B and I both took Monday off so we could spend Sunday not whining about how we didn’t want to go back to work the next day. And then on Monday we went into town to have lunch together, shop for stocking stuffers and just hang out.

Seriously, we whine a lot on Sundays. It’s generally the day we clean the house, and I say “generally” because I mean we don’t clean the house if the dust balls aren’t too big and there aren’t new life forms evolving from the scum in the bathtub. We have developed procrastination to such a fine art that it’s taught in the Big Ten Schools. And when things finally get so bad that have to fight our way through the skirmish line the germs have set up in front of the hall closet just to get our hands on the cleaning supplies, we hit them with everything we’ve got and then we’re good for another two or three weeks. Sometimes four. Please don’t tell my mother, she’d only worry.

And because we usually put off the house cleaning until the mold under the sink develops industrial technology, it takes us most of a Sunday to clean up. I’m kidding. It takes us most of a Sunday because we are, as I may have mentioned, card-carrying members of the Grand Old Order of Procrastinators. We clean until we are overwhelmed by the laborious task of sweeping or dusting or whatever and we have to sit down and take a few moments to catch our breath by watching YouTube videos of cats with laser vision, which turns into checking our Facebook status, which becomes reading a funny post on Wonkette, and before we know it, it’s past our bed time!

Bed time is when the whining starts. And really it only sounds as if we’re whining, when really what we’re doing is expressing our disbelief that the weekend is over already or, more to the point, that science hasn’t found a way to bend space and time so the weekend will seem like five days and the working week will seem like two. They can blast mountains apart in Switzerland with ray guns to find the Higgs Boson, but they can’t warp space. Lame.

So we made our weekend longer using more old-fashioned methods: we each took a day of vacation on Monday. I had some use-it-or-lose-it leave to burn, and My Darling B had reserved Monday as part of her Christmas vacation when she filled out her leave request many, many moons ago. We went to Graze for lunch, then wandered down State Street to look for trivial little nick-nacks to fill the stockings of various O-Folk, should they happen to leave their stockings on the floor in the bathroom next to the hamper again. It started out as a joke but now they seem to expect it.