Wasted Days and Guilty Nights

I hate it when I have weekends like these.

Weekends where I literally have nothing to do. Nothing except, of course, those mundane tasks that I swear I will try to do bit by bit during the week so that my weekend is truly free, but somehow never do get them done. "But I will have so much time this weekend," I tell myself. "I'll have plenty of time, then"

Ahh, the spirit is so willing, but the willpower so weak.

On Friday night, restless and planless, I went for a drive after work -- with the windows all the way down and the day's heat finally receding, I drove down shaded roads, past farms and woods, with the wind hitting my face and the stereo cranking out the latest CD by a favorite local band, followed by Bat Out of Hell II. (I not only love the band Meatloaf, its also one of my favorite dinner entrees. LOL)

My growling stomach finally made me head back to civilization, 10 minutes before the closing time of a favorite gourmet take-out place. I breezed in just in time and treated myself to very rare prime rib, garlic mashed potatoes and teriyaki vegetables. With dinner in hand, I made a second stop for a nice bottle of wine, and headed home for a relaxing but boring evening.

Later that nite, as I finished off the wine and smoked a cigarrette, relaxing on the front porch, I planned my itinerary for the next day.

Errands: recycling center, post office, card store, bank and grocery store, and then wash the car.

Tasks: laundry, dusting, vacuuming, clean the bathroom, change the sheets

fun: Go to neighbors party

Well, as of 10 p.m. last nite, I had done 2 loads of laundry, and barely dragged my ass to the bank and card store, and did make the party.

Once home, I was tired and as I vegged on the sofa, all I could think was --- I didn't do shit today! Practically nothing. And so much needed to be done.

As I looked at my dusty furniture, my non-vacuumed carpets and thought of all the laundry that still needed to be done, while just then remembering there was a load in the dryer that needed folding, the guilt descended.

Tomorrow will be different, I vowed.

Well now, tomorrow is today, and its only slightly different -- I did change the sheets, have already done 3 loads of laundry (only 2 more remain, I have been a bad, bad girl) put done laundry away, cleaned litter box and straightened out kitchen.

But the furniture is still dusty, the kitchen floor could use a mopping and the bathroom, still not cleaned. Thankfully, its not gross, just the usual toothpaste globs and soap spots in the sink. That kind of thing.

And of course, I feel even more guilty.

In the back of my mind, I can hear my mother voicing her disapproval of my housekeeping skills and my laziness. "How could you possibly spend the entire morning reading newspapers when your house looks like this? Where are your priorities? You better get your act together," she'd say. Because in mom's mind, nothing is more important than having a spotlessly clean house and an empty laundry hamper.

What I find most interesting, is the fact that I can't seem to shake the habits of childhood and how at 36, being a professional, a manager, a homeowner and single -- which means every responsibility is mine -- I feel guilty when I let things slide simply because I'm tired or would rather do something else, or nothing.

Many of my friends spend their weekends vegging and partying and not worrying about the mundane -- or constanly berating themselves for a dusty end table here or some crumbs on the rug over there. One friend only cleans every 2 weeks; another only does laundry when she's down to her last few pairs of clean undies.

And I don't hold it against them. I totally understand. And yet, I can't shake the sense of guilt when I don't get the housework done on a regular (ie, weekly) basis.

I guess no matter how old we get, or independent, our moms, or rather, their voices in the back of our minds, can still lay a guilt trip on us.

And I think I know why -- no matter how hard we try to fight it, in time, some small part of us, will become our mothers, even if in only the slightest of ways.

I know I'll never be the perfect, June Cleaver type of housewife my mom was when I was growing up. Truth be told, I'm okay with that. For the most part -- I have to admit, I love it when the house is really, really clean.

Its the part of me that has already started morphing into my mother, and I guess the part of me that will always look for parental approval no matter how much I say I don't need it, that now feels guilty when my housekeeping skills take a longer than usual holiday.