Lazy Sunday

Sundays have always been a Do-Nothing day for me. Or a Do Anything To Get Out Of Church day. Growing up, I would either fake an illness or pretend to over sleep in order to get out of going to church. Or sometimes, I would get dressed in a really ridiculous outfit and refuse to change. My mom always made me wear a dress to church, so when I didn't want to go (which was every week), I'd put on the most punk-tastic outfit I could muster. She'd be so frustrated with me that she'd either put up with it or leave me home. I never knew which one it would be, but I took my chances.

After Mass (I was raised catholic, by the way), we'd come home and have breakfast. When I was younger, it was my father's responsibility to start cooking the bacon at 10am. But as I got older and he got drunker, the bacon would be left up to my mom to cook. I always loved coming back from Mass and entering a house that smelled of bacon and coffee brewing. It's something that flashes me back to my childhood to this day. My mom would make bacon and eggs and toast. Or sometimes she'd make pancakes or waffles (but this was rare). And we'd have orange juice, milk, coffee and pastry as well. It was a feast.

We'd be done eating at about 11:30. It was the kids' job to clean up. Of course, I always hated that part, too. But after we were done, we were free to do whatever we wanted until 4pm. That gave me four and a half hours to do nothing. I loved doing nothing as a teenager. I always made sure my homework was finished on Saturday so my Sunday would be free. Some Sundays I would just lie on my bed and listen to records. Other Sundays I would write letters to pen pals, or I'd read an entire book (I'll never forget that Sunday in 1989 when I read Judy Blume's Forever in one afternoon. Good times). One thing is for sure, I didn't leave my room on Sundays till I was called to dinner at 4:00.

At 4:00 every Sunday we'd all pile into the car and drive one mile to my grandparents house. Being Italian and Hungarian, my grannie would cook a feast (with a couple of courses) for dinner. We'd all sit down to eat and not be finished until about 6:30. I don't know how many other families went through this every Sunday, but I do know that none of my friends in school wanted to come over for Sunday dinner because it took so damn long. Even Phillip has a hard time at my family's dinner gatherings because it's an all night event. We'd all eat and talk and yell and eat and talk some more. Usually the topic of conversation was about who said what about who and when. My family loves to gossip. I hate it. So I'd usually throw in a statement about how Catholicism sucks and that we're all on the highway to hell. That would change the subject, for sure. It was great, although unavoidably it would start another screaming match and my grandfather would banish me from his table. So I'd either walk home (it was only a mile, after all) or I'd sit in the living room and read the Parade or the comics until it was time for us to all pile back into the car and drive home.

I really miss Sundays with my family. Now that I'm older and married and in a city where we only have each other, I've been missing those Sundays more and more. The eating and the talking and even the fighting. Sundays are still for doing nothing, but it's just not the same. I guess that's what you get for growing up and moving on, right?