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Le Weekend

Le weekend. It is what the French call the endcap to the week. Le weekend. It conjures delightful images. Couples riding bikes against the backdrop of a floral field, wine and baguettes peeking out from picnic baskets. A glittering Mediterranean gently lapping a sugar-white beach while tawny bodies languish in the sun. Perhaps even families, flowing into The Louvre as Mona Lisa's mysteries beckon.

OK. I did not have le weekend.

Let's begin with the law. I am medical power of attorney for Husband's uncle. You may be asking yourself how I became POA to an uncle by marriage. And I would answer by saying that when you suspect a man of being a covert government assassin you don't say no to anything he asks you to do. Ever.

I spent Friday dealing with some of Uncle1's medical issues while Husband was away for the weekend - he was totally having le weekend. And I found myself asking how I became POA while Husband - the blood relative, who, like me, has a medical background - gets to spend the weekend drinking and eating wings. Obviously, I'm angling for his family to like me better than they like him. My main obstacle is that I am a Protestant of English descent. Being POA goes a long way to overlooking my provenance. And anything I may say in this blog.

Here's the other problem with my English ancestry: I had seven years of orthodontic work. And apparently, British dentition is a dominant trait because both of my kids need braces. Daughter's situation is critical - she sucked her thumb on top of having the English ivories. She needs braces yesterday. So it's only logical that when I took the kids skiing Sunday it wasn't Daughter I unintentionally smashed in the teeth with my skis, but Son, whose orthodontic situation isn't nearly so dire.

Daughter. Oh, Daughter.  She shared with me, over our long non-le weekend, that she told her teacher I had given her, once, the best advice.

Proud of my parenting prowess, I asked what that advice had been.

Here it goes: If you put your mind to it, you can accomplish anything.

Pretty good advice, except I'm fairly sure it didn't come from me but from Marty McFly.

And since Daughter's teacher is my age, there's a solid chance she believes I pilfer parenting strategy from 80's movies.

Which brings us to Son. Who needed an ice pack for some forgotten reason Friday night. He's seven - plenty old enough to get the ice pack from the freezer and towel from the kitchen cabinet. And also old enough to "put it away" as I stupidly and non-specifically told him when he was done.

Yes. He put the ice pack and towel right back in the kitchen cabinet. And of course he has contagious warts so now I have to burn down the kitchen.

Yep. That's a used ice pack. Nestled in with
my dishes and potholders.

Then there's my mom, who texted me - with the consent of the subject and for diagnostic purposes - a picture of an adult family member. Come on. It's my mom. It most certainly involved naked genitalia and most certainly cannot be discussed any further. At least here.

Want to go for drinks?

The thing is, Husband pointed out later, at some point everyone in that room agreed that texting me that picture was the right, best course of action.

And of course my mom is having an issue with her hospital bill. While mall-walking with her Friday, she was updating me on her mortgage re-fi woes. Speaking of mortgages and bills, I said, what's going on with your hospital bill?

"I know!" she said. "They're offering 3.25%!"

I just took her home.

That's when she told me she thought her cat may be diabetic.

For you, and you alone, I asked her why she though the cat may be diabetic.

Well, she said, that's his water right there. It usually takes him a few days to drink it, but lately he's been finishing the whole thing in a day.

Nothing unusual there, except the cat's water is in a water glass that in perpetuity sits on a TV table in my parent's family room.  The cat drinks it with his paw.

You want some ice with that?

Business as usual.

Early this week, I had lunch with Aunt. She shared A) a secret I can't divulge here and B) that years ago she tried to fix me up with someone who later had some legal difficulties.

At least Husband tries to fix me up with sci-fi nerds.

So now I'm thinking le weekend isn't the end of the week but the beginning, and that my days ahead promise to be like bad Valentine chocolates - filled with a nasty center that I have to shove my thumb through to cipher the contents.

That thought was confirmed when yesterday, on the eve of our anniversary, I sexted Husband only to realize - too late - that I had sent the text to his uncle.

Try pushing your thumb through that.

This post first appeared on Pope-pourri, please read the originial post: here

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Le Weekend


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