Somehow — and I’m not sure when it began — the celebration of all things Martini moved from Friday to Tuesday night. (Go back and look at my Wednesday morning blogging and you’ll see what I mean.)

The way I figure it, Tuesdays are the whipping boy for the rest of the week.

What, you think I’m just making this stuff up? Please. I may have had one martini already (oh, OK, two) but I’ve got proof.

Mondays: They suck. Everyone knows that. Why, the Boomtown Rats wrote a song about how North America’s first schoolyard killer cited Monday as the reason she went on a killing spree.

Wednesdays: Otherwise known as Hump Day, a 24-hour span which signifies that the worst (which includes not just Monday but Tuesday as well) is behind you, and the best part of the week is yet to come. It’s so important it even has its own website.

Thursday: Ok, Arthur Dent could “never get the hang of Thursdays”, but even Loverboy knows it’s all about working for the weekend. (If only they knew men can have muffin tops, too.) As if that wasn’t enough, there’s a band, and a movie named in honor of the day. Sure, there’s probably more, but as Holly Golightly said in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, “Thursday. My God, it’s too gruesome.”

Friday: Oh, please. It’s not without reason that Mother Goose called Friday’s child “loving and giving”. If you can’t get laid on Friday, something is wrong with you. Look, I’m old enough to remember a time when TGIF referred to the movie my mom wouldn’t let me see, and not the restaurant chain. It was a time when being a “Girl Friday” was actually a feminist phrase designed to emasculate the “Man Friday” from Robinson Crusoe. Then, of course, there’s that Cure song about “Friday I’m In Love” (which, incidentally, says only of Tuesday that it’s grey…).

Saturday: Like everyone else my age, I can’t think of Saturday nights without thinking of the Bay City Rollers (for those just a few years older than I am, Elton John similarly immortalized Saturday nights, too, although Chicago beat him at the task by one year). That was long before Saturday night was live, much less had fever. Yeah, Saturday’s always had its groove on.

Sunday (a/k/a Pay-For-My-Fun-Day): While I’m at church praying for the redemption of my immortal soul, VH stays home praying for his favorite football team to kick the ass of the opposition. It’s God’s day in my book, but that didn’t stop The Simpsons from calling it “Sunday, Cruddy Sunday“, and, yeah, there was that whole Irish protest thing immortalized in the song by U2.

And what do Tuesdays get? Just that “full of grace” thing in the Mother Goose rhyme, like that means anything.

Until now.

I, Venomous Kate, hereby declare the practice and observance of Tippling Tuesday, the day upon which those of us pissed off by the remainder of the week shall lift the bottoms of our glasses and point them in the direction most likely to result in the sudden and copious consumption of alcohol.

I got mine, folks, and it’s a wonderfully cloudy dirty martini. You get yours.

I’ll see you sometime late tomorrow morning.

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