On Friday night, I met up with an old friend, and I sucked him dry.
God it was good.
Jamie is back on the sauce and she's had a franken-headache since Saturday to prove it.
Granted, I was never off the sauce, not in the strict sense anyway. I've been drinking like a fish as per usual - Smirnoff Ice, margaritas, daiquiris, bellinis, gin and berry juice,martinis, screwdrivers, fuzzy navels, tequila shots, jello shots, and more wine than you can shake a stick at.
But there's been a thorn in my side since a cool October night in 2000, and it pains me to say this, but it has turned me into a girlie-drinker. I wasn't always like this.
Way, way back, before I was a seasoned alkie, I was a high school student getting drunk with my friends. The first time I drank enough to be drunk, it was on Tornados, a concoction of lemonadish beer that I wouldn't let a dog drink, even if he'd just pissed in my favourite shoes. This stuff was awful, but understand that this was in the days before there were coolers, and we didn't have much choice. We had picked up cases of this stuff from Le Depanneur, literally, The Corner Store, which was a brilliant place that had set up shop just a scooch past the border so that 14 year-olds with 18-year-old IDs could go buy beer. It was like heaven, only with a smaller selection. Those were the early days, when you would drink anything that was wet, and it didn't matter if you liked it because everything tastes gross when you puke it back up, and somehow, that was the point of these excursions.
After ascertaining that I disliked beer in every shape and form it comes in, I moved on to bigger and better stuff, namely, whiskey rye. This is a strange choice for a little 16 year old girl, but I've never been one for going with the crowd. The truth is, I'd gotten hooked on the stuff at a bonfire my mother threw, one of those "I'm cleaning out my liquor cabinet" parties that I wish more people would throw. I contributed my share of dead soldiers that night, and never looked back. And then I spent a summer bartending, and although rye-and-cokes are an old man drink, for my money and taste, there's no better way to get hammered. Everyone else brought beer to house parties; I brought Diet Pepsi and Canadian Club. Once I had refined my palate to the likes of Crown Royal (neat), I veered away from the high school crowd and
spent more time being initiated into the world of hard stuff by a much-older boyfriend and his friend. With each of them on my arms, I breezed right by every bouncer, never being questioned as to my age (I was still a minor).
Hello Amaretto, Scotch, Curacao, Schnapps, Drambuie. Hello hangovers and high tolerance. Hello Goldschlager, even if you did have me momentarily convinced that I had fishies swimming around in my stomach.
By the time I finally reached University (and legal age!), I was a dedicated Crown Royal connoisseur. I drank it while getting ready to go to bars, getting ready to go to parties, getting ready to write finals (I had an original approach, I know...advice: check the alarm twice). But before long, I was moving out of residence, and my friends were throwing me a goodbye party. My poison for the evening: you betcha, good ole Crown Royal.
It was a wild party before I even got there. Our 40-year-old Russian exchange student was off his rocker with a bottle of liquor he kept concealed in his coat pocket. Tracy and Reshma were dancing wildly in each other's boots. Karen and Brian were necking on sofa no one else would sit on, for obvious reasons. As for me, well, I was exhausted. Jason and I had spent the whole day moving into our new apartment. We hadn't even had time to eat, so when I started downing whiskey on an empty stomach, I should have been more wary. I wasn't. I spent a good portion of the party on a bathroom floor, and a small portion of the party flashing my punani at unsuspecting party goers. Fun times.
As legend has it (cause I don't remember), Jason carried me home on his back that night. I have not drunk one sip of whiskey since, nor can I even stand the smell. I have mourned the loss of my good friend CR, but I am a fickle friend, and I replaced him immediately, even if it was with some girly-drinks.
So, on Friday night, we started out in a restaurant bar, and I had a daiquiri (or 4). Good stuff, went down easily, too easily, and then we shifted gears and hit a dive bar. Cool place, limited drink menu. After ascertaining that there were no cocktails, no coolers, no cranberry juice (which I never even asked for), and not much besides beer, I suddenly blurted out "Rye and Coke!" Oh boy.
Well, I got it down. I got two down. I began to feel the familiar buzz.
As is the case with many Friday nights, no one could decide what to do, and is the case with many Friday nights, we all ended up back at our place, blending up and shaking up drinks galore. "Let's do tequila shots!" yells Jason, gamely.
"Jason, if we do tequila shots tonight, I will throw up."
"Is that a promise?"
We shook on it, even.
So, we went home. I made martinis like nobody's business. Jason sliced up some limes while I licked wrists for salting all around.
(daiquiris (rum) x 4)
(rye&coke x 2)
(martinis (gin, dry vermouth) x 2)
(tequila shots x 4)
Jamie made good on her promise. Real good.