Normally, seeing as both my husband and I work at home and that AJ is only in school three days a week, there isn't much that feels special about the weekends. I kind of miss that Friday afternoon sensation, the knowledge that the your time will soon be your own (at least for a little while) The problem with working for yourself is that you never get to go home. (The bonus, of course, is that you never have to go to the office).

But today feels like a Friday. I spent the morning, while AJ was at school, reading some difficult stuff while completing a software upgrade on my computer and the afternoon trying to entertain AJ and reading some more. I now feel like my brain has been removed, placed in a blender set on liquefy, and pureed before being poured back into my cranium. I have given up editing and have returned to data entry, which has only served to reinforce my zombie-like state. Even a stint working in the garden, my general all purpose prescription for therapy, did no good. And so a zombie I must remain. Perhaps tonight will be spent drinking mojitos and watching bad things on television. Or perhaps I'll manage to regain my composure enough to delve further into my current bedtime read, The Outermost House by Henry Beston. Descriptions of cold autumn nights on the Cape sound about right today, when the temperature hasn't made it above 65. Out in the garden I could smell the rich, acrid smoke of someone burning damp leaves -- one of my favorite smells of autumn. There's something nice about living somewhere where it regularly smells like summer camp.

So I'm officially declaring it the weekend. It is nearly 5:00. Time for happy hour, I think.

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