not-so-happy hour

hilary has strongarmed me into going with her to happy hour at someplace downtown called 'eurasian harbor.' frankly, when you say the words 'eurasian harbor' to me it just makes me think of people being kidnapped and sold into white slavery, as was captured so magically in a film starring everyone's favorite heartthrob, kurt russell.

so we're going after work to this 'eurasian harbor' with hilary's coworkers, a stunning melange of middle-aged baltimorean women and fairly hot straight med students. hilary has her eye on one med student in particular, which is, i have no doubt, actually why we're going. she claims it's because they have dollar sushi and drink deals, but i can smell the horniness on hilary like day-old perfume.

i'm hesitant to go to happy hour because every time i do, the "one drink" i'd planned on drinking turns into five. because i haven't eaten since lunch (or since my afternoon snack, since i'm clearly a ten-year-old), the gallon or so of gin (usually my happy hour drink of choice) actually skips the step where it's metabolized and goes, unfiltered, to my brain. then, happy hour having ended, i stumble home, wondering what i'm going to be able to eat for dinner. since my stomach is full of booze, i have absolutely no appetite, and usually no food in the house. i pass out on the couch, still in my work clothes, and wake up hungover and hungry around 11.30 pm.

this cannot and will not happen tonight. i hope. otherwise, when you wake me up at 11.30 tonight, please try not to talk too loudly. mommy's head will be pounding.