Yesterday I had the great pleasure of seeing Julie and Julia with Mom and Vera. I had heard great things about the movie, and honestly? It had Meryl Streep playing Julia Child; I knew it would be a movie to remember. What I didn’t realize is that it would be a movie I’d relate to on so many levels. I had feelings of this throughout the movie, but none more than the dessert schplat scene. Julie Powell had made a raspberry cream dessert, and she took it to work for her coworkers. As she walked along the street, after getting off of the subway, the dessert fell through the paper bag she was carrying and schplat all over the ground.

I was sitting between Mom and Vera during the movie, and at that very moment they both looked at me and laughed. The three of us laughed loudly and much longer than the scene probably intended to chuckle the audience. See, that has happened to me. It was November 2001…

“It Must Be Friday”

(This piece was originally written in February, 2002.)

When I joined the real world workforce almost five years ago, I had no idea what I was getting myself into. I had heard horror stories about Mondays–everyone hates Mondays, right? But, I had no idea that Fridays would be even worse. Everyone spoke with such reverence of Fridays. Everyone always says, “Thank goodness it’s Friday!” There is even a restaurant named after the famed phrase – TGI Fridays. So why, then, is Friday my absolute worst day of the week? I think it has a small part to do with the hype surrounding Fridays. Any day given that much hype is certain not to fulfill its expectations–at least not for me.

Ask anyone in my office, and they will tell you that I hate Fridays. They did not believe me until a fateful day last November. It was our annual pre-Thanksgiving potluck. Now, there is something you must understand. I am known in the office as being a Martha Stewart clone. I bring treats in for each co-worker’s birthday. So far I have not repeated a recipe. Needless to say, everyone was looking forward to my dessert and Swedish meatballs for the potluck. Plus, I had teased them all week. I even got up extra early to add the final touches on my Peanutty Chocolate cake. It was perfect.

Due to finishing it in the morning, I got a bit of a late start to work. I missed my train and opted to drive. As I had a lot to carry anyway, driving in was for the best. That way I only had to cross the bridge over the Chicago River once; it is a three-block walk from the parking garage, as opposed to a 12-block walk from the train. It was the perfect plan. I was going to avoid my typical “Friday.”

The drive downtown was fairly uneventful. Traffic was horrendous, as usual, so I was late. I called my boss to let her know. She was looking forward to my Peanutty Chocolate cake, so she did not say a whole lot. I got downtown, parked my car, gathered my belongings, the cake and the meatballs, and began trudging to work. I walked the two blocks to the bridge to cross the Chicago River. Just as I was about to step onto the bridge, I felt this schplat against my leg and then a clunk against my foot. I suddenly realized that my cake platter seemed very light, and looked down on my foot. My entire beautiful cake was splattered upside down on the sidewalk of North Clark Street. I did not know whether to laugh or cry. I decided to laugh, as did all of the people walking past me.

I started to scrape the cake back onto the platter, to throw away once I was at work. Well, that proved to be a disastrous mess, as I collected chocolate and peanut butter goo all over my hands. I decided to leave the cake splattered on the Clark Street Bridge.

Covered in chocolate and peanut butter, I entered my office. Almost immediately I was bombarded–everyone wanted to see this cake I had raved about. I looked at them and told them it was gone, a victim of the bridge. No one believed me. They all said something to the effect of, “Don’t tease us like that, Val! Seriously, where’s the cake?” And I very seriously replied, “It is on the bridge. If you want some, go help yourself, but hurry before the pigeons get it!”

A couple hours later two of my co-workers went to run errands. When they came back, they stopped by my desk laughing hysterically. Finally one of them spit out, “Guess what we just saw?” I replied, “My cake?” And the hysterics began again. Soon it spread through the entire office that I was, in fact, not kidding.

Later that afternoon, one of the executives in the office came by my desk asking me to stay late and finish a project for him (another Friday staple). He sensed I was not having a good day and asked what was wrong. I said, “Well, it’s been a Friday. It started with this lovely dessert I made for the potluck…”

He cut me off saying, “That was your cake on the bridge?” Hysterical laughing once again ensued. My co-workers named it the “Bridge Cake” and wanted to know when I was bringing it again. Never, I responded. The cake is doomed–just like Fridays. Actually, a better name for it would be the “Friday Cake.” I was at work until 7:30 that evening finishing the project that executive brought to me that afternoon. While everyone else was out enjoying their weekend, I was eating my leftover meatballs and finishing up emergency projects. This is my life of Fridays.

I have been told that I seem to be a little negative towards Fridays. Do not get me wrong; I cannot wait until the weekend just like the next person, but I wish we could get there without having to go through Friday first. Weekends would be much better if they started after Thursday. Ok, maybe not, because then Thursdays would replace my Fridays. It is just a doomsday; that is all there is to it.

As I was walking back to my car that November Friday night, I crossed the bridge to find the not so pretty scene of my cake splattered, kicked and mangled on the sidewalk. Actually, it looked a bit like a horse had done his business there. As I passed the pile on the sidewalk, I stopped and paused to turn around to watch a few people stop and try to figure out what was lying on the sidewalk. I had to chuckle. They would never know what it was, or what they were missing. My step was a little lighter, just like the empty cake platter I was carrying. Thank goodness it’s Friday, I thought.

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