Lazy Post: Happy Hour


At this very moment…as I type¬†this word…. it is 5:07 pm.

Correction, 5:08. Whatever.

It’s happy hour. That’s why I swapped my tepid tea for a glass of wine (Typos here-on-out… blame ’em on the booze.)

In my very first job after college — my first “real” job — as a staff writer for a community newspaper — my editor, Jamie, posted a notice throughout our office building.

He found a photo of our publisher — a candid picture… not especially flattering. It showed our boss (publisher of 15 community newspapers) smirking and slightly open-mouthed… as if she’d been caught mid-sentence.

Beside this photo Jamie drew a jaunty dialogue balloon. Here, our publisher declared: “It’s Friday. Let’s all get drunk!”

Jamie photocopied his handiwork and posted it on every restroom door, in the kitchen, beside the xerox and fax machines…

The publisher was not pleased. She didn’t appreciate her endorsement of excessive alcoholic consumption.

But Jamie’s reprimand? Minor, at best. We worked 60 to 70 hours every week (often 40 hours by Tuesday night) and our compensation? A pittance. The owner and publisher ignored our slovenly clothes, our idiosyncrasies, our staff happy-hour field trips…. in exchange for slave labor. We worked our butts off.

Those were the days…

But now, it is no longer 5:07. It’s 6:02. And in the words of my former publisher — It’s Friday. Let’s all get drunk!