Rock Bottom

Usually a title like that begins a post about how, after much reflection and denial and self-hate, I have reached some awful conclusion about myself.

Or perhaps I’ve taken part in some parenting-related debacle that highlights, once and for all, that this was not the adventure I signed up for.

Instead, it is an announcement that next week’s Tuesday Happy Hour will be held at the Rock Bottom Brewery in Ballston.

I’m thinking of joining the Mug Club. (“Do you like beer?” asks the propaganda. “Yes! Yes, I like beer! This club is for me,” I dutifully reply.)

Last night Aunt Bob and I met Anne at Chef Geoff’s, where - as promised - we had much great food, libation, and merriment. (Great Food! Libation! Merriment! I like all of those things.) We were thrilled to discover that the happy hour specials were available all night on Tuesdays, so, woot! we’re probably going back there again. Aunt Bob and I also discovered that if we shared the humongo mug, the beer stayed colder, she could have more beer without being overserved, and I could just have more beer. Bonus.

Sure, sometimes I drink too much and Aunt Bob has to ferry my slurring, overly-animated drunk ass around. And when I use my shirt to wipe Lula’s chin or Lumpyhead’s nose, then wear that same shirt for a few more days, I feel a little unglamorous.

But I won’t hit Rock Bottom until next week.

You should come, too, and we could both join the Mug Club. Together.

Aunt Bob, you’re driving me home, right? I’ll have a shirt with three-day-old snot waiting for me.