Accidental Ambivalence

Flashback: Twenty-One Candles

At 8:59 am, March 29th ’07, I finally turned twenty-one.

I was asleep at the time, because I didn’t have class till 12:30 and I don’t like getting up any earlier than I have to. I got up, dressed all cute (denim miniskirt, black fitted t-shirt, and pink flip flops), and made my way to class. After classes, I went to Boys and Girls Club (where I volunteered for a while during my blogging absence). My only real memory was watching the last half of Happy Feet and then playing Four Square and getting the kids to let me cheat because it was my birthday.

Clearly, that part of my birthday was boring.

I went home, curled my hair, traded the flip flops for black peep-toe heels, and waited for Bradshaw to make her appearance. She had basically orchestrated the plans for my birthday, being the older, wiser drinker that she is. I went along with it, simply because I didn’t want to over plan the evening – every time I try to do that, it ends badly. Stretch had agreed to be our sober driver for the evening because she had a camp or a game or something volleyball-related to do that weekend (it was Thursday night) and couldn’t drink. Also, I refused to have a twenty-first birthday celebration and have my best friend be my sober driver.

Bradshaw and Stretch arrived, and Stretch had something fantastic: birthday cake. She made me a birthday cake! I was very excited, and this action simply reinforced my newfound love for her. We were sitting in my living room, all party-ready and eating cake when my phone rang. Not thinking, I answered without looking at the display – which I never do.

It was K.

This was surprising, because he was basically the last person I expected to hear from on my birthday.* In fact, I nearly choked on my drink of water. He had noticed on facebook (a college stalker’s dream) that it was my birthday, so he thought he would call and say hello. I invited him to come to the bar we were spending the evening at, ended the call, and proceeded to forget about him for the rest of the evening.

Bradshaw is very familiar with the bar that we went to, an establishment that serves an assortment of mixed frozen things along with beer and a huge list of mixed shots. The bartender on duty that night was one of her friends, Tim.** After hearing that it was my birthday and checking my ID (carefully, since I look far younger than I am), he told me that there were two rules: one, I could not throw up in his bar, and two, I should get all of my drinks from him and he would take care of me.

I agreed quite happily to his rules, got a mixed drink to carry around,*** sat at a table with Stretch and Bradshaw, and began perusing the shot list. Friends began arriving shortly: Racer Boy; a guy I met a year ago at a frat party, Frat Boy; a guy Bradshaw went to high school with, Smiles; and Nametag. Within the first hour at the bar, I had taken five shots.

One fun highlight: Shortly after taking my third shot, Steve Miller Band’s “The Joker” began playing. My mom loves Steve Miller Band, so I felt compelled to call her and tell her that they were playing it at the bar. I managed to talk to both of my parents, told them that I was happily tipsy, and that I would, of course, be careful for the rest of the night.

I love that I tipsy-dialed my parents.

My timeline becomes very fuzzy around this point, so I remember only highlights. One of my dorm suitemates from my freshman year arrived. Some unfortunate things happened about a year prior to my birthday, and we hadn’t really spoken to one another since. That afternoon I had decided that it was stupid, especially since this particular suitemate was very fun to party with. When she arrived at the bar, I was more than a little bit excited. The Slutty One (who is no longer slutty since meeting her boyfriend) bought me a shot and we took pictures together.

Bradshaw found me standing on the outdoor patio, drunk-dialing all of my online friends, calling on, “that girl in Arizona,” telling another happy birthday, and leaving another a voicemail without knowing that she was in bad medical condition. When I found out later, I felt like a jerk.

At one point, Tim had several of us sit at the bar to play a game, Fuck You, Fuck Me. He handed out slips of paper and told us all to write an ingredient on it. Basically, you can all be very nice and end up taking a shot of something like grenadine, or you can all be bitches and end up taking a shot of something like Everclear. Tipsily, I decided to write one of my favorite ingredients on my slip of paper: lime juice. Tim collected all the paper and began reading them aloud. Bradshaw, the wonderful friend that she is, had chosen 151. I do not drink 151. I smiled, waved, and left the bar.

The next day, I found out that Tim had continued with the game, including my slip of paper. The ingredients for the shot were as follows: vodka, rum, 151, Goldschlagger, Bailey’s, tequila, gin, and my lime juice. If you know much about alcohol, you know that lime juice curdles Bailey’s, making the drink chunky and disgusting. Everyone still sitting at the bar took the shot and named it the “Fuck You, Midget,” because I’m short and I put in the ingredient that curdled the shot. I maintain that I was the only nice one for not choosing an alcoholic ingredient and it should have been named, “Fuck You, Person Who Picked Bailey’s.”

My opinion on the matter is inconsequential.

At another point, Bradshaw and Tim coerced me into take the quintessential twenty-first birthday shot at this bar: the cement mixer. In one shot glass, lime juice and 151. In another, Bailey’s. Shoot the Bailey’s, shoot the other, swish. As we learned from the fun little game, this shot curdles in your mouth before you swallow. Fortunately, I was drunk enough when I took it that I didn’t notice the chunks, but rather the fact that the shot is, indeed, rather tasty.

Later, I took a Flaming Dr. Pepper shot, and the fact that I didn’t burn my hand off is a miracle, because I did not blow it out before I dropped it.

I was extremely camera happy on my birthday, and the next morning I discovered sixty-plus pictures on my camera. This one is the last, taken on the ride home.

Stretch had left early after securing Bradshaw and me escorts home in Nametag and Racer Boy. By last call, I was extremely drunk. The bar was only a mile and a half or so from my apartment, and rather than waste money on a cab, the four of us decided to walk back. This was before we saw the rickshaw.

Oh yes, a rickshaw. The rickshaw driver was my new best friend, and I gave him all the money in my pocket, $25, for driving the four of us less than a mile. I was either the most amusing part of his evening or the most annoying. I prefer the latter.

After vacating the rickshaw to walk the last few blocks to my apartment, I decided that my heels were unnecessary. I took them off and handed them to Bradshaw. She handed them to Racer Boy who put them in his pocket. This is further proof of how intoxicated I was: I have tender feet. I would never walk on the sidewalk barefoot in the middle of a city if I was sober.

I have never been drunk enough to lose parts of my evening, but this night I was. We had to cross a major street to get to my apartment: I do not remember this. I wanted to kick Dread’s window when we went by his apartment:**** I do not remember this. I unlocked my door: I do not remember this. I do remember taking out my earrings and dropping them on the floor, then going to the bathroom to rid my stomach of much of the alcohol I had ingested.

The next morning, I had my first real hangover ever. I only had one class, but I skipped it in favor of choking down Burger King and drinking glass after glass of water.

It was a fantastic birthday.

*This isn’t true. Project is the last person I expected to hear from on my birthday. I was correct.
**Yes, this is his real name. I’d wager there are hundreds of bartenders named Tim in the country, and at least a dozen in Missouri. If you haven’t already figured out where I am, this isn’t a helpful clue.
***All I remember about this is that it had gin in it and was blue. It colored my tongue. I took a picture of my own tongue because I wanted to see it. I was very drunk.
****I always want to kick Dread’s window when I walk by his apartment, drunk or sober, so this isn’t as funny as it sounds.

Labels: alcohol, Bradshaw, my insanity

posted by nicalyse @ 1:07 AM