The life of The Aging Bartender is not all glitz and glamour. The wise words of Yoda still ring true, “Adventure, excitement, a jedi craves not these things.” I suppose I could steal that for my benefit, twist it around a bit. How about, “Adventure, excitement, The Aging Bartender neither craves nor has the energy for these things.” Something happens when you get older, you stop giving a shit about fun and just want to find the time to sleep.

I’m the parent of a two and half year old boy who rules my life. For sure it’s the hardest and most rewarding thing I’ve ever done and I’d be lying if I said it was enjoyable one hundred percent of the time. He’s been in a weird place as of late. Doesn’t want to sleep in his room, wants to sleep only with mommy and daddy. I could care less, we’ve got a king sized bed and it’s soothing sleeping next to a small child, but I wonder, like I always do, if this will be something we’ll have to break him out of down the road which will lead to worse behavior.

For those who don’t know, a child’s sleeping patterns rule a parent’s life with an iron fist. Your very sanity revolves around them. My son usually wakes up at 6:30 (that’s a.m.) and I’m usually home from work around 10:30 or 11:00 p.m. (I’m lucky enough to live close to work). So when you ask me if I’ve binge watched the latest show you’re excited about? No, I haven’t seen it. During a typical work week there’s literally no time to watch television. I try to squeeze in some time in the morning to write and then I’m off to the park for a couple of hours. By the way, I’m not complaining. I don’t enjoy the children’s park but I also look at it as having some nice outdoor time to absorb a little vitamin D.

But what about your days off? Oh those? Mostly spent doing errands. Let’s take yesterday for instance. We left the apartment at 10, went to grab ten gallons of water for our weekly consumption (tap water is poison), took the young man to the park for about an hour and a half, went to get groceries at Whole Foods. He fell asleep in the car. We got back, parked, lugged everything up. Each one of the five gallon glass jugs of water is 54 pounds, not all that heavy but I also think about what would happen if I were to accidentally drop one. Anyway, the boy goes in for a nap, everything gets put away, me and the Mrs. use the window of time to relax and chill.

On the horizon we’ve got more errands after naptime. At 3:30 we drive up to the valley to see a house that’s for sale, then back down to Target to look for blackout curtains. The general consensus is that if ____’s room is darker, maybe he’ll feel more comfortable sleeping in there. At this point, somehow, it’s almost 5:00, and now I’m in goddam Target which to me is hell’s fiery inferno on earth. I know, I know, first world problems.

Somehow, someway, we go to Target to buy one thing and come out with much, much more than that. I’m stressed about money. Everything is expensive. We get home by 6:00. There’s food to think about for everyone. We reheat some leftover meatloaf and mac and cheese. My son refuses to eat his goddam dinner. I pop a whole chicken in the oven for us adults and get ready to put the curtains up thinking maybe he’ll sleep in his goddam room tonight. The lady’s sister just put her dog of 14 years down. Oh god. Terrible, just terrible. I get visions of when I put down my own best furry friend, Clyde, just a year and a half ago. We all slept like shit the night previous and now 6:30 p.m. feels like we’ve all spent a week at Guantanamo Bay. We’re getting a little snippy with one another.

I get set to put the curtains up. Where’s my drill, measuring tape? Etc. “Oh shit, where is the curtain rod, honey?” We both look at each other and laugh. Christ, we left it at the fucking Target in Culver City. Ugh. “I’ll go to the one down the street,” she says. “Ok,” I say, but we both know the one down the street doesn’t have the stupid rods, that’s why we drove out to the ends of the earth in the first place. She’s gone, the kid’s battling with our own dog over rights to his own dinner. I shoo the dog off and then eyeball the corner where our bar sits. I think about rum, sweet rum. Maybe a rum Manhattan. Sounds delish. What? I have no rum. How did that even happen? Who drank all my damn rum? Oh, yeah, I used it to make eggnog at Christmas time. Ok, screw it, I think, grabbing a BFR out of the freezer and throwing it into my favorite drinking receptacle. Ah, that clinking sound, the sweet, sensual connection of ice and glass. The promise. I reach for the bottle of Bonded Grand Dad and then, out of the corner of my eyes, see the Benedictine and the Peychaud’s. What the hell? I add some of each, taste. Hey, this is pretty goddam good. Ah, man, yeah!. It goes down. For the next one I give it a swipe of lemon. Yeah, not bad. I sit my old ass on the couch. Yeah, alcohol does help stress. The day melts away.

This one’s for you parents out there, but those with lots of unshackled, free time in their lives can make one too I suppose. The recipe is simple. Two glugs of Bonded Grand Dad, a light dousing of Benedictine, four or five jolts of Peychaud’s, a BFR, and a lemon peel. Stir it all with your finger.