“I have never in my life found myself in a situation where I’ve stopped work and said, ‘Thank God it’s Friday.’ But weekends are special even if your schedule is all over the place. Something tells you the weekend has arrived and you can indulge yourself a bit.”
– Helen Mirren
A high speed pass this morning, because mediation starts in a few minutes and the parties have already started showing up. An in-person session this time. The thaw continues.
I woke up to a beautiful view on the patio at 407, and briefly contemplated trying to assemble that outdoor table there in the corner until P admonished me by text to leave it for the interior designer lest I screw it up somehow. She's learned of my skill as a handyman.
Briefly I contemplated swinging through the Bagel Maker for my favorite morning treat, the sausage bagel, a strange assemblage that looks like a long, distended toe with the sausage poking out like a toenail. But then I remembered that I feasted on one yesterday, and it ended up being a calorie neutral experience as I spent the rest of the morning running to the bathroom. That's happened two out of the last three times I've ordered one there. My guess is they get a little funky sitting behind the glass all morning at room temperature, and as Peg will tell you I have a bad habit of eating things that have been allowed to decompose just a hair too long.
Thankfully, Connor swung through Dan-D-Donuts this morning and brought a box of greasy glazed doughnuts for the crew here. I'm guessing my mediation parties will find them and make short work of the box if Stephanie and Stacy aren't fast enough to the kitchen.
Once this mediation ends, I'll have a quick circling of the wagons with the troops to make sure everyone is on-task, then drive back to the farm for the evening. God willing, there will be golf, even if it's bad and lonely golf. Maybe I'll go the Elks Lodge afterward to see Dot and eat whatever's the special tonight. Tomorrow morning I will load more kitchen boxes into the back of the truck and drive them back to the condo in our continuing quest to nest in the condo. Saturday night the Panama Pops presents an evening of Scheherazade, and the firm has season tickets so I'll go and glad-hand a little. It's an evening diversion that doesn't involve sitting in the Yacht Club bar. My liver rejoices.
Sunday, well, who knows? Maybe I'll go to church, this being the first Sunday I've spent in town in I don't know how long. I'd go to Holy Nativity to see my friend Tom preach, but I can feel my ears burn a little at the mere thought of walking through the door. Too many ghosts. And I might be struck by lightning, even in the season of Easter. Maybe I'll go to St. Andrews--I foresee ghosts there, as well, but they don't know this old, bald specter.
I was told these parties hated each other--it's a fight over their parents' personal items, these being step-siblings who each think they're entitled to the detritus of the deceased couple's lifetime together. But I can hear them in my lobby talking about their kids' upcoming wedding, a knee replacement, getting to see folks again in the denouement of Covid. This may not be so bad, after all.
Happy Friday.
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