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2002-11-10 - 12:47 p.m.

Do-nothing Sunday afternoons.

None of the slap-dash of afternoons during the workweek. Sluggish and sloppy. A peaceful external quiet; an internal commotion condemning the Monday rushing at me. Frittering away actual time while mentally trying to push the clock back into the previous day. Because of all the time spent dreading the blitz of Monday, Sunday afternoon is not my favorite. Saturday afternoon, with the promise of many carefree hours, is my favorite.

Still, Sunday afternoon extends an invitation for slow, leisurely hours of freedom.

The Brew Crew, for the most part, is in hibernation, and I’m probably the most proficient and seasoned sluggard of The Crew. Always ready for the rough and tumble of summer days, I’m also a staunch fan of late fall and winter hibernation. I’m happiest on Sunday afternoon’s alone with the dogs, a hot chocolate or, if it’s early afternoon, a mocha latte. Too much of this sweet delight and I’m awake all night dreading the onslaught of Monday. Add a fire crackling and glowing in the fireplace and a good book. Preferably a mystery novel. A good mystery novel, none of the blather currently on the shelves by Margaret Truman or Annette Meyers or oh so many others.

Any cooking done on Sunday afternoon is no-brainer, slow-cooker fare. Something big like chili or beef stew of chicken noodle soup intended for lunches during the week. Of course, by mid-week I’m tired of whatever big dish I was excited about on Sunday. I don’t do Sunday dinners. Meals on Sunday are leftovers from Saturday, providing I’ve had inspiration in the kitchen on Saturday. Sometimes I do; sometimes I don’t.

Showering is optional. Scruffy is mandatory. I live in my plaid flannel britches, long-sleeve tee, heavy socks and wool plaid moccasins--the plaids in my flannels and moccasins do not match. I do brush my teeth, but sometimes a brush or comb never touches my hair. Hey, I like this slovenly look! My sainted mother, the mirror of neat and fashion, is forever annoyed by my lack of interest in chic weekend wear. After all these years I’d think she’d give up the struggle, but she continues to disapprove of my notion of vogue.

“What,” she asks, “are you gonna do when the Jehovah Witnesses knock on your door some Sunday afternoon and see you like this?”

“Well,” I smile, my hair in a Don King do, a day-old cocoa stain on my gray tee shirt. “Hide in the coat closet?”

Wouldn’t you give up if you were her?

A do-nothing Sunday afternoon. A fire crackling, visions of a mocha latte dancing in my scroungy head, a T. Jefferson Parker on the table beside my recliner. Ears on alert for the sounds of Jehovah Witnesses in my lane.

I gotta get busy and enjoy the remainder of my Sunday afternoon slouch.

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