak, and my posture was making Lon Chaney look like he phoned in his Hunchback of Notre Dame performance. I HAD to lay down -- stairs weren't an option and the thought of getting up to get a glass of water was overwhelming. So, I lay there and proved that there is NOTHING worth watching on Sunday afternoon television and that I supremely SUCK at napping.

But two hours later, after repeatedly falling into a sound sleep, only to wake up in a heart-pounding, adrenalin-fueled lurch due to some insignificant sound that cause my unconscious mind to go into full alert...about every 10-15 minutes, I gave up, crawled off the couch and got a book.

And there I was, on the couch, RELAXING, when the Captain got home from the wedding. Ha! Mission accomplished. A productive weekend AND I got a chance to relax. Because you people always ask me that..."well, you DID get a chance to relax, didn't you?" And I always have to look at you as if you were some kind of deranged, foaming at the mouth lunatic for suggesting it. But not THIS weekend, baby!

[User Picture]From: sestree
2008-07-07 04:01 pm (UTC)
Sweetie, naps are one of the great underrated pleasures.

Pure decadence. Just scooching in all cozy like on the sofa, ignoring the TV, telephone, spouse, critters and drifting drifting. Maybe a glass of booze-o-choice on the table just in case.

Oh yeah !

Glad you had a productive weekend.
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