Sunday nights are good for little more than reflecting on the weekend, and laundry. There are no guarantees either will be interesting.
A white dimpled ball pummeled my self esteem into a trembling pool of goo Friday night, and taking into account it's considerable mass, that's a difficult task. I had agreed to participate in a golf tournament on Saturday, but after a revealing, mentally crippling trip to the driving range Friday night I promptly cancelled my participation, retired to a dark living room and found a corner in which to sob and rock.
Saturday morning I slept until around 10, then spent a big part of the day walking the mall searching for a gift for myself, an as yet unidentified personal reward which was intended to artificially boost my amour propre.* After failing to find a gift sufficiently big enough to accomplish such a leviathan task, I took an hour to stop at an auction, a charity event for the Make A Wish Foundation. There, I took a hearty ribbing from my would-be golf team, who were also present. It seems Dr. Mike, who had accompanied me to the driving range, had narrated the story of my embarrassing performance. That prompted me to privately and bitterly wish for his untimely demise.
My haughty nemesis, the god-forsaken game of golf, had completely stolen the joy from my weekend. I spent the evening with my daughter, had a steak and beer and watched Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy on DVD. Having not read the book, she found the movie quite uninteresting.
Sunday I awoke fairly early and went out of town for a birthday party, driving a total of 200 miles and burning $350 in gas. Afterward, I returned home and finished writing an ad that will appear in next Sunday's paper touting the quality of the set of golf clubs I am selling.
Why do we continue to allow restaurants to use the word "homemade" to describe their food? It's NOT homemade, now is it?
Besides, if I wanted homemade or homestyle, I would stay the hell home. Give me restaurant-style food, "just like your fry-cook brother used to make."
*amour propre = self love, in case you're not Chinese. ;-)