Wow, I did something I had not allowed myself to do in a long time – I enjoyed the weekend. I held it above the other five days. Now Monday’s back and she’s jealous as hell. I woke up with a banging headache and a serious case of dragging feet. I actually got up and turned off the alarm this morning and went back to bed to pout.
For many years, because I do not have a “job”, I have allowed the days to blend together. Only Friday is important anymore, because the trash man wants his cans out there. That’s my schedule – take the cans out on Thursday, bring ’em in on Friday. The other weekdays all began to lose their names. Especially Monday, and who would disagree there?
My kids are old enough to tote themselves, they even have their own old beater cars. I make sure the cars are registered, that’s all I do, and that doesn’t have a week day name on it. I live by number dates, especially the ones that relate to various bills. I’ve become kind of Radar O’Reilly on the bills – I know when I haven’t paid any lately, and I start looking in the mail box. I know when I have paid them lately, cause there’s not enough money left in the check book to go to the store.
I set myself signs to keep track of the year. I love the bright green envelopes the tax collector uses – I set those in my desk caddy, standing straight up, to remind me, it’s either Thanksgiving, or Easter. I know when it’s my birthday, because my friends Mark and Ken give me a big old corn beef brisket. And of course, that means, St Paddy’s is right around the corner, time to keep an eye on the cop budget.
I try to keep track of the holidays, because that usually means, special foods and lots of sweets. But, as I get older, the holidays seems to slide past faster, the traditions don’t seem that important, and there’s always next year.
Weekends used to be a big deal, for one thing – NO SCHOOL! When I was a kid the weekend was the time when my mom slept all day, and my dad came home from whatever highway job, or we went and spent two days in some crappy motel with him, eating in steak houses and being allowed to stay up for Johnny Carson. My dad, who hauled dirt, asphalt and gravel for your highways, was a big believer in weekends. If we were far enough south, he would take us over the border into Tia Juana, for taco wagon and other diversions, once to the dog races in Mexicali.
But the weekend lost it’s significance for me when I got out of school and into a job that didn’t have weekends. Or holidays, for that matter. Remember Tower’s old motto? “We’re open 365 days a year, til Midnight.” They meant it. Holidays were somewhat significant because we were paid time-and-a-half, to a minimum wage worker, that’s, well, one and a half times minimum wage. But, it also meant, crazy insane holiday shoppers, pissed off drunken jerks, and co-workers who pretended they forgot their shift and you had to cover it. Luckily my boss gilded the cage with special meals, treats from the gourmet chocolate place across the street, and lots of compliments. Thanks Jerry Pompei, wherever you are.
Jerry used to play a lot of music in the store. He introduced me to a then-unknown Stevie Ray Vaughn. I’d drag myself into work at 7am to help Jerry open the store, I’d feel like warmed over hash, and I’d come in to find Jerry dancing around the store, doing the totals on the register, cleaning the shelves and floors, and taking care of any problems left over from last night. So, this morning, when I felt like sleeping another 12 hours, I realized I had to wake myself up with a set of SRV. I crawled out to my computer and went to youtube for a blast of “House is a-rockin’, don’t bother knockin,”
And then I decided to take a look at little sister…
]So if you drivin’ by my house today brudda you gonna see it jumpin’ and swayin’! Cause I’m kickin’ the shit outta Monday, she’s a helluva bitch.