Sunday, Funday. Blech. That’s a lie if I ever heard one. It doesn’t seem to matter how many days there are in a weekend — even a 4-day weekend like we just had — every Sunday there is still this mad dash to get my
shit life together in like 12 hours. I blame Monday.
Pay no attention to the woman lounging on the couch in her pajamas browsing through the “new releases” on On-Demand, counting down the hours until the new Thor and Justice League show times roll around while daydreaming about those tickets, lovingly ensconced in a bureau drawer, to the ‘Chocolate Binge Festival’ about to hit town in another two weeks. You see, there ARE a few things that are worth dragging my
lazy relaxing weekend butt out of the house.
Isn’t that usually the way? I mean, it IS awfully people-y out there.
It’s not my job, really, that annoys me so. I actually love what I do and the idea that I’m making a difference for those who have no voice. But here I am, in the middle of a Thursday afternoon, driven insane by the people I deal with on a daily basis, just wishing for a time jump like they do in the movies — you know, to move the plot along — so I can just get to the weekend already.
Stardate 20172110 – Time: Another Saturday Night (hmmm…that sounds like a song)
The kids are gone, the critters are fed. I have the night to myself. I can do anything, go anywhere. The world is my oyster.
*fast forward one hour*
Ah, bed feels so nice right now. *sipping on a freshly poured glass of Chocolate Zin*
Now, where’s that remote?? There’s a classic horror movie marathon on!
Laying back in my jammies – Check
Pizza delivered – Check
Ben and Jerry’s in the freezer – Check
Kahlúa laced hot cocoa – Double Check!
Horror movie marathon (most definitely of the B variety) on Syfy – Triple Check!
Long-distance friend on speed-dial-texting to mock said B movies – Check!
Okay, so coffee is the magical infusion that keeps most of us employed and out of jail. But somehow, on Friday, it just has an extra touch of ethereal goodness.
Does it count if I’m wearing heels and drinking Bailey’s on ice out of a fancy glass à la June Cleaver? Would June Cleaver even drink Bailey’s Irish Cream? I doubt it. Martinis were more her style. Yuck. Although I had a chocolate Martini one time that was kickin’. But nah. I’ll just stick with the Bailey’s. Now, what was I doing again?