The Night I Lost My Money and Embarassed Susan
I recently got ridiculously drunk off a small amount of alcohol when I went to Kelowna to visit Susan. It was one of my worst drinking endeavours to date. But I’m sure it’ll be funny for other people to read about it.
One of the first things we needed to do when I arrived was go to the liquor store. We grabbed some vodka and a 6 pack of Granville Island King’s Winter Ale because it’s delicious AND because it was supposed to have cardboard mustaches inside in honour of Movember. There were two, so we could each wear one in public. We went out for sushi for dinner and while delicious, I clearly need to eat something more substantial when I drink. Clearly.
The night started off like many others - a couple vodka/waters and a couple beer. Upon opening the box of Granville Island, we found that we hadn’t received the promised cardboard mustaches! I called Granville Island (in Vancouver) and she offered for me to come and pick some up. Being as how we were in Kelowna, this simply wouldn’t work. I was distraught and did not get free beer. I was honestly no more than 5 drinks in when I realized that I was fucking drunk. Well, holy shit. Usually getting drunk is a real commitment for me. We’re talking like 15-20+ drinks. And I’m not bragging; it’s expensive. And then there’s those nights I can drink like there’s no tomorrow and still not be drunk. This was more like a high school drinking escapade.
So Susan and I decided to go out. Ryan (Susan’s bf) was working and would meet us after. I vaguely remember getting in the cab. We arrived at our destination and I looked in my wallet for money - which HAD to be there because Susan had just paid me for something - but oh look, no money. Where the hell did it go?
We tried to go into this pub called Doc’s, unsuccessful attempt thanks entirely to hurling drunk insults at the bouncer. Apparently it was cold out and I thought that he was abusing his role as a bouncer to feel powerful and make us wait outside in the winter air. I let him know this loudly. I also called him a weiner and then tried to blame it on the (male) person behind me. Either the bouncer told us we weren’t coming in or Susan decided we should bow out before I got punched in the face. Good call either way.
We went in somewhere else, I have no idea what it was called. Apparently when we walked in, I announced loudly “I need to puke” then went to the bathroom. I think I did puke, but I can’t be certain. When I came back Ryan was there, I was too drunk to acknowledge him. He said a police officer had arrived and was giving him sympathetic looks when he realized he was with Susan and I. She was loud, I was in drunk pain. What a combination. I think the cop was ok with our display because Ryan was sober and driving us home.
We left shortly after, probably because I decided to lay down on the bar. A move that is generally frowned upon. But before I did that, I emptied ALL the garbage out of my purse and asked the bartender to throw it away. Clearly something that need be done while wasted. Susan was fairly embarassed that I did this.
On the way back to the car, I whined incessantly about being cold - which Susan and Ryan still harass me about. Then I laid down in the backseat and continued to bitch about being cold until we got home. We went into the underground parking of their apartment building, and into the room where the elevator is. I started feeling super sick and just walked away from Susan and Ryan, projectile vomited in the staircase (twice) and came back. Awful. I’m sorry to whoever had to clean that up.
I woke up the next morning with no pants on and with a blanket on me. I also ended up finding the money I “lost” when I changed the next day, I had shoved it in my bra, but then still took my purse to the bar. Go figure. All I can say is that I had a maximum of 6 drinks that night and I was ridiculously hungover the next day. Bad experience.
Bombers Football Is Serious Business
So this summer I managed to effectively ruin a Winnipeg Blue Bombers game. How? You ask. Well I guess “ruin” is a fairly bold statement but I did manage to decrease the game’s enjoyment for at least one whole section.
See the problem began when I arrived at the airport. I flew from Sudbury to Winnipeg for my cousin Jodi’s wedding. My cousin Adam picked me up at the airport and had a cooler filled with booze waiting for me. Bad idea. I got in at 2 p.m. and had demolished at least 3 Palm Bay by the time we got to his house, which isn’t a particularly far ride from the airport. The drinking continued. Some of Adam’s friends came over to his house and had drinks with us prior to the game. By the time we were ready to go, I was wasted.
One of Adam’s friends drove us to the stadium. I remember sitting on someone’s lap in the back and being really loud. I remember I was drinking wine out of a solo cup in the car and someone said something funny which caused me to sneeze wine all over the dash of the car. Gross. I remember pulling into the parking lot. I remember noticing that the sole of my sandal was coming off on the way into the stadium, so I ripped it off and threw it in a plant. A hot dog vendor found that pretty funny.
We arrived part way through the first quarter. Beer was cheap, so I got 2 more. I probably didn’t need them. In any case, by half time I’d had about 6 and by the end of the third, at least 8. That’s when I started to get fidgety. I started absent mindedly playing with the guy in front of me’s hat. Flicking it and stuff. I don’t know why, I don’t know what the hell I was thinking. But it pissed him off. He turned around and told my cousin’s friend that if I did it again, he’d punch him (the friend). So my cousin’s friend (Rick) grabbed my hand and knocked the guy’s hat off with it. True to his word, the guy jumped up and the two started fighting. They were rolling around in the bleachers, the guy swung at Rick and missed, hitting me in the face. In my drunken state, I thought it to be a good idea to punch the guy back. Not a good idea, in retrospect. After that, I felt someone grab me under my armpits and pull me out of the fight. Of course security came and took Rick and the guy out. We knew they’d be back for the rest of us shortly. Before we left voluntarily, some drunk chick a few rows behind yelled “Who fights at a Bombers game???” and chucked a full cup of beer at us, missed, and hit a family sitting a couple of rows in front of us.
We all left and somehow got into a bar. We drank more. A table got broken. Rick got in another fight. I went home earlier than everyone else and I believe it wa 3 a.m. Jodi woke me up at 8 the next morning and I thought I was going to die. It took all my effort to sit in her vehicle and not puke while we did wedding running around stuff. I was successful.
But I learned a valuable lesson: Football games are awesome.
My day at work by minute.
8:36 Walk into office (6 minutes late, yes)
8:40 Hang up coat, sit down, turn on computer
8:45 Check voicemail
8:50 Check email
8:57 Scowl at schedule boss has left on my desk, expecting me to type and format
9:00 Beckoned for staff meeting
9:35 Exit staff meeting, attempt to beeline for kitchen to make coffee
9:40 Intercepted by someone who needs me to print off some tax sheet for them
9:45 Head to kitchen to make coffee (finally)
10:05 posting comment
10:15 – went to kitchen, made oatmeal, refilled coffee
10:25 – returned to desk, emailed friend re: tanning at lunch
10:30 – checked beachcreeps.com, spent some time on Facebook
10:50 – boss came around the corner and asked me for the millionth time what time our meeting starts on Monday (5:15 every week for the last 5 months)
10:55 – go pee
11:00 – return to desk, respond to friend’s email re: tanning at lunch
11:10 – make two changes to existing sponsorship letter, send to boss for approval
11:30 – boss plops an informational sheet on my desk with certain words circled. I understand why some are circled, others I do not.
11:40 – scouring amazon.ca for possible deals on random things I like to buy
11:50 – ensure paycheck has been deposited into my account
11:58 – leave for lunch
12:55 – return from lunch
1:00 – begin typing this comment
1:06 – posting
1:15 – Get more coffee. It’s a long Thursday
1:25 – Idly flip through informational sheet wondering why the hell “agencies” is circled on every page
1:35 – Decide I’ve had enough of listening to the hens in the cubicle behind me chatter, go out to car, acquire iPod, return to desk, begin listening to music.
1:41 – Post
1:45 – Post my day so far on my blog. Think that I should post stuff on my blog more often because it passes time.
1:47 – Reply to text messages
1:50 – Co-worker shows me where flavoured coffee stash is hidden. I feel glad.
1:55 – Reading comments on thatsmyboss.com again
1:59 – Apply hand lotion
2:10 - Visit to boss’ office re: sponsorship letters
2:15 - Sponsorship letters approved
2:16 - Return to desk
2:17 - Check out lamebook.com
2:30 - Call local hardware stores to find out the name of the owner so I can properly address aforementioned sponsorship letters
2:35 - Go pee
2:45 - Approached by Natalie, who has to pick her daughter up at school thus is taking a late lunch. I must cover the front desk while she is gone.
2:48 - Report to front desk.
2:49 - Find out there’s lasagna in the fridge.
2:52 - Heating up plate of lasagna
2:54 - Return to front desk
3:00 - Phone rings, I answer and take a message for Natalie.
3:05 - Take a gander on notalwaysright.com
3:12 - Talk to Ashley on the phone regarding posters.
3:15 - Phone rings. I give the caller a different phone number to call.
3:20 - Return to notalwaysright.com
3:31 - Update my post.
3:34 - Natalie has returned
3:35 - False alarm. She’s leaving again. I must remain here.
3:36 - Phone rings. I give the caller a different phone number to call.
3:39 - A lady comes in. Wants to pay an invoice. I have no idea what she’s talking about so I go get my boss. My boss changes her invoice for her. I stare at her blankly.
3:41 - My boss asks me to write her a receipt. Simple enough. I write it. I put her cash in an envelope and give it to Tammi, Queen of Finances.
3:43 - Make changes to schedule given to me this morning. Printing schedule.
3:47 - Post schedule on the wall, return to front desk. Look at gqpets.com Wonder why my dog hasn’t been posted, he’s very handsome.
3:55 - Check cell phone, return text messages.
4:00 - Natalie returns. I give her phone messages in an incoherent fashion but eventually convey everything she needs to know.
4:05 - Go into Katherine & Emily’s office to get a Werther’s and a Tootsie Roll. Laugh about a comment I made earlier in the day. Return to my desk.
4:10 - Check emails that I received while covering Natalie’s desk.
4:15 - Return emails, scheduling meeting for tomorrow afternoon.
4:20 - Wander back to the front because I have nothing better to do. Send a couple texts, tell Natalie a couple things.
4:24 - Return to my desk. Post this, which will be followed by shutting down my computer.
4:25 - Go pee
4:27 - Return to desk, get coat, leave.
Year of the Rabbit, I loathe thee.
This morning I walked into my place of employment feeling particularly unrested. I’ve recently decided that I must have RLS: Restless Leg Syndrome. I don’t genuinely believe that, but my feet have definite temperature control issues. One minute they’ll be freezing; the next minute they’ll be burning hot. They can’t decide what they want. Under the blankets or not. It’s frustrating. I also kept waking up last night. Not because of my feet though. One time I was thirsty, one time I had to pee, one time my arm hurt.
Anyway, enough about my interrupted sleep. I arrived at work at 8:30 this morning, made a tea, checked my emails, fiddled with my space heater, went around the office and talked to the other employees, and then was bombarded with a task. “Bombarded” might not be the best term, since I had been emailed about completing the task in question and was well aware that it was on my agenda. I don’t feel particularly social in the morning. Ever. I feel as though I’m in a vegetative state until about 11, and mostly just go through the motions of my day until that point. Being reassigned a task that I just read about at the beginning of my shift is unappealing to me at anytime, but even more so before lunch break.
My manager approached. I heard her feet shuffling on the other side of my cubicle and waited for the inevitable “SOOO Kim….” followed by instructions to complete this or that, or whatever. She asked if I had received the email with instructions to complete the aforementioned task. I replied that I had indeed. She reiterated everything that was in the email anyway.
I should probably explain the task before I go any further. A few weeks ago, I had been asked to create business card sized descriptions of the Year of the Rabbit in recognition of Chinese New Year. I was to use a predetermined description off the internet and include a picture of a golden rabbit. Apparently this year is special and different and unique because it’s the year of the golden rabbit, not a wooden rabbit or a grass rabbit or any other kind. So I went about my merry way, created these business card sized descriptions (keep in mind that the text I was to use was predetermined. Hand-picked by my boss herself. I was not to modify or change it, simply copy and paste and make it all fit on a business card sized piece of cardstock). I did what I was asked and proudly turned in the completed cards to my boss.
”Why is it so small?” she asked.
”It had to be to fit on the card,” was my reply.
It was two paragraphs of text. I had to use size 6 font to fit it on the business card, as instructed. It was small, but legible. It was also a giant pain to get it to all fit on, not be cut off, and get the picture of the rabbit on the card as well.
“Well make it bigger,” she stated.
I stood at attention, saluted, said “Aye, aye, boss” and returned to my work space.
I made the cards bigger and increased the font to a 10. They didn’t really fit well on the page and took a while to alter so that they all looked the same. I considered using the ever-professional Comic Sans font in a passive aggressive manner, but decided against it. My cards were approved on my second-go-round. Task complete.
I thought I’d never have to see those cards again after that day. I saved my work on the computer’s server so if she needed more, she could access them an print them herself. I got tasked again a week or so ago to make more cards: aka - print them. Today my task was to make more of these damn cards. However, today she wanted the company logo emblazoned on the back of the card “perfectly centered.”
I told her “No problem, I’ll do my best to centre it because of the size the descriptions had to be.”
Her reply, “Why aren’t they business card sized? That’s what I originally wanted.”
Nothing Beats Roof Climbing in the Floating City
My trip to Europe wasn’t anything like I expected. It was way more awesome. It opened up a whole new world and made me realize that I want to be a world explorer. I want to see everything, eat new food, and drink many many types of alcohol.
During my time in Italy, I was introduced to Grappa. It’s not good. It’s actually probably the worst alcohol I’ve ever had, aside from the aforementioned Absinthe and Everclear because those two are unnaturally disgusting. Basically what I’m saying is that for a 40% alcohol, this stuff was absolutely unbearable. However it was also very cheap. Needless to say, the exchange rate came and bit me in the ass anyway, and I almost cried when I saw my bank statement (and realized I was completely out of money in Prague)… But hey, I like to budget where I can and I figured I’d be able to handle the horrific taste of Grappa…
So for the duration of my time in Europe, I did a Contiki tour. Someone on the tour boldly stated that “If anyone did Contiki for a year straight, they’d probably die.” I can confirm this because I felt absolutely haggard after three weeks. I actually never puked while on Contiki, but on the third day, I had a stomachache so horribly bad that I was legitimately convinced I wouldn’t drink again on the tour. That was my own fault for staying up all night in Paris. Not because I was partying, but because it was so friggin cold that sitting by a bathroom heater was more appealing than sleeping in a freezing cold tent.
Yes, I said tent. We camped. And early May in Europe isn’t warm, let me tell you. It was decidedly more pleasant once we hit the French Riviera, Italy, and such but those first few nights were awful. The coldest place we hit was in the Swiss Alps, but luckily we got upgraded to a cabin for those nights; I’ve never been so thankful for shelter and the shower was probably the best thing in the world. The showers in Paris were fairly drafty and open, so the cold air kept blowing in *shudder.* Just thinking about it makes me cold. It’s hard to believe that we went from 6 degree weather to 30 degree weather in the span of 5 days. I got a cold, naturally.
In any case, the night in Paris was legendary, a story for another time. Venice was more legendary. First of all, I must add that all of our campsites were located out of the cities, so they were somewhat of a trek to get to. Therefore, staying in town to go to a bar or club at night resulted in a lengthy and often expensive cab ride back to our makeshift home. Except in Prague where there money is hilarious and worth far less than ours…
Venice was amazing. It was beautifully warm out, and we were warned before we got to the campsite that the bar there was fantastic, and since the weather was so nice it would be packed. We were not disappointed. The first night was a precursor to the ridiculousness that was about to unfold the following evening. Only a handful of us (out of tour group of 45) went to the bar that night; did some jagerbombs, and drank some Grappa. BLECH. I honestly think I’ll pass on any future opportunities to drink Grappa that might arise because the stuff is putrid. Things got a little crazy that night for a couple people on the tour. I kept it contained. Robin, however, did not. (Pics will be posted). I remember him talking about ‘casual drinks’ and sipping on a scotch on the rocks in a sophisticated manner… and less than an hour later, dancing shirtless on the table in the bar with Matt (another Contikier) and some kids who looked about 14 years old.
These kids didn’t speak English. They were from somewhere in Switzerland and spoke only French and German, and a few English words here and there. I don’t know how Robin communicated with them but soon after he did, the kids were also shirtless and rocking out on the table. Weird. Weirder unfolded shortly after. A gay couple entered the bar and joined the table fiesta, and they too were soon shirtless. At this point Robin noticed the awkwardness of the situation IE) Dancing shirtless with underage boys and a gay couple and proceeded to get off the table. Nevertheless, this was hilarious and watching it happen as an innocent (relatively sober) bystander made it even better.
It was shortly thereafter that some asshole told one of the 14 year olds that I thought he was hot. Let me paint a picture for you. This kid is about 6 feet tall, 250 pounds, and has a Justin Bieber haircut. He also didn’t understand English. I found out later that Matt had been the culprit and informed him of my desire for him through a series of points and pelvic thrusts. So I have this kid following me around, asking me questions I don’t understand, and saying unconjugated English phrases that don’t make sense. I fled.
I didn’t let the events of the previous night affect my BIG night in Europe. I think everyone on the tour had one huge night that resulted in them feeling like a total bag of shit the next day and this was mine; except I was seemingly immune to hangovers in Europe and it was awesome. I will briefly recap some of the big nights my fellow adventurers had:
1. Robbie Tallon - He actually had a couple of big nights. The first being in Florence when he got wasted at the Red Garter and ended up causing us to miss a cab because he ran down the street after some American girls. He then disappeared upon return to the campsite, came back with a rum and coke that he gave to me, then seemingly went trekking through bushes and shubbery. He awoke the next morning covered in scratches head to toe, unaware of his Mantracker-esque campsite techniques.
Robbie’s second big night is also worthy of mentioning, mostly because it was his birthday. We discovered that in Munich, Germany, one can purchase a wristband for 5 Euro that entitles them to access a variety of clubs, all contained in one fenced-off traffic-free area of the city. Of course we hit up that opportunity. Without spoiling too much of the story, Robbie ended up techno dancing and thinking he lost his camera. Another blog-worthy night.
2. Josh Wong - Most people on the Contiki would have listed Josh’s BIG night as number one on the tour. Why? Because he ended up in the hospital with drunk-related injuries. He was the only one on tour that ended up hospitalized. While it’s funny now, it certainly wasn’t at the time. What happened? Well, I didn’t witness it first hand but it was also in Florence… We went to the Red Garter for a karaoke night and they served extremely potent drinks using the ‘free pour’ method, so you never really know exactly how much booze you’re getting. They also had a happy hour thing that went until 10 p.m. and pitchers were unsafely cheap. Josh found out the unsafe part first hand. Sources say he drank three full pitchers of vodka cranberry, plus some other drink. In any case, he ended up wasted and running down the cobblestone streets of Florence toward the bus. He got his foot stuck in a stone and went down like a ton of bricks. His foot swelled up to the point that everyone thought it was broken. Off to the hospital. Josh arrives at the hospital, completely incoherent and yelling… the Italian hospital staff doesn’t understand him, the situation spirals downhill. Turns out our little Joshy boy had extremely high blood alcohol content. Tsk tsk. But he was back on his foot (pun!) in no time, and finished the tour.
3. Mariah Sherwood, Chloe Smith, Teja Delgado - These three had their big night at the five-story club in Prague. Essentially they got ultra wasted, partied all night, and caught the 6 a.m. train back to the campsite. Bravo ladies.
I must point out that all of the aforementioned individuals are Canadian. We truly do it up harder than anyone. I won’t deny that others had big nights but the biggest go in our honor. Sorry to anyone I missed.
My big night was in Venice. After a day of exploring the amazing floating city, we came back to a barbeque and each table had a jug of free red wine. There were eight tables in total. I sat with Robbie, Chloe, Teja, Mariah, and Lauren. We easily polished our jug, and then began receiving donations from other tables who preferred beer or something else to wine. People started systematically leaving the table due to the influx in mosquitoes, and soon there were just four of us drinking the wine. I would have stayed at that table through a mosquito storm for free red wine. Some people just don’t have their priorities straight. We ended up polishing about five jugs between us and were feeling pretty good and it was still happy hour at our campsite.
This is where the Grappa comes in. Another pal Marc and his fiance Julia showed up at the table with a 26 of Grappa in hand. He poured shots for all of us. It smelled awful but I’m not one to turn down shots. BAM! Awful. I did another one. I hit my limit at 3 but Amy (who you wouldn’t peg for it by looking at her) is a machine and downed many. She claimed she didn’t mind the bitter, disgusting flavour of the Grappa but I have no idea how this can possible be true.
Wine and shots completed, we realized it was still happy hour at our campsite. During happy hour, Bacardi Breezers are sold for 3 Euro for 2. So 1 Euro 50 each, which is awesome. Robbie and I each got four and powered them before going to the bar. Bacardi Breezers. Not just a man’s drink. Hmmmm…Off to the bar we went.
The bar was busy once again, and of course my 14 year old suitor was present. The following commenced, the nonsense words… I had no idea what this kid was talking about but sure as shit I wanted to kill Matt. Our tour manager James had come out this night, and he immediately saw what was unfolding between myself and this 14 year old Romeo. No idea what he said but the kid left me alone for the rest of the night. Mariah and I proceeded to do what we had deemed our signature Jagerbombs, and the night was back on track.
More table dancing and shots took place and soon we were back outside in the mosquito-infested air. I was doing my signature ‘interacting with everyone’ routine. The mix of wine, Grappa, Bacardi Breezers, and Jagerbombs made me feel super. Super enough that I deemed myself able to climb on the roof of the bar. Before you get too impressed, I must note that the roof wasn’t very high and was easily accessible by climbing on an adjacent booth. Any idiot could get on it. I don’t know why I was the only one that night.
In true Kim form, I had my brainstorm moment where I was silent, assessing the situation to determine if going on the roof seemed reasonable or absolutely ludicrous. I can’t remember a particular time when such an assessment actually resulted in me deeming an idea to be a bad one. Oftentimes I think such epitomes are awesome and end up carrying them out no matter the outcome. On the roof I went.
I don’t recall a struggle getting up there; like I said, it was pretty low and easy to get on. I’ve climbed way more challenging apparatuses in my time. My time on the roof was short-lived, however. Apparently I had made myself a safety risk and was being ordered by both bartenders to get down immediately. I told them that if they provided me with a jagerbomb on the roof, I’d get down. They declined. I didn’t budge. They told me if I didn’t get down, there’d be no more jagerbombs, period. (haha only in Europe do they threaten to cut you off from one particular drink). Tour Manager James climbed up and carried me off the roof. Fun over. Or was it?
I ended up being ‘allowed’ another jagerbomb and somehow ended up with some red drink that I left on the bar (a surprisingly good decision or I probably would have ended my yak-free streak). They closed the bar at 1:15 that night instead of 2:30-3… some people blamed my climbing on the roof, since I kept saying I was going to do it again. I don’t think that’s why, because I could have climbed up anyway, even with the bar closed. Instead, I decided I wanted to run along the top of a hedge.
These hedges were about 8 feet tall but I figured (I blame the Grappa) that I could run off the stairs, jump, and land on top of the hedges. The stairs weren’t that tall, and they weren’t remotely close to the hedges so this idea just flat out sucked. But I tried anyway. The only success I had with this drunken display was getting a stick in the stomach and giving myself a cut that scarred. At least I brought something memorable back from Europe, right?
It took me three tries to get into the right tent. I ended up shining a flashlight in three tents that weren’t mine and waking people up. I wasn’t that popular the next morning. I had been talking really loud at 3:30 a.m. as well. I woke up 3 hours later for our departure to Vienna. It was a long bus ride, and I slept most of it. The two nights in Vienna were quiet ones, and my liver thanked me for it.
Life Takes You Funny Places… And Lets You Bring Back Funny Alcohol
So essentially I haven’t posted in ages. The last time I wrote, I was upset that I was missing a night of fun in Sicamous with my friends back home in B.C. There still is a second part to my Nostalgic Moose story, and I intended to tell it when I posted next. However, so many amusing stories have unfolded in the meantime that I’d be doing the world a disservice to not immediately share them.
My life has changed immensely, and more entertaining, funny-when-drunk friends have entered it. More amazingly hilarious stories featuring the B.C. crew will unfold in the future, no doubt, especially when Jenn gets married in Mexico in May. Poor poor resort, not knowing what they’re getting themselves into by letting our group get all-inclusive packages. If I don’t end up behind the bar in a coconut bra with a pair of maracas, the trip wasn’t a success, as far as I’m concerned.
In any case, I’ve stayed in Sudbury and learned to deal with their over-abundance of Tim Horton’s locations, and under-abundance of Starbucks stores. I’ve moved into a house with Ashley, Blake, and Tyler. Tyler and I recently bought ourselves a puppy. His name is Zeke and he likes beer so he can stay as far as I’m concerned. The thing I like most about the three people I live with is that they also enjoy drinking and seem to think I’m funny when I do so. Anyone that approves of my braindead drunk humor is a winner in my books.
I also went to Europe this year. Eleven countries. My friend Robbie who did the Contiki tour with me was fairly surprised that I kept it somewhat contained on the trip… until Venice. But that’s a story in itself. What you need to know about my European adventure at this point is that we did a tour of an Absinthe factory in Vienna, Austria. This place sold every type of Absinthe and Absinthe-related products you could probably imagine. The real stuff with wormwood, etc., not that green crap they sell in liquor stores here. At the end of the tour we, of course, had the opportunity to buy Absinthe. This included a wooden box that came with a bottle of the strongest Absinthe, sugar, and an Absinthe spoon…
I learned something new at the factory. Apparently when one consumes Absinthe, the correct way to do so is by heating up sugar on the Absinthe spoon and pouring the alcohol through it into the shot glass. This makes it taste better, and apparently “causes it not to burn” when swallowed. However, being Canadian and having consumed Everclear Grain Alcohol (95% 190 Proof) on more than one occasion, I naturally assumed Absinthe was weak sauce and declined the opportunity to buy the set. I loudly declared to the rest of the group that I’d just shoot it straight. And last weekend, that is what I did.
First of all, I’d like to note that having a bottle of real Absinthe and a bottle of Everclear (both unopened) in the same house is a bad idea. There is absolutely no reason this is necessary, and should be strongly cautioned against. However, since I’m ridiculously entertaining at the best of times, I feel the need to have two abnormally potent bottles of booze on the bar.
Tyler’s been looking forward to opening the Absinthe since I unveiled it to him. Technically, it IS his… I brought it back for him. This past weekend was Blake’s birthday. The initial plan to unveil it was on my 26th birthday on August 2nd; but that ended up being a terrible day, I had a pulled back muscle (sure sign that I’m aging rapidly) and Tyler had mono. Awesome birthday. Therefore, we silently decided to forego the booze, and did the honors on Blake’s birthday instead.
I’m going to be honest, I wasn’t in the mood to party at first last Saturday. As Tyler so graciously put it, I was “genderly” sick. Too much information? Too bad. I stayed in bed till about 7:30 and then decided I was being lame and I should go mingle for a bit and have a “couple” drinks. A tactic that often doesn’t work well for me. I began with my signature 26 of vodka. Ashley was also drinking a 26 of vodka; I believe our other friend Chelsea may have been as well. I mingled a little and started drinking faster; typical Kim style.
I remember feeling a bit buzzed and telling some guy that Che Guevara was my hero, since he was wearing his picture on his shirt, and then Tyler and I proceeding to tell him about every piece of Che Guevara merchandise I acquired in Cuba and thereafter. I remember people watching Fubar. I remember Christine dropping by to say hi. I remember the shot glass crisis of earlier in the evening; where we discovered that for some reason we didn’t have any. Luckily Blake’s mom gave us some amethyst-colored goblets (which we initially mocked) that seemed to fill the void. I remember Ashley doing jagerbombs outside…
Most of all, I remember the decision to crack the Absinthe. Tyler had, in fact, come up to me early in the evening (before any of us were super trashed) and asked if it seemed like a good idea to drink some Absinthe later. Now that I’m reflecting on this question, it seems like a better answer would have been…Wait…Who am I kidding? Of course it was a good idea. Moving on…
The time was upon us. The decision to consume the Absinthe had been made and was about to be finalized. We were gathered around the bar. I was so drunk already that I only remember myself, Tyler, Ashley, Blake, Deacon, Chelsea, and Cody standing there. There were others, I’m sure of it. There were a wise few that didn’t partake in our adventure. I was not one of the wise, thankfully, otherwise the story would be far less comical.
Tyler felt compelled to measure the shots, and he did so in some disgusting, old, used, retired, plastic shot glass he found laying behind the bar. He rinsed it out, and that literally means he “rinsed it out” aka - ran a little bit of water through it that probably did absolutely nothing in terms of cleansing. Soon thereafter, the shots were ready. Fluorescent green, glowing. It appeared to be a warm, invited liquid. It smelled different, unlike anything we had experienced before. It tasted……absolutely horrible.
We all finished our shots, and literally a second after, all we saw was Blake running to the toilet to puke immediately. Tyler was in the midst of stating “Wow, that was so much worse than I thought…” and Blake was already on his knees with his head in the toilet. I don’t remember what I did, but I wandered off briefly and when I returned, Tyler was holding the Everclear in his hand, thrusting it toward the ceiling, making declarative statements about drinking it. For some reason, I felt cocky, grabbed the bottle and chugged a good amount (at least a shot, if not a little more) from it. I must have mentioned Everclear somewhere else in this blog, but if for some weird reason I didn’t, know this: it vaporizes immediately after drinking it.
Tyler and Deacon can also be bowed to, they did a shot as well. I honestly thought I was going to puke, so I immediately went to the washroom after taking the shot, but I didn’t puke. Instead, I broke the flapper chain on the inside of the toilet. From there, the state of our bathroom deteriorated beyond all recognition. We kept flushing the toilet using only the flapper until it clogged (everyone else ended up puking later on except Deacon and I so I’m sure that didn’t help either).
After I broke the chain, I decided to be industrious and see what was going on in the tank (like I have any idea how to plumb a toilet), so I took everything off the back except a glass air freshener filled with smelly bead things. Needless to say, the bead things went EVERYWHERE on the floor. I began scrambling to pick them up, and as I leaned over, I smacked my head on the side of the toilet tank.
I have no idea what happened after that. I woke up the next morning at 7:30 a.m. feeling like absolute shit, still fully clothed, and with a giant goose egg on my head. Tyler told me a couple hours later that I had a huge bruise. It took me a while to remember the toilet repair incident, but once I did, it all made sense. Turns out, Tyler had puked, but chosen the sink as his receptacle so it was filled with barf (and clogged beyond all hope with puke, crap, and a lot of my hair. gross).
Will I drink Absinthe again? Yes. Will I drink Everclear again? Yes. Both on the same night? Probably, and I hope the result is as entertaining.
This picture is a precursor to The Nostalgic Moose Part 2.0 Yes, there was booze. Yes, Jake got cut off at 10 p.m. Yes, there was karaoke. Yes, there was a random car.
The Nostalgic Moose Part 1.0
Recently Susan and Ryan returned from their year abroad. As mentioned in an earlier blog about the infamous Alberta Drinkathons, my world was shattered when they left and I basically had to carry on the legacy of Drinkathon alone in 2009. It was pretty much a summer-long endeavour, almost like I thought booze doesn’t exist in Ontario so I had to drink myself into a spiral so intense that I’d hate alcohol for 8 months and not care that I was living in a state similar to the 1930’s era of Prohibition. Clearly, I’m an idiot, and the nonsense hasn’t ceased one bit since my cross-country re-location.
Back to the story. Before moving back to Canmore, Alberta, Susan and Ryan spent some time in Sicamous with Susan’s mom, who we have refered to only as ‘Margie’ for as long as I can remember, and her wee dog, Paddy. I was, of course, jealous that I couldn’t attend since I’m in Ontario but instead of dwelling on that, I’ve decided to blog about times past in The Moose and all the trouble we’ve caused. Obviously, heading to somewhere that no one knows us is trouble all in itself but The Moose is an entirely different microcosm in Interior British Columbia. Things are legal there that aren’t anywhere else in the province; NAY, the country and I like it. Fireworks are readily available at every local corner store, booze can be purchased at the grocery store, and it seems that no one cares if I’m stumbling drunk and/or drinking on the street at odd hours, such as before sunset and close to sunrise. Two visits to Canmore stand out in my mind: One on Christmas Day 2007 and one on spring break, 2008. Both were epic; both were drunken, both separate blog posts.
I remember Christmas Day, 2007 clearly. We had planned to go out to Sicamous, since Susan and Ryan were there visiting Margie over the holidays. Jake didn’t want to go. I convinced him. Going was a good choice. This round was a Kim & Jake only trip, but no less legendary without the other Happy Tree Friends (Jenn & Rob). However, the trip started off grim. Sicamous is about a two-ish hour drive from Kamloops (depending on how much we speed, obv.) and I realized about an hour in that I had forgotten my alcohol. No big deal because we could just stop along the way at one of the many cold beer and wine stores that litter south central B.C., right? WRONG! Christmas Day, people…And although I know there was at least one liquor store that was open in Kamloops (for the hardcores *cough*cough*), there were none ready and waiting for business along the highway to Sicamous.
Naturally, Jake figured that Margie would have some liquor at her place, and assured me that if she didn’t, the night wouldn’t be a total loss anyway. I was unconvinced. Images flashed through my mind of a sober night with my two drunk friends, and Margie who might also be drunk, as they laughed at nonsense and rolled around on the floor while I flipped through bad Christmas specials on t.v., unenthused. For the record, I’m not sure of the last time that any of my friends actually ‘rolled on the floor’ while drunk but I know I’ve done it so I’m trying to make it out that I’m not the only drunk loser to do this for some stupid ass reason while over the age of 16. So I sulked the rest of the ride, throwing out various “What if?” statements. I think I might have even suggested turning around at one point. Jake refused, naturally. I was still in the midst of my “I HATE BEER!” phase or else I’m sure Jake would have graciously donated 4 or 5 of his 24 pack of Kokanee.
We arrived and I literally beelined into the house in search of alcohol. My greeting was probably something along the lines of “HIIFORGOTBOOZEHOWAREYOUINEEDBOOZEISTHEREANYHEREICANDRINKPLEEEASE?”
Margie directed me to a cabinet and presented me with a bottle of wine, along with a disclaimer “I don’t know how long it’s been in there.” Now, I’ll drink a lot of things. I have drank a lot of things. I’ve made shit mixes with everything imaginable in them. I’ve licked vodka off a wooden serving platter, jager off a bar, and tequila off of other people. But when I went to open this bottle of wine, the cork literally crumbled into the bottle. I considered straining it. I considered drinking the cork. I considered putting a sive-like contraption on the mouth of my bottle to catch most of the cork that was sailing around inside my bottle. My friends talked me out of all these ideas, mostly because the wine smelled quite similar to vinegar and arsenic. They were certain I’d die or at least vomit profusely if I decided to ingest it.
My hope crumbled. I was spending Christmas sober with a bunch of drunkies. Susan and Ryan offered to share a bit of their Fireball, but they had a limited quantity, so it was unfair to seize the bottle and slam it. I’m a lot of things, but I’m not a quitter. I think that what I did next is an excellent example of my perseverance, a skill that will ultimately make me successful in the long run. I literally scoured every single one of Margies cupboards. I was certain she must be harboring a vast stash of alcohol somewhere. And I needed it. I NEEDED IT. (I’m being a bit dramatic, but I’m sure you all knew that). Low and behold, what did I find? Some plastic wrap, parchment paper, a turkey baster (hehe), some plastic thingee for washing dishes….ANNNNNNND: A bottle of Baileys and a bottle of rum, both over half.
I was in business! Margie gave me her blessing to drink the alcoholic jackpot I had found, again claiming “I don’t know how long that’s been in there OR where it came from…” (yeah right)…but I figured since rum doesn’t go bad (does it?) I’d be fiiiine. Essentially we sat around, bullshitted, played some SlapJack, and drank, until we got the wonderful idea while we were loaded to go explore Sicamous. I was feeling a good buzz. Enough to do basically anything that seemed entertaining that was suggested to me, but not a stumbling, slurring mess. In other words, we were going to wreck havoc.
Sicamous is pretty small, but it’s big enough that causing mischief and escaping incarceration is definitely possible, especially around midnight on Christmas Day. The walk started out pretty uneventful, but things looked up when we found a stationary train car in the town center lit up with Christmas lights. What better way to be festive than to rearrange the light pattern? Being an experienced train climber (see Blog Post about Jumping Trains) I led the brigade in climbing on to the train and ultimately destroying the light pattern some poor, dedicated Sicamous employee probably spent hours creating. Was my light pattern better? Absolutely not. But it was definitely more creative in that instead of lining the rails of the train, I chose to basically net the conductor statue in ALL the lights so it looked like a giant, lit up web wrap. I bet that was a bitch to take off. Sorry to whomever had to do that.
Next up: we find a wide open readerboard sign. What does this mean? Well, friends, I’ll tell you. This means that we could switch around the letters. The messages we wrote required about a grade 4 mentality and consisted of nonsense such as “I smell poop” and “Bums are furry.” But hey, we had to work with the letters available to us. After about two to three hours worth of work, most of the signs in the Sicamous business area had ridiculous, some obsence, messages. Merry Christmas, Sicamous. I’m actually surprised we didn’t get caught during our sign changing spree. If it hadn’t been Christmas Day (well, shortly thereafter by now), 1 in the morning, or winter, getting caught and stopped in our mischief-making tracks would have been a guarantee.
Since we didn’t get caught, it was almost an open invitation to keep creating nonsense. Something you should know is that Sicamous is the Houseboat Capital of Canada. Lame you say? WRONG! Awesome. Especially in the winter when all the houseboats are docked in basically the center of town. All of the houseboats also have slides. You guessed it, we went wintertime houseboat sliding. All the slides and ladders were covered in snow but that didn’t stop us. I remember going feet first, headfirst, backward; and all the while sipping my noxious rum and whatever combination from a Fitness Water bottle. I don’t know how long we were sliding for but I distinctly remember hearing Susan yell “FUCK ME!” At first I thought we were busted and imagined calling my mom from a one-cell jail in Sicamous on Christmas explaining that I was in shit for breaking and entering a houseboat yard for the purpose of sliding. The situation was far less critical. Susan hit her tailbone on the end of the slide and claimed she was paralyzed. Someone must have heard her yell because we distinctly heard someone shout “That’s private property” before we escorted ourselves out of the yard. The only thing that ensued after that was listening to Susan whine for literally the entire walk back to Margie’s place. She was sure she shattered it. The walk felt like an enternity. The next visit to Sicamous was far more legendary…
We’ve all heard of it. Most of us have probably tried it. Some have been successful, others may have failed. The Centurion. You may know it by another name, but it’s the same awesome challenge that’s been undertaken by daring binge drinkers near and far time and time again. What is it I’m talking about you may be asking? 100 minutes. 100 shots of beer. It’s that simple. While it may not sound like a lot, don’t be fooled fellow partiers, it’s a hefty amount.
I first got the idea to do the Centurion from my ex-roommate Sabrina’s ex-boyfriend. He decided to attempt it at our apartment one night for seemingly no reason, undertook the tremendous feat by himself, ended up dancing around to Mr. Roboto like a fool and puking in our kitchen sink around 75 or so. Centurion unsuccessful.
I wish I could claim that my attempt at the Centurion ended more successfully than Paul’s, but it definitely didn’t. Mostly because the idea to attempt it popped into my head when I was already half cut and it was decided we’d do the Centurion….with rum. Terrible idea you say? I agree.
It was a Sunday night. I wasn’t doing anything except sitting around the apartment in sweat pants and a t-shirt, being responsible because I had to work at 10 the next morning. My attempts at keeping life low key were thwarted when a couple of friends showed up, alcohol in hand. No big deal, I figured, I’ll just have a couple ‘social’ drinks. This probably could have been the case except Susan showed up unexpectedly from Alberta on a surprise visit….
Immediately upon her arrival, I remembered that I had a fairly full 40 of rum in my fridge. Out it came. Nothing like a surprise visit to get a party started. I remember sitting around the table, bullshitting, wearing sweat pants and a pink fuzzy fedora. Susan was also wearing some ridiculous hat for most of the night. They must have inspired our creativity or something, because an hour or so into our drinking was when the idea to start the Centurion hit. I distinctly remember saying “we don’t have beer but rum should be fine.” Seriously. Why don’t people stop me when I have these ideas?
In any case, out came the shot glasses and the rum started flowing. I remember counting to 18 when things started getting extremely hazy. I vaguely remember being fairly obnoxious and yelling about a thing or two. I remember cooking a random bag of microwavable vegetables. I remember getting bored with aforementioned vegetables in about 2.5 seconds and abandoning them. But most of all, I remember Susan and I getting the bright idea to go to the liquor store and buy more booze.
Was our 40 of rum empty? I have no idea. But we decided we needed more. Perhaps we actually had the false idea in our heads that we actually were going to complete the Centurion using rum. Not even a quarter of a way there, completely wasted, and still believing in ourselves. That’s what I call troopers. I remember snow on the ground, but I could be making that up in my head to add imagery to the story, I’m not sure. In any case, as I recall, there was snow on the ground and we decided to walk to the liquor store that was just across the street from my apartment. However, as soon as we were outside and crossing the street (jaywalking, I might note. Because crosswalks are for losers), we both decided we had to pee. We contemplated going into Wendy’s which was literally 15 feet from where we were standing, but that’s where I had to work the next morning at 10 and the manager didn’t take kindly to us coming in drunk, especially after our friends were caught red handed drinking in the dining room, were associated with having a hand in spilling a ranch sauce and smushing it into the carpet, and who can forget the infamous OE bottle that ended up smashed in the parking lot. Needless to say, through years of experience, we realized it was a good idea to stay far, far away from Wendy’s while drinking.
There were literally no other businesses open for us to use the washroom at. Granted, it was about 10:30 at night and with the liquor store closing at 11, we had only one goal in mind: more booze. So we decided to pee on the meridian. I remember something cold touching my butt. Whether it was snow (as I steadfastly believe was on the ground) or the concrete, I have no idea. Either way, it was unpleasant. I should add that this street we were crossing, Columbia Street, is one of the busiest in Kamloops. And there we were, pants down, peeing on the meridian as traffic went by. How we’ve gone 25 years without spending a night in the drunk tank is beyond me.
After relieving ourselves, we carried on toward the liquor store. Whoever sold us the 26 we ended up with that night should be FIRED. We were trashed and that 26 ended up leading to a very confusing night, and a very shitty next day.
I actually have no idea what happened after that. No idea what so ever. It’s like ‘The Hangover’ when the next thing I remember is hazily waking up in an awkward spot. In this case, I woke up to the sound of Sabrina’s voice saying “Kim are you alright?” while she banged on the bathroom door and realized I was sitting, fully clothed, in a cold shower. I literally climbed into the bathtub in all my clothes and turned on the shower. The reason at first was unclear until I saw that I had puked absolutely everywhere. My bed was covered. Apparently I had gone back to the frozen microwavable vegetables at some point, possibly in attempt to soak up some of the liquor I had ingested. Regardless, there were peas and carrots everywhere. I’ll spare the details.
Even more confusing than figuring out exactly when I went from being ok-hammered to borderline alcohol poisoning hammered was the fact that Jenn was passed out on my couch and had apparently come to drink with us at some point. Apparently when Sabrina walked in, Susan was on the kitchen floor, Jenn on the couch, and I was taking a clothes shower. And Sabrina got home at 1:30 which means that the only plausible explanation is that everything went downhill after buying that 26 around 11.
I found the 40 bottle and 26 bottle sitting on the counter, mocking me. Apparently we finished both. What a bad life choice that was. I made it to work for 10 but was so hungover, I apparently reeked of booze and couldn’t stand up without wanting to die so I got sent home and told to come back in the afternoon.
I learned a lesson this time. The Centurion is evil and should never be attempted again. At least not with rum. I bet I could do it with wine…