I Hate Fridays
Friday is the day I feel most like a trapped housewife. Rather, a flying spirit or a corporate executive trapped in the body of a housewife. No, not the body--the house.
Friday is the day other people go on dates, drink with buddies, light a candle with the family.
Friday is the day I can no longer ignore the thick coat of white dog hair on the dark blue carpet, the stains of chocolate milk and ketchup that have built up on the kitchen counter all week, the ticking hands of the clock.
Friday is the day the huz comes home with staring eyes from a week of everyone else's problems. He comes home at 4:30. Or at 5:30. Or at 6, depending on whose printer won't turn on because they forgot to plug it in, or who said or did what to whom and had to be suspended for it, or what pile of piled-up details were forgotten to be done by someone else.
Friday is the day all my intentions for the week pile up and beg for my three available hours and accuse me of FAILURE if I don't cross them off the list before it all starts over again on Monday. And the ones I cross off don't even say thank you.
Friday is the day I forget to eat lunch and I snack on all the leftovers that litter the counter like a human vacuum.
Friday is the day I want to read blogs and follow links and speak out and cry over poetry and stare out the window at the rain splashing off the leaves, turning into hail.
Friday is the day the laundry must be folded, since the huz always remembers to wash it, and thank God there's TiVo for dealing with that.
Friday is the day the huz used to vacuum the rugs and push the broom around and be furious with me when I got in his way, making phone calls, finishing projects, planning fun. It took me three years to realize he had a routine. I'm not good with routines. Especially those involving dust.
Friday is the day the trash truck comes, and the bins must be brought in but I never do that, even though I now help take them out on Thursdays. I try to leave something for the huz. I start to vacuum at 4, and lately it's done by 5:30 and it's all done by me.
Friday is a day of must-dos, which I only tend to like to do if I invent them myself. Who invited all this dirt in? I'd rather finish that novel I said I must write.
Friday is the day the kid goes to play, and l'm all alone with my squirt bottle and sponge and the crud dripping out of the soap dish and the spots on the floor by the toilet and the hair in the tub.
Friday is the day I'm so distracted by things I can't finish and things I forgot to start that I can't even remember to turn on the radio.
But when I do, I remember Friday is the day the huz writes an opera. All I have to do is remember to press 'play.' Friday is the day an idea can sing through five songs that have never been played before. It's a day of listening. And sometimes it's love.
Friday is the day we are alone together for a few hours, even if it's spent pushing brooms and moving rugs and talking about what's not getting done. Or what is.
Friday is the day we sit close on the couch and watch our shows, and with the kid away, nothing moves from its place for a few magic hours. Friday is the day for cheap Chinese food.
Friday is the day we start over again. With a backbeat and a clean rug. From where we are, not where we wished we were.
I love Fridays.
Friday is the day other people go on dates, drink with buddies, light a candle with the family.
Friday is the day I can no longer ignore the thick coat of white dog hair on the dark blue carpet, the stains of chocolate milk and ketchup that have built up on the kitchen counter all week, the ticking hands of the clock.
Friday is the day the huz comes home with staring eyes from a week of everyone else's problems. He comes home at 4:30. Or at 5:30. Or at 6, depending on whose printer won't turn on because they forgot to plug it in, or who said or did what to whom and had to be suspended for it, or what pile of piled-up details were forgotten to be done by someone else.
Friday is the day all my intentions for the week pile up and beg for my three available hours and accuse me of FAILURE if I don't cross them off the list before it all starts over again on Monday. And the ones I cross off don't even say thank you.
Friday is the day I forget to eat lunch and I snack on all the leftovers that litter the counter like a human vacuum.
Friday is the day I want to read blogs and follow links and speak out and cry over poetry and stare out the window at the rain splashing off the leaves, turning into hail.
Friday is the day the laundry must be folded, since the huz always remembers to wash it, and thank God there's TiVo for dealing with that.
Friday is the day the huz used to vacuum the rugs and push the broom around and be furious with me when I got in his way, making phone calls, finishing projects, planning fun. It took me three years to realize he had a routine. I'm not good with routines. Especially those involving dust.
Friday is the day the trash truck comes, and the bins must be brought in but I never do that, even though I now help take them out on Thursdays. I try to leave something for the huz. I start to vacuum at 4, and lately it's done by 5:30 and it's all done by me.
Friday is a day of must-dos, which I only tend to like to do if I invent them myself. Who invited all this dirt in? I'd rather finish that novel I said I must write.
Friday is the day the kid goes to play, and l'm all alone with my squirt bottle and sponge and the crud dripping out of the soap dish and the spots on the floor by the toilet and the hair in the tub.
Friday is the day I'm so distracted by things I can't finish and things I forgot to start that I can't even remember to turn on the radio.
But when I do, I remember Friday is the day the huz writes an opera. All I have to do is remember to press 'play.' Friday is the day an idea can sing through five songs that have never been played before. It's a day of listening. And sometimes it's love.
Friday is the day we are alone together for a few hours, even if it's spent pushing brooms and moving rugs and talking about what's not getting done. Or what is.
Friday is the day we sit close on the couch and watch our shows, and with the kid away, nothing moves from its place for a few magic hours. Friday is the day for cheap Chinese food.
Friday is the day we start over again. With a backbeat and a clean rug. From where we are, not where we wished we were.
I love Fridays.
posted by Kristen Caven | 3:35 PM
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