Wakey wakey eggs and bakey

I spent the weekend sober, as in without any wine, as in up before noon. Like me holding a baby brought to the office, this seldom happens, or maybe it’s more accurately an occurrence leaning toward never. It wasn’t entirely intentional; I had geared up for what promised to be a rowdy Saturday night – one that went horribly awry given my penchant for falling asleep on the couch to episodes of the Ghost Whisperer – by abstaining on Friday. Which turned into Saturday. Which became Sunday, a day on which it just didn’t seem right to drink alone in the tub. At least not this particular Sunday.

And so it was that when awakened at the unholy hour of 7:40 am by a paw swipe to the cheek, I didn’t bark at Bug, didn’t send Cricket to fetch a cool washcloth to cover mommy’s eyes, and most certainly didn’t wonder just whose comforter I was nestled under. Instead I rose to greet the day like I imagine normal people do, those people who read the Sunday Post rather than using it for puppy potty training, those folks for whom “brunch” is a meal eaten in the morning hours. Or early afternoon. Or at least while the sun is still up.

And you know what? This land of the living wasn’t half bad.

Before lunchtime, I fed the cats, bathed and clothed myself (this is an undertaking not to be scoffed at), balanced my checkbook, worked out my December budget, cleaned the litter boxes, did two loads of laundry, watched and bawled at Georgia Rule (I said I was sober; I did not claim emotional stability), went to the mall to purchase no fewer than three Christmas gifts and my holiday cards (time to be very, very nice to the Kris), picked up my beloved Taco Bell for lunch, looked at my nails and opted not to paint them, and smiled genuinely at NOT ONE, BUT TWO of God’s screaming children in the Santa lap line. I didn’t finish my November 2007 memory quilt until well into the early afternoon, but I was, understandably, tired.

There are people out there, I should inform you, who are champions of the sport. Upon my 10:08 am Macy's arrival I was shocked to find that there were several other cars in the parking lot, and interestingly enough, people were not passed out in them from the night before. I witnessed one strange creature, already having done 8 minutes worth and three bags full of intense shopping, come out to her car to unload her mall booty before heading back in for the next round. Seriously? People actually show up before the joint opens, wearing something other than yoga pants and yesterday’s hair, and get their day on mere hours after the rest of us have eaten our weight in pizza and passed out wearing some form of lycra? The early, sober rise, I thought. This must be how the real woman does it all.

I’m guessing she doesn’t drive away from the mall with a Big Gulp on the roof of her car, but one cannot have everything.