Most weekends, I sleep in a bit, wake up, get coffee, and get on the computer. When there is housework and laundry to be done, it's amazing how many diversions I can find on the internet. Why scrub the bathtub when I can spend two hours watching ukelele videos on Youtube? Why vacuum when I can Google old boyfriends and past despised coworkers? Why fold laundry when I can read My So-Called Life recaps? And suddenly it's 7 p.m. and I have nothing to show for the day but a half-loaded dishwasher and a sandwich crumbs in the keyboard.

The good news is that I lived through this past week at work. The bad news is that, despite my best efforts, I still need to go in for a few hours sometime this weekend. I woke up before 7, my brain ticking slowly faster and faster at the thought of having to spend yet another piece of my weekend away from home, alone in a dark, quiet cubicle, in front of a computer, staring at spreadsheets and loading summaries and lines and lines of numbers in 6 point font, away from sweatpants and affectionate kitty cats and the sound of J singing off-key Johnny Cash under his breath as he makes a snack in the kitchen. Fuck.

The grown-up, responsible part of my brain reminds me that the last time I put off working on a weekend, I ended up lying on the floor of my cubicle having a panic attack at 8 o'clock on a Sunday night. The, well, more Me part of my brain says, "Look at those baseboards - so dusty! How long has it been since the Tupperware drawer was organized? Wouldn't it make life so much easier to have the DVDs alphabetized? Don't the batteries need to be replaced in all the smoke detectors?"

And so now it is 9:33 a.m., and I am on my fourth load of laundry. The living room is straightened, the counters are clean, the dishwasher is running, my closet is organized, the clothing sorted by color, fabric weight, and sleeve length. I am waiting for J to get out of bed so I can put fresh linens on.

I don't wanna go.