Lobster Night is special.
It is one evening a year that a certain gang of friends convene at Chez Maggie’s to enjoy sisterhood, laughter and lobster.
It is a time to rehash old stories, bitch about class reunions and to roast our unsuspecting husbands.
This year’s Lobster Night, which really happened to be last year’s Lobster Night, because last year’s Lobster night didn’t make the cut of events before the end of 2016, which was actually 2015’s Lobster Night, because that year we missed it entirely, was coincidentally on the same day that the American Red Cross was stationed at my work.
I am merely stating these facts in order to prove that none of this was my fault.
Because I, being the good samaritan that I am, had dutifully signed up for a 10:15 AM appointment.
Ninety-seven percent of the time, giving blood doesn’t affect me, except for that one exception when I ended up lying unnoticed on the floor in my little office cubical for twenty minutes, before crawling back into my chair, which was not that easy because it is on wheels and it swivels.
I finally made it up there.
I rolled my way over to my desk, shut my computer off and went home.
But that’s okay.
Giving blood saves lives.
And I like to save lives.
That is just that way I am.
Especially when The American Red Cross is conveniently parked in our cafeteria during my shift.
I have been dating Sherri for a couple of months now and I really like her. Do you think it is appropriate to give her a bouquet of flowers for Valentine’s Day? I don’t want to scare her away by giving her something too serious and I don’t want to piss her off by not giving her enough.
Please Help. I can’t blow it.
I believe a bouquet of flowers is the ticket. You are correct that it may be too early to dangle shiny jewels in front of her face. If I were you, I would also take her out for dinner.
Now, as far as those flowers go, be careful with your selection.
Did I ever tell you about that one Valentine’s Day, many years ago? The one where I came home from work and the kitchen table was buried under foliage?
I was speechless.
My sixteen year old step daughter walked into the room.
“Holy balls,” I said. “This is amazing!”
“Oh, I know it,” she says. “See that bouquet of roses? It was delivered to me in my Spanish class. It was hilarious! Right to my class.”
It was my first week in the credit department.
I had a new desk and a new computer and my very own telephone.
It was 7:00 AM.
My very own telephone rang at my new desk.
“Shit,” I thought, setting down my freshly brewed cup of coffee. “Who in their right mind would be calling the credit department?”
I cleared my throat and picked up the hand piece.
“Good morning. Credit Department. This is Millie.”
It was my youngest.
I could barely hear him.
My mind began to race.
“Why is Rene calling me? He’s on a field trip.”
Unlike his mother, Rene was a joiner. It was his freshman year in high school. He was on the football team. He was in band. He joined Forensics, which I thought had to do with dead bodies and solving crimes, until I went to a forensics meet. He was on the math team. And he was also a member of something called, The FBLA.
I’d gone to a meeting. I’d signed a permission slip. And I’d written a check.
At the crack of dawn, he’d proudly boarded a bus that was headed to Green Bay for a four day, Future Business Leaders of America, conference, carrying a duffle bag in one hand and over his other arm was draped his brand new suit.
“You need a suit?” I’d said.
“Yeah. It’s for our presentation.”
Good thing I nailed this fancy job here in the credit department.
As he walked the runway in our kitchen and stopped to pose, I told him how handsome he was, all the while feeling my first pangs of “shit, he looks all grown up.”
“Rene?” I said into the mouth piece.
My puppy has been showing signs of dissatisfaction with his doctor as of late.
Last year, three quarters of the staff was called in to hold him still, in order to draw a little blood.
He has peed on their floor. He has curled his lips and shown off his pearly whites. And he has growled a few choice four letter words.
But, I think what caused that big star next to the yellow high-lighted word MUZZLE on the front page of his profile, was that time he tried to take that arm off of that technician.
Since then, Hunter has been instructed to take three teeny-tiny tranquilizer pills, two hours before all visits.
“Two hours before. And no stimulation,” his doctor had said.
That is why Sven and I were trying to get our dog, who seemed to be made of Jell-O, into the car.
“He’s a puddle,” said Sven as I walked in the door.
We tried to get him to stand up.
“Here puppy,” I said.
“He is not a puppy,” said Sven.
“Yes he is.”
The wiener stuffed with cheese did no more than get him to lift his head off his bed. We knew we were screwed when he set it back down.