If It's Sunday...

Everyone loves Sundays. For traditional Italian families like mine, Sundays are defined by three events: (1) a trip to church, (2) gorging yourself at a mid-afternoon, extended-family-wide carbo-loaded meal, and (3) a late-afternoon nap induced by said carbo-loaded meal. Sunday is the day we escape from the stress and worry of the rest of the week. Sunday is the day we stop thinking about all our problems. Sunday is the day of rest.

Somehow my parents missed the memo. At 10:30AM every Sunday, snuck in between the quiet reposes of church and food, an overdramatic fanfare filled the living room and kitchen. "If it's Sunday, it's..." -- too late. Howard Reig couldn't even get out those infamous lines before the bloodbath began. Literally. Dad was often too busy insisting that Mom put down the "pinko commie rag" (which others of us know endearingly as the New York Times) to notice as he cut onions, peppers, and little chunks of his thumb into his omelette. Realizing what he'd done, his stiff demeanor would break down into a pathetic plea for a band aid. The James Carville to his Mary Matlin, Mom would make a snide comment about Newt Gingrich in response. Too easy, right?

Breakfast seamlessly transitioned into an intimate brunch with Eleanor Clift and Pat Buchanan. Translation: things only got worse. While Captain Russert managed to, on some level, keep the peace (role reversal, I know), the rambling bickering of the Group only lent itself to a gloves-off brawl in my living room (luckily the dishes had usually been washed at this point, or I'd probably still be discovering the shards of glass in my feet).

Mom would spout moral imperatives, and Dad would counter with pragmatic cynicism. (I always like to say that only Mom had all the right ideas, but only Dad could make really good arguments to support ideas. Egotist that I am, I like to think that I emerged from the fray with the best of both worlds.) They got thick in mid-to-late 90s debates about health care, immigration, ethics, and isolationism; and they tackled the truly deep questions like "how much is Slick Willy really responsible for the economic boom if he's just fooling around in the Oval Office?" or "just how sleazy is Kenneth Starr?" Yet miraculously, without fail, my parents heard when the fight bell rang. "Bye, bye!" Silent pause. "I love you."

After hundreds of those Sunday mornings, you might think it's a little sick and twisted that I love talking about politics. But personally, I think it makes a lot of sense. Whether they knew it or not, my parents were raising an active and interested little guy -- who would never be afraid to speak his mind. Why? Because the fight was the ideal Sunday. It was the trip to church, the meal, and the nap all in one. If you could graph the happiness and affection between my parents during their thirty plus years of marriage, I know you'd see huge spikes every 12PM on Sunday. Not because the fight was over, but because the fight had been fought.

Now, there's only one thing my parents got wrong. If 12PM on Sunday is so good, why limit it to Sunday? I'm starting this blog so the doors to thought, conversation, debate, and argument are open all the time. I'm starting this blog because I've been faced with several instances over the past several months in which people are hesitant (afraid?) to have a good old-fashioned Sunday brawl. I don't know if it's out of some sense of propriety, or ignorance, or apathy, or something else entirely. Whatever the cause, I'm claiming this blog as my place to duke it out with whomever will join me.

That's right, I'm bringing Sunday back.