Oh, Sunday, Seriously

"We'll always have Sunday."
"That's not the way we rehearsed it."

If there's a greater day of the week than Sunday, the SJG would gladly sing its praises.  But there's no day as great as Sunday.  I'm not all that ga-ga over Monday, Tuesday or Wednesday, but I get through them just fine.  I like Thursday.  I like-like Friday.  I have an intense crush on Saturday.  But Sunday?  I blush just thinking about the way Sunday makes me feel.  I'm deeply, madly, hopelessly in love with Sunday.  This isn't  a recent development, I might add.  I've had a thing for Sunday since I was an even shorter SJG.  Childhood Sundays meant fresh bagels for breakfast and visits with my grandparents.  Every Sunday, without fail, ding-dong, there they were, the Russians:  my very tall grandpa and my very short grandma.  We gathered in the den, ate pretzels, sipped soda and spent an hour or so just talking, laughing, playing checkers and Gin Rummy.  Sometimes we listened to "You Don't Have To Be Jewish" or Nichols and May or Allan Sherman.  Sometimes, Steve and Eydie.  Sometimes my grandparents told stories about their early days in America, when they spoke zero English.  Every visit, my grandma said this, as she rose off the "fofa," her nickname for sofa:  "Give me a push, lover."  My grandpa would give her a gentle shove and send her on the way to the powder room by the front door.  When it was time to leave, I'd hide in my grandpa's coat.  "Where's Carol?"  "Has anyone seen Carol?"  And then I'd emerge from his coat.  "Oh, there she is."  Sundays in the home of the SJG still involve bagels and visits with grandparents.  Today we'll go see Grandpa Benjy and try to cheer him up.  I'm hoping one look at his grandsons will prove medicinal.  Mostly, though, Sunday it's just us, taking it easy.  Late afternoon, I take a detour to dance class, then I'm back for dinner and TV with my favorite boychicks.  Oh, Sunday, seriously, I love you so.  Don't ever change.