Sunday Times

9:00 a.m. Wake up.  Consider getting out of bed.  Reconsider.  Roll over and promptly fall back asleep.

11:00 a.m.  Wake up.  Consider rolling over and falling back asleep once again, but smell pancakes.  Get out of bed.

11:20 a.m. Mom makes pancakes.  Plain for dad and I (because we’re classic like that), and pumpkin cinnamon walnut for herself.  We discuss plans for the day.  Dad says he’s going to Gander Mountain to get his Wisconsin deer hunting license.  I ask to go with.  I love outdoors stores almost as much as bookstores.

12:00 p.m. I get ready to go while dad teases Ruby in the living room.  I chuckle at the sight of my dirty hair in the mirror before putting on a headband to hide it.  Not that the folks in Gander Mountain will much care.

12:15 p.m.  Dad and I are off to Gander Mountain, mom to the grocery store, Menard’s, and Fleet Farm.  We are truly Minnesotans.  Dad asks me about job hunting.  I revert back to my teen years and get a little angsty on him: “Yes, I’m applying for everything.  No, I don’t want to go back to graduate school for marketing.  Because I’m not interested in marketing.”  My parents–science and math and active and DIY people that they are–have always been accepting of my literary, social science-y, “Don’t bother me I’m spending the afternoon crying through Wuthering Heights” ways.  But sometimes they test me.

12:30 p.m. On the freeway, nearly there, dad thinks he’s forgotten his check book.  He fumbles in his pockets while I grab the wheel.  We stay on course, and my aneurism soon subsides: he finds the check book.

1:00 p.m.  Dad grabs the ammo he’s looking for, and we decide to take a gander at the rest of the store’s offerings (pun intended).  We test out a few ice fishing tents, look for warm-weather fishing lures (I’m in awe of how much my dad knows about which lures will actually catch fish and which won’t), scope out Christmas list clothing items, and sit in camp chairs.  Dad sits in a particularly fine specimen: Padded back, cup holders, on rockers.  “This would have been nice when you girls were in softball.”  I gawk at a deer bust mounted on the wall above camping gear.  The deer has been posed with a role of barbed wire and some plywood to look as if he’s miserably and irrevocably stuck in a fence.  It’s very sad.

1:30 p.m. Ready to check out, basket full of impulse buys, we head to the license counter.  The two young women cashiers are having some technical difficulty.  One–Kristine, her name tag tells me–keeps giving updates to a small microphone attached to her vest.  There is no response.  The man in line in front of us is buying a license for the same zone as my dad.  “55?”  They both nod several times and settle into silent Midwestern camaraderie.

1:45 p.m. We’re out.  At an intersection, I of the GPS reliance ask dad if the road in front of us is a back way into town.  He says yes and turns to go that way instead.  The people around me are often nice enough to attempt to correct my navigational incompetence.  Bless their hearts, but I’m hopeless.  We find our way to town, and then dad decides to show me the restaurant where he and mom went for their 25th wedding anniversary last week.  On the way, we admire the houses and yards and note the lake level is low and end up driving right by the restaurant without noticing it.

2:10 p.m. Home.  Dad goes downstairs to watch the pregame talk for the Vikings/Seahawks game, and I reluctantly pull on shorts and a t-shirt and go to the gym.

2:20 p.m.  As always, I’m happy to be at the gym once I’m there and started.  I do the Precor, which is a cross between a stair stepper and an elliptical, because I can easily prop a magazine against it and read the half hour away.  The only magazine available is Good Housekeeping, so I make do with Thanksgiving pie recipes and make-your-own napkin holders.  One year, in a fit of craftiness, my sister, mom, and I made Easter napkin holders.  They were pink bunnies made of felt sitting atop blue felt-covered toilet paper tubes.  Mom realized a few years later that they looked exactly like the Playboy emblem.  We haven’t used them since.

3:00 p.m.  Home, blanket-wrapped, waiting for the game to start.  I log on to Facebook and needle my friend Maddie (who recently moved to Washington state) for betraying us in favor of the Seahawks.  She replies that she’s merely cheering for a winning team.  I say no more.

3:25-6:00 p.m. Vikings/Seahawks.  I moan and groan a little bit, and then quit actively watching in favor of blog reading.  It’s for the best.  I’ll always cheer for the Vikings whether they win or lose, but I can’t pretend to be happy when they lose.

6:00 p.m. We eat dinner.  Jiffy cornbread muffins are included, and I ask mom if anyone in the history of the world has ever gone to the grocery store and bought a different brand of corn muffin mix.  Jiffy doesn’t even have to advertise, lucky them.

6:30 p.m. I take a bath in the big tub, trying to forget the time my neighbor pal’s mom told me that long baths can dangerously raise your blood pressure.  I read with The Circle held above the water until my arms get tired, then I put it on the counter and commence practice of my dead [wo]man’s float.

7:00 p.m. I watch the Amazing Race with mom.

8:00 p.m. I retreat to my room for a little Gilmore Girls, some resume building, and more blog reading.

10:00 p.m. I decide to write this post, optimistic about the interest level generated by my Sunday doings.

10:20 p.m. I decide to lie about how much Gilmore Girls I’ve actually watched today, and to leave out the twenty minutes I spent rolling the excercise ball after Ruby because she hates it and it’s really funny to watch.

10:30 p.m. I realize that 10:20’s entry sounds like animal abuse.  I decide to add that following the exercise ball chase, Ruby burped in my face as retaliation.  My mouth was open and everything.

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