Dear person who stumbled upon my blog looking up “Type of loading” for a crossword puzzle,
The answer is “carbo.” As in carbo-loading, or what you’re supposed to do if you will be running a couple of miles after finishing your crossword puzzle. Or if you’ll be tearing the puzzle to bits soon after finishing, or even before finishing. I completely understand either way.
I was supremely pissed off when I found out, but that’s one of the reasons doing crossword puzzles is fun. So what if we sound old before our time? It’s the thrill of seeing such dorky clues as “restraint for Rover” turning out to be “leash.”
I could go on for a while, but you have reminded me, dear person, of what’s nice about Sunday:
First and foremost, Sunday is nice because it has a hint of tragedy and melancholy and an archival quality to it. It’s the one day of the week where suddenly you’re faced with the urgency of doing something FUN or MEANINGFUL or LAID BACK but, knowing that you do not have enough time, you carefully settle into something that will give you quiet happiness. The carefree megalomania of Saturday (also known as the “I CAN DO ANYTHING!!!” day)–my favorite day of the week– that can force you to sometimes do things that you never ever would do because you’ll always have Sunday to recover is replaced by sobriety and mellowness. This quality makes almos every Sunday, in my humble opinion, more of a day already belonging somewhere in your memory rather than a day lived out loud. And so Sundays are nice. Not WONDERFUL. Not AMAZING. But cherishable and nice. Because no one went into living another Sunday to want to die on a Sunday. Wanting to die is usually reserved for Mondays (though I’ve always found that I have tons of nervous energy on Monday and it’s truly Tuesday when I feel like all is lost. Tuesdays are rather dismal sometimes).
And when you have a Darling Monsieur who, remembering how you cooed and oohed and ahhed about how nice it would be to have a Sunday breakfast in bed while the two of you were watching “Must Love Dogs” the other day –effectively making him the only man in the 25-34 demographic sitting in the theater– actually made you breakfast in bed (yummy pancakes topped with homemade cinnamon apples and whipped cream and canteloupe melon and orange juice mmmmmmm)well….. that makes a Sunday morning not just special but memorable. And wonderful. And filled with cinnamonny butter goodness mixed with gratitude –a surprising new favorite smell. I love him dearly– not just because of breakfast in bed, but because he didn’t run away from home during my crying jag yesterday (clumsiness-induced) and because our baby has his nose. I hope you are not moved to fits of gagging, readership, because I’m gushing about how sweet my husband is. I can only dearly hope you can find someone whose pancakes and cinnamon apples are in any way equal to his kindness, really.
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To come this week: My reverse Dal recipe, tips on traveling when pregnant, making fun of the PGA tournament/cliffhanging it on the results from the back nine– whenever play resumes, and looking for the Sunday crossword. Whee!
A Daily Dose of Zen Sarcasm! 
Once in a while my husband tends to drive me crazy until I wonder why I’m crazy enough to stay with him and then will do something sweet to remind me. *grins*
When I was pregnant with our daughter, he hovered so close that I was snapping at always being asked if he could do something for me when all I wanted to do was get up and hit the bathroom. Or was just shifting a bit to find a more comfortable way to sit. While I appreciated his concern, he was making me feel claustrophobic. *giggles* Funny thing is, twenty years later, he still hovers around when I’m sick. And as much as it aggravates me, I love him for it.