I’ve discovered a curious thing. When I have a three-day weekend to rest and get things done, I become a different person. I don’t really want to watch TV, or even have it run in the background to make the place seem less silent. I eat better. I keep my house in order. And at the end of the night, I still have enough energy to walk through the kitchen and think, “Hmm, the dishes. I could do the dishes before making my evening tea.” (Take my word for it, this thought never occurs to me normally.)

I’d always felt vaguely guilty about my normal schedule for doing dishes (I use the dishwasher for everything possible and wash the rest only when absolutely necessarily). Visiting my parents this month, I was even more shamed by my mom’s new habit of doing nearly all of her dishes by hand even though the dishwasher is sitting right there just because she loves watching the water drip off the plates. Here I can hardly find it in me to put hand to soapy water more than every few days and my mom does it three to five times a day! (Don’t worry, most of my dishes go into the dishwasher just fine so my kitchen isn’t smelly or ugly.)

My mom tried to explain that she wouldn’t do this if she worked full time, but deep down I figured she was just trying to make me feel better. Well, now I’ve learned that if I didn’t work full time I might do my dishes once a day…

No, I’m not a slob. But I’m no domestic goddess, either.

Last year was pure survival year. I didn’t have any energy to do more than work and get used to living in a new place. My daily routine consisted of getting up, going to work, coming home, calling my family, making and eating dinner, watching TV or a DVD, and going to bed. (Good thing this routine appealed to P, or life could have been even rougher!)

But this year will be different. I’ve decided to implement operation Social Interaction. This will involve regular outings, even if they’re only to the local coffee shop. It will involve going to town festivities, cooking for people who don’t live with me, accepting invitations to other people’s houses even if I think it’ll be tiring and/or awkward, meeting regularly with my best friend, and exploring the cities. Fully implemented, this plan should not only expand my social horizons, but it should also make me enjoy my evenings at home more fully since they will now be my choice rather than my necessity.

Today was the first day of OSI. I went to the State Fair with a co-worker and her husband, and I had a great time. We didn’t have a plan. We just wandered around looking at whatever struck our fancy. I saw some amazing embroidery and lace, dairy princess’ heads carved in butter, new ideas in ecologically friendly houses, and just about anything you can imagine on a stick.

At one point we meandered past a stage blaring some really loud wanna-be-music. In front of the stage, just standing there, was a small clump of teenagers. They stood there, huddled together, looking half asleep, absorbing the noise with every cell in their bodies. All except for one of them, that is. One of the guys was standing there, just as still as the others, eyes squeezed closed, with his fingers jammed into his ears.

Later, another stage offered amplified pop-ish/country-ish music (complete with a soaring held note that, sadly, slipped just a touch flat). The song, mercifully, came to an end, and the lead singer asked the assembled crowd, “Are there any NASCAR fans here?!?” Silence. One or two polite claps. Another awkward pause before the singer gamely went on introducing a NASCAR-themed song. If I’d had any doubts about whether or not that group played my kind of music, I’d just received my answer.

Oh, and the rain that had threatened all day never actually feel the entire afternoon we were there. It’s coming down hard now, but this is the perfect time for rain. I think I’ll make myself a cup of tea, curl up in bed with a good book, and listen to the rain.

I’ve been back to work for two days now, after taking just over a week to visit my family. Each morning, my alarm goes off at the regular time and Pippin jumps up onto the bed, his purr already activated, and kneads me with the full force of his 15 pound frame until I open up my arms and let him snuggle in for a good, long cuddle. He’s so please that I have my normal morning routine going again.

That makes one of us.

… and I wish they’d cut it out. We were watching Ned Kelly (which, incidentally, is not for those with weak stomachs), and had just got to the point where two of the main character contemplate suicide. They were crying and shaking, the violins were soaring, flames were licking at their heals, and the evil police force had then surrounded. Hollywood was pulling no punches.

Meanwhile, I was contemplating my lack of emotion. Normally, characters in books or movies only have to mention sadness or tears for me to feel the familiar and hated pricking in the eyes. But here I was, faced with as much hopelessness and pathos as the director could throw at me, and I could have been watching Mr. Rogers.

Was it the acting, I wondered? I know I’m not a fan of some of those actors, but were they that bad? I mean, really. I cry too easily for them to flub this scene. They’re dying, for goodness sakes.

Was it the screen writing and direction? After all, they were throwing a lot at us all at once. Was this an argument for “less is more” directing?

Then the guy with the gun reached out to grab the other guy’s hand. The camera zoomed in, and all you could see were the fingers gripping each other for comfort. Visions of my grandpa’s funeral, with my sister and me holding hands as we walked to the grave site, obscured the screen. There’s nothing like association to spice up acting and directing.

I’m at my parents’ house spending some much-needed time doing as much of Absolutely Nothing as possible. We started the week off with two days of camping, which sounds like doing Something, I know, but it wasn’t. No, camping removes all possibility of working, so it’s the best way to start out a vacation because it snaps you out of work mode and forces you to sit back and relax whether you like it or not. And I liked it.

At one point on our second day of camping, we were sitting around the fire, talking when we had something to say, reading when we weren’t staring at the fire, and staring at the fire the rest of the time. Part way through this we had to decide if we wanted to eat lunch. Not a momentous decision, I know, but the question came up.

“Shall we eat lunch?” asked Mom.

Without removing our gazes from the fire, except to see if the caterpillar had made it across Jesse’s shoe yet, we thought about this question.

Dad made a rustling sound, indicating that he would be happy to move if that’s what we were doing, but not committing himself to moving if it became apparent that nobody else felt the need.

Jesse poked at the fire with a stick.

Toby scratched his ear.

“I don’t think we’re done sitting yet,” Heidi offered.

So we sat some more, staring at the fire, watching the caterpillar inch its way across the dusty ground, listening to the breeze rustle the forest top, and wondering what all those cicadas had to say to each other all day.