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Sundays
March 18, 2007It's Sunday and I'm happy. I'm happy because it's Sunday, it's a weekend, and I get to stay home and watch TV until my eyes start growing legs and a medulla oblongata of their own. But I feel queasy, too. Sunday is the day I spend worrying about Monday. Monday is the day when shit starts rolling down the hill in tumbleweed proportions, and so I spend my Sundays worrying over the kind of shit that will be served to me in generous helpings come Monday lunch. Forget food. Monday's menu always consists of last week's unfinished, or erroneously done, business.
It's no wonder, then, that I spend most of the week fantasizing about Friday. Friday is the last day of the work week, because even though I' have to go to the office for four hours on Saturdays, my mind is safely ensconced among blankets, pillows, and an HGTV special.
You know you've hit an all-time low when you start fantasizing about being Martha Stewart and your three-year-old calls you ma'am, not mom.
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