Sunday blues Sundays are rough enough, this one worse than most… I have been armed with a snow shovel and charged with holding back a hurricane… As cherry upon whipped misery, the door bell rings, she’s dropping off medicine for the cat, decked in Sunday finery, down another twenty pounds, admits to over indulging in the fancy country club Sunday brunch. I stand in stained shorts, my shirt with more holes than viable cloth, my hair standing straight in every direction, my toenails unclipped for weeks, my stomach churning away at a McBreakfast combination. She gives me the old up one side down the other eye summation and knows everything. She smiles, “Nice hairdo. Leave the house much?”