Don’t know about you, but I am freaking-glad it’s Friday. I hope you are looking forward to a long, holiday weekend.
Monday is the government-sanctioned day of public slackedness in the form of President’s Day. Unlike Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, Grandparents’ Day, and (some suspect) Valentine’s Day, President’s Day was not created by the greeting card industry.
This one belongs to the Retail Sector. The sales activity generated by President’s Day promotional extravaganzas must generate at least 1% of annual GDP.
I don’t know that for a fact, but the metaphor seems apropos.
Long weekends are good for a lot of reasons.
Fewer disgruntled former employees enter their former worksites, armed to the teeth, and blast away their frustrations on President’s Day. Could be those places are closed…but, hey, a little time off is always good for the constitution.
Long weekends are good for getting things done you can’t get done the rest of the time, working 32-hours a week. (What—you work more than that??) This weekend, we’re moving our precious daughter from The Clanton Hacienda into a rental property that she and one of her running buddies have decided to share.
That’s a big step…at both ends of the equation.
Both of our kids went away to school, so the initial shock of emptied closets and vacant dirty clothes hampers has been broached and conquered. But we knew they’d come back--on weekends, during mid-semester breaks…when they were hungry.
This is different.
She’s going to be Out On Her Own.
We’ve had time to prepare for this.
The replacement furniture for her soon-to-be vacant room is waiting.
Much to the chagrin of our son, the décor will not include anything having to do with billiards or large format video playback devices.
If you’ve read this blog for any length of time, you will also recall the saga of the small yappy dogs that have infested The Clanton Hacienda. On the same day that Satan began serving ice cubes, we allowed a small, furry, four-legged creature to take up residence under our roof.
My bride was besmitten, and when our daughter announced her intentions to move out, and the pooch was also being packed, I did the only sensible thing a sensitive, caring and otherwise irrational husband would do: got a surrogate canine companion to salvage her sanity.
Yep…two (smack) two (smack) two dogs in one house.
So the furniture is staged, boxes are packed, and all is in a state of readiness for our little girl to spread her wings and fly from the nest. It’ll take the long weekend to complete the transition.
Don’t think I will ever get totally used to the idea, though.