(What can I say? I love Destroyers!)
Why, you ask? (Even if you didn't, I'm going to tell you. If you did ask, thank you.)
I believe I may have mentioned that I work in one state and live in another. Not voluntarily I might add. It's the economy I reckon. (Or so I have been told by one "expert" or another.) My "home" location, where I worked for ten years had a little trouble with: a) winning new contracts and b) keeping the contracts they had. I'm sure there's some gee-whiz MBA explanation for it. All I know is that if the customer doesn't like the price, and they can get it elsewhere cheaper, then the customer will go elsewhere. Which they did.
So I had the "opportunity" to get loaned out to another location. Said location is 100 road miles from where I live. "Don't worry," they said, "it's only for a year. Things should pick up here in a year. Then we'll bring you back."
That was 2 years and 4 months ago, but who's counting? Things have not picked up at the home office. (Hogday, note the use of lower case letters. It's not the Home Office. Though that might be kind of cool. To work at. I'm not implying that the Home Office is cool. Though I'm not saying it isn't either.)
At any rate, I leave Chez Sarge at oh-dark-thirty Monday morning. Dodge the kamikaze pilots on the interstate, then after an hour and a half (or so) I arrive at my cubicle. And work for ten hours. Then I go to my hotel, watch endless re-runs of "Law and Order" and "The Big Bang Theory", sleep, get up and do another ten hours. Tuesday. Wednesday. Thursday.
Thursday afternoon I get in my vehicle, dodge the kamikaze pilots on the interstate, then after about two hours (more traffic in the afternoon, longer commute if you're doing the math) I arrive back at Chez Sarge. Exhausted.
But, and you may have figured this out by now, every weekend is a 3-day weekend.
And Thursday night is the beginning of said weekend. I sit in my abode and ponder the fact that the weekend stretches out before me, approximately 80 hours of "not being at work".
Then spring comes. And the grass needs cutting. Various and sundry heavy-lifting chores await me. No doubt something needs painting. (Something always needs painting. I was in the military. I know these things. But fortunately, there is next to nothing requiring saluting at Chez Sarge. Oh yeah, for you USN, USA and USMC types out there, technically the USAF is part of the US military. But yes, one of the less-strenuous parts. But someone has to protect all those golf courses. They're not going to protect themselves, are they?)
So spring, summer and fall tend to shorten the weekend. But nothing touches Thursday nights. I get to lounge about the house and let myself go.
So Thursday nights are sweet. I savor them like a fine wine. Sometimes, I guzzle them down like a cheap bottle of Ripple. (Is there such a thing as an expensive bottle of Ripple?)
At any rate, Thursday nights are good.