Saturdays with Sarah

DAVIS — Saturday mornings are strangely good these days. As good as they can be without gigantic breakfasts, a gang of flunkeys passed out on any and every couch and available piece of real estate in my house, and a seemingly never-ending series of mimosas that gradually turn to beer and eventually, much to Izza's dismay, whiskey.
Yes, domestication has its perks. What they are, I still don't know.
Waking up this morning, I heard a sound that any man with a long-term girlfriend knows and dreads: The sound of Sarah Jessica-Parker and her three devils yacking obnoxiously under the guise of femininity about penises, shoes, cosmos and murdering the last shreds of dignity this world has left.
Needless to say, I was disgusted, forced to to get up regardless of how tired I still was.
Why I bought her that movie I will never know. I should have bought her "Hockey's 100 Greatest Goals" instead. At least we could watch that together without one of us vomiting.
Waking up to the sounds of Sex and the City is worse than any alarm, worse than the grinding gears of any garbage truck, and worse than just about anything I can imagine.
I think water-boarding victims at Gitmo cringe at the very thought of it.
Still, I made Izza some eggs and a bagle, made myself some coffee and started writing in an attempt to not lose my mind completely.
So far so good. Then again, it's still early.