Last night, a typical night out with the girls in a still relatively small town (during a recession, so a much less busy downtown than, say, two years ago), one that probably will not be repeated for a few weeks once classes begin:
The girls:
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60-something college administrator
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…and her two 20-something daughters (non-academics)
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50-something former chair
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40-something prof
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30-something prof
The night out:
- meet at a local jewelry store downtown, having their Labor Day sale, to purchase goodies for selves and others.
- head over to local restaurant with a yummy happy hour menu, including oysters and gourmet pizzas.
- greeted with many smiles by the waiters and wine steward who know us quite well after all these years.
- share stories of summer fun, ex-beaus, current woes, with the required minimum of shop-talk (mostly whining about the cost of attending our respective national conventions this year).
- decline dessert, and walk to a bar that specializes in dessert-like martinis (I have my fave, the Ginger Rogers, no need to even order it since the server remembers).
- we sit outside so the smoker can smoke her soon to be illegal clove cigs, but fall arrives fast in our little town and the wind rushes our continued talk (we now share netflix and book reading details, wondering why some of us got Dexter before others).
- the administrator and daughters head on home, while the others decide to finish the night at my house with a glass of wine (if fall hadn’t suddenly arrived, this would have been on the deck; instead, we sit at the cozy kitchen table).
- the 30 something drives home (having declined the wine), while I walk the former chair to her house a few blocks away.
- I slowly amble home, admire the full moon and the clouds, and listen to the music from a blues band playing in the amphitheater just a few miles away.
From the Mixed Up Bloggings of Annie Em 