WTF is Happy Hour?

  There is an ongoing debate in this house. I'd say fight, but we don't always yell and scream about it. Many times we get some smart ass and sarcastic barbs in. But mostly we fight about it.   Because what is Happy Hour?   In this house it means that on some Friday's Daddy goes and has a quick drink with the guys.  He's had a long week at work.  He needs to unwind.  Decompress if you will.  Because he works.   Well guess what?   About a month ago, when I thought he was on his way home, and he was really at Happy Hour, I put up a protest.  I decided and then declared that not a single chore, save making dinner for the kids (see microwavable) would be done while Daddy is at happy hour.  No laundry in.  No dishes rinsed.  No toys picked up.  Mommy would be observing a happy hour of her own.  I sat in our recliner, turned on Nick Jr, and read my latest copy of Entertainment Weekly cover to cover.   Then when he walked in the door, I shared my disgust, declared my own happy hour, and promptly left.  I went to Target.  I walked around alone, with no cart.  NO CART.  I looked at clothes, shoes, bedding, shampoo.  I bought Mumford and Sons.  I didn't have to go down a single toy aisle.  I didn't have to buy an Icee.  Just me in my happy place, having a happy hour.   Last Friday, after another tantrum about happy hour, I locked myself away, listening to that Mumford and Sons CD, while typing and writing to my hearts content.  Sure there was the occasional interruption, but that was ok.  I got through entire thoughts in just minutes.  When is the last time that happened?   I stand by my declaration.  If Dad gets a happy hour then so should mom.  Fair is fair right?  And while I'm sure an actual happy hour with cocktails and appetizers would be fabulous, I'm happy with a little peace, a little reading, or a little writing.    Because what the blank is Happy Hour?   Whatever I say it is...