Sunday is for Losers

Ok, so I don't have the check yet, but it's coming on my next pay day. I love "you kicked ass this year, here's some money" bonuses. It's enough to go toward a house or car down payment. It's very rewarding to be thanked for the months you worked two jobs and stayed late to make sure things got handled properly. My boss is great, and I'm not just saying that!

Sundays are odd sometimes. They often remind me of being a teenager, when on weekends I was She Who Cleans the House, and my parents were They Who Mow Three Acres and Attempt to Keep Plants Alive. My brother was affectionately called He Who Doesn't Do Shit, and we all tried to coexist and keep from getting pissed off and stomping around the house. My step-father is especially adept at stomping. But he is easily subdued with an appropriately timed glare, followed by sharp pointy things emanating from within that glare. I am especially adept at said glare.

Waking up to the awareness of it being Sunday causes all types of reactions for me. Sometimes I spring out of bed and immediately start cleaning. Clothing optional. Sometimes it's with great vigor that I clean, and sometimes it's with a heavy sigh and growing irritation that I'm the only one doing the cleaning. Sometimes I wake up and say, "Life is too short, I'm going to knit! And read! And watch TV! And run!". And there is no cleaning, only fun things. I like those days. Maybe I should get a maid.

Sundays also remind me of summers spent in the back yard picking blueberries. Our house had a huge backyard, and in it were pear trees, cherry trees, and about ten blueberry bushes. I was charged with picking the berries before they were eaten by the birds, then washing, packing and freezing them until some unknown date when they might maybe be used in some pie or muffins or something. Needless to say, more packs of frozen blueberries were used as emergency ice packs than actual baked goods.

Regardless, I picked them. And I dragged He Who Doesn't Do Shit along so I didn't have to suffer alone. This usually led to arguments about who got to pick the smallest bushes, and who ended up picking more blueberries. It also sometimes led to chasing each other through the yard while throwing the blueberries as hard as possible at each others heads. If I told you that I have terrible aim, and my brother played baseball and could throw a berry hard enough to leave a bruise, you could probably guess who won most often.

However, when I was being an especially sore loser and was covered in little red marks thanks to He Who Doesn't Do Shit, I would make a little blueberry paste. I'd chose about 30 fat ripe berries and hide in the bathroom while mushing them and getting a nice juicy blue paste to form, and then when he least expected it, I'd walk up behind him and rub as much of it on his face as I could before he tried to turn and do the same to me. I usually got a nice face full of mush too, since he's faster and stronger than me (yes, still).

And I often wonder why we still have such a childish relationship with each other. Sometimes it's all I can do not to chase him around the room and tickle him until he cries when I catch him. Of course, his children would be shocked, so I refrain. But he knows I could. And that's why, no matter how many fights we had as kids, I'm still the winner. Oh, and cause I'm older and he can't catch me in age. Still one up. Yeah.