My mom was watching the kids last Friday so the Engineer and I could go to the 8th or 9th grand opening of the Anchor, drink some dollar train beers and watch our friend’s band, Preacher’s Wife. I’d been looking forward to it all week. So much so, in fact, that I somehow missed the fact that the grand opening was on Saturday. Not Friday. Friday is not the same thing as Saturday. Apparently the days of the week hold some meaning for people who have actual jobs.
We don’t get out a lot, so this put a bit of a dent in the evening for me. The Engineer was happy because it wasn’t his fuckup, and because he doesn’t actually enjoy live music or crowds. And there were two free spots at the bar. We decided to make the best of it.
The Anchor – a famously beer-driven dive on the train tracks – is currently attempting to be a craft cocktail spot. They have big dreams. They have no Campari or Lillet, but they have big dreams.
So a few Manhattans later we’re traipsing home when we pass this place that is clearly having all of the available fun in Everett. There is laughter and dancing and pumping bass. There is a sparkly drag queen getting bbq in the parking lot, her sequined dress lighting up the night like a magical beacon of fun.
We gotta stop in for one drink, the Engineer says. Just one.
It’s late, though, I say, I have to call my mom.
And then we both have a good laugh because we’re 36, have two kids, and I have to call my mom to get permission to have one last drink on the way home.
The punchline? She said no. No fun for you.
So with a last, longing look at the greased up, hot-shorted boys on roller-skates serving cocktails, we trudged back home.
And I drew this.