I often respond, "Wednesday," or "Two weeks from Friday".
In middle and high school, along with art classes, I often attended Sunday morning rounds and an occasional operation.
Wally, one of the guys I often see there on Monday, Wednesday and Friday, was adjusting the weight on the Calf Extension machine.
How often day old bread is thrown away!
As a clueless tourist, I often get my day off to an embarrassing start by greeting people with a cheery, "Squid!" Contributor.
That all sounds very high-minded so I'll just confess right here that I often end the day thinking about how famished I am and wondering how many calories I've burned fidgeting.
Late in the afternoon on Memorial Day, I drove from Putnam County, north of New York, to Manhattan, a trip I often take on Sunday afternoons.
I had a safe assignment over there, but in thinking of the guys who slogged through the boonies on patrol day after endless day, I often wonder how the repeaters of our supposed petty wish can imagine that a 10-minute parade and a speech by the mayor could have made amends for a year of waiting for that terrifying moment when you might never be able to walk again.
Although I often cooked the Sunday lunch I longed for an easy-to-carve alternative to the awkward bones of the shoulder and leg.
Watching four performances from Thursday through Saturday, I often responded with recognition ("Ah, yes, that's how it was," or, as often, "Yes, that's how it felt") and found myself being led deeper into the Balanchine experience.
