We went out for a work dinner last night - a celebration of our award we won this past summer as well as a bash to celebrate a colleague of mine’s impending nuptuals this weekend.

(Impending Nuptuals would make a great name for a really bad wedding band. I’ve got the tambourine - who’s with me?!)

We went to a steak house where the steaks were $52 and worth every dollar. The $52 only got you the steak, by the way. Sides were extra. As was the champagne, wine and after dinner drinks.

When all was said and done the 9 of us had spent about $1200 on the meal.

I would like to re-enact, right now, what my grandmother’s reaction to the cost of that meal would have been if she were still living and in her good years, you know, before the Alzies kicked in (my pet name for Alzheimer’s - makes it sound cute, don’t you think?)

Ahem.

“$1200! Holy jumpin’!”

Thank you. That was so her voice. If you could hear it right now you’d be like, “Oh, Lee man, that was a pretty good impression.”

And the place was fancy. More forks than I knew what to do with, a side plate for bread that was replaced midway through the meal with a new sideplate that I used for my sides, and a wait staff that was impeccable in every way.

Then it was pitchers down at Jack Astor’s afterwards to close down the night.

Today was one of them… oh, what do you call ‘em… oh yeah, “rough” days.

———-

In talking to one of my Australian colleagues last night it was discovered that in Australia they do something called the 40 hour famine to help raise money for hungry kids in Africa. In Canada we do the 30 hour famine for the same reason and it struck me as funny, that 10 hour difference.

Any ideas why Australians put themselves through the extra 10 hours for, really, the same outcome as our 30 hour famine?

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