Sunday is a double-edged sword; Monday looms but Sunday mornings just whisper, "Stay in a bed a little longer" and, "Who cares that you just got syrup on the comforter?" Every Sunday Matt or I makes the other breakfast. Matt is the pancake and waffle aficionado, and can make a mean omelet, flipping it in the skillet like those men at the omelet stations at fancy brunches. I tend toward scrambled eggs and muffins (it's hard to mess up either). Sometimes we make a bagel or donut run. Sunday mornings are not meant for cutting calories.
With food on our laps, and magazines and books strewn (and invariably the laptop out), we watch CBS' Sunday Morning. I love this show in all its old-timey delighfulness, especially because the host, Charles Osgood, wears bow ties and sometimes plays the piano: need I say more? (For those who haven't seen it, no, it's not in the vain of those wretched primetime "news" shows like Dateline. It's a hundred times more intelligent, thoughtful, and focuses more on the arts and culture.)
So Penny gets her breakfast kibble and licks the syrup off our plates after we're done eating (this morning we had summery blueberry pancakes and then polished an additional pint of them while clicking through the political round tables of Face the Nation, This Week, and Meet the Press). Recently, Matt has been doing countless house projects, so he usually gets up and leaves me to the NYT's "Celebrations" page (this is where the Times profiles engaged and recently married couples - it's a hoot comprised of Rockefellers and doctors' daughters - I wholeheartedly endorse viewing the video feature).
Right now Matt is sealing our driveway. I'm not sure what this entails, as we just had it paved last year. Now, after spending a small fortune on paving it, we have to seal it. The good thing is that I don't have to help (and yes, I offered, and yes, it was rather meekly, but regardless he said no. I did ask why he declined and he said the following, "You'll do it wrong and it will start a fight.") Nevermind I am reasonably intelligent and able-bodied - he thinks I do everything "wrong" (which is semi-true because I like to cut corners on everything, which means if you ask me to clean the bedroom, all the junk will go under the bed, and if you ask me to paint a room, I'll consider one coat good and done), so I just hold my tongue (for once) because it gets me out of the manual labor. Sometimes he asks what I've been doing all day (reading and watching Netflix, which he is keenly aware of), but I say something I always hear on made-for-tv movies, like, "I've been working to keep this house and family together, Matt!" Nevermind our family consists of just us and the dog, and my version of cleaning is hiding questionable items.
So happy Sunday to you - whether you're slathering sealant on the driveway or sweeping dust balls under the bed.