Final Round: This Room Is Not a Bathroom

I didn't drink this night, but some of my friends did.


Part 1: If I'd Known She Was Getting Married, I'd Have Gone to the State Store

One night during my senior year of college, my friend Matt learned that an old flame from high school was engaged. This was upsetting news for him; doubly so once he realized that his fridge held only two cans of Busch Light with which to drown his sorrows.

At the time, the only place to buy decent hard liquor was the state store, aka the Mi-T-Mart, an establishment conveniently equipped with a drive-thru lane. However, I seem to remember that you had to make all your liquor purchases by a certain time, and it was too late to head uptown and replenish his supply. Ironically, we had actually talked about going booze shopping before he got the phone call, and had decided against it. Thus, his lament: If I'd known she was getting married, I'd have gone to the state store.

This is about when I remembered that I had half a bottle of vodka in my room, so we headed over there to partake. Well, he drank and cried a bit lot over this girl while I abstained and tried to read this book that I had to write a paper on . . . said paper being due at noon the next day.

At some point, my friend Billy (the one who says I'm going to hell for lying to the preacher's wife on Easter Sunday) showed up, with some moonshine he had swiped from his dad's stash. That was great for Matt, because the vodka bottle was almost empty. I took a whiff of the moonshine and a small sip, and that was enough for me, especially after my experience with the Everclear.

Billy and Matt continued drinking while I tried to organize my thoughts for my paper. Since it was getting pretty late and the computer labs were closed, I told Matt that he had to let me use his computer to type up his paper. He agreed, so we planned to head back over there before he was unable to walk, and I left Billy to his own devices. Most of the time, he just took off his cowboy boots and fell asleep on my floor, so I figured he'd be okay on his own for a few hours while I was at Matt's.

Once Matt managed to get himself in his room, he laid down on the couch while I sat down at his desk. I had my back to him, but I could hear him being rather violently ill in the trash can while I worked on my paper. After a while, he decided he wanted to put on his jammies and go to bed. I'm typing away, and I hear a series of thumps. I'm almost about to turn around and see if he's okay when a voice near the floor calls out, Don't look! I'm naked!

I concentrate on the computer screen and try not to laugh too hard as he explains that he lost his balance and fell over when he was putting on his boxers. He staggers to his feet and clambers into the top bunk. I turn out the overhead light, but continue to work on the computer while he snores away.


Now, to borrow a phrase from Bill Cosby, I had to tell you that story in order to tell you this one.


Part 2: This Room Is Not a Bathroom

I'm not sure how much time passes, but we were both startled when the phone rang. Since Matt was in no condition to answer the phone, I did the honors. I was surprised to hear Kristen, the girl who lived across the hall from me, on the other end. She sounded really agitated, and there was a lot of noise in the background, so I could hardly hear her. She told me I had to come home right away. I'm like, I'm in the middle of doing this paper. What's going on? She's like, Billy's locked out of your room, and you need to come let him in. I said, Okay, well, give me a few minutes.

I take Matt's keys with me so I can come back to finish my paper, and I head for my building, which is co-ed by floor section. I'm walking through the guys' section on my floor, and almost every guy is awake with his door open or is milling around in the hallway. It's pretty late on a weeknight, so I'm kind of surprised by the amount of activity. I'm also wondering why some of the guys are pointing at me and whispering, but I ignore it.

As I come around the corner to my end of the hallway, I see Billy in a white t-shirt and pair of shorts that are not what he was wearing earlier that evening. I also see Kristen and the RA from the guys' section, my friend Rollie. Billy is understandably anxious to get into my room and get dressed in his own clothes. While he's doing that, Rollie explains the situation to me. Between that and some stuff I hear later, this is apparently what happened.

After I left, Billy stripped off more than his cowboy boots. For some reason, he stripped all the way down to his underwear, which happened to be tiger-print bikini briefs. (!! I had no idea!) Later, when he had to go to the bathroom, he stumbled down the hall in said underwear, pushed open the door to the bathroom, and began to use the facilities. Except he wasn't in the bathroom.

The guys who lived in the room across the hall from the bathroom had discovered that if you put one of the freebie magnets from the local pizza place over the strike plate on the door, the door would be closed, but not locked. Instead of digging out your key, you could just push on the door to open it . . . the same way you could just push on the door across the hall to get into the bathroom. So, if you've been drinking heavily and can't tell your left from your right and you push on a door and it opens, you think that you're in the bathroom and act accordingly.

When Billy came in the room, Jason and Jeremy were each asleep in their respective lofts. They both woke up when they heard someone come in, but they each thought it was the other coming back, although they hadn't heard him leave. When they heard Billy start to answer the call of nature, they each sat up, turned on some lights, and started yelling.

Jason and Jeremy summoned the RA, who recognized Billy as a friend of mine and decided that the next step was to find me. This is when they went down the hall to my room and discovered that the door had closed, so Billy couldn't get to his clothes. That is when Kristen donated some of her stuff for Billy to wear and called me over at Matt's.

I'm listening to Rollie patiently lay all this out, and Billy — now fully dressed — comes out into the hall. Rollie apologetically explains that he's going to have to write me up for failure to control my guest, and thus he'll need to see both of our IDs. I hand mine over, but Billy gets kind of squirrelly and says that his wallet is in his truck. I start to say, No, it isn't, it's in your jacket pocket, but he interrupts me: NO. IT'S IN THE TRUCK. I say, Okay, well.... and Billy says he'll go get it. He walks out the door, and I don't see him again for six weeks.

I don't know that at the time, though, so Rollie and I stand there like saps for about fifteen minutes, until Rollie suggests that maybe he's not coming back. While he fills out the forms, I go talk to Jeremy and Jason about cleaning up and making amends for any of their property that was damaged during the incident.

Luckily, while I was waiting for Billy to come back, they'd already cut out the affected portion of their carpet and done some of the other basic cleanup. So, all I had to do was run some of their clothes through the wash and replace an umbrella. When I came back from the laundry room, they were re-enacting the incident for the amusement of the other guys in the hall, and I noticed that they had posted a large sign on the door to their room:

Attention!
This Room Is Not a Bathroom!
Severe Beatdowns Will Be Administered to Anyone Who Disregards This Notice!

Epilogue
I saw Billy again the next quarter. He was with some other friends, and apparently wasn't expecting me to be there, because he got really embarrassed and tried to leave. I teased him a bit: Hey, long time no see! Did you find your wallet?

He finally explained that at the time he thought it was better if he just got out of there, and he had been avoiding me because he thought I'd be mad at him. I said, Hey, I don't care: You didn't take a leak in my room, so it's all good.

Oh, and I think I got a B on my paper. Not bad for waiting until the last minute and not really reading the entire book.

Final Round; My First & Last Experience with Scotch

I was 21 in 1989 & had just left my boyfriend of 3 years. He’d been too controlling. We never went anywhere & I could barely breathe without his okay. To get me out & meeting new people, a friend (not related to my ex in any way,) invited me to a wedding reception. I accepted.

The bar was open & I took advantage of it. Not much for hard liquor, I stuck to beer all afternoon. At one point another friend of mine approached & gave me a cup of scotch. I didn’t know it was scotch & by then, I certainly wasn’t about to sip it. Down it went--about 3 shots worth, all at once. I immediately felt sick, but managed to keep it down. Somehow it had slipped my mind that mixing drinks really doesn’t agree with me, but I would be reminded of it soon enough...

Needless to say, after guzzling the scotch (on top of all the beer,) it was time for me to go home. I didn’t embarrass myself at the party--yet--but I was getting stumbly & my friend was looking out for my best interests. I barely remember the ride home, but evidently I’d dropped a lit cigarette on my skirt, because the next day I found that skirt with a one foot diameter hole in the lap.

It was a hot Summer in Canada, with temperatures well above 100F. The air conditioner in my apartment was in my living room, which had a door that closed it off from the rest of the unit, keeping it nice & cool. I got some water to drink & a large pot to be sick in & went to sleep on my couch, too exhausted to even take off my clothes.

I was violently ill soon after & got sick all over myself, unable to even make it to the pot on the floor next to the couch. Still too tired & sick to deal with anything, I pulled off the now puke-stained clothes & went back to sleep. I woke again soon afterward for another bout of vomiting, but this time there were no clothes to take off--I’d thrown up all over myself. I got up & stumbled for the door, naked & covered in puke, heading to the bathroom to clean myself up.

I opened the door to the rest of my apartment & stepped through...to find my kitchen full of friends playing cards. Evidently they'd decided to move the party to my place, unbeknownst to me. Fortunately I was sick enough that I didn’t even care & my friends proved to be true; the incident was never mentioned again.

The Championship Round!

We have arrived at our final two contestants for "March Drunken Madness!" Our top seed, the top vote getter in the previous two rounds is Lana, whose story of her misadventures with Scotch carried her here to the final round. Her opponent is Amy, who lied to God and everyone on Easter Sunday after a Holy Saturday night of debauchery.

Stories for the final round should be posted here by no later than Tuesday evening April 1. It is appropriate that the final round should commence on April Fools Day. When both stories are posted the poll will be posted on the left. Voting will continue through Sunday April 6. (The Brave Astronaut has a busy weekend next weekend - so the winners may not be celebrated until Monday or Tuesday.

The two competitors have the option of substituting a new story for the final round or going with the one that got them here. The same rules apply - it must be a story you were directly involved in - either it happened to you or you were a witness to the events.

The winner will receive a prize selected by the committee (Brave Astronaut and Amy). If Amy is the winner of the contest, Brave Astronaut already knows what she will win - registration to the upcoming Spring 2008 MARAC meeting to be held in Chautauqua, New York the first weekend in May. I have a few ideas for Lana as well if she is the winner. I went to high school with her and have known her a long time. I do know however that she will not be receiving a bottle of scotch if she wins.

Congratulations to you both and lets see those stories!

Round 2 - One of the Reasons Amy's Going to Hell

Picture it: Easter weekend, my junior year of college. Despite my initial resolve to make it an early Saturday night, since I was supposed to be at church in the morning to sing with the choir, I end up at the Greenery with two friends. I was taking sips of their drinks here and there until they complained and told me to get my own damn beverages. So I did. Several times. Mostly Brainstompers. Which is why I only remember bits and pieces of the next few hours. I do, however, have a clear memory of licking the top of the bar dry when someone (probably me) spilled a lot of Brainstomper on it.

Eventually, it was last call — so much for not staying out late! I was more jacked up than my friends were, so for the hike home, one of them got on each side of me, put one of my arms around their shoulders, propped me up, and pushed me along. We looked totally ridiculous because I'm five-nine (ish), one of them is four-eleven (and three quarters), and the other is about five-six (in his cowboy boots).

They got me past the cops and the RAs who were on the lookout at various points along the way home. They did not, however, help me walk around a pillar in the doorway of Albert's Restaurant. According to them, I walked right into it, face first.

By that time we were practically to my room anyways. I was sitting on my bed, and my friends were having a discussion about what to do next. I got their attention by announcing, I think the possibility exists for me to vomit.

I wasn't in any condition to make it down the hall to the bathroom, however. I ended up sitting on my bed, technicolor yawning into some large plastic bowls. One friend was holding the bowls, pushing my hair out the way, and telling me that it would be okay and that she was here for me. Meanwhile, the other one was running a vomit relay: He was taking a full bowl down to the girls' bathroom and dumping it out, then bringing the empty bowl back to trade it for another full bowl. All the noise woke my RA, who followed him into the bathroom to ask what was going on. He's all, Uhm, she's fine! Don't worry! and ran back to my room.

After I heaved all there was to heave, we went to sleep. I woke up the next morning . . . and panicked when I realized I was supposed to be at the church in ten or fifteen minutes. For some dumb reason I ended up yanking on the shirt I wore to the bar the night before, and took some aspirin on the way over. I didn't realize until I was pulling on the choir robe that there are Brainstomper spots on my cuffs and that I totally reek of cigarette smoke.

When the choir files in and sits down for early service, I feel like I'm going to be sick again. I look to the left, and realize I'd have to crawl over about five or six people to get to the door. I look to the right, and see that I'd have to wedge myself between the piano and the pulpit. I'm trapped!

We get up to sing the opening hymn, and I decide I have to get out of there, now. I squeeze past the people on my left and make it to the back room, where there's a little kitchenette they use for communion preparation. I am violently ill in the sink, and then fix myself another glass of water and sit on the steps that go up to the baptismal font while I drink it.

I hear the service continuing without me, and then I'm sick again because of the water. I finally wise up and decide not to drink anything else. I just sit on the steps until the service is over, and decide that I have to go up front and find my friend Billy (one of the people who was out with me the night before) and get him to take me home.

When I find him, I also run into the preacher's wife. She asks me if I'm feeling all right. I say I'm not, and that I think I'd better go home. She asks what's wrong, and I lie. I tell her that I went out to eat the night before with my friend and her parents and that I had the fish and that it must not have agreed with me, which I why I've been sick to my stomach. I'm not sure I was very convincing in my insistence that it was just an unfortunate case of food poisoning, but she pretended to believe me.

Meanwhile, Billy is standing just off to the side, trying not to laugh too loudly. As we walk through the parking lot, though, he just loses it. Apparently, from his pew close to the front, he saw my face get greener and greener until I shoved people out of the way and ran into the back, where he could hear me being sick. He chortled all the way home, and insists to this day that lying to the preacher's wife on Easter Sunday means I am going directly to hell.

Round 2 - The Brave Astronaut meets Progressive Pitchers

While in college, there was a bar called the Long Branch, which was popular with the college set. This was primarily due to its happy hour on Fridays. They featured something known as Progressive Pitchers. If you drank in college, you probably know what they are. Pitchers start at a set price and go up incrementally in price after a set period of time. At the "Branch," pitchers started at 3:00pm at $1.50 (yeah, I know I'm old) and went up $1 each hour (I think - my memory ain't what it used to be and I was particularly drunk that day).

I had a friend visiting from home and five of us piled into my friend's car and headed for the Branch. We got there at the start of the "session" and got busy. I do believe that we had gone through three pitchers before the first price change. By 6:00pm, we had all consumed at least a pitcher each. And it was time to head home. But first, PIZZA! The five of us staggered / stumbled / walked to the pizzeria a few doors down from the branch, the same pizzeria named in my Good Friday post over on my regular blog.

So we get back into my friend's car, a two-door Ford Mustang, which he drove, a suite mate took shotgun, and I sat in back with my roommate and another suite mate, who we will call Jeff (well that's his name). My roommate (Joe) spent the ride back trying to keep Jeff's head up (he was mostly passed out between the two of us. He would call out, "He's Up!" while holding his head up and then "He's Down" when his head would droop down. Finally, as we were pulling in, on one of the last "He's Down," Joe felt drool on his arm. He pulled his arm back and Jeff proceeded to um, "return his pizza" on to the floor of the backseat.

We got into a parking spot and quickly exited the car. My friend was a little concerned about the extra volume in his car, so we started to throw snow on it to try and freeze it. Somehow that did get cleaned up - I'm a little hazy on the details. We managed to get Jeff back upstairs and decided he needed a shower. He was declaring that he wanted to go and see his girlfriend, which we all tried to tell him was not a good idea in his current condition.

Jeff and I had an ongoing battle over trivia. Jeff had the uncanny ability to tell you the square miles of just about any country in the world. So while we got him into the shower we bombarded him with questions about the square miles of countries that we could remember the names of. Not that any of us were in any condition to check.

By 7:00pm, we were all passed out in our beds. You would think that would be the end of the story . . . but no. We all got up around 10:00pm and headed out again. Including Jeff. As you might expect, he was hungry. So we went out to eat and drink a little more. When we got back to campus, we were in the middle of a fire drill. And Jeff got to see his girlfriend. And didn't come back to our room that night.

This is but one college drinking story. I've already related in another forum about the flaming 151 shot. It hurt. There was the time that I passed out mid sentence while talking to a suite mate. There was the time we were making "Blue Whales" and I may have been parading around campus in elephant slippers. Any of these stories could be retold, if I get your vote, sending me to the next round!

Round 2 - St. Patrick's Day in DC for the Southern Gentleman

The following events took place on March 15 and 16, 1996, in the Cleveland Park neighborhood of Washington, D.C. Names have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent.

Because St. Patrick's Day would fall on Sunday in 1996, my friends of the Arlington Irish Circle (hereafter AIC) and I decided that we would party on Friday and Saturday, then repent at Mass on Sunday, March 17th. We figured that Patrick was more than deserving of an entire weekend of praise. By the way, the AIC is a group of great friends who were all of Irish blood to some degree. They all lived in Arlington, Va., during the 1990s, but most of them are transplants from the south side of Buffalo, NY. This is a story of partying hard on the first day, praying for death on the second, then passing on a chance for forgiveness on the third.

I'm used to REAL St. Patrick's Day celebrations in my hometown of Savannah, Ga.: big parades, lots of pipe bands, lots of green beer, etc. Such festivities do not exist in the Washington, D.C. area that I know of. DC opts for convenience of a parade a weekend ahead of the actual day. I find this pointless and stupid …but I'll save that for my "Why I hate St. Patrick's Day in Washington, D.C." for another blog contest.

To make up for lame DC St. Pat's celebrations, I convinced the AIC that we should camp at Ireland's Four Provinces (now known as the Four Green Fields) on Connecticut Ave. The Four P's would be a good starting point for drinking, dancing, singing Irish songs, and drinking … wait, I already listed drinking. I took off work 3 hours early that afternoon and headed up to the Four P's to hold some tables. When I told my boss I was taking off early to go to an Irish pub he gave me a funny look. He's wasn't Irish, so he didn't understand.

Well, everyone else in DC clearly had the same idea. I arrived by Metro and found a line of people a block long coming out of the Four P's. I was disappointed by this, but I would not be deterred! I saw Nanny O'Brien's Pub just across Connecticut Ave., so just a slight change in plans. Had I known the events to unfold at Nanny's, I might have just taken the Metro back to Arlington and spent the evening crying into pint of Guinness.

With a quick call to my friends from the nearest pay phone (It was 1996 and none of us had cell phones back then.) our meeting place changed to Nanny O'Brien's and the celebration was back on track. I stepped into Nanny's at about 4 p.m. and there was not a soul in the place. Nanny's management had wisely cleared the entire bar of tables and chairs … hoping to save a fortune on replacing broken furniture no doubt.

My friend Robert arrived first to join me. "Let's have a Harp to get the party started!" Robert said. "Sure, why not," I responded. It was my first Harp ever, and I now shudder just a little when I see the Harp emblem on a pint glass or a neon beer sign. So I had my first Harp to toast St. Patrick, then my second to toast Ireland, then another to toast the color green, then another, then another. I lost count quickly. Other members of the AIC showed up to find Robert and me already tanked by 7 p.m.

An Irish band started playing at 7, and that's when the promotional reps for Bailey's Irish Cream showed up. They were a swell bunch, and brought with them little green, plastic shot cups in the shape of shamrocks. The shot cups were conveniently hung on long strings, so the drunken masses could keep them around their necks. The first round was free, so how could we refuse. I tasted my first Bailey's that day, and I've never had a single drop since. We pounded countless Bailey's shots, dances, sang and stole pretzels from the bar. There was no other food to be had, but it wasn't like I was in any condition to eat a plate of corned beef and cabbage at that point.

We danced for a while, and that’s when Ann fell onto the bandstand after Robert gave her a good spin from a fast Irish jig. She took out the Irish piper, a microphone stand and one speaker. They were idiots for bringing expensive instruments and sound equipment into an Irish pub on St. Patrick's Day anyway. Stick with a few Chieftan's CDs and the drunks don't know the difference. When the dancing calmed, I noticed Robert was missing. I checked the bar, but no sign of him. I went to the bathrooms, but the line was a few people long, so I decided to lean against the wall for a while and wait my turn. The next guy to come out said, "Dudes, do not go in the last stall. There is some guy in their painting the walls." Of course, it was my friend Robert.

Robert won the award for "losing it" first that day. He looked pretty bad, so I volunteered to escort him to Elaine's car. She had parked two blocks away from Nanny's so I figured we'd have a little rest and rejoin the party later. I poured him in to the back seat, and I took the wheel … to sleep, not to drive. As we rested there, I asked Robert if it made him feel any better to have puked in the bathroom. He replied, "Oh, hell yes!"

And that was all the convincing I needed. I quickly opened the car door and puked onto the sidewalk right in front of Adas Israel Congregation on Quebec St., N.W. Right there in front of God and untold numbers of worshipers leaving the synagogue after Friday night services. I've always felt guilty about the spectacle I created, and thought at times I should visit the temple to apologize to the congregation. No one should have to see that kind of a display while leaving a house of worship! Then things calmed down and Robert and I passed out.

At about midnight, we came to, and realized how late it was, and that Elaine and the rest were still at Nanny's. With a second wind, we returned to the bar … it was time to pee again. By midnight Nanny's was packed and we had to push our way back in. We still had the Bailey's shamrock shot glasses around our necks, so they let us back in. To avoid a longer wait in the future, we decided to get two more Harps on the way to the bathrooms figuring that if we had puked up all the earlier beers and Baileys, we might get thirsty again. With new beers in hand, we headed for the back of the pub to the restrooms … remembering that Robert had ruined the very back stall and that we should avoid that one on this potty stop.

We couldn't get near the bathrooms, so we stumbled out Nanny's back alley door to relieve ourselves in the alley. There was a big hedge along the alley, so we had some privacy. Then, through the hedge, we heard a woman's voice calling, "Peaches! Peaches! Here, Peaches!" We zipped up as fast as possible and ducked through the hedge to see who was calling for Peaches. It was some woman whose black lab, named Peaches, had broken her leash and run down the alley. We didn't wait for an invitation and just joined in the search for Peaches. The woman was frantic to find her dog, so she wasn't bothered that two strange drunk guys were following her screaming, "Here, Peaches!" We walked for a couple of blocks calling for the lost dog, but then realized we were back at Elaine's car at Adas Israel. We decided to leave the woman to find Peaches on her own and we returned to the car for another lie-down … remembering to get in on the passenger side as to avoid the mess I left on the sidewalk earlier.

It was well after midnight by then, and we thought for sure that Elaine, Ann and the others would meet us at the car soon and drive us back to Arlington. We woke up to the sound of worshipers returning to Adas Israel and with bleary eyes, could see that it was 10:30 a.m. on Saturday and we were still in Elaine's car. Not only did Elaine not drive her own car home, she just left us in there, unconscious and smelling like two Irishmen on payday! Elaine had left the keys under the floor mat, so we dug them out and Robert drove us back to my place in Alexandria. We tried to sponge the booze from our bodies with b-b-q from the Dixie Pig in Alexandria, but we found out the hard way that Asians make really, really, really bad southern b-b-q. That worsened the situation, of course.

Still driving Elaine's car, we made it to Elaine's house in Arlington where we found her and other AIC folks preparing a meal of corned beef and fixins. As usual, the ladies of the AIC had behaved like ladies and drank responsibly at Nanny's. I was so wrecked that I couldn't stand the smell of anything, so I admitted defeat, excused myself. I took the Metro back to Alexandria where I closed out the weekend by "sleeping it off." On my way out, the AIC reminded me that we were all going to mass at the Dahlgren Chapel at Georgetown Univ. the next morning. I just said, "I think I'll pass, but do ask St. Patrick to intercede on my behalf for a short hangover."

Twelve years later I can't hear the words "Bailey's Irish Cream" without cringing. I still drink Harp, but only one or two in an evening. I've never set foot inside Nanny O'Brien's since that night. I'll never know if that poor woman found Peaches, and I'll never be able to show my face at Adas Israel Congregation again! But I do know that is was the greatest St. Patrick's Day ever!

These events can be confirmed by Robert if need be. -OSG

Round 2 - My First & Last Experience with Scotch

I was 21 in 1989 & had just left my boyfriend of 3 years. He’d been too controlling. We never went anywhere & I could barely breathe without his okay. To get me out & meeting new people, a friend (not related to my ex in any way,) invited me to a wedding reception. I accepted.

The bar was open & I took advantage of it. Not much for hard liquor, I stuck to beer all afternoon. At one point another friend of mine approached & gave me a cup of scotch. I didn’t know it was scotch & by then, I certainly wasn’t about to sip it. Down it went--about 3 shots worth, all at once. I immediately felt sick, but managed to keep it down. Somehow it had slipped my mind that mixing drinks really doesn’t agree with me, but I would be reminded of it soon enough...

Needless to say, after guzzling the scotch (on top of all the beer,) it was time for me to go home. I didn’t embarrass myself at the party--yet--but I was getting stumbly & my friend was looking out for my best interests. I barely remember the ride home, but evidently I’d dropped a lit cigarette on my skirt, because the next day I found that skirt with a one foot diameter hole in the lap.

It was a hot Summer in Canada, with temperatures well above 100F. The air conditioner in my apartment was in my living room, which had a door that closed it off from the rest of the unit, keeping it nice & cool. I got some water to drink & a large pot to be sick in & went to sleep on my couch, too exhausted to even take off my clothes.

I was violently ill soon after & got sick all over myself, unable to even make it to the pot on the floor next to the couch. Still too tired & sick to deal with anything, I pulled off the now puke-stained clothes & went back to sleep. I woke again soon afterward for another bout of vomiting, but this time there were no clothes to take off--I’d thrown up all over myself. I got up & stumbled for the door, naked & covered in puke, heading to the bathroom to clean myself up.

I opened the door to the rest of my apartment & stepped through...to find my kitchen full of friends playing cards. Evidently they'd decided to move the party to my place, unbeknownst to me. Fortunately I was sick enough that I didn’t even care & my friends proved to be true; the incident was never mentioned again.

And the Winners Are . . .

First, let me commend everyone on some really great stories. I think that we have stumbled (no pun intended) on a fun diversion. With the first round in the books, here are the winners.

In first place, with thirty-seven votes, is Lana who recounted her first and last encounter with Scotch. Second place went to Amy in Ohio and her twenty-one votes, sitting up front on the express train to hell after lying to God and everyone on Easter Sunday no less. With seventeen votes, third place went to Southern Gentleman and his story of St. Patrick's Day debauchery. The final spot goes to yours truly, Brave Astronaut, with twelve votes.

For the second round, it had been originally proposed that stories be posted by tomorrow. Unfortunately, life has interfered. I have heard from one of the winners that they would like to go forward with their winning story. If the other winners are content with their stories you may repost them. If you would like to substitute a new story, please post it here by Sunday evening. The poll will open on Monday morning and run through the week, closing Friday March 28 at Midnight EDT. At the conclusion of the second round of voting the top two vote getters will go head to head for the championship, again with the option of keeping the same story or posting a new one.

There has been some discussion about prizes. In jest, I suggested that the winner should be given a bottle of alcohol, but that might be a suitable gift. Suggestions will be welcomed by the committee (Amy and Brave Astronaut).

The time to post stories has closed

The time to post stories for the first round has passed. There are eight stories in the running. As previously announced the top four vote getters will go on to the second round. The poll that appears on the left will allow voting until Tuesday March 18 at 11:59pm. Please note that this poll is the latest iteration and previous polls have been deleted. Where a story had already received votes, those numbers are noted in parentheses after the contributor.

Here are the stories that are posted here (with links to each story, so one does not have to scroll down the entire page - each link should open in its own window). Analysis is provided by the Brave Astronaut and is not meant as an endorsement or repudiation of anyone's story. That being said, mine is pretty good, isn't it?

• From Stinkypaw, a story of running amok in Japan and how she's really a cheap date but be warned she will fall asleep in that beer.
• From Amy, a story of running afoul of the Lord and nuns, on Easter Sunday no less, leading her to believe she is on the express train to hell.
  
• Lana offers her first and last encounter with the sweet brown liquor (Scotch).
• The Sleepy One deprives a boy of some drunken love.
• Brave Astronaut recounts the ill-fated journey of his high school ring, and lying to his mother, who could have made him pay, but didn't.
• Southern Gentleman tells the story of traditional debauchery on St. Patrick's Day in our nation's capital.
• J in PA blacks out on his way home one evening and then nearly checks out the next morning over some overcooked eggs.
• Ann of the 6th Floor Blog offers up a drinking story from the past involving, tequila, coffee, and falafel, among other culinary delights.
• NJM offers a story of a wedding reception with an open bar, more drinking at home, long distance drunk dialing and surviving a hangover.

Get out to your supporters and get them to come vote for your story!

Ultimate Drunk Dialing

From NJM . . .

I was about to start my sophomore year, but was still at my summer job managing the ice cream shop. I walked to the shop most of the summer; it was about 2 miles away, over the Bourne Bridge and across the rotary. At the time, my older brother and I often represented our parents at family events during the school year. One of those events was our cousin's wedding in Newport - on a gorgeous afternoon in late summer.

The reception was lovely, on the water in Portsmouth. It was an open bar; I don't remember the food, but I know it wasn't a sit down meal. And I kept switching between champagne and screwdrivers. My brother drove home (about an hour away). Good thing too, considering how much I had had to drink in that 3 to 4 hour period. When we got there, he made us G&Ts. We had a couple of rounds, but no dinner. He went to bed. I called my ex in Knoxville.

I would have to ask, but I think we were on the phone for 2 or 3 hours. Every so often I would very politely ask him to hold on a minute, and go throw up. He was amused. When we finally hung up it was probably between 1 and 2 in the morning. I was scheduled to open the shop at 11:00, so I needed to be there by 10:30.

I felt so horrible the next morning that taking a shower hurt. I couldn't figure out why, then I remembered - the screwdrivers, the champagne, the gin, the call to the ex. I was experiencing my first hangover, and I had to walk to work. Why, you ask, couldn't my brother drive me? Because he had already left for the day. I knew that there was no way I was going to get to work if I had to walk across the bridge, so I got one of the neighbors to drive me; I told her that I had a virus or food poisoning, but couldn't get out of work.

I was fine by 1:00. For what ever reason, that is the only hangover I have ever had.

The Ghost of Drinking Past

Welcome to the 6^th floor.

Today's contributors are: Ann, Sara, Tabitha, Frank, Billy and Scott.

Subject: The Ghosts of Drinking Past

Cindy: “Here are your drinks. Would you like anything else? Breadsticks? More appetizers? Refills on your beers?”

“No thanks Cindy, the beers you just gave us are actually quite full.”

Cindy: “Oh, okay.” Cindy turns and heads back to the kitchen.

“Is it just me or is she getting ditzier?”

“I think it's just you. She's always like that.”

“We've all had our ditzy moments. Remember when we went out for Amy's birthday down in the village?”

“Which time was that?”

“Yeah! That's the time Scott and Billy ended up in Coney Island at 4am!”

“Hey, I just drive the subway, no one says I'm supposed to know how to use it!”

“I was just following him, I figured that he knew a shortcut or something.”

“Turns out, 'downtown and brooklyn' is not a shortcut for 'uptown'.”

“My sense of direction gets all befuddled when I'm drunk.”

“We were all pretty drunk that night. That bar was pretty awesome.”

“That was the place with hundreds of bottles of beer right?”

“Yup, and a full page of Martini's too. That Bananarama drink must've had four ounces of alcohol in it.”

“I love how the menu says there is a 'two martini limit'.”

“Didn't the bartender/waitress tease us about that when she brought us what must've been like our 7^th round?”

“Yes, that's because Scott was flirting with her though.”

“She was hot! She looked like the girl from Roswell.”

“Was that the same trip Ann forgot where we lived?”

“I did not forget where we lived!”

“Then why did you tell the taxi driver to let us out nine blocks from our apartment?”

“I wanted to get a bottle of coke, we were out.”

“And in your oh-so-lucid 6-beer state, you decided the best place to do that was a Dunkin Donuts nine blocks from our apartment, even though there are at least two that are closer?”

“You have a problem with that? Besides, it's not like any of the three of you corrected me when I told him the address.”

“We weren't listening! We kind of trusted you to know where we lived. Amy and Sue were probably even more drunk than you anyway. Sue kept thinking she heard police sirens, and Amy was being all nostalgic about 1996! They were in no condition to be checking your accuracy.”

“You got an extra large Dunkaccino, so I don't know that you have a right to be complaining.”

“Ahh, but do you remember why she wanted more coffee?”

“No. I vaguely remember she had already had coffee, but I can't remember much else.”

“She'd gotten a coffee from the McDonalds near the bar, then tripped on the curb and sent it flying into some girl that was walking by.”

“The curb jumped out at me!”

“That's right, and then we quickly hopped in the cab Amy'd already hailed. I wonder what happened with the girl?”

“She was screaming obscenities after you left. Glad she didn't realize me and Tab were with you.”

“I'm sure a couple of martinis calmed her right down.”

“Yeah, nothing like heavy drinking to recover from being covered in coffee.”

“At least Sara got more coffee, she didn't spill that one did she?”

“_I_ didn't spill it, no.”

“Must've been clumsy Ann then.”

“No, it just spilled.”

“Ghosts? We were the only two home.”

“That's not true! Amy and Sue came in, remember? We had a night cap?”

“No, actually I have very little recollection of anything after the grueling walk back.”

“Oh please, it was nine blocks, get over it! You didn't even burn off the Dunkaccino in that.”

Cindy: “Dunkin Donuts!! I love the Milky Way hot chocolate. It's like my crack.”

“Did she come over here just to say that?”

“I think so. Honestly I don't remember much of our nightcap either. After Sue distracted you and Amy and I added a shot of Rumplemintz to your coffee, it was all downhill. I vaguely remember doing Tequila shots, which always seems like a good idea after your smashed until you are still tasting them at dinner the next day.”

“There was definitely tequila. I could detect the pleasant aroma of agave when we got back later.”

“That pleasant odor didn't last long unfortunately.” Billy looks over at Tabitha.

“Aww, that's right. Tab can't hold her liquor! Maybe I better help you with that..” Scott says, reaching for Tabithas cosmo.

“No! Mine!” Tabitha slaps Scott's hand away. “Besides, I think it was the falafel after drinking that did me in that night.”

“I didn't realize you guys had gotten falafel! I might've stuck around for that!”

“If you'd have used our bathroom the next day, you'd have known she had falafel.”

“Gross Ann! It wasn't that bad.”

“Maybe it was that last beer you had. Where was it from, Vietnam? I had falafel too and I was fine.”

“I'm not sure if you had falafel or falafel had you. You were so covered in falafel and hummus from walking and eating that I was doubting you'd ingested any at all.”

“Was this before or after you had the lame-brained idea to walk the 80 plus blocks back to the apartment while drunk?”

“Walking while you're drunk is a great way to burn off the extra calories.”

“The way we were walking if we'd kept going we'd have been lucky not to end up in the East River.”

“We barely made it to the Astor Place subway stop anyway.”

“And that's where we got our coffee for the trip back. Mud Truck!”

“We didn't spill it though. Although you almost tripped over Sue and Amy who never made it back to their place and were sleeping in the hallway outside the apartment.”

“They were really unhappy when I woke them up and hurried them along back home too!”

“Guess the tequila shots weren't a wise idea for them either.”

Cindy: “Hold your horses, I have them right here!” Cindy puts seven tequila shots on the table.

Cindy: “Don't tell anyone!” Cindy says, and downs one of the shots.

“Way to go Cindy!”

Ann exchanges a look with Sara. “You just can't say no to tequila I guess. A toast?”

“To agave!”

“No no, to the start of another crazy drunken night!”

“Here here!” Scott says, and they all clink their shot glasses and do the shot before gesturing to Cindy for six more.

Happy Hour at Cafe Caracol

Posted on behalf of J in PA:

(If you'd like to follow along geographically, click on this link.)

As a junior in college, I spent the year studying abroad in Bologna, Italy. With there being 31 of us from the same small liberal arts college, we naturally shared with each other news about the best bars to frequent. Il Druido offered a simple rustic atmosphere, and it was only a stone’s throw from my apartment. A German-styled place a few miles away meant a long walk, but also meant a great selection of beers in a Hofbrauhaus setting. And sometime in the course of the year, someone discovered Café Caracol, a Mexican-themed bar.

Café Caracol, with an ambience a step above Chi Chi’s, offered a happy hour. Discounted alcohol, of course, is the siren song for many college students, and we were no exceptions. During happy hour, pints of Corona were 1000 lire (about 65 cents, according to the exchange rates in November, but closer to a dollar by May thanks to the economic policies of the first President Bush), and a pitcher of margaritas went for 10,000 lire. The lure of the cheap booze was hard to pass up. One day after class, several of us made arrangements to meet there.

As you all know, the object of a happy hour is to drink as much as you can in the time available. Then go out for something to eat (something cheap, preferably), and resume drinking as soon as possible. This was the plan for the evening. I generally stuck to the pints of Corona, not being a big fan of fruit-flavored mixed drinks. Unfortunately, I arrived a bit late – nearly half an hour had already passed. I tried to make up for lost time by putting away pints quickly since I knew that they were not flexible about extending their happy hour so much as a minute.

Shortly before time expired, I scored my sixth pint. My classmates also acquired fresh pitchers of margaritas. The challenge was to drink everything within the next half hour, by which time the bar area was cleared of all the riff raff to make room for full-paying customers – those who actually planned to buy dinner. After finishing my pint, I proceeded to assist those trying to empty their pitchers. Our numbers had dwindled, but there were enough of us determined not to waste a drop of alcohol. Though not keeping track, I estimate that I drank about half a pitcher before we were all helped out the door. (Oh, and for those that like to do math, try to figure my blood alcohol level at that moment, considering that I weighed about 125 pounds.)

My roommates and I started back for our apartment. I recall walking along the sidewalk just outside the bar. The next thing I recall was when we got to within a block of our apartment. I had zoned out during the nearly two miles of walking in between. (I was told later that I spent most of that walk jabbering incessantly – something I can do even when I’m sober – and in particular that I was nagging certain of my roommates for being slobs. This behavior would not shock anyone who knows me.) That walking “brown out” remains my only alcohol-induced memory lapse – as far as I know.

We stopped in our apartment just long enough to use the bathroom and grab our student IDs. One of the University cafeterias was just down another long block from the apartment. We managed to cross the many lanes of heavy traffic without incident – still a mystery how we did that – and proceeded to fill up our trays with mediocre Italian cafeteria food. Toward the end of my meal, which consisted of plenty of bread and pasta, I remember having a peach yogurt cup. (Clearly, the dessert selection must have been meager that evening.) I recall staring at one of my roommates sitting across from me and wondering why he seemed to be swaying. No matter how hard I tried to focus on him, I couldn’t make his image sit still. That was an interesting sensation. Oh, well. Dinner was over, and we returned to the apartment.

Once in my room, I decided to lie down until things in my line of vision stopped moving so much. After a little while, one of my roommates stopped in to see if I wanted to head out for some more drinking. I declined, and then slept peacefully for the next ten hours.

When I awoke the next morning, I found one of my classmates (but not a roommate) passed out on the sofa. I opened the door to the kitchen, and was met by the overwhelming stench of gas. At the same time, I thought I heard one of my roommates stirring, walking toward the bathroom.

I ran to the kitchen windows and opened them in a panic. I threw open the door that led out to the courtyard balcony in another instant, and then dashed to the stove. I found the remnants of two eggs in a saucepan – they had exploded. The gas was on, but the flame had clearly burned out long ago – sometime after the eggs launched themselves at the walls.

About then, I realized that none of my roommates was up, and what I thought I heard was merely someone in another apartment. My heart resumed beating, and I heaved a sigh of relief. The hot water heater for the apartment was located above the sink in the kitchen. If someone had gone into the bathroom and turned on the hot water in the sink or shower, the pilot light would have flared up to heat the water and our apartment would have been the scene of a spectacular explosion (since my classmate had passed out while his eggs – an odd snack for a drunken college student – were in the midst of being hard-boiled).

I count this among my “I could have been killed” moments. I’ve always been thankful that I wandered into the kitchen first that morning.

Best Drunk Story Ever … and it happened in March!

The following events took place on March 15 and 16, 1996, in the Cleveland Park neighborhood of Washington, D.C. Names have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent.

Because St. Patrick's Day would fall on Sunday in 1996, my friends of the Arlington Irish Circle (hereafter AIC) and I decided that we would party on Friday and Saturday, then repent at Mass on Sunday, March 17th. We figured that Patrick was more than deserving of an entire weekend of praise. By the way, the AIC is a group of great friends who were all of Irish blood to some degree. They all lived in Arlington, Va., during the 1990s, but most of them are transplants from the south side of Buffalo, NY. This is a story of partying hard on the first day, praying for death on the second, then passing on a chance for forgiveness on the third.

I'm used to REAL St. Patrick's Day celebrations in my hometown of Savannah, Ga.: big parades, lots of pipe bands, lots of green beer, etc. Such festivities do not exist in the Washington, D.C. area that I know of. DC opts for convenience of a parade a weekend ahead of the actual day. I find this pointless and stupid …but I'll save that for my "Why I hate St. Patrick's Day in Washington, D.C." for another blog contest.

To make up for lame DC St. Pat's celebrations, I convinced the AIC that we should camp at Ireland's Four Provinces (now known as the Four Green Fields) on Connecticut Ave. The Four P's would be a good starting point for drinking, dancing, singing Irish songs, and drinking … wait, I already listed drinking. I took off work 3 hours early that afternoon and headed up to the Four P's to hold some tables. When I told my boss I was taking off early to go to an Irish pub he gave me a funny look. He's wasn't Irish, so he didn't understand.

Well, everyone else in DC clearly had the same idea. I arrived by Metro and found a line of people a block long coming out of the Four P's. I was disappointed by this, but I would not be deterred! I saw Nanny O'Brien's Pub just across Connecticut Ave., so just a slight change in plans. Had I known the events to unfold at Nanny's, I might have just taken the Metro back to Arlington and spent the evening crying into pint of Guinness.

With a quick call to my friends from the nearest pay phone (It was 1996 and none of us had cell phones back then.) our meeting place changed to Nanny O'Brien's and the celebration was back on track. I stepped into Nanny's at about 4 p.m. and there was not a soul in the place. Nanny's management had wisely cleared the entire bar of tables and chairs … hoping to save a fortune on replacing broken furniture no doubt.

My friend Robert arrived first to join me. "Let's have a Harp to get the party started!" Robert said. "Sure, why not," I responded. It was my first Harp ever, and I now shudder just a little when I see the Harp emblem on a pint glass or a neon beer sign. So I had my first Harp to toast St. Patrick, then my second to toast Ireland, then another to toast the color green, then another, then another. I lost count quickly. Other members of the AIC showed up to find Robert and me already tanked by 7 p.m.

An Irish band started playing at 7, and that's when the promotional reps for Bailey's Irish Cream showed up. They were a swell bunch, and brought with them little green, plastic shot cups in the shape of shamrocks. The shot cups were conveniently hung on long strings, so the drunken masses could keep them around their necks. The first round was free, so how could we refuse. I tasted my first Bailey's that day, and I've never had a single drop since. We pounded countless Bailey's shots, dances, sang and stole pretzels from the bar. There was no other food to be had, but it wasn't like I was in any condition to eat a plate of corned beef and cabbage at that point.

We danced for a while, and that’s when Ann fell onto the bandstand after Robert gave her a good spin from a fast Irish jig. She took out the Irish piper, a microphone stand and one speaker. They were idiots for bringing expensive instruments and sound equipment into an Irish pub on St. Patrick's Day anyway. Stick with a few Chieftan's CDs and the drunks don't know the difference. When the dancing calmed, I noticed Robert was missing. I checked the bar, but no sign of him. I went to the bathrooms, but the line was a few people long, so I decided to lean against the wall for a while and wait my turn. The next guy to come out said, "Dudes, do not go in the last stall. There is some guy in their painting the walls." Of course, it was my friend Robert.

Robert won the award for "losing it" first that day. He looked pretty bad, so I volunteered to escort him to Elaine's car. She had parked two blocks away from Nanny's so I figured we'd have a little rest and rejoin the party later. I poured him in to the back seat, and I took the wheel … to sleep, not to drive. As we rested there, I asked Robert if it made him feel any better to have puked in the bathroom. He replied, "Oh, hell yes!"

And that was all the convincing I needed. I quickly opened the car door and puked onto the sidewalk right in front of Adas Israel Congregation on Quebec St., N.W. Right there in front of God and untold numbers of worshipers leaving the synagogue after Friday night services. I've always felt guilty about the spectacle I created, and thought at times I should visit the temple to apologize to the congregation. No one should have to see that kind of a display while leaving a house of worship! Then things calmed down and Robert and I passed out.

At about midnight, we came to, and realized how late it was, and that Elaine and the rest were still at Nanny's. With a second wind, we returned to the bar … it was time to pee again. By midnight Nanny's was packed and we had to push our way back in. We still had the Bailey's shamrock shot glasses around our necks, so they let us back in. To avoid a longer wait in the future, we decided to get two more Harps on the way to the bathrooms figuring that if we had puked up all the earlier beers and Baileys, we might get thirsty again. With new beers in hand, we headed for the back of the pub to the restrooms … remembering that Robert had ruined the very back stall and that we should avoid that one on this potty stop.

We couldn't get near the bathrooms, so we stumbled out Nanny's back alley door to relieve ourselves in the alley. There was a big hedge along the alley, so we had some privacy. Then, through the hedge, we heard a woman's voice calling, "Peaches! Peaches! Here, Peaches!" We zipped up as fast as possible and ducked through the hedge to see who was calling for Peaches. It was some woman whose black lab, named Peaches, had broken her leash and run down the alley. We didn't wait for an invitation and just joined in the search for Peaches. The woman was frantic to find her dog, so she wasn't bothered that two strange drunk guys were following her screaming, "Here, Peaches!" We walked for a couple of blocks calling for the lost dog, but then realized we were back at Elaine's car at Adas Israel. We decided to leave the woman to find Peaches on her own and we returned to the car for another lie-down … remembering to get in on the passenger side as to avoid the mess I left on the sidewalk earlier.

It was well after midnight by then, and we thought for sure that Elaine, Ann and the others would meet us at the car soon and drive us back to Arlington. We woke up to the sound of worshipers returning to Adas Israel and with bleary eyes, could see that it was 10:30 a.m. on Saturday and we were still in Elaine's car. Not only did Elaine not drive her own car home, she just left us in there, unconscious and smelling like two Irishmen on payday! Elaine had left the keys under the floor mat, so we dug them out and Robert drove us back to my place in Alexandria. We tried to sponge the booze from our bodies with b-b-q from the Dixie Pig in Alexandria, but we found out the hard way that Asians make really, really, really bad southern b-b-q. That worsened the situation, of course.

Still driving Elaine's car, we made it to Elaine's house in Arlington where we found her and other AIC folks preparing a meal of corned beef and fixins. As usual, the ladies of the AIC had behaved like ladies and drank responsibly at Nanny's. I was so wrecked that I couldn't stand the smell of anything, so I admitted defeat, excused myself. I took the Metro back to Alexandria where I closed out the weekend by "sleeping it off." On my way out, the AIC reminded me that we were all going to mass at the Dahlgren Chapel at Georgetown Univ. the next morning. I just said, "I think I'll pass, but do ask St. Patrick to intercede on my behalf for a short hangover."

Twelve years later I can't hear the words "Bailey's Irish Cream" without cringing. I still drink Harp, but only one or two in an evening. I've never set foot inside Nanny O'Brien's since that night. I'll never know if that poor woman found Peaches, and I'll never be able to show my face at Adas Israel Congregation again! But I do know that is was the greatest St. Patrick's Day ever!

These events can be confirmed by Robert if need be. -OSG

A Story about our Stories

I spotted this in the New York Times Magazine from February 10, 2008. The opening line of the article sent me here to post it to our little drinking circle.

"Why are videos of drunken people so compelling?"

Indeed.

The Loss of the Ring

In high school I would often go out on weekend nights with friends to a movie or some other normal teen event. Invariably, we might try to go to a bar - or else head to the beach (the joys of growing up on Long Island) where we would drink. My drink of choice in high school was vodka (I wouldn't develop a taste for beer until I went away to college).

This particular evening, we were well on our way to being hammered, my two friends and I, with me far out in the lead (did I mention I was a lightweight?), when my friend, Chris, decided it was time to wrestle. He swung me around on the beach, where I landed hard on the sand and my high school ring, which had only recently arrived, flipped off my finger.

I exclaim, "MY RING!" Chris immediately feels bad that he has cost his drunk friend his new high school ring and begins to sift through the sand, looking for the ring. My other friend turns his car toward the beach and puts on the high beams to assist in the search. I flop down next to Chris and begin to pound the sand, trying to "help." Miraculously the ring surfaces in Chris's hand. We decide that's enough for the evening so we get back in the car to head home.

I was in the back seat with the remaining vodka, which did not survive the trip to my house. My two loyal friends "pour" me out of Gary's backseat and push me in the direction of my parent's front door. I manage to get through the door and up the stairs to my room, of course located at the end of the hall, next to my parents room. I may have bounced off the wall a bit down the hall.

I land on my bed and that's when the room starts to move without me. I realize it is in my best interest to get up and head for the bathroom. So I bounce back down the hall to the bathroom where I proceed to pray to the porcelain god. In my stupor, I decide that I am clearly making too much noise and decide to move to the bathroom downstairs.

It is here my mother finds me.

She looks down at me and says, "You've been drinking, haven't you?"

I have the nerve to look up at this woman who gave me life and state quite defiantly, "No."

To which she responds, "But you smell like a distillery."

I counter with my repeated denial, "But, I haven't been drinking." I may have included some allegation that it was someone else who spilled on me. It's not clear.

Somehow I get back to bed and the next morning, I was drinking - coffee at the kitchen table. My mother let me wear sunglasses at the table. And she was considerate enough to speak softly.

The high school ring? I lost it a few years later as I got out of my car . . . in the parking lot of a bar . . . it went down the sewer drain. But that's another story.

From "The Sleepy One"

An anonymous posting . . .

For much of my life, I really didn't drink at all. There are several reasons for this, but the predominant reason was that I didn't like the taste of alcohol. (If I make it to Round 2, you'll get a second reason.) My family mostly drank Bud, Genny Cream Ale, and Lake Niagara wine - is it any wonder I didn't like the taste?

In college, several of my friends attempted to find some drinks I would like. Nada. It wasn't until I was in grad school that I found something tolerable.

As a result, I had never been drunk. Even to this day, I've never truly been drunk. Tipsy - yes, but not really all-out drunk. I've never had an alcohol-induced hangover. (If it's anything like the MSG poisoning I experienced in Cleveland, then no thank you.)

Going back to college, my boyfriend at the time decided shortly after I turned 21 that I should try to get drunk, just for the experience, and so I'd know how I'd react. I went along with this plan. He bought a bottle of good wine, and we went back to his apartment.

I still wasn't keen on the taste of wine at this point, but since it wasn't wine in a box, it wasn't so bad. Over the course of an hour or so, I managed to finish two glasses. And then promptly fell asleep in the armchair in his living room. I'm pretty certain that this was not the reaction he expected.

My First & Last Experience with Scotch

I was 21 in 1989 & had just left my boyfriend of 3 years. He’d been too controlling. We never went anywhere & I could barely breathe without his okay. To get me out & meeting new people, a friend (not related to my ex in any way,) invited me to a wedding reception. I accepted.

The bar was open & I took advantage of it. Not much for hard liquor, I stuck to beer all afternoon. At one point another friend of mine approached & gave me a cup of scotch. I didn’t know it was scotch & by then, I certainly wasn’t about to sip it. Down it went--about 3 shots worth, all at once. I immediately felt sick, but managed to keep it down. Somehow it had slipped my mind that mixing drinks really doesn’t agree with me, but I would be reminded of it soon enough...

Needless to say, after guzzling the scotch (on top of all the beer,) it was time for me to go home. I didn’t embarrass myself at the party--yet--but I was getting stumbly & my friend was looking out for my best interests. I barely remember the ride home, but evidently I’d dropped a lit cigarette on my skirt, because the next day I found that skirt with a one foot diameter hole in the lap.

It was a hot Summer in Canada, with temperatures well above 100F. The air conditioner in my apartment was in my living room, which had a door that closed it off from the rest of the unit, keeping it nice & cool. I got some water to drink & a large pot to be sick in & went to sleep on my couch, too exhausted to even take off my clothes.

I was violently ill soon after & got sick all over myself, unable to even make it to the pot on the floor next to the couch. Still too tired & sick to deal with anything, I pulled off the now puke-stained clothes & went back to sleep. I woke again soon afterward for another bout of vomiting, but this time there were no clothes to take off--I’d thrown up all over myself. I got up & stumbled for the door, naked & covered in puke, heading to the bathroom to clean myself up.

I opened the door to the rest of my apartment & stepped through...to find my kitchen full of friends playing cards. Evidently they'd decided to move the party to my place, unbeknownst to me. Fortunately I was sick enough that I didn’t even care & my friends proved to be true; the incident was never mentioned again.

One of the Reasons I'm Going to Hell

Picture it: Easter weekend, my junior year of college. Despite my initial resolve to make it an early Saturday night, since I was supposed to be at church in the morning to sing with the choir, I end up at the Greenery with two friends. I was taking sips of their drinks here and there until they complained and told me to get my own damn beverages. So I did. Several times. Mostly Brainstompers. Which is why I only remember bits and pieces of the next few hours. I do, however, have a clear memory of licking the top of the bar dry when someone (probably me) spilled a lot of Brainstomper on it.

Eventually, it was last call — so much for not staying out late! I was more jacked up than my friends were, so for the hike home, one of them got on each side of me, put one of my arms around their shoulders, propped me up, and pushed me along. We looked totally ridiculous because I'm five-nine (ish), one of them is four-eleven (and three quarters), and the other is about five-six (in his cowboy boots).

They got me past the cops and the RAs who were on the lookout at various points along the way home. They did not, however, help me walk around a pillar in the doorway of Albert's Restaurant. According to them, I walked right into it, face first.

By that time we were practically to my room anyways. I was sitting on my bed, and my friends were having a discussion about what to do next. I got their attention by announcing, I think the possibility exists for me to vomit.

I wasn't in any condition to make it down the hall to the bathroom, however. I ended up sitting on my bed, technicolor yawning into some large plastic bowls. One friend was holding the bowls, pushing my hair out the way, and telling me that it would be okay and that she was here for me. Meanwhile, the other one was running a vomit relay: He was taking a full bowl down to the girls' bathroom and dumping it out, then bringing the empty bowl back to trade it for another full bowl. All the noise woke my RA, who followed him into the bathroom to ask what was going on. He's all, Uhm, she's fine! Don't worry! and ran back to my room.

After I heaved all there was to heave, we went to sleep. I woke up the next morning . . . and panicked when I realized I was supposed to be at the church in ten or fifteen minutes. For some dumb reason I ended up yanking on the shirt I wore to the bar the night before, and took some aspirin on the way over. I didn't realize until I was pulling on the choir robe that there are Brainstomper spots on my cuffs and that I totally reek of cigarette smoke.

When the choir files in and sits down for early service, I feel like I'm going to be sick again. I look to the left, and realize I'd have to crawl over about five or six people to get to the door. I look to the right, and see that I'd have to wedge myself between the piano and the pulpit. I'm trapped!

We get up to sing the opening hymn, and I decide I have to get out of there, now. I squeeze past the people on my left and make it to the back room, where there's a little kitchenette they use for communion preparation. I am violently ill in the sink, and then fix myself another glass of water and sit on the steps that go up to the baptismal font while I drink it.

I hear the service continuing without me, and then I'm sick again because of the water. I finally wise up and decide not to drink anything else. I just sit on the steps until the service is over, and decide that I have to go up front and find my friend Billy (one of the people who was out with me the night before) and get him to take me home.

When I find him, I also run into the preacher's wife. She asks me if I'm feeling all right. I say I'm not, and that I think I'd better go home. She asks what's wrong, and I lie. I tell her that I went out to eat the night before with my friend and her parents and that I had the fish and that it must not have agreed with me, which I why I've been sick to my stomach. I'm not sure I was very convincing in my insistence that it was just an unfortunate case of food poisoning, but she pretended to believe me.

Meanwhile, Billy is standing just off to the side, trying not to laugh too loudly. As we walk through the parking lot, though, he just loses it. Apparently, from his pew close to the front, he saw my face get greener and greener until I shoved people out of the way and ran into the back, where he could hear me being sick. He chortled all the way home, and insists to this day that lying to the preacher's wife on Easter Sunday means I am going directly to hell.