Sixish on a Friday night. I just finished Happy Hour with a girlfriend at an upscale restaurant. We had Pinot Grigios and fish tacos, and yummy warm sour dough baguette with lots of butter. She was giddy about a blind date someone set her up with. I look forward to hitting the couch with a book and my own Friday night date – Bill Maher.

On the way home, I stop at 7Eleven to buy a couple of Power Ball tickets. It can’t hurt.

“That’ll be $40.65” says the cashier, a gray-haired Indian woman, to the stocky, middle-aged guy in front of me. He’s wearing dusty overalls, a well-worn baseball cap, and looks tired. 

He slides his Visa card in the reader as she bags his purchases: A sixpack of ice-cold Blue Ribbon Belgian Light Ale, frosty with condensation, a colorful 16-oz can of “Sex on the Beach” hard cider cocktail, a paper tray of dry, overcooked chicken wings that lingered in the display case too long to be tasty, and two packs of Marlboro Golds.

TGIF.