Day of Pest(s)

I've little doubt that Sunday afternoon is often the invalid of the week. It used to cut short my week-ends by forcing me to look forward to the grind about to begin, destroying the peaceful nature I'd cultivated over the preceeding forty-eight hours. That habit I considered treasonous. I still had well over twelve hours before beginning work, yet here I was at the end of another weekend.

It's far too late to begin a weekend project, not that I would anyway. It's made for watching football, only I don't do that much, or returning from Sunday outings, which I also don't take very often. It would be fine for looking for new porn on the Intenets, but, well, it is Sunday and it will be there tomorrow.

I tend to putter on Sundays and clean up in tiny bits. I may go through the refrigerator and see which foodstuffs no longer interest Minardi and toss them, and this brings me to a fortunate, but undeserved, coincidence.

Tomorrow is trash day.

Sunday, then, is a wonderful day for cleaning up things I don't want hanging around in the trash. I can toss them on Sunday and they'll be out of my life within a day. This makes them perfect. Whatever it is that draws flies and ants can be investigated, cleaned, and, if needed, left on the side of the street. I don't care how many flies are drawn to the curb, I'm not like that.

This must be the reason Sunday papers are so large (tho not as large as they used to be). There are plenty of extra sheets for wrapping things up, and this is all to the good. Also, if I feel industrious (!), I can fill to overflowing the trash, recycling, and garden cans and not worry if I'll have enough room to last until pick-up. I have no future on Sundays, only the needs of the moment.