Blog

I love my weekends. I guard them with the vigilance of a medieval lord with 11 marriageable daughters and a handsome stable boy. They – the weekends, not the marriageable daughters – are my sanctuary, two days of peace after five of running around. I find my equilibrium again, stop the static buzzing through my mind and it is when I write the most. But it’s writing without stress (usually) and when I goof off, it’s without that nagging feeling that I should be working, because most Saturdays and Sundays, by the time I’m ready to sit down with a movie, I already have my word count for the day. It’s my time in an isolated cabin (yet with all mod cons and no packing) and usually, I turn into a positive hermit by Friday evening, trying to whenever possible keep socializing to other times. Or at least not both days. My 25-year-old self would be horrified. I like it better than going out. Does that mean I’m getting old?

This past weekend was lovely and I feel energized and satisfied with my accomplishments. It helped that the weather has been astoundingly wonderful – 23C (73F) and sunny, the first bonafide heatwave of the summer (that this does not bode well for July and August is a fact I choose to ignore at the moment in favour of revelling). There’s something about wandering around the neighbourhood, taking the long road to the grocery store instead of the winterly super-efficient dash that minimizes exposure to the elements. People have been smiling, facial muscles finally thawed, gritted teeth unclenched and hardly anyone is wearing socks. I have a theory that our happiness could be moved up a level or two simply by the act of taking off our socks. World peace through bare toes? Why not…

So I am having fun writing something that’s freaking me out a little, because I’m not quite sure where it’s coming from and on Sunday, had more fun when Michele came down for the next stage in the quest to cull the herd of my crap. I am an instinctive packrat trying to reform and so far, I have been ruthless in the decision of what gets to stay and what has to go. It makes you feel lighter, somehow.

Saturday evening, sometime around nine, I decided to pause my movie to make a cup of tea (and no, for those curious minds out there, I haven’t started the Six Degrees thing yet). And a trickle emerges from the tap, then stops. There is no water. So naturally, I get systematic about it and before calling our key person, who deals with after-hours maintenance emergencies, I check the water in the bathroom. None to be found there, either. While I’m on the phone to the key person, at least another 10 tenants call to squawk and she goes to check things out and finds a guy in the ceiling of the top floor, soldering a pipe. We’re not exactly sure what happened, but he tells her that the water will be back on “soon” and that’s all that matters. In the meantime, I go looking for water and luckily there’s a glass of it for the cat on my table (because she does not deign to drink out of a bowl on the floor like the peasants) and she hasn’t touched it, so I purloin the blessed liquid behind her back, microwave it and go back to my movie. Naturally, now that I should be careful, rationing what’s located in glasses and cups throughout the place because people often define “soon” differently than I do, I am parched. Dying for water. I tell myself it’s some sort of reverse placebo effect, to not be silly, to forget about water, in actuality as well as conceptually and turn my movie back on, only then realizing my mistake.

I forgot I was watching The Abyss.

What did you do this weekend?