Casual Friday (Thru Thursday)

As you may or may not know, the von Bloggenschtern family is home to 2 young men. One's a teenager, the other is 20 years old.

Both are tall and strapping dudes. One is just about 6 feet tall. The other? Well , I'll let ya know when he stops growing. He's currently at around 6'4".

In light of their whole young-men-who-need-privacy situation and the whole insatiability issues, whenever we travel, we find it well worth our while to stay at a place that has:

A) more than one bedroom, and
B) a breakfast buffet.

(A) is mainly because the younger half of the family population has completely polar circadian rhythms to the older half.

I don't quite know how this happened, but I'm a'gonna chalk it up strictly to them being the younger half of the family population.

And maybe they've got that whole 'Teen Ennui' thing going on. Where they sleep in because they have nothing better to do (plus they stayed up until 3 AM facebooking/Skyping/gaming and all other 'ings' that a mother doesn't really want to know about).

With son #2, it might be because he's growing at an exponential rate.

Whatever the reason, my husband and I like our sleep, and we go to bed shortly after our Early Bird Special at the local Denny's.

(B) is because I like to get my money's worth. In fact, in the case of teenagers, I like to feel as though the hotel is actually losing money by foolishly offering such a service.

Clearly, they are not aware that when one grows an inch overnight every night, one must procure and ingest every food item that is not nailed down nor locked away.

Must. Eat. Protein. NOW.

The origin of the food is of no matter. It could be muffins made of mystery fruit, or sausages from dubious livestock, bound together with teaspoons of sawdust. If it's hot and it's fragrant (in a good-ish way), it's going down that pie-hole. Posthaste. In vast quantities.

By and large, I am very happy with these hotel scenarios. As are my human vacuum cleaners.

However.

There is a trend that I've started to notice that is highly irksome. And it is this:

A LOT of people think that, because they're ensconced within a hotel, and because said hotel serves complimentary breakfast, it's perfectly normal if they traipse downstairs IN THEIR PAJAMAS.

Ack.

I've kind of become inured to the flannel pajama bottoms and t-shirts; my nieces wear those all the time, as do some of my sons' friends.

But when I saw a woman - middle-aged, rather large (& rather buxom, may I add to further taint the recessess of your brain) - wearing her short nightie? That, my darlings, is beyond the pale.

I do not even care if she had made the effort to put on her underpinnings (or in this case, a flying buttress) before she wended her way into the elevator.

I. DO. NOT. WANT. TO. SEE. THIS.

EVER.

So, je despair, where does it all end?

Bathrobes? At first, all patrician and cinched tight. Then, eventually, just left open, because what the hell - does it really matter?

Sports bras and thong underwear?

Or my worst nightmare - wifebeater undershirts and boxers, with those darling morning semi-flacid schlongers half-hanging out of the barn door?

The vision is truly shudder-worthy, and makes me want to figure out how to bleach my brain of these horrific images by pouring Javex into my ear canals.

No one should be traipsing anywhere with that situation, other than to the nearest washroom. INSIDE THEIR OWN HOTEL ROOM.

One thing's for sure - I think I'll just be having the powdered eggs...

...hold the sausage.

Any Given Wednesday

Having eschewed the regular egg white omelet or plain fat-free yogurt with 3 berries, I make my pilgrimage to my Wednesday breakfast haunt for my balls-to-the-wall, gut-busting 2 by 5 breakfast.

Yeah, that's right, people.

5 delectable items. Times 2. To summarize: 5 different flavors of grease; twice the opportunity for some sort of coronary situation. A big ol' plate of WooHooI'mCheatingDeath. Jam on the side.

As I'm waiting for my breakfast, I'm rummaging in my rat's nest of a purse for my phone.

Because this?

This is important stuff, man. It's a POS (Person of Significance) sighting.

SMS to husband: CACKLER!!! Life is good.

SMS back to me: U should write about him.

SMS to husband: I think that I already did...

And, after a careful scouring of the vonB vaults, it's proven to be true. I did write about The Cackler.

But him being on vacation the last few weeks makes his reappearance today (in both real life and blogosphere tale) all the sweeter, and so worth repeating.

He is one of my Wednesday touchstones, and his mirth truly makes my day.

Applause, applause, applause...Wait for crowd to settle...

Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, without further ado, may I present to you (bow dramatically)...The Cackler.

****

Oh, how the Baroness loves her Wednesdays.

I love pretending that I'm my own personal assistant as I zip from errand to errand.

Grocery store - hmm - I think the Baroness would like a bag of frozen tilapia. It's the new Louis Vuitton of the fish world. Classy, yet nutritious. Sure, hurl it in the cart.

Drugstore - gelcaps or tablet? Which is least likely to get wedged in the Baroness' delicate throat? Let's throw all caution to the wind and go for the gelcap. She'll be thrilled.

Big box store - if I can score her those yoga pants, I'm in for a hu-u-u-ge raise.

Oh, how the Baroness does love having a personal assistant. To make all the tough decisions. That fish thing? Whoa.

But the thing that I love the most on Wednesdays is going out for breakfast. Truth be told, I think that any ol' day is a good day for going out to breakfast, but on Wednesdays I actually do it. And I go to the same local restaurant every week. Have for years. Why? Well, for a couple of very solid reasons. One, it's a Mom and Pop establishment, and I try to use community services whenever I can, and two - they know me. When I walk in, I don't get the Cheers-esque "Baroness!", but they know what booth I like, they know both my "A" and my "B" menu selection, and they can always tell if I want decaf or regular. (That last one? I don't know how - maybe they're magical. Or maybe it's the look on my face)(You know, that constipated-looking one.)

Oh, hold up. There's a third reason I love my greasy spoon, and the main reason I wouldn't dream of spending Wednesday morning anywhere else - The Cackler.

The Cackler is one of a group of about 12 older gentleman who are always at the restaurant at the same time as me. These gentlemen (sometimes a token lady or two shows up) sit and b.s. over coffee. The topics aren't all that extraordinary - WW II memories, so and so's health, sports. It's the fact that, without fail, they are there any given Wednesday. I once asked Ray - who has worked there since the invention of dirt - how long they'd been showing up, and he said as long as he could remember.

Among them is my favorite. I call him the Cackler.

When the group is really cookin', and someone's telling a whopper, the Cackler begins his laugh. I'm sure, dear readers, that all of you know someone who has such an infectious laugh. The kind of chortle, that even if you're on the verge of losing your royal bearings, you hear it and begin to smile. Yeah, that one!

I have come to look forward to hearing that laugh every Wednesday. I expect it. I crave it. And when they spend their morning on serious matters, I want to go over to the table and bark at them to lighten up already. Just to hear that laugh. Duke 1 and Duke 2 know the Cackler. As does the Baron. Even our exchange student has heard him in action. To know, know, know him is to love, love, love him. And I do.

Last Wednesday, one of the men from the table got up and asked a patron at another table if they'd seen Bob lately. He was concerned, as Bob hadn't been around at any of their senior haunts in the last couple of weeks. The patron assured him that Bob was alright, just had the flu. The look of relief that washed over that man's face almost brought tears to my eyes.

Today's decree from the Baroness - call up a friend you haven't talked to in a while to see how they're doing.

Or have your personal assistant do it.