Sunday routine.

Typically a Sunday at the Seiler Shack involves a woman who doesn't like to get out of her PJ's until about 12:00 noon.  The best thing about Sunday is that I sleep late which puts me in such a fantastic mood.

Those who know me well, KNOW that I am not a morning person...at all, period, end of story.  I have tried my hardest but despite my best effort the sound of human speech in the morning makes me want to peel my own skin off with a dull knife.  To top matters off if even one thing is out of whack in my morning routine (read - can't find matching socks, or Fisherman steps in my path while I'm making my oatmeal) it throws me into a full on TIZZY.

As much of a non-morning person as I am, someone upstairs has seen fit to surround me with the peculiar species - early riser.  My mother, my brother, my nephew, my grandfather (was), colleagues, and now even my husband flit around, twirl, and sing "The Hills are Alive..." each and every morning as little songbirds float around their heads.  {{I would like to rip their heads clean off their bodies.}}

My most excellent friend Knitterly, would enter with soft, tiny, kitty's feet into my classroom in the morning in Phoenix and want to show me her crafty goodness wherein she would state in a very calm voice..."I know it is morning, but I really wanted to show you X, Y, Z."

Socks that Knitterly made me.

I think she should be sainted because she was aware of the "morning situation" and respected that it was not going to change.  In fact, I believe it was a month or so after Fisherman and I were married that I posted a Facebook status about his twirly, happiness in the morning, and she politely offered to educate him on how to approach my morning wildebeast within - she had been my "work wife" for far longer than he had been my husband and had extensive knowledge of my unique morning cheer.

Meanwhile, back on the island, our Sunday routine progresses.  When I finally manage to drag my bones out of bed I make my way into the kitchen and brew me some pomegranate green tea.  Fisherman has been up for hours by this time and I finally capitulate to make some breakfast (who are we kidding, by this time, it is brunch).  Fisherman does the dishes and starts the laundry while I "get around".

Typically we plan out our meals for the week (each and EVERY ONE of them made by our own hands) and make a shopping list.  We proceed to the store purchase the necessary items for the week and head back home.  I then,  make our salsa for the week - yup I said, salsa for the week, complete with Hatch green chili.  We go through a "batch" of homemade salsa almost every week - *I am still a New Mexican at heart.

I then begin working on my lesson plans for the week (Fisherman has already done his), blog, etc.  This is the point where Fisherman's path gets a little rocky.  He likes to take a nap (remember: he has been up for 20 or so hours already).  There is something about a napping husband that brings out my inner devil...I poke, prod, tickle, wet willy, wedgie, whack with a pillow, jump on, give CPR to, everything but let him nap.  I realize the irony, he lets me sleep in, and I don't do the same.  I can't help it, hence the inner devil not inner angel.

Finally we end up fixing dinner and I retreat to the bedroom to watch an episode or two of "Downton Abbey" and fold the 900 pounds of laundry Fisherman has washed, wait for my hair to dry, and collapse back into bed, usually by 9:00pm - ready {{sort of}} to start the week.

Sending Sunday cheer,

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