Mondays
Why is it that Mondays are so horrible? Even when I worked Wednesday - Sunday, Mondays treated me badly.
DH and I were confirmed into the Episcopal church (like the American version of Church of England) by the bishop on Sunday. It's really a huge deal. Families came from all over to see the kids and other adults get confirmed...and we had my Dad there. Who didn't even stay to the end of the service. Who took three pictures in total that show: the bishop's robe, my big ass, someone else getting confirmed.
My mom worked the night before at the hospital and had to work that night, so I didn't require her to be excited and present; my sister Stephanie, however, had to be there. She missed my baptism in January b/c she didn't want to take off work 10 minutes early, and she had no excuses this time. I began telling my family about this weeks before, reminding them everytime I spoke to them. I spoke to older sis Stephanie a few times during the week and mentioned it. I called her house 4 times the night before and left messages. Sunday morning came and went, no Stephanie.
Perhaps it's my depression, but I just couldn't get a smile out of it all. Not even when we received our faux leather bound engraved Books of Common Prayer, or when the deacon gave me an extra huge sip of wine at communion (seriously, I had to gulp).
Today I feel like such a spoiled brat. It's my fault, really. I didn't make a big deal out of getting married, so DH and I hardly have any memories of celebration. Didn't tell the world when I was baptized, so I didn't get pictures taken of the event. And now I didn't flat out make the ultimatum: Watch me be confirmed or give up your christmas pressies. So nobody showed up.
At least I had DH and Dear old Dad there (for the biggest bit anyway). If nobody shows when I get ordained, I'm disowning them and adopting a family from Maine. With accents, clam chowder, and a house in the Adirondacks. They'd take pictures and buy me lunch.
Why is it that Mondays are so horrible? Even when I worked Wednesday - Sunday, Mondays treated me badly.
DH and I were confirmed into the Episcopal church (like the American version of Church of England) by the bishop on Sunday. It's really a huge deal. Families came from all over to see the kids and other adults get confirmed...and we had my Dad there. Who didn't even stay to the end of the service. Who took three pictures in total that show: the bishop's robe, my big ass, someone else getting confirmed.
My mom worked the night before at the hospital and had to work that night, so I didn't require her to be excited and present; my sister Stephanie, however, had to be there. She missed my baptism in January b/c she didn't want to take off work 10 minutes early, and she had no excuses this time. I began telling my family about this weeks before, reminding them everytime I spoke to them. I spoke to older sis Stephanie a few times during the week and mentioned it. I called her house 4 times the night before and left messages. Sunday morning came and went, no Stephanie.
Perhaps it's my depression, but I just couldn't get a smile out of it all. Not even when we received our faux leather bound engraved Books of Common Prayer, or when the deacon gave me an extra huge sip of wine at communion (seriously, I had to gulp).
Today I feel like such a spoiled brat. It's my fault, really. I didn't make a big deal out of getting married, so DH and I hardly have any memories of celebration. Didn't tell the world when I was baptized, so I didn't get pictures taken of the event. And now I didn't flat out make the ultimatum: Watch me be confirmed or give up your christmas pressies. So nobody showed up.
At least I had DH and Dear old Dad there (for the biggest bit anyway). If nobody shows when I get ordained, I'm disowning them and adopting a family from Maine. With accents, clam chowder, and a house in the Adirondacks. They'd take pictures and buy me lunch.
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