What is a weekend? What is a summer?

These are the ontological questions fo our time. Erik keeps saying that the hasn't had a day off for 40 days if you include his 11 days to China to film for work, the scraping of Max's ceiling, the painting of that room and the installation of that molding, the working with Robin on the Jewish Festival film and the reorganization of that garage. To wit, I say in response, I haven't had a day off since I was pregnant with Zoe but I shouldn't be flip because when I'm flip that means my workload gets upped a notch. When Erik works on the big remodeling projects, the small house projects fall upon me. Cleaning out the gutters. Raking the pine needles. Cleaning the utility room. As he caulks the baseboards, I scrub the front and side deck on my knees. I wash the car. I take out the garbage and the recycling. I open the wine.
I'm very tired. Perhaps not as tired as Erik, I didn't try to throw in a couple of 20 hour flights in there or a 40-hour-a-week job, but tired nonetheless.

It is all toward the good, I guess. It's summer and all school year long I have no time for utility room cleaning or stuff to thrift store taking or deck scrubbing (if you recall last year, I got the coveted job of painting the underside of the deck). I look forward to having the time to do the extra stuff but I do not think that when one dreams of summer break this is the stuff those dreams are made of. Plus, my 40-hour a week job is supposedly to write for 40 hours a week. I keep thinking I'll write for 8 hours straight but after I put the laundry away and empty the dishwasher and deadhead the geraniums I really, really just want to lie in the sun. But the monsoons came today so instead of lying in the sun or writing too much in a document format, I wrote here in the blogspace and spent an inordinate time on Facebook which is its own kind of writing and its own kind of gutter clearing and thus makes it feel a little bit like summer. Thank you blog. Thank you Facebook.