those two days after Friday. you may know them as the "weekend"

 I am not able to sit very long today, as I need to catch up from the whirlwind weekend. I have found that there are times when the idea of the weekend does not hold the same thrill as it once did.  TGIM is more the right speed. This one was kind of a blur, but as best I can remember, it started out on Friday, with my work shift, as always. I drive to my job at 4:00 every Friday, while the rest of the world is streaming out of workplace doors, wildly anticipating a few days of calling some time their own.  

 I worked until midnight, then tried to get up the next morning and tackle the day's activities. I should mention here that my husband always comes to pick me up from work, so he is up late too, but he seems to be able to get up no matter what. It is some genetic thing. I also used to have it; mine went away. Something else that expired was my ability to be ready to walk out the door in 45 minutes from the time my feet hit the floor. I was kind of proud of that, so I guess I just answered my own question...
  We had breakfast, ran an errand,  attended a wedding mass, ran some more errands, took an hours' crash-nap ( a staple of my existence), made and ate dinner, then spent the evening with my mother in law for her birthday. There was cake. 

 Sunday; mass, breakfast, Columbus Day Parade in which two of the kids were marching. This involved lots of walking, and for the record my feet were not recovered from Friday's work shift, so...some pain. But lots of pride for my kids. Even if the band as a whole was not in it's finest hour, it didn't stop the formation of the  Parental Lump in the Throat Syndrome.

 Then, home and getting a birthday dinner and small family party ready for our youngest. It featured  birthday pie (her choice), churros, (also her choice) a kazoo band, and lots of silliness. It was fun. Exhausting fun.

So, Monday found me with some nice memories, sore  feet, thankfulness for my family, and a lot of leftover cake. The pie went.

                                                                   ~next day~

  It has taken me until Tuesday just to get this finished and posted. That alone speaks of the weekend recovery time I require. I also am still in my pj's, and it is just about time for Malaika to appear for lunch.

I do have a few things I want to write about soon, of course the promised story of how I met and married Bob; but also something I have been chewing on for some time, and that is the problem of hating "the world" in the biblical sense, but loving the people in it. I usually cringe when I hear the "hate the sin, love the sinner" phrase bandied about. Not because it is wrong, but because it is put out there with about as much effort as pushing a button or waving a wand. We who live in the world and do love "the people" as a whole, often are faced with specific people, that we in fact already love, who are, in fact, in disordered lifestyles or situations. What does our love for them, then look like? If you are reading this and have some ideas feel free to share! Please, pretty please, though, stay away from platitudes or phrases as the one I mentioned above, at least if it is without a more in depth explanation. I have been meaning to order and read "Reaching the Left from the Right", by Barbara Curtis, well known blogger of Mommy Life (featured on my blog roll).  I do have some thoughts already on the subject, but I will wait until I can do a thorough treatment.

As I was writing this, a funny smell wafted through the house. Now, I am used to this, because I live with six kids; I live in a row home, which affords us up close and personal  access to other peoples sounds and smells. This one was kind of like a cooking smell, again, not too unusual. I mentioned above that Malaika comes home for lunch...well, when I finally decided to go to the back door (via the kitchen) to see where the increasingly burning-like smell was coming from, I remembered. I had put on some eggs to hard boil--oh about an hour ago or so, then gotten into this posting again (amongst other stuff), and forgotten. Just as I approached the pot to turn it off.....POP...one of the eggs exploded. 

                                                                                                          

Suffice it to say that I now have two exhaust fans going, a steaming pot of rock hard eggs on my back patio (I can still see the smoke going rising past my window), and, no doubt, my neighbors are all wondering where the funny smell is coming from.