You want some crazy with those eggs?

I'm rather neutral on the après Church brunch experience.

It's one of those things like working out or cleaning the kitchen: it's not so bad once you actually do it, but you still not-so-secretly wish you were in bed, covered up to the chin with fluffy comforters and watching Tennessee Williams movies and rewinding the parts where Marlon Brando or Paul Newman take off their shirts (um, so I've heard.)

However, in the spirit of good fellowship I've been brunching with handful of folks from our 20's/30's group and friends, it's driving me crazy.

To be fair, I like most of the people, there's Lee, the old-fashioned southern boy and Torvald the only Dutch boy I've never --not even once-- been tempted to kill in his sleep. In fact, I like the majority of the folks with whom I've brunched. Plus a passel of peeps who are otherwise very nice.

But then there are the Others.

The Others range from the mildly maladjusted to the full-on wackaloons, and frankly, I just do not want to put up with that sort of nutjobbery on the one day I have specially reserved for rest and re-creation.

I will gladly spend time with the Others any other day of the week, at any time. I mean, that's the Christian thing, right? Love the unloveable.

Want to talk my ear off on Saturday night about how depressed you are and how your therapist Just Doesn't Understand? Fine. Need someone to morally support you in uncomfortable conversations with your parents who are just as horrible as you? I'm your gal. Want to insult me to your passive/aggressive heart's content because (not so) deep down you resent the hell out of me for living "your" dream even though I've worked my tail off to get here and you've done nothing but mope? Bring it on.

Just don't sit there and insult me, or even worse, patronize me, during the few hours I have designated for plain old uncomplicated relaxation. I won't snap (usually) but it's hard to observe my own personal Sabbath when my one overriding desire is to slap you with a fish.

Whew, that was deep. I guess it's time for a little palate cleanser. I give you a vintage Paul Newman from his underrated turn in Tennessee William's Sweet Bird of Youth