Happy Hour: A Censure

Today is Tuesday, but it's a little bit like Friday. Tomorrow's Veteran's Day, one of those crazy holidays we never, ever relegate to a Friday or Monday. Thank you, veterans*. I get to have Husband home all day, and we have nothing scheduled or compelling. It's just a free little surprise (being only marginally employed, I do not track holidays so much--the Christmases and Thanksgivings don't sneak up on me, but one-offs like this one certainly do, in a wholly welcome manner).
*I mean thanks for everything, like making tremendous sacrifices to protect your fellow citizens and being brave and fighting wars even if...well, even though wars are exceedingly bad, the spirit of Veteran's Day is good: veteran's deserve our gratitude.
I think we're going to see "Where the Wild Things Are." And tonight we're going to Happy Hour! This is something we don't do so often, because by the end of the week (when the proximity to the weekend makes a night out more prudent), Husband's tuckered out and heading straight to a bar after work doesn't appeal to him so much. Also, we sometimes get carried away by the happiness of Happy Hour. And by "we," I mean "I." And by "sometimes," I mean "once," which was very much enough. Allow me to explain.
When we first moved to this little college town as adults (we both lived here in college, but didn't know each other), I turned to my friend S., who lived here while her now-husband finished his Master's, for advice. (Boy, how's that for excessive explanation? The coffee is strowng this morning). S. told me the best way to make a place for ourselves would be to go to Happy Hour frequently for a little while. In no time, she said, we would make friends and lots of people would know us. Never mind that Husband is not a grad student, but rather a decidedly visible member of the city administration--we didn't make that distinction. And you know what I mean when I say "we."
Anyway, the two of us headed out for Happy Hour and I learned a valuable lesson about the local microbrew's wallup. I got sloshed, and then I got friendly. I began talking up another friendly couple who actually knew, through friends of theirs, my friend S! Small town, indeed. And the guy grew up in the same small, effed-up town my mom is from. I characteristically spazzed out and gushed about how nice our new friends were and doesn't S. give the best advice and etcetera.
Later we found out that our new friendly couple friends are actually swingers. And I don't mean they like to don zoot suits and go dancing. I told S. we'd met them, and that I'd embarrassed myself thoroughly, and she said "NEVER go to their house. Ever." That sentiment has been echoed, verbatim, by lots of other people since then.
That was a year ago, and we haven't been back to Happy Hour since. Tonight we're giving it another try. I recount the first experience here as a reminder to myself: sip, Sadie. For Christ's sake. Also I'm going to cook something in the crock pot so we don't come home with greasy paper bags full of sloppy pizza and smelly gyros. We are, after all, grown-ups. And by "we," I mean "Husband." I have yet to earn that distinction.

P.S. I have no photographs that illustrate this point. Or rather, I have no photographs I'm willing to share with the world wide web that illustrate this point. Here is a photograph of a drunk stranger I took at a bar after our friends' wedding in February. (In a way, it does illustrate my point.)
P.P.S. I have no idea whether this woman is a swinger. If I had to guess, I would say she's not. However, I have been wrong before.
Finally, I promise I will get back to the subject of sewing in the near, near future.