Surviving the weekend…

I would tell you that our weekends are exciting, but you know better.  Weekends are that time we work for all week; the opportunity to catch up on all the time we’ve lost with each other.  From Monday through Friday we tell ourselves: oh, thank goodness the weekend is coming, and then it snows, it’s bitter cold and we are all forced to be confined to the not-so-great indoors.  Our house (is a very, very, very fine house) works for us, but even we succumb to cabin fever when we look out the window and the landscape only alters with deeper snow…

Mrs. Flutterpocket would have re-decorated the whole house and, I admit, I started re-organizing things just because I didn’t want to curl up to read and find I’d turned into Rip Van Winkle.  Slow, snowy, cold days can do that to me…I suddenly start channeling the cats and I’m found with drool hanging out the side of my mouth.  Letting my guard down that noticeably leads to nothing good.  When I succumb to napping (through no fault of my own other than the dullness of inclement weather,) my husband tends to do things like, oh, I don’t know…play video games?

There is nothing wrong with this, gentlemen who take the occasional foray into the Land of My Freakish Mind…I am all for “he’s got HIS stuff he likes to do and I don’t interfere with it.”  The problem is that J, like Rommel, is aware of all our weak points, and will take advantage of them.  If J gingerly (as we all know he can) moves upstairs and ascertains that mother is null and void at the time, and if his attempts to get attention (a clearing of the throat, a lingering on the stairs) from Dada fail, it is then Party Time!!!!

The evidence of J’s mischief is usually located in random trash cans all over the house.  Being a “criminal mastermind” comes a wee bit too easily for him, and the anachronism of a Cheez-Its 100 calorie package in my bathroom doesn’t immediately hit me because I am still under the influence of not being accustomed to sleep during the day.  The crinkle of plastic can be easily absorbed by a well-placed giggle.  Once caught, it’s obvious to J that we’re not particularly pleased, but he scurries to his room with such apparent-guilt and apparent-remorse that we are left wondering “were we too harsh on him?”  No, we weren’t…J simply has that look about him…the look that says “I’m Lambert the Sheepish Lion.”  Or Ferdinand the Bull.  Or just a very large Teddy Bear with Cheez-Its breath.

I was not overjoyed to see the young man leave for school this morning, but I was prepared to make a mad dash around the house, re-hiding what had been found while the living, breathing stealth bomber was stuck indoors all weekend.  I’m starting to think he has eyes on the back of his head because if I say “I don’t know where this is,” he will walk up to whatever hiding place I’ve come up with and voila!

Our young protagonist has been hemming and hawing on the whole exercise thing lately.  The weather isn’t helping…the fact that -other than breathing better- J sees no results isn’t helping either.  I can explain to him that the big belly is the result of the Risperdal, but J’s not able to process that argument.  “Look!  You want to touch your toes with your fingers!  Like this!!!,” and I show him.  There I am, bending like a pretzel to reacquaint phalanges with phalanges…I try not to groan, but I can’t help being the age I am.  J raises his eyebrows and looks at me with a patient expression…lifts his foot (knee bent, of course) and reaches down with his hand.  No, no, no, I say…you want to touch both feet with both hands…  J sits on a chair, lifts both feet (knees bent, of course) and meets them with his fingers.  But you want to be able to bend over like so…and I demonstrate…  The look I get in return is WHY????????  That’s when the trouble starts because I don’t know WHY??????? I’d want to be this limber; isn’t this the way I end up tumbling downstairs (still vacuuming uncooked rice from that one, thanks) or I eventually earn an expensive joint-replacement bit of surgery.

I think the laziness of winter is affecting us all.  I, for one, have not seen a piece of bread that I don’t want to eat since -possibly- the first Christmas carol bounced from the walls around here.  I haven’t gained a pound (well…not true…I keep gaining and losing the same three pounds.  And, thank you, architects of this particular townhouse community for the two flights of stairs.  Thank you, parents of mine, for the faulty memory that compels me to keep going back and forth trying to remember what I went “there” for…over and over and over…,) but I feel “fluffy.”  The cold weather isn’t helping…spring has to buck a trend and moon the groundhog and his prediction…

So, there you have it, we are on the other side of the weekend, slowly climbing to the peak that is Wednesday while hoping the ride downhill into Friday evening is not fraught with craggy rocks…

A salad sounds good about now…because we all know that ridiculously expensive, off-season leafy greens and hothouse tomatoes are ever so appetizing at lunchtime on a Monday morning in winter when the temperature is 21℉ when the wind blows…mmmmmm…I want to feel as long and lean as a stick of celery and, much like J would express, I really wish I didn’t have to EAT celery to be long and lean like a stick of…sigh

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