I grew up with 2 parents that hardly ever drank. In my late teen years, the two of them started growing up and learning to drink again with me. Dad still calls my sister and me up and asks us what was that drink he tried and how does he make it? Nothing like the children being the bad influences on the parents.
Anyways, the point of the story...rewind several years to my ex-sister-in-law's wedding reception. Everyone is dancing, partying, and having a good old time. As I am working the room, I notice my dad is off in the back corner by himself just sitting there staring at his drink. Being the concerned daughter that I am, I work my way over to him and sit in his lap.
"Hi Heather." He says with a big drunken smile.
"Hey Pops, What's up?" I ask as he looks back at his almost empty Eiffel tower martini glass.
"Sheeeeiiilllllla," he slurs. "Did I ever tell you that Manhattans are like a woman's breasts? One is not enough, three is too many...
"and I've had seven."
Dad and his lucky sevens, after just returning from Vegas, what else can I say?
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