The good new days

Weekends were something I used to count down to just like anyone else. I knew that on Friday night I would go out for drinks, that on Saturday morning I would sleep in, and that on Sunday I would play softball, or golf, or tennis, or basketball…you get the idea. In between all of this activity I would do, well nothing. I loved weekends, for the freedom they possessed and because I hated my job. They were a 48 hour reprieve from the monotony and stress of an unfinished life. Nothing could top those old days of late morning breakfast sandwiches—if you live here in LA, you may not know what I’m referring to—and Sunday rounds of golf with friends.

Or so I thought until Annabelle started to grow into the little clapping, ball throwing (more on that later in the week) giggling little girl she is. I’ll never have that feeling of gleeful irresponsibility of the old days again, but I don’t really want them. Now, when Friday night comes around and my wife comes home from work just a short half an hour earlier than usual, Annie and I are both alight with smiles. We know that we get not a 48 hour reprieve, but 48 hours of love and learning and time together that weekdays just don’t afford. So the good old days were good, but when my head exhaustedly hits the pillow on Sunday night this feeling of content can’t be beat.

This weekend, despite all of the lovely weather, and dinner with friends, and another great birthday furnished by my wife, was highlighted by an unexpected surprise. I got a funny update on an old friend that I wrote about months ago upon our arrival in the south. You may remember her as the potential caregiver for Annie who, in a very collegial way, informed us that "black people in the south would just as soon shoot us as say hi to us.” Lovely gal. Well, I saw her in our local supermarket berating a clerk because they didn’t have the cut of beef she wanted. He very clearly couldn’t believe that someone could get that worked up over meat, but she was acting like a hungry junkyard dog, so he did the smart thing…he passed her off to someone higher up the Brookshire’s food chain. Like I said, lovely gal.