1. In the midst of a hangover have you ever promised to "never drink again?" How long until you broke that vow?
Oh yes, I’ve made that empty promise. Many times. It usually lasts anywhere from a day to a week. I’m pretty good about drying out between a hangover and my next indulgence. Especially now that I’m a Woman of a Certain Age and it takes me a wee bit longer to recover from such antics.
2. What is the stupidest thing you have ever done while drinking (or not if it is really stupid) but thought it seemed like a good idea at the time?
Where do I start? And how long do you have?
There was the time that a couple of us sorority girls decided that our pal needed a home perm (this was the ‘80, remember, when perms were all the rage) and the perfect time to administer this was after a Friday afternoon happy hour. Yes, that did turn out as fantastically as you might imagine. I think she ended up getting her hair cut very short and just starting over.
Then there are the fabulous occasions known as Drunk Shopping Trips. That’s always a good time. Especially if accompanied by other Drunk Shopping Friends. Again, the danger time for this was always post-Friday Happy Hour. The post-drunk analysis of what was bought was always a treat. Sometimes, I’d get lucky and have made some surprisingly good choices -- but more often than not, the purchases were along the lines of “WTF was I thinking?” Hoochie shirts were very popular with Drunk Shopping Me. Horrendously ugly earrings. And it seems that I could never resist the siren call of Anything On Sale. There was a store called the Body Shop that seemed to always be the undoing of Drunk Shopping Me. This Body Shop is not to be confused with the fab skin and hair care establishment -- it was a clothing store that had car doors as the doors of the dressing cubbies. At least I think it was called the Body Shop. And the merchandise was befitting an establishment that features car doors on the dressing rooms. High klass.
Drunk Shopping Me has also made appearances in my post-collegiate life, although not with a lot of frequency. At a preview party for a huge rummage sale my volunteer organization was hosting, I drank way too much beer and ended up buying a figurine of Buddha that had a little man holding onto a gold ring that was attached to one of the Buddha nipples. Along with a tapestry-upholstered prayer bench. And 10 back issues of the Southern Living Annual Recipes. Which are the only items from the shopping haul still in my possession. Imagine that.
3. On a scale of 1-10, where do you rate green beer?
Depends on what kind of beer it is that’s green. The color is really of no concern to me, as long as I deem it drinkable.
4. Have you ever kissed someone you shouldn't have (drunk or sober)?
Silly question. To which the answer is, of course.
I’m debating on whether to tell the story...
...oh, what the hell. It is TMI Tuesday, after all.
I had just turned 30. Still a swinging single trying to figure out what the hell I really wanted to do in life. Working in PR during the day and in grad school at night. Taking a class in Contemporary Latin American Fiction. (Great class -- loved it. Difficult in a thought-provoking way. Taught by my most favorite professor ever. Good stuff.) There were a couple of us who would head to the campus watering hole after class for a beer. Or seven. In this crew was a very hot dude, with intense eyes and really long hair and intelligence that wouldn’t quit. And a band of gold on the ring finger of his left hand.
We happened to be unwinding after class the evening of the ‘94 midterm elections, when Newt Gingrich and his Evil Agenda were the news of the day. The more the negative (from our perspective) results rolled in, the more we drank. As the night went on, the conversation went from political to intellectual to saucy. And the body language of Hot Married Dude evolved from laid back to intense to intimate.
We ended up closing down the pub and decided to take our little party elsewhere -- to a gloriously seedy bar called Mastry’s that was just up the street, where we drank even more and got even saucier. And as it was time for us to go our separate ways, Hot Married Dude walked me to my car and planted one on my intoxicatedly willing lips. If not for the calculated taco blocko (female version of the cock block) of my then-friend-but-not-anymore-because-she’s a-bitch, who at that very moment not coincidentally decided to come roaring up in her car and flash her brights (jealously), I have a feeling that the kiss would have evolved into something. Maybe regrettable. Or maybe not.
How's that for TMI.
5. What is the stupidest thing you have ever seen a drunk do (besides driving a car)?
Actually, the only really stupid drunk I can recall is... me. So one more story on myself.
Spring of my senior year in high school. I had gone to visit a childhood pal of mine, who was a freshman at UF, to get a feel for campus life. We went to a fraternity mixer the first night I was there -- and I got to fend off the advances of my first frat boy. Second night I was there, we ended up at -- you guessed it -- a Friday afternoon happy hour. Which extended into the night. And we ended up at a party where she and I tried to pierce a dude’s ear. Using only ice as the numbing agent. Trust me when I say that it seemed like a good idea at the time. Fortunately for everyone, we were spectacularly unsuccessful. I don’t even think we even drew blood. Ah, the follies of drunken youth.
I suspect I could think of more stories -- especially involving my adorable rascal of a brother -- but I’ll just leave it at that one. For the time being.
Bonus: How do you cure your hangover(s)?
Water. Lots and lots of water. Before going to sleep, if possible. And like three extra strength Tylenol. Also before going to sleep if possible. And I’m a firm believer in the restorative powers of eating something carb-y and greasy, either while still drunk, if you’re up to it. Or while hungover. Best hangover food ever -- a Lil' Asher from a no-longer-in-existence place in Gainesville called Skeeter’s. This little ad from 1986 describes it better than I ever could...
The Lil' Asher was an artery-clogging piece of heaven that involved eggs, hash browns or home fries, melted cheese and one of those big biscuits. I’m convinced that the greasy stuff leveled out your system and the big biscuit soaked up all the booze.
I was once so hung (after a night of three-for-one drinks at a place called Bash Riprock’s with the Great Unrequited (gay) Love of My Life, who drank like a fish and dared me to keep up with him) that I had to ask my wonderful roommate Miss L. to get me a Little Asher to go, as I could not get up off the couch where I had fallen asleep (OK, passed out) the night before. Now that's called being hung.over.
Wow. Reading all these stories makes me sound like a real lush. It’s no wonder my UF college GPA was a total underachievement on my part. But I had a hell of a good time underachieving, let me tell you.
PS: These days, cold pizza fills in as my greasy, carb-y hangover food of choice. It’s not quite as effective as a Lil' Asher, but it works.