When I was a kid, my mom would typically cook for us every night. Dinner time for us was more about the routine and the healthy practice of spending quality time with family than it was about the food. The dinner table was a place where we received or shared announcements, talked about our day, or simply discussed the minor changes my mom made in the spaghetti sauce this time around. She would actually act offended if, God Forbid, a phone call came in sometime between 5:30-6:00pm; the nerve of the son-of-a-bitch who called to ask if we were happy with our cable service during our treasured family time was ruining the fabric of the traditional American family. 

My alarm went off after a few hours of tossing and turning, it was 8:45am on a Friday. I hadn't slept long, because I got off the night before around 12:30am, rushed home, showered, and crashed in bed. I spent much of the night thinking: Okay, Tomorrow I'll get in around 10, get the doors unlocked and the lights on. The produce better be there by then, and it better not be that shit they tried to give me last week.