Sunday

Sunday. God's Day. It's my one day off. Well, what I mean is, I don't have to go into the squad house today. I still have plenty of work to do. I've often thought that they should change Sunday's name to Honey-Do Day. At least it would be more fitting. Tomorrow I'll listen to the guys in the squad house gripe and moan about all the chores they had to do over the weekend, but for me, I love it. Nothing screams "normal" like weekend chores. And after spending the week dealing with the craziness that is my job, "normal" sounds just like what the doctor ordered.
Even though it's just the two of us living here, Sundays start early. Our Baptist church gets things cranking at 8:00 am, and she has to look immaculate before she'll even think of stepping outside. Her hair and makeup are tended to with such care and devotion that it can't help but make me smile. I do wish, however, that I got a dime for every time I hear the phrase, "How does this look?" After a month I could buy Jamaica. Me, I'll throw on a clean dress shirt, a pair of black slacks and a tie and call it good. For her, it's a little more complicated. Her purse - I mean handbag (purses, it seems are so yesterday) has to match her shoes. Her jewelry has to be just so, not too big, not too small. I mean, God won't love her if she doesn't dress to the nines.
After church is when the fun begins. I'll grab a change of clothes and a quick lunch (probably an egg salad sandwich) and then it's time to attack to front lawn with the mower. This is great fun because I own probably the oldest, smelliest and loudest mower known to man. When I fire this baby up, everyone for blocks around can hear me. I like that.
After the yard is mowed, it will be time to fix the squeaky gate on our picket fence. It doesn't need anything more than a healthy dose of WD40, but I plan on making a production out of it. I might even throw on my old leather tool belt - depending on my mood and when the NASCAR race comes on. Now that Rusty Wallace has retired I don't really have a driver to root for, so I mainly root against Jeff Gordon. Never did like that boy. Anybody who drives a rainbow-painted car just isn't right.
When the race is over, I'll grab some tools and try to figure out why the bathtub won't drain properly. I don't care, mind you, but the Mrs. seems to think it's just a few drips short of qualifying as a national disaster. Yep, that's my Sunday, folks. No cold-blooded killers to track down in a chat room, no bullets flying over my head, no high-speed car chases through crowded streets. Just me being allowed to be a normal guy for a day. I love it.
I'm not even going to promote S.C. Lang's book, Original Sin, coming out soon on i Universe Books, today. Nope, I'm just Joe Average today, so let me be. I have a yard to mow, a gate to fix, a race to watch and a tub to tackle. Don't worry, I'll be Detective Dallas Holden again tomorrow. I'm sure I'm going to be charging head first into an interesting week. Until then, this is Joe Average signing off.