Thieves, Weekends & Lost Time

Someone stole my weekend and I want it back. I'd report it, but I don't think there's a form for that sort of thing. If there were, I think such thievery ranks up there as a felony and possibly even a capital offense.

OK, so maybe not a capital offense, but surely something deserving of severe penalities.

At this point I'm really and truly not sure what happened to my weekend or why I failed to write anything (or accomplish anything for that matter) especially since it was my first weekend home in a month. Now, before you get all excited, my lack of a definitive recollection of my weekend was in no way connected to a wild, partying binge. Jeepers creepers, I'm 54 years old. The closest I get to binge drinking is popping off the top of a Virgil's root beer.

I know I slept in until 7:30 a.m. on Saturday, and then the rest of my weekend is a blur of running here and there and here and there and here and there and here and there accomplishing little if anything.

I do remember cleaning out Howard the Shelter Cat's litter box, and that got me thinking about how much time one spends performing such menial tasks.

My newspaper editor once actually kept track of time she deemed "wasteful"  in a class, pronouncing that she figured she lost six days of her life.

Six days lost forever.

I guess I could keep track of that sort of thing. I'll get right on it, once I track down that weekend I lost.