Weekend rituals.

I was thinking this morning about weekend rituals . . . and wondering if mine are anywhere close to being typical. Here is my standard Saturday and Sunday:

Saturday: Wake up at a reasonable hour, having tumbled into bed at an early hour on Friday night (yes, I'm 36, not 76, but there you are . . . the scintillating life of the single girl whose boyfriend is in another city). Immediately upon waking, I play with my dogs and then begin contemplating what to do with my day. I love how the dogs sleepily lounge about during this period of reflection . . . they clearly are, like me, not morning people. As I sift through the possibilities of the day before me, I almost immediately feel paralyzed with indecision regarding what to start checking off on the varied lists of things that could be done on the weekend--whether work-related (there is always more that could be done), bringing order to the personal life (organizing house, arranging for much-needed contractor visits, etc.) or simply pleasure-related (i.e., movie, book-reading, bike ride, walk with dogs, etc.). Agonizing over the items on these competing to-do lists can sometimes occupy the entire morning, as I sink into the comforting land of web surfing, telling myself that at least I am learning something new and maintaining some semblance of touch with the world. By noon I usually find a way to pull myself out of the tailspin and do at least a few things from my lists until the end of the day. On days like yesterday, exhaustion from the many accomplishments of my day (hair cut, workout, massage and brief shopping expedition) overcomes me and results in a lengthy late afternoon nap.

It occurs to me that I should probably decide before Saturday what chunks of the weekend will be devoted to work, personal straightening-up and fun, so that all I have to do is fill in the blanks during those pre-determined chunks of time, which would be the easy part. Maybe I'll try this on my next weekend in town, which won't happen for another three weeks, as I will be in Chicago next weekend and St. Louis the weekend after that.

Sunday: I have no problem tumbling out of bed and into clothes. I am enticed to do so by the thought of reading the Sunday New York Times while eating a healthy breakfast and drinking a bottomless cup of coffee at an outdoor table on the porch of my favorite local dining establishment. This is what I did today, until I was chased away by a chain-smoking girl with an obnoxiously loud and rattling laugh at the next table.

I think I especially enjoy Sunday mornings most because they are devoid of the Saturday morning pressure to be a virtuous "accomplisher" . . . when the entire weekend is no longer stretching before me, expectations about what can be accomplished before Monday are significantly more limited than those of the previous morning. I study the Times, easing in to the morass of information by reading the Sunday Styles section first. After leaving that section, I note that I have to make a concerted effort to focus on an article, because my short attention span carries with it a tendency to skim a story without really soaking up its meaning. When I do focus, I feel something in me change just a little bit from the new information I have learned. The remainder of my Sunday will typically be what Saturday should have been as well: an efficient mix of things from all three of the to-do lists.

Anyway, enough of my aimless musings. Here are some pictures from the weekend and the story behind them:



I was amused to see this sign flashing from orange to blue to white and back again when stopping at the local fish joint to pick up my Friday night dinner. Something about the phrase, "Fresh when flashing" makes me giggle. The fish tacos weren't bad, either, with a hint of lime juice and fresh avocado topping them off.





A man whose accent sounded faintly Austrian joined me in admiring this car, which was parked outside the place where I work out. I was fascinated by it and stopped to take a photo; he apparently had been admiring it for weeks and only then had the good fortune to stand outside and really take it in. He explained to me that the car, called a "Marathon," was made mainly to serve as a cab or limo. This ad, which I located online to satisfy my curiosity, seems to indicate that the car was the predecessor to the "Checker" cab and is made by the same company:



As we marveled together at the immaculate condition of the car and the man shared with me what he knew about it, I found myself enjoying the simple and old-fashioned pleasure that he found in admiring the car and sharing its story.

Another part of my weekend involved looking after the cats of my dear friends who are out of town for a family camping trip. The cats preferred staying outdoors, so my only real help to them was letting them in for food and water and a brief roam around the house (by them, not me), before they insisted on being let out again and I locked up behind them. Just before I took this picture of Thunder the Cat,



he had looked at the bottom picture on the wall and longingly touched the drawing of the little girl wearing purple. Perhaps he misses the little girl who drew it. I'll have to tell her about that when she returns.