Monday, August 01, 2005
Sunday nights
Sunday nights have always had a sort of cathartic rhythm for me.
When I was very small, we would go to church and, the part that sticks with me more than sermons and Sunday school, then we would head to the Ridge Donut Shop with my grandma and her friend Jane. My mom would let me spoon out the custard from her Bavarian Cream donut, a taste I still find myself craving in this land of beautiful pastries. It got me ready for those trying weeks of pre-school when I was chastised over and over again for not being able to write my name and refusing to say the pledge of allegiance.
When I was about 10, I would take my weekly shower, put on my pajamas and watch "The Simpsons" with my family (who, AssRay likes to point out, are frighteningly similar to the Simpsons). My mother would sit on the floor playing solitaire (her cathartic activity before another hellish week as a special ed teacher). This tradition lasted all the way through high school, except that the shower bit was no longer so exceptional.
Throughout college it was chorus rehearsals. From 7:15 to 9:15, every Sunday. On fall evenings at sunset we would sing "The Evening Song" in front of the chapel. On special occasions, rehearsal would be followed by more singing, beer and corn nuggets at The Chariot. Not really ever in that order.
First year in NYC (the Queens-era), my roommate and I would make "Sunday dinners" (ok he would make, I would eat) and we would watch "Six Feet Under." Those were the glory days when I had HBO and a job that I was excited to go to on Monday mornings.
Secondish/thirdish year in NYC (the Brooklyn-era), Sara and I adopted ideas from previous years, particularly the meal (mostly consisting of Spaghetti-o's and Oatmeal Cream Pies instead of the swordfish and homemade mojito ice cream of the previous year) and the Simpsons.
In Paris, AssRay and I often went to the movies, which I have to say is a great way to ease the Sunday night anxiety. But now, more often than not, you will find me at the Highlander, beer in hand, kicking major ass with my friends at the weekly pub quiz. And thus the reason for the post. For EasyJetsetter's very last pub quiz--a poignant moment considering it was her Scottish enthusiasm that brought us all together originally--we earned 36 and a half points and secured ourselves first place and the requisite bottle of champagne. So, now, my new tradition to ease into the work week? Equal parts drinking, concentrating, and trash-talking, trying to figure out what Clint Eastwood, Hillary Swank, Mel Gibson, and Michael Caine all have in common.
When I was very small, we would go to church and, the part that sticks with me more than sermons and Sunday school, then we would head to the Ridge Donut Shop with my grandma and her friend Jane. My mom would let me spoon out the custard from her Bavarian Cream donut, a taste I still find myself craving in this land of beautiful pastries. It got me ready for those trying weeks of pre-school when I was chastised over and over again for not being able to write my name and refusing to say the pledge of allegiance.
When I was about 10, I would take my weekly shower, put on my pajamas and watch "The Simpsons" with my family (who, AssRay likes to point out, are frighteningly similar to the Simpsons). My mother would sit on the floor playing solitaire (her cathartic activity before another hellish week as a special ed teacher). This tradition lasted all the way through high school, except that the shower bit was no longer so exceptional.
Throughout college it was chorus rehearsals. From 7:15 to 9:15, every Sunday. On fall evenings at sunset we would sing "The Evening Song" in front of the chapel. On special occasions, rehearsal would be followed by more singing, beer and corn nuggets at The Chariot. Not really ever in that order.
First year in NYC (the Queens-era), my roommate and I would make "Sunday dinners" (ok he would make, I would eat) and we would watch "Six Feet Under." Those were the glory days when I had HBO and a job that I was excited to go to on Monday mornings.
Secondish/thirdish year in NYC (the Brooklyn-era), Sara and I adopted ideas from previous years, particularly the meal (mostly consisting of Spaghetti-o's and Oatmeal Cream Pies instead of the swordfish and homemade mojito ice cream of the previous year) and the Simpsons.
In Paris, AssRay and I often went to the movies, which I have to say is a great way to ease the Sunday night anxiety. But now, more often than not, you will find me at the Highlander, beer in hand, kicking major ass with my friends at the weekly pub quiz. And thus the reason for the post. For EasyJetsetter's very last pub quiz--a poignant moment considering it was her Scottish enthusiasm that brought us all together originally--we earned 36 and a half points and secured ourselves first place and the requisite bottle of champagne. So, now, my new tradition to ease into the work week? Equal parts drinking, concentrating, and trash-talking, trying to figure out what Clint Eastwood, Hillary Swank, Mel Gibson, and Michael Caine all have in common.
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