Everybody’s Workin’ for the Weekend

That tune came out a couple or three decades ago. And I hate it now as much as I hated it then. So vapid.

Actually, when I think about it, it’s kind of depressing. Take the first line of the refrain, the title of this post. It seems to be referencing people whose jobs are so unfulfilling and such drudgery that they look forward to only 2 days out of a week. Five days of hell, 2 days respite. Three-day weekends must be heaven.

Of course, I could be misinterpreting the words, analyzing them through my own dark lens.

So it’s the Memorial Day holiday this weekend in the U.S. I’m not doing my usual thing, going to Balticon–Baltimore’s science fiction convention. I’m not feeling well enough to deal with the supercharged atmosphere (even though it’s good energy) and I have to be careful about money. Right now, I still don’t know how much the IRS will gouge out of me. But I’m not spending the weekend doing nothing. My parents are grilling (I didn’t know they still had an outdoor grill) and my sister who lives in Alabama will be here. My niece and nephew and his wife might show up, too. It’ll be a family affair. I’m looking forward to it, but I really wish someone would get on the stick and invent a teleportation machine. I hate driving to Washington, D.C. Interstate 95 is a BITCH. Even though it’s just 40 miles or so, I always feel like I’ve run the gauntlet after I get to where I’m going. At least it’s a holiday–there won’t be as much traffic on the road.

If your parents are alive, are you friends with them? As an adult, I mean. If you are, how old were you when you realized it? I was in my 30s. I was talking with my mother, and it hit me that we weren’t relating to each other as mother and daughter, but as adults. About blew my mind. I’d been so used to seeing and thinking of my parents as authority figures, it never occurred to me we could have any other type of relationship. I’m not just my parents’ daughter, I’m a friend, too. Now, decades on, I’ve grown comfortable with it and it’s wonderful. Don’t get me wrong–they’re still my parents and can slap my ass to China and back if I fuck up. But I can talk to my parents about almost anything. Politics, religion, history–you name it. They have 85 years’ worth of perspective, and I constantly learn from them. I’m really lucky that my parents have lived long enough for this relationship to develop. Others, I know, are not so lucky.

Back to editing. Ciao.

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