Wife of local journalist opposes Friday evening assignments

I don’t know who dislikes the Friday night shift more, Tom or me. I disliked it when I had to work it, and I dislike it even more with every passing annum. Nearly 15 years Tom’s been at this gig, The Daily News. Sixteen and a half years as a reporter, counting his stint at the Albion Advertiser weekly paper.

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I’m somewhat used to the unpredictability of the journalism life. News happens when it happens; politicians swoop into town on a few hours’ notice (and then usually end up running late); readers and sources call at all hours of the day or night (even on holidays…even if it’s unimportant); car accidents and fires don’t go by a schedule. I’ve said that being married to a reporter seems like being married to a firefighter who is also a pastor who is also an obstetrician — we never really know what Tom’s work hours will be, week to week, day to day, hour to hour. He’s just sort of always “on call.”

But even though I have grown about as go-with-the-flow as any spouse could be expected, I still can’t stand the Friday evenings at home without him. There’s something about Fridays that feels like cause for celebration, naturally designed for a hair-down, comfy-jeans, no-worries night on the town…or a happy dance in the living room, a bottle of bubbly (Diet Pepsi, of course), and a favorite movie as familiar as a pilly pair of red cashmere socks.

Instead, this Friday night absence sneaks up on us. Around Tuesday or Wednesday, Tom will say, “I think I might be the Friday night guy…” And something inside me writhes like a toddler whose partially eaten bag of cotton candy has been snatched away. “NO!” my inner child yelps in protest. “Don’t take away my Fun Friday!”

So here I sit while the kids banter, play and argue in the other room…tap-tap-typing this whine away with frozen fingers, lamenting another Friday night when the “freedom of the press” usurped my would-be revelry.