It's not so good to see you, Monday. I liked last Monday better. Last Monday, I didn't get rudely awakened at 5 a.m. Last Monday, I didn't make a work lunch or go to work. Instead, I hiked to a lighthouse and combed the beach for sea glass. Last Monday, I didn't catch up with a single client but did catch up with friends and family. Last Monday I didn't log into my fitness pal. Instead, I ate cheese, chips with dip, and drank all the wine I could handle. Possibly a little more than that. And Monday? Last Monday I didn't once think, "Can't wait for Friday". I was only thinking about Monday, glorious Monday, with a whole week of vacation still left to enjoy.
So you see, Monday, I hope, that it's not personal. First day back to work Monday can't possibly compete with first day of vacation Monday. But still, you're not so bad. Really. You look cute today.
Love,
Chicken
Showing posts with label vacation. Show all posts
Showing posts with label vacation. Show all posts
Monday, August 18, 2014
Sunday, July 6, 2014
Vacation
In a few weeks we'll be heading to Maine for vacation . We've rented a house in the Camden area. I know the area a little, having grown up just a couple of hours away, but if anyone out there has a favorite memory of the place or a suggestion for an activity, we would love to hear it.
The house we are renting is big-big enough that several extended family members and friends are planning on cycling through during the week. It's an experiment for us. If it goes well, we are hoping to do it once a year. If it doesn't, we'll do our own thing from now on. We are not anti-social, by any means, but my husband and I are alike in that we both require a moderate amount of alone time. I get mine by getting up earlier in the morning. He gets his by staying up later at night. I'm wondering how the chaos of people coming and going will jive with our expectation of a relaxing week on the coast.
On the one hand, we've co-imagined clam bakes on the beach, early morning kayak trips, and hanging out on the porch with our friends and family. My imagination has added the sound track from Big Chill and midnight margarita parties.
On the other hand, it's occurred to me that there's a good amount of work that goes into entertaining people. Now, switch out the people on a regular basis, and haven't you just multiplied the work load? This is not something that would occur to BigB because, as a traditionalist in his mid-fifties, his expectation is that the women will get together and figure it all out and tell him what needs to go on the grill. Planning, shopping, and cleaning don't figure in his day-to-day plans. On the odd occasion where they do, it goes something like this:
I'm hungry. Is anybody else hungry? I think I'll order a pizza. Does anybody else want pizza?
BigB keeps it real. I think I'll take a page out of his book this year and just go with the flow. We'll see what happens.
The house we are renting is big-big enough that several extended family members and friends are planning on cycling through during the week. It's an experiment for us. If it goes well, we are hoping to do it once a year. If it doesn't, we'll do our own thing from now on. We are not anti-social, by any means, but my husband and I are alike in that we both require a moderate amount of alone time. I get mine by getting up earlier in the morning. He gets his by staying up later at night. I'm wondering how the chaos of people coming and going will jive with our expectation of a relaxing week on the coast.
On the one hand, we've co-imagined clam bakes on the beach, early morning kayak trips, and hanging out on the porch with our friends and family. My imagination has added the sound track from Big Chill and midnight margarita parties.
On the other hand, it's occurred to me that there's a good amount of work that goes into entertaining people. Now, switch out the people on a regular basis, and haven't you just multiplied the work load? This is not something that would occur to BigB because, as a traditionalist in his mid-fifties, his expectation is that the women will get together and figure it all out and tell him what needs to go on the grill. Planning, shopping, and cleaning don't figure in his day-to-day plans. On the odd occasion where they do, it goes something like this:
I'm hungry. Is anybody else hungry? I think I'll order a pizza. Does anybody else want pizza?
BigB keeps it real. I think I'll take a page out of his book this year and just go with the flow. We'll see what happens.
Saturday, March 15, 2014
Butter Files: Uncle Don
We were returning home from a family trip, seven of us packed like sardines into the Chrysler station wagon. As our home came into view, my Stepmom was the first to make the connection.
"Oh no!", she groaned.
"What?" we all thought, looking at each other. Did we forget something? Did we hit a cat? Did this have anything to do with us at all?
And then we, too, looked towards our house and we also saw it: The mile long Winnebago parked in the middle of our lawn.
"Uncle Don!" we all yelled. We kids adored Uncle Don. For one thing, he drove around IN his house, like an eccentric, geriatric hermit crab on permanent vacation. The freedom of the open road was Uncle Don's. He went where he liked, he slept where he liked. I still was having a little trouble working out the mathematics of how a vehicle that big could turn corners but I hoped that one day I could learn to do it and join Uncle Don in his adventurous lifestyle. The budding opportunist in me recognized that Uncle Don was approaching the age where license renewals were not a given. At some point the man was going to need a driver. And a nurse, probably, but that wasn't my problem. I wasn't very nurse-like. I did suspect, however, that I would be a very good driver.
What also occurred to me, though, as we pulled into the driveway, was that my gentle, sweet Stepmom who was nice to everybody, didn't seem happy at the prospect of a visit from Uncle Don. Why? Wasn't he her uncle, after all? Didn't he always show up unexpectedly, creating a sense of excitement and possibility? Didn't he take all of his meals with us, being careful to make us aware of his restrictions so that we didn't accidentally send him into diabetic shock? Didn't he open his Winnebago doors to us kids to explore and climb over and didn't we all get the opportunity to sit in the driver's seat, before he suggested we all go back into the house and have a nice long visit and maybe a snack as he was feeling a bit peckish? And didn't he always, always tell great stories while we waited for his laundry to finish washing? Sure, they were the same stories he'd told on his last visit and the one before that, but they were mostly good stories, if a bit long winded. I didn't understand her visceral reaction to his unexpected presence.
Uncle Don had come calling. How could this be bad news? Who could understand the mysterious ways of grown ups? Not me. I shrugged my skinny shoulders, hopped out of the wagon and raced across the lawn, calling first turn at the wheel.
"Oh no!", she groaned.
"What?" we all thought, looking at each other. Did we forget something? Did we hit a cat? Did this have anything to do with us at all?
And then we, too, looked towards our house and we also saw it: The mile long Winnebago parked in the middle of our lawn.
"Uncle Don!" we all yelled. We kids adored Uncle Don. For one thing, he drove around IN his house, like an eccentric, geriatric hermit crab on permanent vacation. The freedom of the open road was Uncle Don's. He went where he liked, he slept where he liked. I still was having a little trouble working out the mathematics of how a vehicle that big could turn corners but I hoped that one day I could learn to do it and join Uncle Don in his adventurous lifestyle. The budding opportunist in me recognized that Uncle Don was approaching the age where license renewals were not a given. At some point the man was going to need a driver. And a nurse, probably, but that wasn't my problem. I wasn't very nurse-like. I did suspect, however, that I would be a very good driver.
What also occurred to me, though, as we pulled into the driveway, was that my gentle, sweet Stepmom who was nice to everybody, didn't seem happy at the prospect of a visit from Uncle Don. Why? Wasn't he her uncle, after all? Didn't he always show up unexpectedly, creating a sense of excitement and possibility? Didn't he take all of his meals with us, being careful to make us aware of his restrictions so that we didn't accidentally send him into diabetic shock? Didn't he open his Winnebago doors to us kids to explore and climb over and didn't we all get the opportunity to sit in the driver's seat, before he suggested we all go back into the house and have a nice long visit and maybe a snack as he was feeling a bit peckish? And didn't he always, always tell great stories while we waited for his laundry to finish washing? Sure, they were the same stories he'd told on his last visit and the one before that, but they were mostly good stories, if a bit long winded. I didn't understand her visceral reaction to his unexpected presence.
Uncle Don had come calling. How could this be bad news? Who could understand the mysterious ways of grown ups? Not me. I shrugged my skinny shoulders, hopped out of the wagon and raced across the lawn, calling first turn at the wheel.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)