It was a slightly disappointing weekend. I had grand plans for what I was going to accomplish this final weekend before Thanksgiving, two weeks out from my annual holiday party and I failed on nearly every front.

Yes, there were some successes: I did go on the doughnut bike ride with friends. I went to the farmers market. I made it to the garden for the last major culling of the season, picking the final peppers and two small, but sincere tomatillos still clinging to the plant. I watched the first Christmas film of the year. I sent an email that I’ve been putting off. I found some cds I was looking for. I saw the season’s first snowflakes. And I finished listening to Two Boys Kissing.

But I didn’t clean. I didn’t tidy. I didn’t get the table clear or the laundry done. I didn’t sort through the closet or the drawers in the bedroom. I didn’t get off-season shoes put away or the clothes hung on hangers rather than draped over the pole. I spent yesterday evening nearly comatose on the couch. I didn’t make slaw or applesauce or lasagna or cookie dough. I didn’t finish any other books. I didn’t write. I knit the heel on my sock four times unsatisfactorily.

Okay, so maybe it wasn’t a complete failure. Writing it down offers some perspective. But it just doesn’t feel like I used the weekend to its — or my — best potential.

(Writing along with Amanda.)