Sign, Sign…

Ahhhh, Sunday evening, what could be better? Well, it could be peaceful for one. I almost, almost, wish I subscribed to the whole “observe a day of rest” rhetoric and spent the day reflecting on the past week, preparing myself mentally for the upcoming week and hell, observing. That, my dear reader, does not happen.

Sundays are no more a day of rest that I am a long, lanky brunette. They are a day of hurry up and do this and that and oh by the day, did you know I had this coming up next week and did you happen to see my favorite shirt/pants/socks/key/frog?

I guess it’s a sign of our times that our weekends are filled with just as much ridiculousness as our weekdays and we feel obligated to go like crazy until we drop, exhausted and no more prepared for the week ahead than we were for the week past. Is it a contest to see who can do the most? Do we have to go into the office/plant/classroom each and every Monday and regale our co-workers what all that we managed to pack into 48 hours? Enough!

And peaceful? As I write this, my daughter is in the backroom pounding the living hell out of her secret password journal because it won’t open to her voice. Well, truthfully it will open to her normal voice. Her screeching into the damn microphone and pounding it against God knows what is what the contraption conceives as an intruder. Am I a bitch for laughing? Maybe it’s a sign of poor parenting, but I get a kick out of hearing her scream her dog’s name into the stupid thing, then the warning intruder siren going off and her whacking it off the closest surface. I’m funny that way. These are the things that fill my Sunday.

But soon the little destroyer will be tucked in bed, the house will be adequately put back together and I’ll be snuggled on the couch with my best guy and finally Sunday will be what it’s supposed to be…a peaceful day of rest. But until that time, where the hell is the Excedrin?


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