Friday Night.

There comes a time in a sick girl's life when soup, hot tea and Nyquil just aren't cutting it anymore.
There comes a time when she must venture out and eat some meat.
Not just any meat, I need the Texas cure.
The TipTop Cafe, est. 1953, is the place for me tonight.
There, one of the twins (identical twin 70-year-old waitresses) will take my order.
Chicken Fried Steak, gravy on the side, fries or baked potato and a little salad with Ranch dressing. And some tiny yeast rolls with fake butter. And a little Coke in an 8 ounce bottle.
Yep. My system is sick of light, no-fat, sickie food. My system needs some beef and grease.
I need to bask in the glow of the TipTop's knotty pine paneling, with the mounted deer heads and giant bass and trout trophies on the walls.
I need to know there is life outside my Kleenex-strewn home.
I need to wear something plaid and flannel and jeans with a waist too big. I need to wear hiking boots. I need big, thick socks. I need to feel substantial.
Tonight, I am reclaiming my life. Tonight, I'll need a serrated knife to cut my food.
Tonight, I will be strong again.
I may even have pie.