My husband and I are fond of going out for breakfast. We started regularly going to the same place every Friday and began to recognize the same people who also came every Friday morning. There was the nice lady who sat at the counter with her daughter, the two PE teachers, and the mom, daughter and granddaughter trio that sat against the far wall.
One morning we arrived at breakfast on Friday to find our restaurant dark, locked, and completely closed down. There was a sign on the door directing folks to a sister restaurant not too far away. When we arrived we saw all the other regulars there too. And we were so relieved to see friendly faces, we all sat together, which became the start of my non-John-Hughes Breakfast Club.
That was several years ago. Since then, new members have joined us, a few have moved away, but there is a solid core that has always remained. The venue has changed quite a few times but we never fail to get together every Friday. We always have a marvelous time. We laugh, sometimes too loudly, we share our lives. We hang out more than just on Friday mornings, but we can always depend on a happy start to the weekend, regardless of how the rest of the week has gone.
This morning L to R: Tammy, Susan, Kosta, Diane, Cary, me.
I love my Breakfast Club. They are pretty awesome.
We get a crazy amount of donations at the library. We get all kinds: fiction, cookbooks, self-help, art books, foreign language materials, all kinds. Some aren’t so great, but every now and then you get a gem like this:
Who wants to start the bidding?
This is Randy. Randy is the kind of guy your mother warned you about. The one wearing the pooka shell necklace who will offer you reefer and then take you to a cruddy hotel with a vibrating bed and mix you a pitcher of Vodka Collins. He’s a bad seed, one that will ruin your reputation and make you “that kind of girl.” Beware of Randy. Especially if that top button on his jeans is undone. That’s one button on a slippery slope to certain debauchery. Listen to your mother.
Apparently a one cent bill was an actual thing in Hong Kong after WWII. They were sorely lacking in the metals needed to make coins so they issued one cent bills. The most remarkable thing was they were in circulation until 1995. Could you imagine having a bankroll of these? You could buy a gumball with it. Except gumball machines take coins.
This is Louise. She’s the fun grandma — especially after a glass of red wine or two. But beware, Louise can turn on a dime and curse the bloody hell out of the valet for moving the seat in her Mercedes, or make the caterer weep with her cruel and mocking commentary about the lobster bisque. The woman on Louise’s lap having her ass palmed is unidentified.