And Open Letter to Thursdays

Dear Thursday,

I despise you with every ounce of my being.  Not just today, but every Thursday.  You suck.

Thursday means housekeeping.  Not by me, mind you, but by a very talented woman who visits me Thursday mornings courtesy of my parents.   Whether my mother doubts my ability to keep a house or genuinely feels that “every working woman should have a housekeeper” I don’t know, but a year ago I finally gave into her insistence that I should let her send her wonderful housekeeper to visit me on Thursday mornings.  She is amazing and I can smell all the cleanliness and goodness from the bottom of the driveway when I come home.  And despite my arguments to the contrary, it really does take a lot of the stress off me to have someone come in once a week and make everything look, smell and feel fabulous.

She even organizes dog toys into bins, by type and season. No I'm not kidding. Yes my dogs are spoiled. So am I for that matter.

Here is where it goes completely wrong.  On Thursdays, I leap out of bed at least an hour earlier than God intended for any human just so that I can frantically pick up laundry, put away dishes and neatly arrange my stash of Cosmo and Runner’s World magazines on the coffee table (not next to the bathtub, where I normally leave them the rest of the week).  Because apparently I just can’t cope with the idea that someone is going to clean up after me.  Nope.  I have to do a thorough pre-cleaning before the actual cleaning.  And then there is the anxiety that she is going to pop in early while I am still in the shower.  That happened once.  It was a little awkward when I realized I had forgotten a towel in the other room and sauntered down the hallway buck naked only to find the housekeeper and a troupe of helpers in the middle of the living room…  This is clearly the fault of you, Thursday.

Speaking of anxiety, let’s move along to my day at the office.  I love what I do.  I love where I work.  But Thursdays?  You suck.  If there is going to be a meeting, it is going to be on a Thursday so that Friday’s are not as stressful.  So now Thursday is the new Friday except when I’m done, there isn’t a glass of wine in my near future because I still have one more workday left.  I blame this entirely on Thursday because if Thursday weren’t so close to Friday this would obviously never have happened.  Don’t try to argue logically with me here.  It won’t work.  It is all your fault, Thursday.  Accept it and move on.

At least my flowers are still very pretty. They hide the stacks of paper well.

By now, you have probably come to realize that my weekends are pretty busy.  I have a knack for turning even the most mellow and quiet of weekends into a three ring circus what with the running, the dog sports, the baking, the recent need to develop my own urban organic farm.  That’s just how I roll.  I like to be busy.  So what does my over booked weekend schedule have to do with my hatred of Thursday?  Simple:  Since I am typically <insert verb here> to <insert location here> on Friday night to begin my <insert adjective or noun (depending on the type of weekend) here> weekend.  This means I pack, load and otherwise prep on – you guessed it – THURSDAY.

Penelope says she can help pack. She is good like that.

Now, I understand that I can make some changes to my schedule and week to alleviate most of this but instead, I choose to just hate you, Thursday.  Deal with it.

Sincerely,
Liz

P.S.  I love you Wednesday.  You are half way to the weekend.  You are also my rest day from all the running around and such.  And last night you brought me my skates and pads for derby practice, confirmations for both half marathons in May plus a new flyball tournament at my favorite venue so yeah, I love you Wednesday.

Well...isn't that special.

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