The Sunday Night Freak Out

Weekends allow us to relax. For the husband, that means golf and cards. For me, I might go to the pool or curl up with a book.

Like all good things, the weekend ends. Then the brain neurons kick in and it's Sunday night. You're evaluating the week. You're facing reality again. You're making to-do lists. You're pacing.

Even retired people struggle with this. It's ingrained over decades and now there is nothing to be freaking about. It doesn't matter. The habit is there.

I have a Sunday night ritual. It involves a swim in my tub, a glass of wine and music. I have nothing to fear on Monday morning but I still do it.

Hat People

My Aunt Cess has educated me that hats with feathers are wrong. She doesn't wear hats. She doesn't wear fur. So far I've avoided feathers and out of respect for her, I will not go there. But she will not break me of my love for hats.

Crazy Grandma is to blame. She plopped a hat on my head and I've never stopped. I've worn Easter bonnets and I occasionally wear hats to weddings and funerals. I wear beach hats and visors. These days, you're most likely to find me in a baseball cap with a funny saying or a town I have visited.

The husband (correct as usual) thinks we should be weeding some things out. The closet is a good place to start but I immediately shouted, "Don't touch my hats!"

Come On April

For various reasons, January, February and March are my least favorite months. The holidays are over and the cold grayness is not pleasant. Gloomy weather affects my mood plus, the husband goes stir crazy. He barks (at no one in particular) when it snows. He looks at his golf clubs with an adoration that is usually reserved (in normal people) for lovers and children. This is why we tend to travel as often as possible during the winter months.

This year I crossed the mental line from dislike to hate. The Belle died in January; Hangdog died in March.

I love April, although we get our fair share of rain and continued gray skies. April brings budding trees and early blooms. April brings my annual trek to a writer's conference in Manhattan.

Moods seems to improve in April. I know mine does.

Here's a dirty little secret. April brings the official beginning of the golf season. Lots of women I know groan and complain about the time their husbands spend playing golf (and/or cards.) There are no young children in this household and now there are no oldies so I am the polar opposite. During golf season, the husband is up with the sun and out the door. In the mean and nasty months, Saturday and Sunday mornings get on my nerves. He doesn't know what to do with himself. I suggest laundry or other household chores. He ignores me. He tries to practice new pieces on the piano ... over and over and over. He hovers, "What are you doing?" If he ventures into a project, I am summoned to give an opinion, fetch a hammer, etc.

Is this what retirement is like? If so, I'll pass. The Belle was extremely gracious to her husband but I also witnessed the many times that she wanted to be left alone. I still haven't decided if he was clueless or determined.

I prefer to have my own daily activities. Then during dinner or curling up at the end of the day, we get to have the interesting conversation, "How was your day?"

A Scavenger Hunt

I try very hard to respect the privacy of others in this house. The only exception was while the baby was in high school. I felt it was my duty and my right to do the occasional espionage sweep of his bedroom and backpack.

When the oldies got to Texas, she called a couple of times and asked me to go into the dungeon to look for a particular bill or other information she needed. I would never dig through drawers or closets without her permission.

Let me back up... Our can opener had been missing for days. (You can't make that green bean casserole with the french fried onions without a can opener.) Eventually, I had the husband and Houseboy looking in every possible kitchen drawer and cabinet. No one could find it.

My little voyage into the dungeon unearthed multiple missing items, including the can opener.