We Interrupt Our Regular Programming ...

Skip this one. It's not inspired, particularly well composed, humorous or insightful. It's just a rant.

I hate some weekends. I would explain, but I would be forever condemned to a very warm place far away from most of the people I truly adore. So it shall remain a secret.

This just happens to be one of the weekends I loathe. On top of knowing it was going to be a no-good-very-bad-horrid-weekend, I had to get up at the crack of dawn this morning when Himself left for work, because I had to leave not long after in order to take my turn serving by cleaning the church (side note: as a result, my own house was neglected - I can only handle so much cleaning activity). Normally, I don't mind getting up at the crack of dawn so much. My weekend feels longer that way. Keep reading. You'll understand why today was particularly bad timing to have to get up at the crack of dawn.

I went to bed feeling not quite so bad (it's about all one can ask for). I woke up feeling as if I had been hit by a Mack Truck. A BIG Mack Truck. Sore throat and post-nasal drip - classic sign that Sara is coming down with a sinus infection, which, since it cannot be treated, oozes down into the lungs, becomming an upper respiratory infection. If I'm REALLY lucky, it will stop there. I wanted to pull the covers over my head and disappear. Unfortunately, I have a conscience with a whiny, naggy voice that just won't stop. It kept telling me it was impossible to claim I had forgotten about the church cleaning, when they had just called less than 12 hours before to remind us.

So, bad weekend. Cleaning. Sore throat and feeling yucky. Himself at work all day. Bad day. Tonight, Himself wants to know why his beloved chicken crepes have been replaced by, "Lean Cuisine was on sale at Giant last week, and I was desparate for a few lunch options (please tell me I did not just admit this), eat one of those or one of the 17 varieties of cereal atop the fridge" on the menu.

He got one of those stares that could melt ice in sub-zero weather.

I got Himself's "famous" hashbrowns and scrambled eggs for dinner. And a stare back that could dry out the Amazon. I don't even like hashbrowns or eggs. Ever. But I was hungry. And sick. And tired. And having a really crappy weekend. Don't tell, but I would have eaten baloney - and I LOATHE baloney. (Okay, maybe not baloney, but I was tired/sick enough to eat eggs - itself a minor feat. Shocking enough, in fact, that Himself had to clarify twice to make sure I was serious about the eggs. We won't waste space by mentioning the returned stare.)

Sometimes, you take life's handouts, kiss the chef and count your blessings. Himself is in the other room, still slightly injured over the lack of chicken crepes. I'm in here, counting sheep (or characters), trying to convince my over-active conscience that yes, after 28 1/2 years of attending church nearly every single Sunday, IT IS TO possible to forget church and pull the covers back around your head.

One more day until Monday.