Is it too much to wish that every weekend could be three days? It seems to make all the difference as far as enjoying life while also keeping up with classwork.
This weekend, Ten and I went to three different dinner parties, breakfasted with one of her acquaintances, toured the new condo, went to see birds at VINS, saw glassblowing at Simon-Pierce, went antiquing in Queechee (her idea of fun), napped (my idea of fun), went to K-Mart (no one's idea of fun), went to the Norwich Farmers' Market, made a stir fry, danced around my apartment to some folk music, played Scrabble (I won, hip hip), and went to the town pond. It was glorious. To make up for all of the fun, I've spent my Labor Day laboring.
In other news, my parents survived Gusty Gustav. They didn't evacuate because they have a problem with authority figures. (And imagine what it does to a person's mental health when her authority figures have a problem with authority figures.) I wish they lived closer so that they could evacuate to me. Then I could tell people that I have refugees staying at my house, and they'd think I was really selfless and wordly.