Unhappy Hour: Wherein one patronizes a restaurant/bar in search of a good deal and ends up spending $75 on fried food and watered down drinks, leaving feeling bloated and wondering if you wouldn’t have been better off staying home.
It was such a beautiful day that I felt compelled to take the kids to happy hour at local pizzeria with some other parents. What they hell was I thinking? Seven kids and five adults is a recipe for disaster. Luckily we were seated outside with no other diners. Had we been inside I would have completely fallen apart.
I am like a Border Collie on speed when I’m at a restaurant. I don’t believe that kids should run free in restaurants. I don’t think they should jump around, shout, stand on their seats, make a mess and demand attention from the staff.
This I believe. Is this how it goes? Never. But I try really hard to keep my kids under control. It’s possible when it’s just us but if you throw more kids into the mix, you can fucking forget it.
Happy hour turned into unhappy hour as I spent the evening hovering over the kids, forcing them to sit and eat, stop talking about pooping and farting, picking up food off the ground and hissing at them to keep their voices down.
It’s tough to be a kid in a grown-up world but they must understand that there is a time and place for rambunctiousness and a restaurant isn’t one of them. This equals Vivienne having no fun at all.
$75 seems like a shitload of money for pizza and happy hour drinks, especially when I experienced exactly zero happiness. Where were the other adults? Being all free-range and probably enjoying their evening far more than me.
Part of me wishes I could lighten up and just go with the flow, but I can’t. I wasn’t raised that way. I would have been dead if I acted up in any public place, or even at home. Next time I’m ordering a pizza and picking up a bottle of 2 Buck.
Ten things today, all paper.
This is a nice cookbook but I don’t use them often. I tend to find what I want on the internet. If I like it, I print it out and put it in a binder. DONATE.
Does this sound like the lamest book ever? The Glove of Darth Vader. AKA, Darth Vader’s Glove. DONATE.
I picked this up used because it struck me as really funny, a book about a cat society. How does that work? Does everything smell like pee? Zeb picked it up to read to the boys one night and tossed it infront of me all disgusted and was like, “Gah, that was the dumbest book ever, it’s all about cat’s fighting and hissing at each other.” Totally worth the price. DONATING.
More Starwars, this time an audiobook. DONATE.
Featured image courtesy of debbiepalen.blogspot.com