Making the Most of Sunday

These thoughts came to me while I labored intensively at the track.



Most people work, right?

[ed. note: Author knows not everybody works. Lots of her friends don't have to and she still likes them, even though they cannot -- and wouldn't want to -- enter her inner sanctum. Also they should stop reading now because there are offensive and lower class behavior suggestions coming up below.]

And we're freaking exhausted most nights when we come home, right? It's about all we can do to prepare dinner and clean it up.




Or shove it in the microsave and let the good times roll. This means laissez les dirty dishes pile to the sky, baby. How many times can I rinse off this fork? Good grief, who put all these here? I don't have to do them tonight, do I? Can't it wait till Sunday?




Making a bed? Making it what?

[ed. note: this photograph is entirely self-serving and bears no resemblance to author's bed. Sheets shown here are far too not dingy. Author sleeps in sheets from 1970s, many in faded psychedelic swirly patterns that probably contribute to her neuroses]

Laundry should be done on Sunday too, dear reader. No excuses.

[ed. note: Author lives alone. She is fooling you with Google again. She couldn't possibly have this much laundry in a year. I mean she must do it before a year goes by. You would think. Although I'm not there every minute......]

Sorry, readers, but this pushy editor is getting in my face. I'm going to have to use whatever energy I have on this lovely Sunday to kick her ass out of here.

Maybe I'll have a drink. And do some incantations for the Red Sox.

A bientot

love,

becky