I miss the Saturdays of childhood. Sleeping in, only not wanting to because cartoons were on. (Anyone besides me remember when Saturday morning was the only time you could see cartoons?) My dad cooked breakfast every Saturday: two eggs over easy, each egg atop a slice of toast. My family creatively named this dish "Eggs on Toast". True story: My dad never cooked. But my mom convinced us all -- by demonstrating -- that she could not flip an egg without breaking the yolk. We eventually learned that she broke the yolks on purpose so that we'd wake my dad up for breakfast on Saturday instead of her. Then, we usually got sent outside to play all day. No chores, no errands, no nothing.
Today I was at work before 8:00. I have to be out all of next week and I had a few bazillion things to tie up before I'm out. Then, I went with two co-workers to an employee's mother's funeral. It was in an old, small, country church and the pastor was a lively man of about 907. Yes, I meant to type 907. But as always, I remember how much it meant to me when co-workers came to my dad's funeral, and I try to do the same whenever I can.
So finally, I'm home, and flat worn out. But there's laundry and shopping and ...... I think I'll take a nap.
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