I know. What a horrible mother. Making my day for "me" a childcare day... Still, I have a 100% Paris-friendly Friday (used to be Monday), and the real bonus is a one (or two) on one afternoon a week for 'Salina.
I find sometimes I miss her the most.
The first week that I undertook such a Wednesday was last week. I had plans. The sewing machine my mother had bought for my birthday (I know - spoilt AS!!! Thanks Mum!) had not been removed from the box and taken for a spin, and that is exactly what a (relatively) child-free "me" day calls for.
Unfortunately, one of my jobs is a small role with a community group - and trying to get input and information from a committee of volunteers (and extremely busy people in real life) can be a juggling act, and half of my Wednesday - and most importantly the afternoon section starring 'Salina - was stripped away.
That meant that last week, I spent a few quality hours going through all of my sewing stuff (over 10 years of "what I used to be" thrust into boxes for when I got the time) and a short half-hour fixing 3 skirts and expanding (at least the bottom half) of my wardrobe 100%.
This week, I was really REALLY determined to have a "me" day. Well, I was determined to a point - because I realise that the concept of "me" must include all of the paperwork detrius that has started to weigh upon my psyche (at least that part that is counting on a decent tax return to tick a few things off the list) and so today - I tidied the office (with nary a football team to prosper by it).
As V is using the spare room/office for his study at the moment (even as I type), I brought all of the boxes that my office had been stuffed into about 2 years ago, when we rearranged the house for the advent of a baby in our lives...
I took photos of that - you'll see them if I have time to download them (I am all about time and motion today).
I threw out whole swathes of "why the heck did I keep that". Do you know that I finally bit the bullet and binned 69 floppy disks. I don't have access to a computer that would take them, and even if that were possible, I finally erred on the side of "no" when I asked myself if I really NEEDED 7 boot and 4 rescue disks for operating systems that were obsolete. I even agreed that is was possible that neither I nor anyone else would really want to look back upon assignments and notes from Tafe courses I studied a few years ago.
(Okay, I did keep 7 - but they have important stuff like my poetry on them).
I also put together all of the "I can't part with this due to sentimentality" into only a few boxes and put them up into that cupboard that has room. I know, a little bit moving the deckchairs, but it takes a while for me to let go of stuff - just ask V.
By lunchtime, I realised that the job I had undertaken was a 2-parter, and it would be better to succeed at the first (which I had, thank you very much) and fill the remaining hours with
- pegging clothes,
- printing a few photos for a few frames found and deserving of being used - a task I never REALLY seem to get around to (obviously, its not genetic),
- transfer all the information from an dead computer's hard drive to a new external drive in case I need any of the files, and
- blog
Sure beats going through the paperwork that precipitated the original task!! Oh well, there is always next week...
Finally, I will leave you with 2 things - a question: - what do you do on "me" days? - and a rant - from 13.5 years ago. I was so arty, it really did start mid-sentence.
Diary entry –
Saturday 28th (February, 1998)
… ex-wife don’t get on, and now I know WHY” scene most often ends this merry-go-round.
I believe in being upfront and honest when entering new Love’s domain. This includes “I’ve got a kid”, “I’m only in town for another month” (and “I am not married”), “Let’s see what happens and…” (sorry about harping on about the state – recurring nightmare).
But, hey, there comes a point when a girl can dream – share a bed; breakfast together – alone; the next twenty years; matching plots – okay, I never go that far. But the fertile plains of the imagination are never dormant – unless blighted.
Even the most simple girl like me has her fantasies.
To be allowed to wallow in those fields is the most forbidden luxury… unless
I’m talking about a certain commitment, men. A sort of right here, right now – a decision. Shall we cut the safety ropes together and push offshore?
And then, the stupid bastards run, don’t they? Dust. Cut out impressions on the door. Maybe it’s the delivery?
Boom. Back to the caves and rocks, and I go back to the mill. Churn out another bastard poem.
