House Arrest

I had the week off last week.  I work with 3 other nurses, so we have to plan our vacations carefully.  In May, we all sketched out our wishes for time off; after everyone did their bidding, there was one lonely week in August available. 

"Take vacation, Kirsten," they said.

"But I don't think I'm going anywhere," I said.

"Take vacation, Kirsten," they said.

They were right. If you don't plan for time off, it never happens, and then you're left to be a heaping puddle of over-emotional-angry-frustrated-exhaustedness.  So I planned on a staycation.  A few weeks ago, I sat down and sketched out ideas of what I could do with my time.  Get together with friends.  Have a "get-r-done" day and get to those projects that are not, r, getting done.  Clean something.  Blog evey day (you can see how well that one went).  Go the Arborateum.  Play in my craftroom.  Ooooohhhh...I was getting excited.

A few days before my staycation, I filled out my calender for the week, and found myself with one square of white space, on Thursday.  Every other day was filled with social engagements (ten total) and doctors appointments (four total).  I was super-excited to see friends I hadn't in a long time; some live 20 minutes away but I go months without seeing; others live across the ocean and were visiting for the week.  My calender was blessedly filled with friend after friend after friend. 

On Thursday, my husband put me up at a hotel so I could be forced to have a semblance of slowing down.  "Do you want to stay by yourself or all three of us stay together?" he asked, reserving a Marriott room in Minnetonka.  Hmmm, how do I put this?  "Hello!  By myself please!"

And so after shopping for some clothes that didn't make me feel quite so Michelin-tire-man, I holed up in a room of my own, watched my own TV, listened to a book on CD, and edited pictures, before sleeping in a bed all to myself, in the middle, without a baby monitor at the bedside.  Thursday was my favorite day.

No projects got done.  There were no trips to Goodwill, no carpet stains removed, and not a single card made in my craft room.  I didn't even keep up with the dishes.  Sometimes I hear about the Martha Stewarts and the Lindsay Lohans and am jealous of their house arrests.  Being forced to stay at home sounds like a dream to me sometimes.  I mean seriously, what if I had a month where I wasn't allowed out of the house?  (And of course had my own staff to make runs to Target and Caribou for me).  This house would be clean.  Dusted, even!  Sick people I know would get real cards in the mail.  My family would eat things other than pizza and pancakes.  And cans wouldn't fall on my head from a disheveled pantry.

Just look at Oliver:  we placed an ankle bracelet on him just yesterday, and he seemed pretty okay with it.