All families have traditions, and we are no different than other families in that regard. Some families have game night or movie night or pizza night. Our family has Thursday Night. My kids look forward to it every week. They talk about it all day on Thursday, and can't wait for Thursday evening to come rolling around. Yes, it is a grand tradition in our house and one that I'm sure they will all continue when they someday have their own families. Hopefully, theirs will go a little more smoothly than ours, for reasons that will become abundantly clear.
For some reason, our tradition simply doesn't run smoothly. Something always goes awry. Actually, Thursday nights in our house are just one big mass of awryment. Is it because my name isn't June, and I don't wear pearls on a daily basis and wear a cute little apron and high heels while doing the housework? Is it because my sons' names aren't Wally and Beaver and my husband in no way shape or form resembles Ward?
Perhaps it's not easy because our Thursday night tradition was born due to my inherent apathetic nature. The mere thought of having to cook another meal on Thursday night was more than I could tolerate. I looked for a way out, and desperation being the mother of invention, I found one. So sue me. Just because my husband gets paid on Thursdays and has a wad of cash in his pocket is no reason to make our Thursday night ritual a tortuous event. Our tradition is nothing complex, nothing worthy of the type of anguish I have to endure. What is it, you ask? We eat out. By eating out, I don't mean we actually all go out to a restaurant and sit down as a family and dine. I mean, the kids pick whatever fast food place they'd like and we go to the drive thru and they then chow down at home.
On any given Thursday, the kids all pace around the house and carry on and hover about telling me how hungry they are. Whatever. Okay, that might be a slight exaggeration. Maybe they just ask when Dad is getting home so they can get something to eat. In my warped mind, though, there certainly seems to be lots of pacing and hovering.
Finally they hear their dad's jalopy, which is an indication to the entire neighborhood that he is a mere mile or so from home and wait as patiently as possible for him to walk into the house and immediately wreak havoc on my heretofore immaculately kept home by leaving his lunchbox on the counter, his jacket on the chair, and a trail of newspapers behind him before settling down in his favorite chair to watch Law and Order reruns, ad nauseum. Although I have no actual proof, I know in my heart of hearts that he does this with glee in his heart of hearts.
Thus begins the tradition. Please keep in mind we have been dancing this same little dance for at least 10 years, so you would think he'd have it down by now. The rest of us do, so I'm not sure what his problem is. Could his inability to recall what happens on Thursday nights possibly be his way of indicating to me that he is indeed more apathetic than I? Or is it me?
After getting comfortable in his chair and telling the kids, none of whom are paying the least bit of attention to him, to unload the dishwasher, take out the garbage and let the dogs out, he then asks the inevitable question, “Do we have any plans for supper?” Every week, without fail, like clockwork. Before replying, every week, without fail, like clockwork, my right eye begins to twitch to the point where I am sure it will twitch right out of my head and bounce across the floor. As I apply pressure to my eye, I answer kindly and sweetly, “Yes, we are going to go out and get something to eat.” And in my head I finish, “just like we've done every Thursday for the past 10 years.” Twitch, twitch, twitch.
The tradition then continues with him saying, “Oh, where are you going to go?” To which I reply, “I'm not sure where they want to get something from tonight. Would you like me to get you something to eat?” His reply, “No, I'll just have some hotdogs. You know there is plenty to eat here, no one really needs to go out for anything.” This is the point when the vein in my forehead starts to throb. Is it absolutely necessary for me to go through the whole “Yes, I know, but we do this every Thursday, so do you want something or not?” Apparently, the answer is yes. The dance continues. He again declines to have any food brought home for him. He informs me that he doesn't need to eat any junk food because hotdogs will be fine. Yes, of course he is absolutely right, because we get OUR hotdogs from the same health food store we get our fried pork rinds. I'm certain that after all these years he just says things like that to make my eye twitch faster and my vein throb harder, and there is nothing anyone can say to convince me otherwise.
As I struggle to apply pressure to both my vein and my eye with one hand while getting my purse and keys with the other, the kids and I begin filing out of the house. As we settle into the car, the next part of the tradition begins. Out of the house he comes, over to the car, and waits for me to roll down the window. I often wonder what would happen if I didn't roll down the window and just drove off. I'm sure I could get the kids to swear that we didn't see him standing there.
“Have you decided where you're going yet?” he asks innocently. “Yes,” reply the kids. “We're going to Taco Bell, Wendy's and Subway.” “Do you want something?” I ask kindly. “No, never mind. Just forget it. Bye.”
Away we drive. As the twitching and throbbing slowly begins to subside, we begin to make our rounds. After all our orders have been filled, and I am about to pull into the driveway, my phone rings. There is utter silence in the car. No good can come of answering the phone. Why do I bring my phone? Why do I answer it? I can only assume I am a glutton for punishment. As I answer as sweetly as possible, which, and I'm not certain, probably sounds to the untrained ear something like Linda Blair in the Exorcist, the throbbing and twitching resume. “Yeah, I changed my mind. Can you get me blah, blah, blah?” “Well, of course. I'd be happy to, but I'll have to clean up the car first because my vein just popped and I'm busy mopping up blood and the kids are unbuckled because my eye bounced off the windshield and they're busy trying to find it before someone steps on it.”
So after giving me his most disgusted sigh, which he has perfected over the past 20 years, and I have come to abhor, he says resignedly, “Well, just forget it then. I already had some hotdogs, so I'm just going to go to bed. “ And so ends the Thursday Night tradition in our household. Honestly, it's just as well, because sometimes it's kind of hard to find that eyeball in the dark, and I just can't stand driving without it.
