UNhappy hour

why happy hour is probably not a great idea if you can't commit to stretching it into a lively night of more drinks, laughs, and perhaps a bit of dancing. a cautionary tale:

meet a couple of client-types at unassuming pub to discuss project progress. someone (not you) says "hey, let's order a caesar". several drinks and sweet potato fries later, find yourself amused by gabby girl talk. 7 pm, one has to go get her kid and the other has to, well, just go. you head home. innocent stop for toilet paper leads you and souring buzz to buy such nonsense as craisins and kraft dinner. safe at home, decide not to shake up cocktails for solo consumption. abrupt halting of buzz takes mood slowly to nowhere good. slink into the sad you've been successfully evading lately. blink lazily at last hour of talented mr. ripley while eating kraft dinner from pot with fork and wondering if matt damon's facial skin is as smooshy as it looks. catatonically websurf through many unintellectual places. stumble upon bio of old friend and wonder how many of her b-list canadian celeb pals know about her secret extra body part. shittily attempt to write profound things: overdue text for a client, never-to-be-sent email to heart-hurter, scathing article about the women's movement, lyrics to a song claude handed over. collect household garbage, haul bin to curb. shuffle jacket-less up five blocks. shuffle back. place partly-picked-over PC cheesecake in fridge directly on top of plastic box of organic field greens and chuckle at the irony. tell self this is not a fatal dive off the bobby mcferrin bandwagon, merely the dragging of a temporarily flung limb. anticipate recovery by the time morning espresso is brewed. tell it here.