On thurs or fri, people start getting excited about the weekend and all it entails. And they insist on asking you about yours. “what sweet and fantastical adventures are lined up for you this blessed & heavenly weekend, christa my dear?”
So for two whole days before the weekend even kicks in, you’re already having to talk about it.
Then the weekend happens.
When you come back to work on Monday, everyone starts right up, all good-natured and happy. “So, how was your weekend? Great weather, eh? What did you do? Have a good time?” This goes on all day Monday and, in many cases, right on in to Tuesday, so much friendly chit-chat about the Weekend, the Glorious Weekend, and the many great things you did (or didn’t, in my case) do.
That leaves one fucking day each week that isn’t filled with a bunch of mindless chatter about all the stupid shit people do on their oh so fab weekends.
I’m writing a loafe entry about it, so I think we all know how I feel about such conversations.
Maybe it wouldn’t bother me so much if I had something interesting to say, if I had actual plans or fun things to do, if I had a life, or energy, or desire, or anything at all worth talking about. There used to be a time, long long ago, when the weekend mattered, when I got that little flutter in my stomach as I considered all the possibilities those two tiny days held. All the hidden treasures, the mysteries of life itself, buried deep in a friday and saturday night, waiting for me, calling me.
But come on, I’ve got a 3.5-year-old son now and g’s mother lives with us. What do you think I’m going to be doing this weekend, besides plotting ways to kill myself and/or others? You really want to hear about the millionth time my kid peed his pants/bed and how I was fine with just throwing him and his urine-fresh clothes/bedding right out the window? Maybe I can tell you about the piles of laundry I got to do. Or all the various ways I rejected sex. How I got to be in the bathroom alone by myself for five whole uninterrupted minutes? Or maybe you want to hear about yet another stupid fucking argument I was forced to witness between g and his mother. Or how much time I spent pretending to listen to mom-in-law, while she blathered on ceaselessly about whatever it is she blathers about. Maybe we can talk about how much TV I watched, because it was a lot. Is this what you want to know?
And I know why people ask. So I will say, “Oh mine was great, how about yours? you have a good weekend?” because that is all they care about, which is fine, doesn’t bother me at all. but don’t ask me about my weekend, let’s dispense with that little formality and how about you just dive right in and start telling me about yours, okay? I’ll pretend to be impressed and intrigued. By the “oh I went to NYC this weekend, I went sailing, I went hiking, I went rock climbing, I went to the moon, I married a prince and we started a brand new kingdom and then we had to leave when our people revolted against us, and here I am back at work on Monday” stories. They are all better than mine and I will listen and smile and say “that is awesome” and inside I will be crushing your head with a giant machine and watching your brains squish out like juice from a lemon, okay? Okay?
oh I did get a pedicure though, that was nice. even though I had to sit next to g’s mother for two hours, unable to move, while she told me all the intricate and fascinating details of the medical claims industry.
how do I get myself into these situations?
don’t answer that.
Let’s just look to tomorrow and a bit of relief in the form of legos and indy.
- holy legos
- hot for teacher