It happens all the time

Weekends aren't always red-letter, but I'm rather pleased with the things I find normal in my life. Even the instances I once judged harsh realities now come as no surprise. I take it in stride. I roll with the punches. I throw a few punches of my own.
Friday afternoon afforded me a few hours of luxury as I ran errands. Truthfully, I can't remember everywhere I went without much effort, but I submit it as further evidence of the bounty and goodness in my life. I let the cat out of the bag and told my mother about transcribing grandfather's poetry only because in researching book binders, I've decided to take a more ambitious route to make the pending volume a more complete Stryjewski-Mulford family history, and I will need her help gathering information. Friday, I decided on a book binder, based more on the way I want the book to look and her positive energy than anything else. Friday, I washed my car, and chuckled when I found people later circling it at Sam's Club in admiration. As a matter of fact, I've decided that the next time my brother starts bragging about his (admittedly) adorable daughter who is a "burden" to take anywhere because people stop him constantly to lavish her with compliments and declare her the most beautiful child they've ever seen, blah, blah, blah, I will say, "Yes, I know the feeling. That's how people react to my car." Friday, I visited my sister at work. Friday, I bought a new workout DVD-- aerobic striptease, and my friends and I are planning a workout party (Rudy and I agree we will only invite people we wouldn't mind seeing naked, though no one will be removing any clothing. This is a workout, not a brothel or an orgy, after all). Friday, I nearly (and of course) accidentally snogged my platonic, male friend (see how "boy friend" would sound!) after a dance. I was powerless to his charms as I watched him pretend to fight his bestie in my honor, and when I meant to kiss him on the cheek, he turned his head. I don't think our mouths even touched, but I immediately began to scream, "My lips are on fire!" I'm sure it was charming for anyone privileged enough to observe it. On Friday, I chastised another young man after he complained about all New Mexico girls being ugly. On Friday, I pined away for a friendship inexplicably retired. On Friday, I made some men fall in love with me, and on Friday, I read a whole book just because I wanted to.
Saturday felt the same. I worked on mother's quilt with great progress and success. I called people to remind them to bring food for the next day's luncheon. I went to the temple, I went to the craft store. I did laundry, I lounged. I accomplished much, but felt rested for it.
Likewise, Sunday was typical, with the exception of a bad hair day. However, such things don't get me down. I made up from a tiff, embraced my dear friend, cried for another, and let one more chap benefit from my temporary attention. I came home and quilted some more, and laughed as I looked at my food storage and my schedule for church obligations. I realized I'm the Relief Society poster child, with the notable lack of Jemima holding my hand, Jude on my hip, and Brother Eternal Companion, my husband, picking Elaine Fairchild up from nursery. However, Emma Smith, I think, would be proud.
That night I talked to pseudo boyfriend, realizing it had been three weeks since we'd last been together, and sure enough, I may have mangled it. Or sabotaged it. My expiration date holds strong, but how glorious three weeks are at the time. I don't mind too much.
It is not unusual for me to go about accomplishing, and I'd only be alarmed if I could slow the brain down enough to truly relax. If you wonder why I tend to be tangential and parenthetical, I think it's because the synapses fire simultaneously, and a little too quickly. But I'm comfortable with the frenzy. So was it anything to write home about? I guess not, but here I am anyway.