I had a relatively uneventful weekend. For having four days off in a row, more or less, I would have expected myself to get out and “do more.” But with Charlie working at the club every night since Wednesday – and three of those nights being concerts with him going in at 6:30 in the evening rather than 9 or 10 – we were sort of limited as far as extended activities. We did, however, get some stuff done that felt super-productive; finally replacing the crappy old cell phones; getting his SIM card replaced; getting and planting some herbs and a nice climbing, flowering hydrangea in the living room; getting my blood drawn for the checking of the levels; doing some house cleaning and organzing into new filing cabinets; getting a chest and lawnmower from Liz, as well as buying a weed eater and actually cleaning up the yard; knocking down the huge, scary overgrown garden in the back and thinking about what we might like to do with it.
See? That's a lot of crap in just a couple of days, huh?

At one point on Sunday night I got really lonely, though. I was taking the dogs out and standing in the backyard when I noticed all sorts of fireflies twinkling in the trees. It was nice and cool, not cold, but not too hot. Despite everyone in a 10-block radius shooting off fireworks all week, it was pretty quiet. The sun had just started to set and the sky was pink and getting really dark, but there was still enough light to see where I was walking. I felt kind of wistful as I stood there because I was alone, as usual, and had no one to share the peaceful dusk with. I didn't start crying or anything, just felt a little lonely.


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