The ‘80s tune “Everybody’s Working for the Weekend” would describe my mood … I could see fun on the horizon Friday night. Esther and I were going to take in the Bon Jovi Tribute Band at the Corn Palace. We knew we were taking a risk with the $12 ticket charge. We agreed if it was bad we could walk out with no regrets.
Esther directed my supper choice to an Indian taco stand that her son-in-law, Bill, was helping to run by the Player’s Club Casino. I will now add Indian tacos to my list of things I refuse to eat in public (also ribs, sweet corn, chicken). I sat in my van balancing it on my lap trying to cut with a plastic fork and knife (tines of the fork broke immediately) and silently cursed Esther.
Since the Player’s Club was having its anniversary celebration and I had never been into the establishment, we decided to enter. What a surprise! I was prepared to see a dingy dive of an old gas station, but it could have been decorated by a decorator. (The patrons looked incongruous in that setting). Esther slyly sat me by a patron who proudly announced he had maintained his bar stool since 8:30 in the morning. (He was smitten with me it seems and did not recognize a cold shoulder when he saw it.)
By the time we got to the Palace, Esther was becoming alarmed at the lack of people moving about. We chose seats close to the beer and bathrooms (with age comes wisdom!). The band started out with a #1 hit and we were excited, but it went downhill by choosing to play slow, unfamiliar music. The crowd just sat or stood uninterested. I observed a couple in front of me who I swear never spoke to each other but one time. (Boy, were they having a good time.) Esther and I chose to yak and yak. I complained to an acquaintance about the band’s poor music choices. He replied that “familiar is boring”. I disagree. At concerts you want the hits that are old and comforting to sing along with.
We called it a night at 10 p.m. and decided to curl up to drink wine at Esther’s. Two sips and it hit me that I had to seek sleep. I fell undressed into blissful sleep until a headache awakened me around 5 in the morning. (Such misery when you have no idea where aspirin is in the house.) Thanks to my hostess, who always has the foresight to put a fan on me for my hot-flash comfort.
After coffee we toured rummage sales and found good stuff. I found a black and white houndstooth-checked skirt with a $44 price tag – their price was $5 – well worth it and name brand. But I still have to try to jew them down – I offered them $3 – they took it. (I feel I have a jewing complex. Is there help for that anywhere?)
The text arrived from Sioux Falls and Janet that we were invited to the VIP party at her new sports bar, Beef O’Brady’s, at the Sanford Sports Complex. (I even cringed a bit when I told Claude I would be gone AGAIN!) Gay, Georgia, Esther and I regrouped and Esther and Gay renewed their friendly animosity. Gay got the first dig in when she saw Esther’s “Boho Chic” flowy top. Gay remarked, “Are you trying to be the Queen of Sheba?” It was game on the whole trip. Nothing was sacred from attack — hairstyle, face moles, fashion choices, etc.
Beef O’Brady’s is all about location, location, location. Set on a corner with a hotel, Pentagon sports complex and 11 football fields (you know where everyone will be between games) and eventually they will have shopping.
The food was excellent. We chose to sample salads, prime rib sandwiches, wraps and reubens. I, of course, had to investigate the Bloody Mary’s, which arrived thick and spicy (just right).
We ran into our favorite couple, Lamoine and Barb Torgerson. Lamoine informed me that he has been tempted to write to the paper in retaliation (He immensely enjoyed Gay’s awful picture of me in the last edition). I told Barb to wad up anything he writes and throw it in the garbage when he isn’t looking. I related that I don’t know what I’ve ever done to Gay that she would seek to embarrass me (he-he).
I shared the story of how Claude had informed me he would soon be spending Friday and Saturday in Pierre at the cattle sales. I replied, “Can I move a boyfriend in?” Always unflappable, Claude said, “Could you find one that can do my chores too?”
Ta-Ta For No