Sunday, Grungy Sunday

March 7, 2004

Now that was a Sunday, folks.

Up at eleven, my favorite hoops team won, and I’ve been watching TV and fiddling with the blog all day. I finally made it outside at around nine pm, to take out the trash. This is how Sundays were meant to happen.

Now all I’ve gotta do is get my mortgage paid for me, and the day will have been complete.

(Frankly, that’s got nothing to do with the current state of Sundayhood. Somebody wanna pay off my mortgage on a Tuesday, I’m game. Thursday? Abso-fuckin’-lutely. Monday? Well… it’s not my first choice, but sure, what the hell? When you’re doggy-paddling in debt like this, you tend not to be particularly picky about the nature of the life preserver you’re tossed.)

Let’s get back to the current situation, though. I have to admit that I didn’t follow the perfect Sunday script — I actually put on pants today, for one thing. Not only that, I’ve still got ’em on. Real pants, too — proper, presentable, go-outside-without-inciting-a-riot pants. They don’t even have hearts on them, or ‘Kiss This!’ in big block letters on the ass.

(Not like the tux I wore at my wedding. But that was on a Saturday, not a Sunday. So it was cool.)

Still, all in all, I managed to get through pretty much the whole day without doing anything of substance, and that’s a good thing. Now I’ve just got an hour or two of dawdling to go (hey, hey — that’s ‘dawdling, dammit, not ‘diddling; what does this look like, Friday to you?), and the day will be officially over.

Of course, then it’ll be Monday, and I’ll just be pissy and bloated and crampy as usual. Not even my ‘Kiss This!’ dress pants will save me then. But that’s a thing to worry about tomorrow. Because tonight, it’s Sunday, and I’m not gonna worry about anything.

Now let’s just get these pants off and make it official, shall we?