BYPASSING THE BAR
ONCE A WEEK OR SO, my wife goes out to dinner with friends. Which means it’s up to me to get our five-year-old son, Marlon, fed, bathed, pj’d, and into bed.
Once all that happens—and assuming Marlon doesn’t bound down the stairs minutes later, announcing that he’s thirsty or “heard a noise”—I’ve got the house to myself: the sofa, the flat-screen, and, most important, the icebox.
Now, I know some people frown upon drinking alone. But if you can’t enjoy a cocktail with yourself, then who can you?
Not only do I get to make what I want how I want, I also love how the evening unfolds. No phone calls, no conversations, just a chance to downshift and relax. I’m with colleagues all day; it’s high…
