Sunday wakes slowly and stretches languidly before remembering the week ahead. She runs around, picking up and preparing for the busy jaunt that will come quickly. She rests when she can because it’s still her day off. With kids. Is there such a thing? She’ll contemplate that after she puts away the drill and adds anchors to her shopping list. She pulls cobwebs out of her hair after reorganizing the storage shed and re homes spiders (not black widows, they get a rubber mallet funeral) and beetles that land where they didn’t belong. She sips coffee throughout the day but it’s always just a little too sweet.
Monday is all business. She rises promptly and falls into routine like a drill sergeant. The hot water of a morning shower forces her awake. Her bark gets the boys up because it’s time to face their week too. She sends them off with a call for “good choices,” and drives on to start a work week with eager excitement. She loves what she does. She walks in confidence to her desk, sending a sleeping computer into running order. She cracks her own whip and smiles at naughty adventures she can still taste in fading memories. After her coffee, she’ll hold a mug of hot tea in prayerful supplication. She likes her green tea unsweetened, her black with cream, and everything else with raw sugar.
Tuesday knows she has to get up and get the boys out but she begs for 5 more minutes before she remembers they are her 5 minutes to take. She flows into the routines of the week, taking advantage of a street cleaning threat that hovers over the clock, knowing they’ll get out before parking enforcement will make it to her block. She passes the demand of responsibility onto the threat of a ticket because she wants to be forceful but rely on someone else’s authority. She gets tired of being on her own when it comes to parenting the boys. She eases into routines that Monday started and she’ll be thankful for that bore’s easy organization because the reality of Tuesday’s morning is the product of Monday evening and the boys shifting back into a school week is torture for all involved. She loves the crunch of sugar snap peas and salted popcorn. She likes a brisk walk to 7-Eleven for Green Apple or L’Orange Perrier and will enjoy the smiles she receives when doing it.
Wednesday is a hoppy rabbit with excitement for the evening. The boys go back to their Dad and Wednesday has a taste for shenanigans. She spends her day in dreams of the ocean and performers that wrap music around them with their goatees and easy to watch physiques. Their smiles whisper of naughty adventure, and she understands the language they speak. She has tasty visions of the things she would do with a boy like that but she knows the rest of the week knows regret in the morning feels like spit warmed over and swallowed back down. She is a randy whore that likes to look but has little interest in touching. She feels the eyes of strangers and it feels like warmth and lowered inhibitions. She goes home alone and sings love songs to herself. That feels good. Enough. It feels good enough. She likes an Apple Martini that tastes more like an Apple Blow Pop than something sour and foul.
Thursday is a teenager. She wakes up alone and will go to sleep alone. She’ll make herself eggs for dinner one week and coq au vin the next. It’s not hard to convince her she deserves a night on the town and she will sometimes end up at a table for one where she will scribble in a notebook or laugh at her phone. She likes a Scooby-Snack at a bar, but she will chase it with water because she has never met a hangover she could be friends with. She doesn’t worry about who might be watching her because she is comfortable and doesn’t really care.
Friday is a happy girl. She loves waking up and heading to work and she’ll find any excuse to stop at a store before she settles in for the last day of the work week. She is either planning a long weekend at home with the boys, or she’s planning a night of debauchery. She likes putting on something short and low cut, but the other girls always chime in and demand she dial it back a bit. She is someone’s mom and she should try to be considerate of what that means, even if she is redefining what it means. But maybe her butt isn’t all that impressive and could be made into less of a main attraction. She’ll sip a Cape Cod, but has a taste for a Bloody Mary from time to time as well.
Saturday makes an appearance throughout the week. She insists on doodling in notebooks and sitting under trees on a lunch break. She blows bubbles with a wand she keeps in her car for traffic. She once made them stop for a cigar to relive their youth and she insisted the unfinished stogie was worth it but everyone else knows it wasn’t. She’s been known to serenade her boys, getting them used to the idea of someone singing to them directly. She sings alone at work because it makes her happy but she might also be trying to convince the world she might be a little bat shit crazy. The idea of being offbeat amuses her. Every phrase is “shit” or “awesomesauce” because she doesn’t do anything that would fall in between. There are no shades of gray when the world is so rosy colored. She has a sweet tooth but no one else does. The stash is for her but everyone else insists sugar snap peas are just as good as Peanut M&M’s and Perrier is better than soda. She’s not buying it, but she adds all the cream to their coffee so it tastes like candy. She has projects around the house that wait until it’s a weekend at home with the boys, or she has a list of places she can’t wait to explore. She’s never idle and loves her own company, so anyone that wants to join her had better be damn special. She doesn’t put up with anyone that isn’t. And she doesn’t give second chances, but the rest of the week does. She accepts it but will slam a Purple Hooter Shot, their whiny complaints ignored on the rare occasions the week will allow a little inebriation.