Sorting and piling and filling out little boxes for my quarterly GST payment earlier than decent this morning, I had time to lean back and remeber the moments of this weekend, before my brain clicked into what has to get done today.
Some days I regret my recent addiction to my car, but waking up from a passenger seat doze to peer at rural Ontario on Friday afternoon kicks that regret in the rubbery teeth.
We spent the afternoon, evening, and Saturday morning helping lady Sally move, running interference with Mr. Sally and learning more than hours on the internet have about gardens, landscaping, electrical wiring, shapes and scents and seasons.
I also learned a few lessons about the balance of stuff, their stunning array of art and antiques versus the amount of brainspace and discussion time which it occupies. I think I can recognize too much, hopefully, were it ever to encroach into my own hours and headspace.
Saturday night I sat quietly in an armchair in the corner of a three-story rave, making a bracelet while the candykids flopped all about. I finished the bracelet, Mykey finished his set, and the I'm-not-letting-go-bearhugs that protested my leaving at 1:30am were sweet, and much appreciated, but I'd saved my strength to the last ounce that I would need to drive home. Sober.
Sunday morning I was lazy, while Dave rode his high on a couch that exists vaguely in my memory, I wrestled Gila-Monster (not monstre, but when I turn into a real monster) nightmares and watched the sun rise and spent time on a top-of-the-line oft-neglected machine that sits on my desk while my ass sits ten kilometres away in the office.
Then we hopped back in my crutch of a car, and off to Oakville across the 4-this and 4-that until the spires and flags of renfaire played counterpoint to the rumble of tires across grassy parking space.
Turkey legs bigger than my head swam down gullets followed by raspberry mead and pear wine, two clay un-pressed faeries found their way into my bag for hanging on one of our already crowded walls, handshakes and hello-s, and Zoltan the most Adequate magician ever. Amazing? Incredible? No, just adequate. Just quoting the sign, folks.
Beowulf re-enactment on a stage made of mud, children everywhere spattered with clean dirt.
I like clean dirt.
And the cramps in my calves from standing "at ease" for twenty solid minutes while Donovan and his lovely assistant took a mold of my right leg (only one mold! My feet are the only matching things on my body!) for a pair of handmade leather tri-colour moccasins that will purportedly last me twenty years.
I chose the colours and the shape of the trim and the shape of the sole and the rim of leather, I chose the nine triskillian silver buttons and the line that runs up my leg to just below my knee.
Dave sat patient and slouched while I put together the final answer to ten million hours spent in Italian-Parisian shoe stores.
And then we were home with peach pie from Port Perry, the first video rental in hectic ages, and the now-laundering sheets called to us with the high-pitched taunting voices of Beowulf's pit of evil [mud].
Today the house needs us, the shelves need sanding and the last coat of stain, the garden and the laundry and the walls. The kitchen is done.