Item of the Day: Sunday Night Trifecta of Death

For those of you who have awesome jobs that you're excited to go to every day:

1. I am jealous of you. Obvs.
2. You will need to understand Sunday Night Anxiety (or SNA) for this post.

SNA is when, after you've sufficiently romped around, carefree from work duties, on Friday evening, all of Saturday, and then have brunched yourself full of eggs and toast and cheese on Sunday morning, you realize that you have to GO BACK TO WORK in LESS THAN 24 HOURS.

The weekend is effectively DEAD.

What results is a cold feeling that grows deep in your stomach (or your loins, if you're, like, into saying the word "loins"), which ruins any remaining fun you might have planned for the rest of the day. Because, in the back of your mind, you know you're going to have to return to attending pointless meetings, bitching about people being irresponsible buttwads, and spending your entire day wishing you were eating pretzels and hummus on the couch and watching Jersey Shore reruns.

Which, if you were me, is what you would have spent the majority of the last week doing.

So clearly, I don't even need to mention this, but SNA is especially terrible when you're coming back from 10 days of holiday revelry. In fact, I started to develop typical SNA symptoms this past Friday morning, right after I watched JWoww kick the crap out of Sammi Sweetheart. For like, the third time. In retrospect, it was foreshadowing at its best.

But at the time, I was determined to NOT let SNA get the best of me. I spent the whole weekend carousing, trying to forget about the impending MONDAY OF DOOM. And then I actually did a lot of work on Sunday during the day, in order to mentally prepare myself.

However, I forgot about Sunday night slumber. SNA ruins any chance of a good night's sleep. It's a proven fact. Add to that a hefty cat named Ferguson who has Cat-On-Head Syndrome, and freaky dreams, and you're pretty much done for. Lucky me, I have been blessed with all three of these delights!

This was last night's schedule:

10:00 Get into bed, set alarm. Scoot cat off bed. Turn off light.
10:30 Gently push cat off of bed.
11:00 Almost asleep, despite meatball-sized cold ball of Sunday night anxiety in stomach. Cat sits on head, purrs loudly. Wake up completely. Extract cat claws from head. Throw cat off bed.
12:00 Still awake due to SNA; ball grows to size of softball.
12:30 Finally asleep.
1:00 Wake up - cat is on head, purring with same volume of garbage truck. Shout expletives. Hurl cat off bed. SNA pit is size of cheese wheel.
1:30-4:00 Sleep.
4:30 Dream that I attend Oscars, wearing lovely evening gown, but no shoes. Only black socks. Taunted by Ashley Olsen. Wake up, embarrassed. Cat is on head. Goddammit. Allow cat to stay.
5:00 Dream that I attend party and drink seltzer poisoned with arsenic. Foam at mouth. Die. Wake up, relieved. Cat is still on head. Obviously.
5:30 Dream that deranged squirrel is attacking my face. Repeatedly. Wake up in cold sweat. Cat is still on head. Angrily curse cat for influencing dreams. Peel confused cat off head.
5:40 Alarm! Yay.

When I got up, I literally felt like I was Snooki, and SNA was the random dude who stole my drinks at the bar and then punched me in the face.

And my cat was my 12-pound Jersey poof.