Sunday Afternoons

Sunday afternoons are the strangest times of the week. I often look forward to the newspaper, so alluringly large and heavy, the advertisements more formidable than the news. I have started tossing the whole lot into the recycle bin unopened as they are such a waste of time, paper and energy. I am feeling cynical about advertising; I have become a demographic, used for my lack of ethnicity, age, and zip code. How annoying to be used like that.

Instead of sitting down with the paper, I made a couple of bannana breads. They smell good cooling on the counter.

He Who Must Be Obeyed arrived home from helping his brother since Wednesday. No, he isn't even able to chat. He is fast asleep in his chair. He looks a little worn out, actually. I am not waking him up.

I could go out and mulch the leaves in the front yard, but really haven't the heart to do it. Instead, I will put a chicken in the oven to roast, read Hosea for next week's study, maybe get to that newspaper.

Sunday afternoons can be a Holy Sabbath, or just plain ungodly long with random thoughts accompanied by the rise and fall of an old man's snoring.