yet another weekend is upon me....
now playing: kathleen edwards, "mercury"
it's friday...and what that means for me, typically, are delusions of grandeur regarding all that i hope to accomplish during the course of the weekend. typically, the modus operandi is as follows:
tuesday afternoon - friday early evening: prepare, cross-check, and verify mental "shit to do" list. go through workday adding things to list. come home and cast disgusted gaze around house and revise that days' additions to list.
friday after work: pick up kids, and solidify the weekends' sleepover arrangements if no one is grounded for whatever reason. eat out, since i haven't bothered to go to the supermarket in anticipation of kids coming over...or bothered to do the dishes, for that matter. eat, come home, hang with kids and maybe watch some tv. ponder doing dishes...if kids retire to rooms at decent hour, get started on dishes. go to bed at ridiculous hour.
saturday morning: sleep. seriously. that's pretty much it.
saturday afternoon:get out of bed...ponder showering. walk downstairs to find dylan watching VH1 classic on the sofa. inquire as to whereabouts of sister, to be met with half grunted sound indicating a familiarity with the phrase i don't know. sit down with son and enjoy a few fleeting moments of music video nirvana, only to jump from sofa in disgust when we are the eighties segment leads with robert palmer's simply irresistable.
shower.
collect remaining members of household and determine objectives for the day. immediately adjust schedule to accomodate visitors/visits/mall trips/social calendars/etc. for dylan and jayda, to allow for at least one trip back to moms' to retrieve something forgotten.
saturday night: on gig nights: meet band members at darryl's house for loadup, proceed to venue and load in.
play gig.
sweat.
soak into pores of skin the delectable combination aroma of cigarette smoke, beer and hai karate that make playing shows on my particular link of the food chain a health hazard.
close show with rocky mountain way - play lap steel guitar with beer bottle stolen from table closest to front of stage - sweat some more and jerk guitar cord from instrument to end song and evening.
pack up instruments and equipment, now that "smoke smell" has been thoroughly reinvigorated into each piece of equipment and every instrument brought to gig.
have breakfast at queen city diner at 3am, and watch endless parade of last-call freaks herd into diner like cattle. eavesdrop on countless cell phone conversations in spanish, marvel at lack of objectivity in choosing outfits for the evening among the patrons. attempt to avoid irritation as result of complete lack of conversational inhibition among patrons of diner. think to self that, hell, i don't have anything to say that i wouldn't want the whole goddamn room to hear, either. resist urge to yell at top of lungs, "aaaaaaaaiiiiy, papi!" at next sonofabitch who walks in the door.
after losing count of soda refills courtesy of usual waitress, a mid-fifties woman who calls me "honey", slide out of booth and back into the van and head home. take guitars inside and plop down on loveseat next to inevitable sleeping child on sofa who has fallen asleep watching tv. stumble up to bed.
sunday afternoon: wake up with less energy than before i fell asleep.
go downstairs and prepare the only communal meal of the weekend eaten within the confines of the house: sunday brunch. wendy takes bacon and pancake/french toast duty while i deal with the eggs - and with rounding everyone up. if dylan's not grounded on a particular weekend, his whereabouts will generally be a mystery.
eat.
begin compiling new set of dirty dishes.
sunday late afternoon/evening: invariably come in to work to clean up whatever loose ends might make monday worse than it has to be...changing backup tapes, checking the SQL downloads on occasion and such. not an every-weekend thing, but happens as often as not.
sunday night: spend what time i have left at home with the kids, if they see fit to leave the comfort of their exile zones (their rooms). personally, if i had the comforts they do when i was their age, i probably would've never left home. but then again, some of the comforts they have now didn't exist in my world at their age (internet, playstation, cable tv, running water, etc....you get the point.).
late sunday night: spend the waning hours of the weekend trying to put forth some effort to do some of the stuff that had been compiling in my brain the week previous, whatever it might be, in a futile attempt to feel as though i did something productive during the course of the weekend - in terms of what i spent the entire week previous calculating and planning in my head.
now, granted, that's not an exact script for each and every weekend, but it gives one a pretty good feel for how i systematically set myself up to fall short of my personal expectations on a regular basis by participating in this cyclical script i've set up for myself.
all hell is breaking loose at work, as well...someone has seen fit to replace all the carpet in the building, and guess upon whose mighty shoulders the task of moving and reinstalling the PCs in the offices fall upon?
figure it out yet?
it'll come to ya.
it's friday...and what that means for me, typically, are delusions of grandeur regarding all that i hope to accomplish during the course of the weekend. typically, the modus operandi is as follows:
tuesday afternoon - friday early evening: prepare, cross-check, and verify mental "shit to do" list. go through workday adding things to list. come home and cast disgusted gaze around house and revise that days' additions to list.
friday after work: pick up kids, and solidify the weekends' sleepover arrangements if no one is grounded for whatever reason. eat out, since i haven't bothered to go to the supermarket in anticipation of kids coming over...or bothered to do the dishes, for that matter. eat, come home, hang with kids and maybe watch some tv. ponder doing dishes...if kids retire to rooms at decent hour, get started on dishes. go to bed at ridiculous hour.
saturday morning: sleep. seriously. that's pretty much it.
saturday afternoon:get out of bed...ponder showering. walk downstairs to find dylan watching VH1 classic on the sofa. inquire as to whereabouts of sister, to be met with half grunted sound indicating a familiarity with the phrase i don't know. sit down with son and enjoy a few fleeting moments of music video nirvana, only to jump from sofa in disgust when we are the eighties segment leads with robert palmer's simply irresistable.
shower.
collect remaining members of household and determine objectives for the day. immediately adjust schedule to accomodate visitors/visits/mall trips/social calendars/etc. for dylan and jayda, to allow for at least one trip back to moms' to retrieve something forgotten.
saturday night: on gig nights: meet band members at darryl's house for loadup, proceed to venue and load in.
play gig.
sweat.
soak into pores of skin the delectable combination aroma of cigarette smoke, beer and hai karate that make playing shows on my particular link of the food chain a health hazard.
close show with rocky mountain way - play lap steel guitar with beer bottle stolen from table closest to front of stage - sweat some more and jerk guitar cord from instrument to end song and evening.
pack up instruments and equipment, now that "smoke smell" has been thoroughly reinvigorated into each piece of equipment and every instrument brought to gig.
have breakfast at queen city diner at 3am, and watch endless parade of last-call freaks herd into diner like cattle. eavesdrop on countless cell phone conversations in spanish, marvel at lack of objectivity in choosing outfits for the evening among the patrons. attempt to avoid irritation as result of complete lack of conversational inhibition among patrons of diner. think to self that, hell, i don't have anything to say that i wouldn't want the whole goddamn room to hear, either. resist urge to yell at top of lungs, "aaaaaaaaiiiiy, papi!" at next sonofabitch who walks in the door.
after losing count of soda refills courtesy of usual waitress, a mid-fifties woman who calls me "honey", slide out of booth and back into the van and head home. take guitars inside and plop down on loveseat next to inevitable sleeping child on sofa who has fallen asleep watching tv. stumble up to bed.
sunday afternoon: wake up with less energy than before i fell asleep.
go downstairs and prepare the only communal meal of the weekend eaten within the confines of the house: sunday brunch. wendy takes bacon and pancake/french toast duty while i deal with the eggs - and with rounding everyone up. if dylan's not grounded on a particular weekend, his whereabouts will generally be a mystery.
eat.
begin compiling new set of dirty dishes.
sunday late afternoon/evening: invariably come in to work to clean up whatever loose ends might make monday worse than it has to be...changing backup tapes, checking the SQL downloads on occasion and such. not an every-weekend thing, but happens as often as not.
sunday night: spend what time i have left at home with the kids, if they see fit to leave the comfort of their exile zones (their rooms). personally, if i had the comforts they do when i was their age, i probably would've never left home. but then again, some of the comforts they have now didn't exist in my world at their age (internet, playstation, cable tv, running water, etc....you get the point.).
late sunday night: spend the waning hours of the weekend trying to put forth some effort to do some of the stuff that had been compiling in my brain the week previous, whatever it might be, in a futile attempt to feel as though i did something productive during the course of the weekend - in terms of what i spent the entire week previous calculating and planning in my head.
now, granted, that's not an exact script for each and every weekend, but it gives one a pretty good feel for how i systematically set myself up to fall short of my personal expectations on a regular basis by participating in this cyclical script i've set up for myself.
all hell is breaking loose at work, as well...someone has seen fit to replace all the carpet in the building, and guess upon whose mighty shoulders the task of moving and reinstalling the PCs in the offices fall upon?
figure it out yet?
it'll come to ya.
posted by tom at 08:10
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