Mmm buster

Can we talk about Sunday morning? Ugh. First of all, it contains that word, morning.

Most mornings, I creak out of bed, every atom of my being in denial, grab my coffee and zone out in front of my laptop for about 20-30 minutes. Don't try to talk to me or you will get gibberish. In the meantime I plop the kids in front of their favorite morning cartoon. This is especially great for Violet, because she is usually a complete wreck when she wakes up as well. Once we are ready to accept the inevitable, The Day, I feed them breakfast and we get on with it.

Sam disagrees with this routine. Weekends, he gets the kids up and lets them run around my parents main living areas all scream-y, foot pounding, and annoy-me-like-I-have-a-hangover. He makes them eggs and toast and pancakes and crap. Meanwhile, both of my parents are in the kitchen also making breakfast, and he has to dodge them while ponderously attending to the kids' needs (the man is s-l-o-w). By the time I get up and try to get to the laptop--which he is sometimes hogging, gah!!!--he has to come in our "living room" and vent long and hard. Mostly about my Dad, and how he stands for eternal minutes like an Oak in the middle of the kitchen, which is like 5 feet square.

Grr. I think this is a good time to run through:

Sam's Baffling 3 Rules for Life, Gleaned From Growing Up All New England & "Baptist"

(additional thoughts by Leah)

1. Don't cut people off with your cart at Wal-Mart.

(How is efficient maneuvering a crime? If people are going slow, I have every right to go around them. It's like survival of the fittest. California road rules, baby.)

2. If you are a guest in someone's home, it is rude to sleep in, especially if they have gone to the trouble of making you some huge-ass breakfast.

(OMG, it is sooooo thoughtful to slave over meals that your guests don't care about so they can eat them during hours when they can't function. This rule has some sort of messed up passive-aggressive disfunctionality going on, but I can't pick it apart. Anyway, it's just wrong.)

3. Don't be late for group events, especially church.

(Just the idea of this being such a rigid rule makes me want to rebel and be late on purpose. I do try to follow it when Sam's around, but other than that I can't bring myself to care that much. When you add in the fact that I have kids--clingy and difficult ones who make getting ready like wading through quicksand--I feel downright fatalistic.)

So yeah, Sunday Mornings. They do not contain coffee sipped in front of Facebook/blogs/message boards/MSN. They don't even contain time for breakfast. I am forced to get up, blindly stumble through my bathroom ablutions, get dressed up, and wrangle the kids public-ready. I guess we could all wear jeans, but MY Baptist upbringing rebels against that. Sam is always like a drill sergeant, yelling out, "fifteen minutes!" & stuff. I feel groggy and stressed and pissy.

Finally, we get in the car, and about 25% of the time we are late. So then Sam is angry, and that makes me upset because I think it's unfair, and anyway I'm already in a bad mood. Even if we aren't late, I am still cranky, because I've yet to have my coffee, and I have to FACE PEOPLE in a few minutes. And, oh God, shake their hands. Yay!

When we pull in, Sam likes to park in the furthest spot from the church. This seems to happen a lot when I am wearing heels. Because he is a guy, and doesn't notice that sort of thing. So then I am in my heels, carrying Baby Wright, who will only let me carry him, and I have stumble along at this uncomfortable pace to keep up with Sam as he races towards the kids club area--can't break rule #3!

What I really need to do is just get some sort of Blow Up Bimbo On-Time Wife and send that to church with him. He could just hoist her up and her plastic, air-filled heels would float easily above the pavement.

Once we are in church, I try to surreptitiously finish my coffee, but I feel kind of guilty. Technically, we aren't supposed to have drinks in the sanctuary. I worry that everyone is staring at me and I am bothering them with my long pulls. I need its comfort though, because I am officially miserable, and in a few minutes I have to fakely shake hands with perfect strangers.

I think our church needs to have a smokers' area in the courtyard, except instead of smokers, it could be all the caffeine addicts who didn't have time to drink their coffee or whatever. We could all stand around holding our cups while feeling so, y'know, connected. They could even pipe in a little sanctuary feed. Or maybe I should just go to North Coast.

PSA, if you see me at church and I looked pissed off, it's not you. It's just...unfortunate. It's the Sunday system. It doesn't like me, and I freaking want to kill it. I think I am a prime candidate for Saturday night church. Our church needs to start that, because I think it could really change my life.

Anyway, today, this happened, and I was a total victim of my Sunday morning funk:

Scene: Sam is standing around talking to a couple of his friends. I have just come back from picking up both kids from their Sunday School classes (total Baptist speak, BTW, just can't drop it).

Players: Sam, Me, Mr. Clueless Husband Smith, and Mr. Avoidant Observer Jones.

Mr. CHS: Hey Sam, you want to come over on a weeknight and play with my new *guitar/amp-ish stand in for a jacked-up truck*?

Sam: Uh...did you see my wife's face just now?

Me: *general type unhappy face*

Mr. CHS: What? *to me* You don't let your husband out on weeknights?? He, like, needs to have fun, man!

Mr. AOJ: *steps back several feet and smirks in the background*

Me:

*brain not properly functioning, but deeply offended that a) my expression was interpreted to be a part of their conversation, and b) I am being accused of being the kind of wife that "lets" or "doesn't let" her husband do crap*

Uh, no, Sam does all kinds of stuff. He does guitar practice, guitar on Sundays, sound practice, sound on Sundays. And...uh...other stuff, too.

*later on, I'll remember baseball games and football at Paul's house, but not then*

Mr. CHS: But that's all ministry stuff!

Me:

*brain waves = zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz*

Same thing.

*it really is*

Sam, stepping in: Yeah, weeknights don't work the best for me, what about a Saturday?

Mr. CHS, to me: Hey, is Sam allowed to come over on a Saturday? Or would you let him have people over?

Me:

*feeling and looking verrrrrry bitchy. I do not allow or disallow ANYTHING. Grr. I do not play Sam's mother. He can do whatever he wants--he is a man after all. I am so not into that whole man-whipping thing that our society loves to tout. Let them be men, men are awesome. Anytime Sam wants to go do something with his friends, I usually say, sure! Go have fun! He comes home to a couple of crying kids every night and lives at his in-laws. He deserves it. Now they think I am this bitch who browbeats poor Sam, and my brain can't come up with language to refute it*

Uhh...? Yeah?

Mr. AOJ: *still in the background smirking*

Sam: Okay, that'll probably work for me. What about this Saturday?

Mr. CHS: Well, I'll have to check with the wife. She schedules my weekends, y'know!

Please get me home to my coffee and laptop.