I’ve thrown out my back. OUCH! Dammit! This pisses me off. The bee situation is way out of hand. Every morning dying bees on my kitchen floor. This morning, two of them and another ugly looking yanky-ox type bug. Definitely coming in from behind the stove/cupboards somehow. What to do? What to do? Landlord will be here in a couple of weeks. Meanwhile, I just keep killing them. Keep saturating my kitchen with Raid. Nice, yeah. I should do a reality series called Toxic Apartment. God, I so did not have this problem last year.
So another Sunday. This is the day I get all optimistic and energetic and anxious about the coming week. I make lists. I run around and do things. I obsess about things I can’t do because it is Sunday, but I will do first thing tomorrow morning. I pray I’ll be able to sleep so I can in fact get up early tomorrow and do all the things I can’t do today. I get a headache. I can’t sleep. Sometimes I throw up. I don’t much like Sundays. They mess with my brain. If everything was open 24/7. If nobody kept traditional business hours. Maybe I’d have a little Sunday relief.
Years ago Sunday was the best day of the week. The quiet day. His sick day. Generally a day of cuddling and peace. A day we’d lay low, draw the curtains, hide out. I would look forward to it every week. I think he did too. But man, if the shit continued into Sunday (which happened sometimes) then our peaceful day would be turned upside down and all bets were off. A normal week played out like this: Monday and Tuesday were respectful “we’re a normal working class family” days, eased into some partying on Wednesday and Thursday, full blown house full of drunks on Friday. The shit would hit the fan on Saturday, because Saturday was the night we would go to a dance or something and he’d have been drinking since at least Friday afternoon, sometimes longer, and he’d be bored by the drinking and the company and just looking for ways to stir things up. When I gave a shit, I tip-toed around Saturday nights, biding my time until the peace of Sunday. It was later, when I didn’t care what happened anymore, that’s when things got dangerous. Sundays were only special when I cared, and if the party continued into Sunday, it was bad, really bad. Like Saturday on crack. Sunday was the day we’d break-up and I’d go to Mom’s. It’s funny to think about it now.
When I had the club Sundays were usually pretty quiet. I never knew where I’d wake up Sunday morning, if I had gone to bed at all. On a good day I’d wake up at home in my own bed or alone at the club. On a bad day I’d watch the sunrise from the cab of a half-ton at the Dungarvon Bridge, or be the first person at the liquor store when it opened, or open my eyes and not recognise the room I found myself in. Usually I opened the club Sunday afternoon, though I didn’t get many customers, just the regulars if even. I’d spend the day playing pool, listening to music, closer to the end watching tv, and always drinking beer. Sometimes I hated having to be there when the chances of anyone else showing up were so slim. Other times I loved being alone and I’d dance all over the place and sing at the top of my lungs. People who never came any other time would wander in on Sunday it seemed. I’ll never forget the Sunday night that this man came in and I thought he was with this other guy I knew because they sort of came in at the same time, but it turned out they didn’t even know one another. And through the course of the evening we figured out a bunch of boys from Howards had sent him because he was looking for a woman. And I was single. So he came to check me out. It was funny. But you likely had to be there. Practical joke, but the joke was on who exactly?
In Toronto Sunday was the day we’d go up north dirt bike riding or to the drive-in. I forgot my purse at a McDonalds truck stop on the highway up north one Sunday afternoon. And I called later that night and they actually found it in the restaurant and kept it for me and nobody had stolen anything from inside. All my money and everything was still there.
So I guess Sundays have always been a little out of hand, it’s just that now I have to take sole responsibilty. If I’m going a little crazy, it’s because I’m driving myself crazy.
Mood: in pain
Drinking: coffee (No-Name brand, dark roast . . . it’ll do for now)
Listening To: If I Could Turn Back Time (LIVE), Cher
Hair: feeling like it’s in a super model photo shoot, blowing in the fan