Look, I realize I’m not breaking any thematic ground here, and you will be held completely blameless if you return to tumblring after I spring the phrase, “Mondays are the worst.” But really, the fucking worst.

 

I’ll bet the factors of your distaste for this first workday of the week are the same as mine—HUNG OVER. And it’s not just a “drop three aspirin and sneak a beer at 9 AM kind of hangover.” This one’s the cumulative result of the drinking that commenced at quitting time on Friday and didn’t stop until I spilled a gin and tonic on myself in the chair at 10:30 Sunday night when the wife screeched from the bedroom, “Are you ever coming to bed!?” It’s the hangover I drunk away over the last two mornings, but baby, here it is in its full Monday glory.

 

We’re all working off the same playbook here, right—margaritas, Mexican beer, and shooters Friday night until the onset of blindness. Some damn kid sports activity Saturday morning—to which you, of course, bring your water bottle well-fortified with vodka and lemonade to keep the hair from growing out your eyeballs. Afternoon drinks on the patio with the neighbors, and then DATE NIGHT. where you strap on the pricey feedbag and dig even a little deeper into the thinning wallet for the list’s second-best bottle of Chardonnay. And If you can get the wife’s dosage just right, the evening might be crowned with half a hummer before she passes out and you can calmly jerk off into a blissful, satisfying sleep.

 

Sundays, well Sunday morning before your eyes open, printed on the back of the lids in swirling neon is “Fuck. Work tomorrow.” That sends you to the fridge to kick off the celebration with a pound of bacon and a beer. The day then takes its usual course through a tour of mixers, maybe a bottle or two of sparkling wine on the patio, an over-ambitious dinner—the preparation of which will almost always result in a less than minor burn or cut and some kid scowling, “Do we have to eat that?” But amidst all the activity, there’s barely a minute that elapses without the thought,”Fuck. Work tomorrow” blasting through your foggy noggin. No matter how hard you try to drown that fucking sentiment, it’s there staring at you like a hungry dog. Ah, well, at least we’re all in this together, right?

 

The only good thing is that I am no longer infected with a secretary. A secretary and a Monday are worst than the worst. You ask a regular staff person what having a secretary is like, and they’d say, “I bet it’s fucking great. Somebody to do all your shit work!” Uh, no. Secretaries make you do fucking work. They keep track of things, they know when shit doesn’t get done, and they know what’s supposed to be done next. At least mine did. Luckily she quit. Said she found a better job—one with more challenges—which was just A-Okay with me because I was challenged plenty with her outside the door. Miranda’s giving me shit daily to hire a replacement (she thinks I’m taking too much on), but I’m putting her off as long as I can, especially if there are Mondays like this on the upcoming agenda.

 

I’ve already bailed on the USA Today Crossword. Forty-five minutes and I couldn’t get through half of it. We’ll see how long I can spend trolling pictures of Kerry Washington online. She hosted SNL over the weekend—fell asleep watching the opening. Damn, she’s hot. And work is hell. Come on, Tuesday.