I love Fridays, I know it is a cliche, but I can't help it. Friday's (when I don't have to work on a Saturday) give me hope that my life might improve. Maybe somehow I am optimistic that magically I will be able to solve all my problems, get all my errands done, see every friend, popping out knitting projects like I am a machine, and still having time to lay around like a large sloth on my futon. Friday at five holds that promise, that hope. I will overcome and I have 63 and half hours to do it in.
This weekend, I have Christmas knitting to do, an out of town friend to see at ungodly early tomorrow morning, litter boxes to clean, laundry to wash, chili to cook on Sunday, and Woodchucks to drink and a futon that is in need of my companionship. All very busy. Those are things I probably will accomplish; it is the solving all my problems that won't get done. I will astutely ignore my problems. Pretend they don't exist and of course drink more Woodchucks.
Monday comes, (the cruelest of days) and I am back to wishing for Friday.