Happy Mother’s Day to all of you moms this weekend. Myself and a couple of my siblings will be partaking in a Mother’s Day buffet on Sunday with Mom, so actually I too will be the beneficiary in the form of five different meats and all the gravy I can eat. In actuality, I am the incidental recipient of a Mother’s Day gift each year, as Kathy, Lindsay and Kathy’s sisters do a girls weekend that started years ago. That leaves me and my feline friend Joe (pictured) as kings of the castle. I’ve been busting my proverbial hump all week in an attempt to get all my extracurricular work done before the womenfolk leave on Friday afternoon.
I probably shouldn’t get this excited over being home semi-alone, but I can’t help myself. About 3-4 weekends per year I am left to explore those white trash instincts I work so hard to repress the rest of the year. With more than a little effort, Joe and I usually snap out of our haze soon enough so we aren’t discovered on Sunday night dozing next to a pile of pizza boxes and Little Friskies cans.
I really don’t understand the mesmerizing appeal that overtakes me when I’m left to fend for myself. I mean, it’s not like I can’t kick back and watch a movie or two when Kathy is home. I just can’t seem to stifle years of pent up Lutheran guilt that comes with lifting my feet when she is vacuuming. It doesn’t matter if I’ve worked for 36 consecutive hours preceding…if she is working I feel I have to be working. Unfortunately, Kathy is clueless when it comes to kicking back and being irresponsible. She has a lot she could learn from me in that area.
In the end, I figure as long as the house looks no worse when she returns as it did when she left. I’m covered.
About 10 minutes after she pulls out of the driveway on Friday, Joe will start bugging me to take a nap. My eyelids will indeed start to droop, and I’ll drag myself to the bedroom. Joe knows the routine (even though a nap rarely presents itself), and two or three minutes later, I’ll feel a paw poking me in the back, notifying me that I need to lift up the fuzzy blanket behind me so he can crawl under.
Once we are settled, I gradually slip into a semi-conscious state, and towards snoozeville I drift—ever so slowly…slowly…slowly, until at last…Wells Fargo calls to see if I would like extra insurance on my debit card purchases.
This type of thing doesn’t seem to affect Joe’s nap, but it generally ruins any chance of me getting to sleep. So I tiptoe (yeah, right) out of the bedroom and slip in a movie. The nap finally arrives about 45 minutes in…pushing “pause” during the last moments of consciousness.
This routine will be repeated several times throughout the weekend.
Late on Sunday I’ll sit by the window and watch for them, and when I finally see the Grand Am rounding the corner, I’ll bound out the front door and down the drive…um…okay I’ll shake off the sleep and pretend I’m fixing the vacuum cleaner.
I cherish my alone time, but it is always good to have the rest of the family return eventually.
We all know that a Lutheran can only stand so much happiness...
I probably shouldn’t get this excited over being home semi-alone, but I can’t help myself. About 3-4 weekends per year I am left to explore those white trash instincts I work so hard to repress the rest of the year. With more than a little effort, Joe and I usually snap out of our haze soon enough so we aren’t discovered on Sunday night dozing next to a pile of pizza boxes and Little Friskies cans.
I really don’t understand the mesmerizing appeal that overtakes me when I’m left to fend for myself. I mean, it’s not like I can’t kick back and watch a movie or two when Kathy is home. I just can’t seem to stifle years of pent up Lutheran guilt that comes with lifting my feet when she is vacuuming. It doesn’t matter if I’ve worked for 36 consecutive hours preceding…if she is working I feel I have to be working. Unfortunately, Kathy is clueless when it comes to kicking back and being irresponsible. She has a lot she could learn from me in that area.
In the end, I figure as long as the house looks no worse when she returns as it did when she left. I’m covered.
About 10 minutes after she pulls out of the driveway on Friday, Joe will start bugging me to take a nap. My eyelids will indeed start to droop, and I’ll drag myself to the bedroom. Joe knows the routine (even though a nap rarely presents itself), and two or three minutes later, I’ll feel a paw poking me in the back, notifying me that I need to lift up the fuzzy blanket behind me so he can crawl under.
Once we are settled, I gradually slip into a semi-conscious state, and towards snoozeville I drift—ever so slowly…slowly…slowly, until at last…Wells Fargo calls to see if I would like extra insurance on my debit card purchases.
This type of thing doesn’t seem to affect Joe’s nap, but it generally ruins any chance of me getting to sleep. So I tiptoe (yeah, right) out of the bedroom and slip in a movie. The nap finally arrives about 45 minutes in…pushing “pause” during the last moments of consciousness.
This routine will be repeated several times throughout the weekend.
Late on Sunday I’ll sit by the window and watch for them, and when I finally see the Grand Am rounding the corner, I’ll bound out the front door and down the drive…um…okay I’ll shake off the sleep and pretend I’m fixing the vacuum cleaner.
I cherish my alone time, but it is always good to have the rest of the family return eventually.
We all know that a Lutheran can only stand so much happiness...
Still waiting for my bachelorette weekends!
ReplyDeleteSo scottishroyalty...you are thinking I need to host Father's Day weekend?
ReplyDelete