Sometimes it takes two days to get over a real good one.

On Saturday morning I woke up naked spooning Timber with Ryan asleep on the other side of me and my cat MacGyver at the foot of the bed. Once again a hangover would prevent me from fully enjoying an afternoon outing with my family. (See “We’ll getchye a barf bag.”.) Nevertheless I gagged on a cup of coffee and drove Timber and me to the Roswell Square to meet my parents for lunch. I heard Daddy mention that he wanted a Terrapin ale with his meal, but he forgot to request it when the woman at the counter took his order.

“Didn’t you want to get the beer, too?” I asked.

“Yes, I’ll have the beer,” he said to the cashier.

“What kind of beer?” she inquired.

“Whatever you wanna put on it.”

“No, Robert! She asked what kind of BEER you want, not what you want on your SANDWICH!” Mother poked him with her signature frustration. “You said you wanted the TERRAPIN!”

“Oh. Yeah. The Terrapin,” he muttered.

Just a few weeks ago at the Horizon Theatre, a similar social mishap involving beer occurred.

My family huddled around the concession booth and salivated at the sight of the enormous chocolate chip cookies.

“I like the name of ‘at beer,” Daddy pointed to an Ass Kisser lined up with the other alcoholic options.

“Would you like one?” asked the play volunteer, holding a cold bottle in one hand and an opener in the other.

“Yeah, but don’t open it. I want to take it home.”

“Okay,” she went along with it.

“Can I just have this warm one?” he gestured toward the display.

I grabbed the bottle and shoved it in my purse so Daddy wouldn’t lose it.

“Who’d I give that to?” Daddy asked seconds later while Mother paid for our snacks.

“Me,” I answered.

We probably looked kind of crazy.

Robert Grady Wages, Jr.

As if inebriated, Daddy has released many parental inhibitions; he no longer disciplines me with Army Ranger ferocity and discusses most subject matter he once deemed taboo.

“Have you ever had a really bad hangover?” I asked him while we sat on a bench, waiting for Mother and Timber to finish perusing a store.

“Yep. Several. More than several. Sometimes it takes two days to get over a real good one.”

When Mother and Timber bounded out of the store with a bird bath, Daddy nodded toward the bench across from us.

“Why don’t you girls go sit on that bench?” he asked.

“What?” Mother squinted.

“Why don’t you girls go sit on that bench?”

They lowered their beehonki onto the iron.

“My God,” Daddy whispered. “They’re really gonna do it.”

I howled and spanked my thighs as Daddy chuckled, too. I’ve shared more laughs with my father since his Alzheimer’s diagnosis than in the 28 preceding years. We’ve met somewhere on a bridge between discipline and friendship.