Solitude

My days off are Thursday and Friday. All week long I look forward to these days with the same enthusiasm that the professional world has for Saturday and Sunday. TGIW!

I earn a wage, not a salary. I punch a time clock and I wear a tiny plastic badge that boasts my name. I have to work weekends. Welcome to the world of the low-level service worker. Wednesdays are my Fridays and Mondays are my Hump Days.

Two things about me keep me from being able to enjoy my days off as I should. The first is that I'm a workaholic. I am happiest when I have something to do. My peace and tranquility have the same stench as my elbow grease. I cannot settle down into a lawn chair with a nice glass of iced tea and watch the neighbors water their lawns. I simply must be productive every moment of every day.

The second is that I'm a bit of a perfectionist. This is not apparent when you walk into my house. There are teenagers living here, and it shows in the housekeeping. These are your typical American teenagers- lazy and self-centered with an false sense of entitlement to a lifestyle that they have neither earned nor inherited. They haven't realized yet that this is not The Brady Bunch, and we do not have a full-time maid.

The house is always a mess, and so I am always on the verge of grinding my teeth into smooth little nubs. I want the house to be perfectly clean all the time, but truth be told, I'd settle for just straightenend up and trash free. If somebody would wash the dishes, or at least wash the dishes that they use...

Ultimately, I'd like to be able to sit at the computer and write for hours and hours uninterrupted by the children. I have to get up very early in the morning to do this, but there is always that nagging voice in the back of my head that 's reminding me that the toilet needs scrubbed or the laundry has been piling up for days. It makes it hard to concentrate on my writing.

I can't concentrate very well right now, as a matter of fact. I went into the kitchen to brew coffee and stepped on a pile of salt that was spilled yesterday and never cleaned up because the dustpan is missing. I stared at the pile for about thirty seconds before I realized what was going on.

I think I ought to wake up the lazy kid who left this here and force him to clean up after himself, but that would create an unharmonious atmosphere in the house. The other kid (or kids) would wake up cranky, and the mood for the day would be "Everybody hate Mom. She's being a bossy bitch." Then I would have to deal with the whining and moaning that comes with the attitude problems.

I decide to leave it til later, after I've had a few cups of coffee and a couple of hours of solitude...
.
.
.