The Thursday Night Club

Many years ago, in another life, my schedule was such that my actual “weekend” was not the traditional Friday and Saturday nights, but Thursday and Friday.  Single and unencumbered, I found myself at one or another watering hole on more than a few of those nights, doing the things single and unencumbered people do.  Before long, I noticed a very discernable difference in the crowds on those particular nights.  Aside from the fact that there were typically more couples on Fridays, there was also an air of loneliness, desperation, and anticipation among the former group.  We sat, clutching our beverage, gaze fixed on some TV or other diversion, trying to blend in, a look of grit and determination our mask.  We were tweaking our game.  These were the practice laps for the big race.

There was anticipation, for anticipation held promise, fleeting and surreal though it was.

Those of us in the club differed in other ways.  We did not have the sway, the connections, that feeling of being welcome and accepted as we sashayed in.  The environment was not natural, indigenous, or becoming.  No one trumpeted our arrival.

We were not on the “A List”.

The Thursday Night Club was not an actual club at all, but more a state of mind; a state of being.  It was about appearing to leave on our own terms, having more pressing matters with which to concern ourselves.  It was driving home, thinking of unfolded laundry, and wondering if those leftover chicken fajitas were still good after four days in the refrigerator, and hoping there was something good on HBO or ESPN.

It was believing that Friday would be better.

Diary of a Mad Post-op Patient

Day 1:
Slept until 9:45.  They said this was normal, what with the anesthesia and all.  Fruit salad and toast for breakfast, then a catnap.  Stepped out onto the patio for a few minutes to get some fresh air.  Bird of some kind chirping in the distance.  What a beautiful day!

Day 2:

Slept until 10:15.  Strange, don’t feel rested at all.  Wanted corn flakes for breakfast, no milk.  Oh well.

Day 3:

Up at 6:05.  So is that damn bird.  Chirping is starting to grate on my nerves.  Started re-reading Edge of Eternity; only got to page 18.

Day 4:

Chatted with the postman for a few minutes.  Real likable guy.  Organized the spices in alphabetical order.  Spent an hour searching for nail clippers.

Day 5:

That Dr. Phil is a hoot.  (Wonder if he’s a real doctor.)  Started playing Candy Crush Soda Saga.  Not really my “cup of tea” (ha ha). Looked for that nice postman again; never showed up.

Day 6:

The bird is particularly annoying today, what with the incessant screechy monotone droning and all.  Searching amazon.com for BB gun.  Wondering if Dr. Pol is a real doctor.

Day 7:

There are 931,067 recipes for chicken marsala on the internet. Saw the postman coming up the walk and stepped out to say “hi”.  He dropped my mail at his feet and power walked to the next house, glancing nervously over his shoulder.  Strange.

Day 8:

Frantically searching Audobon.org trying to figure out what the hell kind of bird that is.  Still haven’t caught sight of it; the aggravating utterances stop as soon as I step outside.  It’s as if it can read my mind.  This isn’t funny anymore.

Day 9:

Was disheartened to learn the contestants on Price is Right have to meet certain “eligibility” requirements.  Guessing the ACLU would be interested in that little nugget.  Posting anonymous comment on their website.  Someone has to blow the lid off this.

Day 10:

I can’t be the only one who’s picked up on the little subliminal messages in the prescription drug commercials, can I?  The postman has “accidently” forgotten to deliver my mail for the third time this week.  Someone is going to get an ear full, just you wait.

Day 11:

BB gun arrived.  Set up blind on corner of patio.  Operation Bye Bye Birdie has begun.  That bird doesn’t know who he’s messing with.  Also, there are 384 pavestones on the patio, three of which are chipped.

Day 12:

Operation Bye Bye Birdie enters its second day.  Nearly soiled myself when the refrigerator compressor kicked in.  It’s quiet.  Too quiet.  Also, we have a new mail carrier. 

Day 13:

Into fourth hour of Operation Bye Bye Birdie.  Lowered my binoculars for a split second to wipe the sweat from my eyes and hear a demonic squawk and catch a glimpse of some other-worldly beast, it’s wings flapping wildly as it descends, blocking all else from my vision.  Awaken sometime after dark to find I have actually soiled myself.  I. Am. So {sniff}. Afraid.

Day 14:

The hours run together like sidewalk chalk after a midday rain.  Haven’t showered in days.  Only leave the bed to relieve myself.  Mine is a nightmarish world of thoughts which collide and careen off each other before egressing into the void…  wait.  It was a dream.  It was all JUST A DREAM!  HA HA HA!  Except…  why is there a BB gun on my nightstand?

Co-worker Brings Spinach Dip Again

Silver Spring MD – Employees of the Law Offices of Mudder, Wainwight and Washburn reported today that 26 year old unmarried and childless paralegal Tiffini Baskins has – for the third consecutive year – had the gall to bring deli spinach dip to the annual company holiday luncheon.

“I can’t believe it”, reported receptionist Carole Grossman, who was up at 5 am making from scratch and baking a chocolate and pecan chess pie.  “She just stands there hovering over it, like it’s a just hatched eaglet or something until someone has some”.

 “And she gets really moody if you don’t tell her it’s like the greatest you ever had”, added admin assistant Valerie Rush.  “I mean, she got it at Super Fresh”.

“Look, she didn’t even take the price tag off this year.”

Flanked by a box of multi-grain crackers and a bag of corn tortilla chips, the sad, afterthought of a dish appeared almost flippant among an array of delicacies including green bean casserole with brie and almonds, cheddar and bacon potato salad, and deviled eggs with paprika and garlic.

“I agonized for weeks on what to make, before deciding on the sausage balls with onion and Worchester sauce”, lamented account manager Heather Crittenden, “then Little Miss Size Six prances in here like royalty with something she scooped up from a grocery store deli on her way in this morning.” 

At press time, senior partner Harv Wainwright, married with four children and twelve years Baskins’ senior was complimenting her on her “thoughtful, heart-friendly” selection.