“Humpday” may be the universal nickname for Wednesday, but for years, I’ve called it “Winesday.” This dates to my very-laid-back job in Camas, WA. The ultra-hip office with the kegerator and ping-pong table and anything-goes dress code. Even the owners would show up wearing shorts, t-shirts, and flip-flops.
BTW, I think I just set a record with hyphen use in that last paragraph (seven).
Part of the culture there involved enjoying an alcoholic beverage pretty much whenever you felt like it. Looking back now, this seems ludicrous. A disaster (or DUI) waiting to happen. Fortunately, most of us were responsible and didn’t abuse the privilege. And we never let it interfere with our work.
I’m not a beer guy, so the kegerator held no appeal for me. But I didn’t want to feel completely left out, so I suggested to my team (I supervised two other writers) that we take turns bringing in a bottle of wine to share every Wednesday. Uncorking (or more often than not, unscrewing, ’cause we just weren’t that fancy) that bottle shortly after 3:00 became a weekly ritual. Hey, it was 5:00 somewhere! And when it was 5:00 there we were headed home, so that wouldn’t have cut it. And thus, Winesday was born.
The companies I have worked for since have been far more conservative. If I opened a bottle of wine here at CenturyCo, I’d find myself in the unemployment line the next day.
Incidentally, I’ve never understood that term. Twice in my life I’ve been unemployed, but there was never a line I had to stand in. I just pulled up a website, checked a few boxes, and voila! Money magically appeared in my bank account every week. It was all very efficient.
Where was I? Oh, right. Getting canned for drinking on the job.
Only, I don’t anymore. But Winesday is alive and well. I still drink wine every Wednesday, only now, I wait until after work to enjoy a glass or two. What can I say? Old habits die hard and it’s a great way to celebrate reaching the halfway point of the work week.
You can have your camel. I’ll take my Sauvignon blanc.
A couple of weeks ago, I mentioned the cool mid-century modern starburst clock we picked up from a vintage store in the middle of nowhere, Wyoming. What I failed to mention was the fact that, when we got it home, we found out it didn’t work. Despite assurances from the owner that it worked just fine.
In retrospect, we should have asked to test it out before buying, but it required a D battery. Does anything use D batteries anymore?! I assumed those went extinct around the same time as the boombox. Either way, she didn’t (or pretended not to) have one. The cynic in me wonders if she just figured, Rapid City is 300 miles from Worland, and I will never see these two again. Long drive over two mountain ranges to return a clock, you know? Then again, maybe she honestly believed it worked. I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt so as to preserve my belief in the inherent goodness of mankind.
So, we got home, and found out we had paid $75 for a clock that didn’t tell time. Minor detail, that. Unlike its immobile minute hand, I was pretty ticked off. But then I remembered there’s a clock shop in downtown Rapid City. Well, it’s a clock-slash-pawn shop that also sells guns. Because this is South Dakota. I suggested we see if they could repair it, and sure enough, they replaced the quartz motor on back with a brand-new AA-operated one for $30. Now it works like a charm!
And, lesson learned: next time we buy something out of state, we’re stuffing our pockets full of D batteries first.