the winged chronometer



Every time I glance at the clock at work, it seems like I've lost two hours. Poof. Gone. The hours snowball into days and before I know it, an entire week has filed right down a black hole and into oblivion.

Look how long it's taken me to post again. More than a week? Yep, the time just flies.
But I don't feel bad about it; time gets away from other people, too. Here's a good example. Last Saturday my beau and I got all gussied up for a late afternoon wedding. After the big event, we decided to trot on over to what I like to refer to as "restaurant row" (aka Eighth Street between Bannock and Idaho streets) to trade some Martini Mix-Off tickets for an ice cold cocktail. We wandered into what shall remain an unnamed posh lounge and eatery, asked the hostess to seat us outside and waited patiently for a server. We chose drinks; we people watched; we spied on the plates of surrounding diners; I went to the bathroom; I came back; my beau went to the bathroom; he came back; we looked over the drink list again; finally I checked my clock. We'd waited nearly 15 minutes without a single server so much as having glanced in our direction. 
My annoyance trumped my thirst, and we decided to high-tail it out of there and nestle in at Pengilly's instead.
I still have my Mix-Off tickets, so I'll head back sometime this month. Hopefully, such piss-poor service is a one-off thing.


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