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A Round Tuit
by Marri Bernier

I recently found myself with an entire weekend of unscheduled time.  There was nothing I had to do.   The weekend was a blank slate, and I was free to fill it in at my whim.  So many choices.  Would I tackle projects around the house that begged attention?   Or would I indulge myself in something more pleasurable?  Maybe kick back on the couch with a good book, or work on some writing ideas I'd been playing with.  Maybe call a friend and catch up.

    This unexpected and somewhat rare expanse of 48 hours in which to do whatever I wanted made me feel giddy at first, almost weightless as I considered the possibilities.  Oh, what I wouldn't have done for such a weekend 10 years ago!

    My thoughts drifted back to the days when, as a single parent, I'd heard rumors of such weekends, but I hadn't experienced one for myself in so long that I wasn't sure if it had been real or if I'd merely dreamed it.  Back then, my nights and weekends (and even days for a time when I wasn't working), were filled with the responsibilities of being a grammar school room mother, an active member of the parent-teacher organization, a softball coach, a field trip volunteer, Girl Scout cookie sales strategist, homework helper, and devoted soccer mom.  Did I mention chauffeur and personal banker? 
(Professional eavesdropper was added when my daughter officially began to notice boys.)

    And, I loved it (most of the time).  There was a feeling of belonging in walking down the halls at my daughter's school to greetings of “Hi, Mrs. Bernier,” from kids and teachers, alike.  Sometimes, especially with the younger kids, it was simply “Hi, Rachel's mom.”  Being Rachel's mom was wonderful (absent the junior high years, which I derisively dubbed the Age of Raging Hormones).

But a part of me longed to just be Marri again, to pour a glass of wine, immerse myself in a hot tub and listen to the rousing melodies of Mozart, as I lay beneath a blanket of  bubbles, sipping wine in my steamy, candle-lit bathroom.... “Mom, you missed the street.  We were supposed to turn there.”  My daughter's anxious cry startles me from my reverie within a reverie.  Back in reality, I am behind the wheel, on the way to...where is it we're going, again?

    Many Friday nights, huddled in a blanket at the first of three, sometimes four, weekend soccer games, I would fantasize about all the things I would do when I had Free Time: first on the list was writing the Great American Novel, a fantasy that has been with me for as long as I can remember. Another of my favorites was joining an environmental group and chaining myself to a tree in the rainforest (I wonder if anyone still does that).  I would join up with Habitat for Humanity and build houses for the underprivileged. I'd learn a foreign language.  Hell, maybe I'd even have time to clean my house.

    Not to worry, I thought.  I'll get around to it all when Rachel is grown and gone.  Now is a time for being a parent, for making memories.

    It has been six years since Rachel moved out on her own.  I've done some writing here and there, but I haven't begun the Great American Novel.  I have been to a rainforest, but not to save the trees.  And, my carpentry skills have yet to be tested.  To be honest, my house is far from the pristine perfection I used to envision; boxes of files litter my home office from when I moved (two years ago!), and papers that could have been shredded thirty years ago overflow from my desk drawers.

    I still hear myself saying, “I'll get around to it.”

    So, on this unscheduled weekend, I decide to tackle my back patio, which is cluttered with overflow from the house, as well as carpeted with leaves from the mulberry tree residing there.  Working together, it took my boyfriend, Rick, and me close to three hours and many trips to the garbage before most of the patio was visible again.  It wasn't perfect, but it was a huge improvement.  I felt good.

I'll do the dogs next, I decide.  For most people, walking the dog is not a major project; it takes 20 to 30 minutes, sometimes less, and it's over.  Not for me.  I have three dogs, the smallest of which weighs 50 pounds.  All are rescues of unknown origin and questionable manners. 

    I used to take all three to the local dog park.  Then Ava showed herself to be a Jekyll-and-Hyde type.  With humans, Ava is a loving and affectionate dog.  Not so with all other dogs.  And one couldn't predict which one might be her next victim.  Some sweet, unsuspecting dog would happen past her and she would attack – without provocation or warning – clearly with intent to cause grave bodily harm.   Clearly, Ava would have to be walked.  Since she was high-energy and quite the athlete, I decided she'd need about three miles every day. 

    Jerry and Ivan, my two affable males – although each neurotic in his own way – could continue going to the park. I like to run them around for an hour; a tired dog is a happy dog, right?  So, for me, the term “walk the dog” applies to a project that requires two-and-a-half to three hours.  But I love them dearly (most of the time) and wouldn't change a thing.

    Six hours of day one are gone, seven if you include the preparations and driving.  Oops, we haven't worked out yet (aside from exercising the dogs).  I change my clothes and we head to the local gym; I am firmly resolved that there are twenty pounds of me that I will not carry into 2011!

    It's almost two hours later when we return to a display of utter joy from my four-legged children.  They need to be fed and so do we.  I'm hungry.  I check the fridge and pantry and remember I'd planned Italian sausage, sweet peppers and potatoes for dinner.

    After dinner, we're pooped.  Rick picks up the paper, I grab a book. The tv goes on for a short while and then we're ready for bed.  Day One of the unscheduled weekend certainly was busy. 

    Maybe tomorrow I'll work on a short story, or begin a good literary novel, maybe one of the classics I never got around to; I'll meditate and listen to classical music.  The dogs can live with a day off from exercise and so can I.  Tomorrow will be devoted to more cerebral pursuits.  A trip to Borders would be nice.

    I began Day Two as intended.  A few hours into it, however, people and things began to insinuate themselves between me and my cerebral pursuits.

    Does anyone know where can I buy a round tuit?

                                                                    

Marri lives in Phoenix, where she shares a home with three neurotic dogs and one soon-to-be-neurotic boyfriend.  She works as a private investigator by day (and often by night), and has begun to indulge her life-long love of writing, so far mostly for herself.  She worked in Corporate America as a public relations writer, which she hated, and as associate editor of a nationwide magazine for employees of a now-defunct photo-finishing business.  She had great fun with that, as she got to travel the nation in search of employees doing fun and unusual things (both on the job and off).  One man Marri wrote about was so pleased with the attention that he sent her a most unusual piece of fan mail: he wrote her a letter and gave it to his son with instructions that it be mailed posthumously.