Saturday Mornings

DISCLAIMER: Below is a rant which includes me swearing for effect. I do that a lot when ranting.  Do not read past this point is you have problems with swearing or excessive complaining.

I am not a morning person. If you have ever met me, you can tell that. I am never pleasant in the mornings unless they occur after the hour of noon. Even if you give me a gallon of mocha with my wake-up call, I will probably still throw things at you for waking me up in the first place. Even after drinking my daily coffee, it still takes a little over an hour for me to stop feeling like a bitch.

I have never been a morning person. Even at the tender age of eight I was able to stay up until three and sleep until noon or later. I will never stop being a morning person. [By God, if I ever have kids they will naturally be night owls. If not, they can entertain themselves until I feel like dragging myself out of bed on a Saturday morning.]

Unfortunately, I live in a house of people filled with morning birds. My mother goes to the gym everyday at 4.30, my father is at work by 5.30, and my little brother, age 13, is anywhere between 6 and 7.30, no matter the day. None of them drink coffee. Yet, they are annoyingly conscious at ungodly hours.

The only other night person is my 20-year-old brother. Lucky for him, he lives in the basement and is able to beg out of any early morning procedure by claiming he was up late for work or studying.

Tomorrow is Saturday. This is what I should be able to do on Saturdays:

:opens eyes, stretches, looks at clock: Oh, look, it’s 12.30. Lovely. I want a coffee.

This is what tomorrow will look like:

8.15 --: Father knocks on door: Get up! I need your help.

            Me: No. Go away.

8.30 -- :Father opens door: Get up, let’s go. I warned you.

            Me: It’s still not nine.

8.45 -- :Father pulls blanket off me: Up and at ‘em! We have work to do.

            Me: :throws sharpened pencil/hardcover book/pillow at him:

9.00 -- :Father storms in screaming: Let’s go. NOW! I warned you last night. I am not going to argue this with you.

            Me: And I told you that there was no way in hell I was getting up this early. I’m tired. Go away.

After that it becomes a flurry of varied, indiscernible argument between me and my father. He usually threatens to do something, and I tell him that I don’t care.

He is determined to win. I am determined to sleep more.

Each week ends up a little differently.

Here’s to hoping that I get to sleep to a time closer to acceptable than 9 am.

Fingers crossed,

Sami

On a side note: I haven’t slept in at all this summer because I have either had to go to school or my Father has found something for me to do. Father knows this, I have told him, yet he still insists that I sleep enough and I need to get up.

Another note: Every single week he does this. He wakes me up when I am tired and I am unpleasant. He yells at me for being bitchy. (He does not use that word but that’s basically what he means.) I inform him that if I was allowed to sleep to a reasonable time I would be slightly more pleasant. I get yelled out for talking back. Rinse and repeat seven days later.

My family and I have a rather combative relationship at the moment.