My Saturdays have been stolen

Saturdays are a special day.

They're the only day of the week when I get to sleep in.

Eat a luxurious breakfast.

Wander around the farmer's market hand in hand with my husband while bantering happily with the vendors who are now our friends, and accepting the free apple here or jalapenos there.

They are a nice day when we can come home and relax and I can bake a tasty treat with the fruit we just scored and clean up the living room, and finish a project here or a project there that I've been working on. (Like all the hats I've been knitting.)

Travis and I might sit on the couch, eating peaches and milk and watching a movie with the door open so a breeze comes in.

BUT NOW.

I work every Saturday morning.

I come home in the afternoons stressed and tired and collapse into our untidied living room.

Travis says things like "I got these apples today," and hands me a bag of mushy-ish apples. (Can't he even choose apples without me?) and says "And they were out of eggs so we have to go get the tasteless salmonella eggs from the store."

And I don't want to bake or clean because NOW I want to relax.

So we sit on the couch with the door open, so it airs out the weird stink of our house and watch a movie while eating something neither delicious nor romantic, like potato chips until we feel sick because of all the sitting and the stinking and the chips.

And I blame my job.

Because clearly I am happier at home than elsewhere.

Unless elsewhere is the farmer's market.