I love hanging out with my peeps. It grounds me, it makes me laugh, it melts the stress away. I think a conservative estimate for my adult life is right around 1,950 nights out on the town of eating, drinking and being extraordinarily merry. I’ve spent time in five star restaurants all the way down to the skankiest of dive bars (my personal favorite). It’s all the same to me, for I can have fun just about anywhere. (I mean really, my sister and I once proclaimed that we could put the “fun” in funeral.) Out of those 1,950 or so nights out on the town, only a few have been real clunkers. The rest? I love them. But even so, there aren’t so many that stand out in my mind. They are fun, they are in the moment, and then they are gone.
But then one night you go out with your two best ride or die work friends, and an 80 year old lady who is missing many of her teeth and perhaps all of her faculties sets down a partially thawed turkey on the bar, dripping turkey juice all over the place and generally confusing (and disgusting) everyone. And as the night wears on, the tale gets taller and by the end of the night the recollection is that there was a puddle of turkey guts on the bar. Five days from now or a year from now I won’t remember a single thing that happened on this night, but I will remember that damn turkey on the bar.
Some nights are more memorable than others. Tonight was one of those nights.