Adulthood is fun, I hear... but I still find myself missing college. I miss Pullman and the general feeling of debauched energy that rings through the air there. I miss people yelling obscenities my way as I shuffle down the sidewalk. I miss Wileys, Stubbys, the Ladder and all other means of over-consumption made available to Cougs. I miss my weekly tumble down B Street. I miss being six minutes from Idaho (not).
Mostly... I miss day-drinking.
Day-drinking, for those who are no fun whatsoever and don't know..., is drinking during the day. Preferably mid-week, when you should be doing something else, like going to class (or work...). Day-drinking happened to me quite often in college, because I went to WSU and to keep us numb to the complete and utter isolation we consented to by going there; they laced our water with vodka. Just kidding. Actually, I arranged my schedule one semester so that I only had classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays. And that ingenious course management, my friends, put me in prime position for day-drinking.
Once you're an adult, day-drinking doesn't generally occur unless you're taking secret pulls at work. If you're doing that, more power to you I guess, but for most of us drinking on the job is a fire-able offense... or at least frowned upon. So instead you're stuck sitting in your cubicle, day-dreaming of day-drinking in the sunshine-y outdoors on a Tuesday afternoon.
Or, in my case, you're actually drunk at 3:00 PM on a Thursday.
It all started when my friends Paul and Derick came back to town. One's in dentistry school and the other is off to Harvard Med in the fall. I know what you're thinking, but don't worry. They don't feel weird around me in the least, what with all my post-college successes... They're both really secure in themselves and the choices they've made thus far.
Since I don't work on Thursdays we all went out for drinks Wednesday night, hatching a brilliant beyond brilliant plan. We decided we would congregate again, the next day, and drink. Hey now, I didn't say it was a complicated or intricate plan. I merely stated its brilliance... and you can't deny that.
Who doesn't love drinking during the day!?
I woke up Thursday morning, vaguely remembering the conversation and our (brilliant) plan. It was already 11 and I hadn't heard anything from anyone except my mother, so I went into the kitchen and broke my coffee maker. (Btw- I didn't break my coffee maker because my mom's the only one who cares to see if I'm alive on a daily basis... though I could see why this fact would push someone over the edge. I broke it because it fucking sucks at making coffee and stuff.)
After throwing it (rather violently) into the dumpster, I wrote off the day as a bust. Angrily decaffeinated, I marched myself out to the patio, where the sun was shining even though the day was completely fucked... I scowled out over the golf course with a book in my hand, hoping that at least one polo/visor wearing asshole would hit himself in the head with his own club.
At about 2:00, I got the call. Paul and Derick were on their way.
Three minutes after their arrival we took our first shot. Looking back I'm a bit surprised they didn't hand me a double as I opened the door, as that is typically their style. I may have balked a bit at Paul's heavy handed pouring, to which I received what I can only categorize as a murderous stare. Since college, I'm not so much of a shot taker... I like drinks that taste nice and don't burn. Unless we're talking tequila, in which case... dame. (That's Spanish for "give me" rather than me just typing a synonym for lady, in which case I most certainly would have written, 'broad'.)
"Hey, so, what school did you go to, Booze?" Paul asked. It wasn't a real question. He and Derick knew very well what school I attended, as Paul visited me there a number of times and Derick is also an alum. Anytime my friends ask this particular question, they aren't looking for an answer. They're trying to shame you into drinking more... because obviously if you went to a school like WSU, you can handle a shot of vodka. Or as it turns out, four. In like, an hour.
Thirty minutes later, Derick had secured a bocce ball set, and Paul's friend Sarah joined us (as an alum of LCSC, she too was coerced into taking shots) for a battle royale of bocce fun outside my apartment. It should be mentioned that I am awful at sports, bocce-ish activities included. I'm not very competitive, I don't usually know the rules and I get anxious when people take games seriously.
Also, one time in seventh grade, I got hit by a softball on the shoulder during PE. I fell down and was pretty sure I was dying. Then to add insult to injury, one of my classmates yelled, "Hit her again!" I like to think he was joking... but he wasn't. He's just a dick.
Anyway, I always pity anyone who's stuck on my team. So I felt really bad for Sarah... and then Paul... and then Derick. Yeah. They probably did this so they'd all be equally handicapped when I was by their side.
I'm just inept. And also... I was drunk.
-There was the time I launched the ball onto the green and Paul and Derick refused to set foot on the fairway...
-A bit before that I heaved it as hard as I could and it hit a tree... and landed three feet from us.
-Toward the end of the game I thought it'd be awesome to toss it over the little river thing near the third hole. Paul said, "No offense, Booze, but I think that's a bad idea." I disagreed and he shook his head, continuing. "Have you seen you throw?"
It was at this point in the afternoon that things get fuzzy... I'm about 80% sure that we took a break from bocce, went inside, and poured ourselves a couple drinks. We then returned to the game, I think. Then... things got weird. I was evidently bored with the game, deciding to vent my frustrations with various friends via text:
"Ughhhhhhhhh I got attacked by a pine tree."
"You got attacked? Or did you attack the tree?"
"It was like stealing shoes and balls and shit!!!!!!!!! Ughhhp"
Hours after the bocce fun began, we retreated inside and righted ourselves with more drinks. Sarah went home to change and I decided to make myself look halfway presentable. This was a moot point, though, as by now I was too far gone. I was drunk. I couldn't figure out what clothes to wear. I didn't know where my shoes were. I poked myself in the eye with my mascara, then got pissed at the mascara and stowed it somewhere I have yet to discover. Seriously. I had to go buy new mascara.
Sarah reappeared, but only briefly. She told us that she knew her limit, and she was past it. So she returned home. I SHOULD HAVE BEEN MORE LIKE HER. But I wasn't. I was having so.much.fun. And I was really past the point of making intelligent decisions.
Minutes later (at least it felt that way), we were at Bruchi's. I do not know what I ordered. I'm not really sure if I ate. I was told later that I was, "out of control!" but I am very rarely in control, so this isn't news so much as the usual, for me.
All I know is that an hour and a half later, I was sitting at Lawrence Scott Park, watching a fucking softball game. I hate softball (mostly because of the aforementioned 'hit her again!' business), and I hate it even more when I'm sobering up. For most of the game I tried to figure out who was on what team, and about 20 minutes in I started bitching about the ten-run rule, which evidently does not apply to leisure softball leagues...
After spending much of the first inning losing 2-1, by the ninth our team was winning 40-2. Honestly. They won FORTY to TWO. And I'd venture to say that half our team was drunk.
Darkness fell, finally, and the never-ending game came to a close. The winning team headed to Sam's for a celebratory brew (40-2! 40-2!), and the losers probably went home to slit their wrists because they suck at life, and more importantly, softball.
Once we arrived at Sam's, I didn't want beer. I wasn't in a hoppy place. No... I wanted more vodka. And when they didn't put enough in my drink I was totally all right with that... not because I knew I was practically comatose, but because I had a pint in my purse. I topped off my drink, and offered my services to those surrounding me. Methinks I topped off my drink a few too many times, because before I knew it... the Skyy was gone. (Meanwhile I'm pretty sure I stole the Skyy from Paul, in which case, I owe you... How about a half G of Monarch? :))
After I drained the Skyy, I had a couple brews, to celebrate the victory, you know. And because I don't think I could find the bar and the beer was just, there, on the table... People filtered in, we may have chatted, and reminisced, and I made an ass out of myself (probably) when I went over to a neighboring table and spoke at them for a bit. I should remind that by this time I had been consuming for roughly 10 hours... and I looked it. As in my hair was fucking ridiculous, I'm sure, and my speech was most likely jumbled-at-best. And I wasn't wearing any make up because I was really too drunk to care, and my outfit was only briefly thought out during my post-bocce rush to get ready. So, natch, I was really pretty.
After Sam's (I know what you're thinking... AFTER Sam's? Isn't it midnight by now? Shouldn't you go home? You're especially saying this if you're Lawrence because not 3 weeks ago when I was at his apartment, he was begging for me to leave at this point, becoming surlier by the minute when I didn't oblige...) we went to a little place called Island's Casino, formerly known as Cleo's.
Instead of dabbling in my usual Spanish 21 or...whatever other games they have there, I bee-lined to the bar. I'm wondering now if sometime during the night I peed my pants, because I don't remember visiting the facilities at any of the frequented establishments... hmm. I guess that's a bit of a mystery. Well, anyway, while at Cleo's, I sat with some people and I think I talked... ish. I really don't know what else happened, forgive me. I know there were baskets of food... and I think some people were drinking but I'm pretty sure I wasn't. Who knows?
It wasn't until 2 AM that I started walking home. Really. I was that girl that you saw at 2 in the morning on Gage Boulevard, grinning like a fucking idiot because I was still drunk, all the while admiring the gorgeousness of fake-Richland on a crisp, spring morning. Paul was with me most of the way, until we parted about a block away from my apartment.
I skipped (literally) for a good 40 feet, reveling in the glory of the afternoon-evening-midnight-morning. I tucked myself into bed, got back out of bed and chugged some water, and then set myself into slumber once more. Also... I died a little bit the next day.
All in a good day's drinking, I suppose.
I hear they're coming back in July. I think I'll be ready by then.
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