Jenna's House of Idiosyncrasies Version 10.0 [Focus.]

You know you are way too comfortable in your grown-upness when you proceed to get drunk with/in front of your father.

On Friday, the rock star played the big open mic finals at Washington Street Tavern, a place with cute bartenders and strong drinks.

You can see where this is leading.

My Dad was in attendance, and he had allowed a few other people to buy him drinks before I arrived at about 11:00. My favorite conversation of this evening? My Dad saw me pulling out my cash, counting and preparing to head to the bar. He looked at me like a six-year-old expectly naming off their birthday wishlist (let us not forget that my father doesn't drink often), a goofy, wide smile on his face.

“Jenna, I need another drink and I don't have any money.”

He shrugged innocently, the sappy grin still plastered to his face. I stared at him, dumbfounded. This was, in my tipsy father's eyes, a request to make the order more specific.

Giggling like a school girl, he offered, “I'd like a mixed drink, please.”

I relented. I do have some very favorable genetic material from this gentleman, afterall. “Long Island?”

“What's that?”

“It's what I'm getting, so it's what you're getting.”

“All right!” Dad laughed heartily.

I was on my second or third Long Island at that point. I had four or five before we left Washington Street. There are a few reasons for drinking that heavily, some of it needing to ignore things and people that are not going the way you want, some it it being a Friday following a long, exhausting week, but most of it being charming bartenders that wink at you coyly everytime you tip.

A couple other priceless father-daughter moments, both after all of my drinks had been consumed:

1. Dad, smiling uncomfortably: “Uh-oh, you just dropped the F-bomb in front of your father.”
   Me, too intoxicated to regulate: “Shit, I was hoping you'd be too drunk to notice!”
2. Dad, commenting on the 30 degree weather and the fact that I am only in a T-shirt: “Aren't you cold?”
   Me, smiling with delight: “I can't feel my fingers. I'm not worried about it.”

I know I went to the Grill with my father after that. I don't remember what we talked about.

I don't think I want to remember.