Archive: Weekendery

It’s a funny thing about weekends. On the one hand, I want to be relaxed so that I feel rested for the next work week. On the other hand, I like to get things done so that I don’t feel like a lazy bum when it’s all over. There seems to be a long distance to travel between wanting things done and actually doing them. It’s just that, oh, I hate to fold laundry, but I love having clean clothes and the satisfaction therein. All too often, I wind up asking myself how I squandered 48 hours of time by simply considering my good intentions of doing this chore or that project.

Happily, this past weekend boasted no such regret. Behold! Seven accomplishments!

• Attended the spring concert of our favorite a capella group from college.
  I wanted to be a part of the Deltones all through college, but they had so few openings for altos that I never auditioned. I love singing back-up and harmony, but I am only an adequate soloist, so I doubt I would have made it. Instead, I settled for being a groupie, and JG and I try to make it to their concerts every semester. Our friends’ son is a Deltone now, so it’s fun to see him in that venue. The highlight of the night was hearing the “clap-clap…clap” rhythm and opening chords of the Counting Crows’ “Accidentally in Love.” I gave a little yelp of joy and happily found the alto line in my head. Every time I hear that song, it makes me think of the summer when JG and I got engaged. I’m listening to their newest recording now, but I hope that new song gets onto the CD next year.
• Did two loads of laundry.
  Sorted, washed, dried, and folded. Reward, please!
• Made another batch of soft pretzels.
  JG made a special request, so I obliged and whipped up the dough, which was a real pain to roll out and twist up. Luckily for me, pretzels taste good no matter how mangled they end up in the oven. I tried to make a cinnamon-sugar version for me, but the sugar burned. I should have seen it coming, but I wasn’t thinking. Farewell, dream of a dessert pretzel.
• Got my palm henna-ed.
  My book club discussed Jhumpa Lahiri’s first short story collection, Interpreter of Maladies, which I had read last year. Our hostess made a delicious lemon tart, and one of the girls, Tammy, applied henna designs to our hands and feet as we talked. I felt both literary and multicultural by the end of the night, and that’s pretty good for a Saturday.
• Cleaned out the DVR.
  How else can I justify watching What Not to Wear, House, and Ace of Cakes in swift succession? I say that deleting items from the DVR counts as a chore.
• Rented, watched, enjoyed, and returned Enchanted.
  Hooray for Redbox rental kiosks! And Amy Adams!
• Made pasta sauce and an enormous three-cheese baked ziti with it.
  I’m not much of a cook, but I can make pasta sauce and casseroles with my eyes closed. I will be microwaving my lunch portion shortly, and I am so looking forward to it. The fall-like weather today is begging for some comfort food.

Next on the list: account for 48 mixed-up references for an article about cerebral palsy. Sigh.

#85

This weekend, I firmly cemented a few ideas that have been simmering in my brain.

Warm weather without humidity is the best thing ever.
On Friday, the weather gods blessed Kennett Square with 70-degree weather. At first, I looked askance at the forecast because even that level of heat can be too much for me. I loathe sweating, and my black hair speeds up the process of me wilting into a disheveled mess. Plus, I do not love wearing shorts, and April was far too early in my internal calendar to break those out. But as soon as I stepped outside— in my spring uniform of jeans, flip-flops, tank top, and cardigan — I breathed a sigh of relief. Oh, it was hot, yes, but there was not a drop of humidity in the air. Cue the angels singing! It was just warm enough to feel like spring, without any energy-sucking heaviness to take the fun out of it. JG and I spent the morning meandering through Longwood Gardens, taking advantage of our so-worth-it membership. It was lovely to waltz (not literally) past the ticket people, get our membership card scanned by the elderly volunteer, and then have the pleasure of quiet pathways, lovely flowers, and burgeoning ideas for our landscaping. No humidity and amazing views? Well!

I should not be a wedding planner.
When a former youth group girl, Diana, got engaged a year and a half ago, I reassured her that I would help out with the wedding in any way she needed me. Well, she took me up on it and asked me if I would be her day-of wedding coordinator, her “Franck,” as she put it. It was all very flattering, and I rolled up my spreadsheet sleeves to get my ducks in a row. Diana and I had monthly meetings so that I would be attuned to all the details, thus rendering me able to answer any questions from paranoid parents or quell bossy bridesmaids. I arrived at the rehearsal with no less than seven spreadsheets that listed everything from the florist’s cell phone number to my to-do list for Saturday morning, and Diana introduced me to the family and friends as “being in charge of you all.” Thankfully, the rehearsal went smoothly, and I felt relatively confident for Saturday to arrive.

That night, I tossed and turned in bed. Every so often, a new item popped into my head, and I turned on my reading light and grabbed the notebook on my nightstand to scribble down something like, “Bring fine-point permanent markers” or “Remind ushers that they need to dismiss people by row.” I probably got about four hours of sleep while JG slumbered peacefully next to me.

On Saturday, only a fraction of my anxiety came to fruition. The wedding went well, more or less (I hear it was beautiful, anyway), with the exception of three panicked moments:

• The unity candle had disappeared sometime between the rehearsal and morning of the wedding, and the sound guy managed to find some kind of replacement. At twenty minutes before the ceremony, I didn’t even care what it was, as long as it would light and stay that way. We still have not figured out what came of the original candle.
• A grandmother did not arrive until five minutes after the ceremony was supposed to start. Members of the bridal party and extended family created a running loop of “Is Grandma Ginny here yet?” as I stood there, helplessly, with her corsage in hand. When she finally arrived, she was crying from sheer mortification that her ride had been so ridiculously late, so I had to talk her down from the ledge as I shuffled her into place next to her escort.
• One of the groomsmen disappeared right before the reception, so his accompanying bridesmaid was left without an escort for the introduction of the bridal party. I have yet to get the full story on that one because I launched right into solution mode at the time.

While I am so glad that I was able to help Diana and take care of logistics for her, I am fully convinced that I could not handle this level of stress on a weekly basis. I ran around the site in flip-flops for a good hour that morning, learned how to pin corsages, and cued the processional before I could catch a breath. Once I got to my table at the reception, I was so disappointed to find that they had run out of mini-quiche! Bah! I will be happy to be a regular guest who will wear her dressy shoes, buy a slow cooker off of the registry, and eat her bacon-wrapped scallop, thank you very much.

I am hopeless at playing Guitar Hero.
Last week, JG ordered and received Guitar Hero for Wii, and he has been building his rock godliness with surprising dedication, all the while giving me not-so-subtle nudges to try it out for myself. I was not enthusiastic. See, I am awful at Dance Dance Revolution (or, “Stomp Stomp Revolution,” as I call it), and I am eternally bitter because I can actually dance in real life. Why doesn’t any of that transfer over to this Mario-themed game? Argh. I had this sinking feeling that my remedial guitar-playing skills would come to the same end with Guitar Hero.

Against my better judgment, I strapped on the guitar last night. We were having people over for the specific purpose of playing the game, and I thought my inaugural attempt would be less painful with a smaller audience. I worked through the basic guitar lessons, and I could already feel my body tensing and my scalp sweating. With much trepidation, I selected “Hit Me with Your Best Shot” on Easy, but I almost immediately started missing notes with my trembling fingers. I threw my hands up.

“That’s it! I’m not doing this.”

I took the guitar off with shaking hands and handed it to JG, who had a disappointed look on his face. He just wanted me to have fun, but he could tell how excruciating the experience was for me. Oh, well. Every rock star needs a fan, so I figure that I can fill that position … while I work on crosswords.

It has been a good weekend. Saturday was full of cleaning and airing out of rooms, partly because it had been a while, but mostly because we had deposited Ted at the groomer’s for a “day at the spa.” We took advantage of his absence by mopping the floor and washing his couch blanket, finally. In the evening, JG steamed up some mussels and baked up three potatoes’ worth of fries, and we wolfed it all down in twelve minutes flat. Cleaning works up quite the appetite, I guess.

We curled up on the couch with Ted to watch a recommended rental, Dan in Real Life, and I was startled to find myself all weepy at the end. It’s not that the movie is sad; I just can not hold it together with books or movies that involve premature, just-not-right deaths of spouses. At first, I tried to be strong and sniff the tears away, but it was to no avail. Even though Dan in Real Life made me cry, the bonus features made me laugh, and the soundtrack is on my wish list now. JG and I are also considering introducing a crossword puzzle war of the sexes at the beach this year. That’s a lot of bang for our rental buck, I think.

Spring is seeping into our neighborhood, and JG spent the afternoon today preparing for the warmer weather, including putting away snow shovels and wheeling out the grill. Soon, it’ll be time to fertilize our fledgling grassy lawn. Ted and I took a leisurely walk before dinner, and we stopped every so often to check out the new growth around us. It wasn’t quite warm enough for flip-flops, but I wore them anyway, feeling rebellious. JG made beef stroganoff for dinner, and we ate it at the coffee table as we watched Kansas advance into the Final Four.

It’s Sunday night, now. Just a couple of hours remain before we head down to bed. JG is playing Super Smash Brothers and I am typing away while we wait to turn on Extreme Makeover: Home Edition because this episode is supposed to take place in Delaware, and we heard that the football team helped out with the house. I feel satisfied with the amount of tasks we accomplished and unusually rested.

Bring it on, Monday.

Russian literature
At book club on Friday, I had a glass of champagne and more than my share of pierogi and stroganoff, so I was good and groggy when it came time to discuss the inner workings of Anna Karenina. I was slightly apprehensive going into this gathering, because our hostess and discussion-leader is enamored of Russian literature, and I didn’t want to be That Guy who couldn’t hack it. Fortunately, I wasn’t the only one who was not blown away by Tolstoy. I expressed my appreciation for the story and my sense of accomplishment at finishing the novel, but I took solace in the fact that I was not alone. Despite, or perhaps because of, our differing views on the style and plot devices, we had a lively conversation about which characters we liked and why the heck the book was called Anna Karenina. Much to my chagrin, the massive amount of food did not deter anyone from the cookies I brought, and I came home with an empty platter. Ah, well. I’ll have to make some more, I guess.

Rock climbing
On Saturday night, JG and I joined up with a group of friends from the climbing gym for dinner and a showing of the Banff Mountain Film Festival World Tour, which is based out of a Canadian film festival centered on the outdoors and extreme sports. The topics of seven films we saw that night included rock climbing, mountain biking, speed flying, and skiing, and I had a strange sensation that I didn’t belong. Sure, my fine-arts self had no problem going to a film festival, but one about extreme sports? I restrained myself from wearing patent leather flats, as though they would not come off as outdoorsy enough and my reputation would be ruined. Even though not every film was to my taste, I cringed and moaned along with the crowd at the sight of flailing falls off of seaside cliffs and fantastic tumbles down mountains. I couldn’t help but speculate how the film makers managed to get some of their angles, especially one where the camera stayed just ahead of a skier on a rail, and then dropped below for an underside view of a jump. How did they do that without smashing a couple of cameras in the process?

Bolstered by the festival — despite failing to win any of the door prizes or catch any Clif Bars — JG and I headed to the gym on Sunday afternoon. In the first half hour, he finished a new route after weeks of work, and I finally connected an outstanding project. I must note that it was a significant accomplishment for me because it was the first route that I finished in one attempt before JG did. Yes! We love low-gravity days.

Root beer
After dinner on Sunday, I put together a root beer float to commemorate a soda-free February, and I set down the bottle with the remaining root beer on the coffee table. About halfway through the creamy sweetness, I reached for the bottle to top off the float, but — why was it empty? I thought I had a good third of the bottle left!

“What are you doing?” JG asked.

Oh. I had accidentally reached for his Sam Adams, and just a couple of lager-y drops had fallen into my float. Flustered, I grabbed my bottle of Hank’s and hurriedly poured in the rest of the soda, swirling furiously with my straw. Fortunately, there were no ill effects from the actual beer tainting my root beer. Phew.