So, this was right after I broke up with my ex-boyfriend. I’m not spoiling anything from my When Mommy Met Daddy story series, because ya’ll OBVIOUSLY know I was going to break up with the ex because I have been referring to him as “the ex” for the entire story. So no big spoiler there.
Josh’s brother Tim had just bought a house, and he was warming it with a party. As I was to quickly learn and experience many, MANY times in the years to follow, Tim’s house is a Vortex of Booze. When you walk in, you are instantly hit with the urge – nay, the NEED to consume alcohol. Josh and I arrived at Tim’s housewarming party about two hours late, and I was ready to throw down.
I walked into Tim’s house, all 19 years and 130 pounds of me (yeah, I was effing SKINNY AS HELL back then) and announced to a room full of GROWN ASS MEN: “I’m gonna drink all you bitches under the table!”
Whoa, was that the noise of every single one of my readers simultaneously *facepalming*? I thought so.
What I didn’t realize at the time was that my future brother in law had spent many years in the Army as a fucking Airborne Ranger. So, you know. He kind of had alcohol running through his veins, like any man who has served our country for a significant amount of time. I flounced into the kitchen and made a drink. It was probably a Screwdriver, because I’m a Vodka girl. I returned to the living room and plunked my butt on the floor at the table where all the boys were sitting. “What’s going on?” I chirped, sipping on my girl drink. They told me they were playing drinking games, and I was excited. I hadn’t ever played a drinking game before. I threw myself head first into a series of games that I don’t even effing remember anymore. But according to Josh, who was stone-cold sober the entire evening, I had in the span of forty-five minutes:
- 4 or 5 Screwdrivers.
- A margarita.
- Two to four shots of Jameson.
- Two beers.
And a frigging partridge in a DRUNK TREE. Back then, I liked to announce my stages of drunkenness to the Universe out loud. “I’m buzzing!” “I’m tipsy!” “I’M DRUNK.” I got drunk so fast, I didn’t even have TIME to make my usual grand announcement. I went from silly, to tipsy, to head-butting people (yeeeah, I have the tendency to turn into a goat and ram people with my head when I drink. I also call folks “bitch” a lot.) in a very short span of time. I remember I was trying to be cutesy and flirt with Josh. He was holding a glass of Coke and I flapped my hand at him to playfully smack, and I slammed the glass right out of his hand and onto the floor.
“Why’d you drop that glass?!” I slurred at him.
“Um. That was you.”
*snort* “No it wasn’t.”
Then I wandered into the kitchen and almost ripped the counter off the wall.
After doing that, Josh steered me outside to get some fresh air. We sat on Tim’s back porch around a round table on opposite sides from each other.
Okay, so the rest of this is a recount from my EXTREMELY broken and fuzzy memories, and Josh’s telling of the tale. So.. None of this is really even present in my memory at ALL.
We were sitting on the back porch and I had reached a stage of drunkenness where I just sat there and stared at shit. This time, my head was hung down and my chin was touching my chest. I vaguely remember Josh kept asking if I was okay. I would just nod, and say the fresh air was helping. At one point – and this is something I do NOT remember – he asked me if I was okay and I looked up at him slowly. I opened my mouth..
Across the table.
Directly onto his chest and face.
He looked down at himself incredulously, looked at me, and exclaimed: “What the FUCK???”
To which I replied with a vomit-coated, trembling lip, “I’m sorry!!!”
Then I looked down and barfed all over myself. My shirt, my lap.. Everything. There was apparently a party patron on the back deck with us, smoking, who helpfully offered: “Holy shit, dude, she just puked all over you.”
For a while after that, Josh hung me over the side of Tim’s deck and I continued BarfGate 2003. At one point a tipsy Tim sauntered out, threw his arm around me and asked me if I wanted something to eat. “Godddd, NOOO,” I moaned. “NEVER AGAIN.”
Then he started making up gross, disgusting shit to see if he could get me to continue to vomit. Nice. Thanks.
I don’t remember this, but Josh says that I kept expressing my gratitude toward him taking care of me and at one point I flung my squishy, wet, upchuck-covered self into his arms for a nice disgusting hug. HE says that I tried to kiss him, also, but I don’t remember that either. CLASSY. LADY.
I’m not real sure when I was dragged inside, but it was probably when I began to show signs of hypothermia (it was November) from being covered in my wet shirt and pants which were covered in regurgitated alcohol and like, two potato chips. Josh tried to steer me to the toilet. I DO remember that, because I was afraid that the toilet wasn’t big enough to contain my Vomiting Fury. “Noooo,” I groaned and pointed at the bathtub.
I spent the next few hours going in and out of consciousness, draped half in and half out of the tub and dry-heaving at random intervals. Josh sat by my side on the toilet for a while, then would come in and out of the bathroom to check on me. There were apparently some girls at the party who were pissed because I was monopolizing the loo. Josh told them to piss off, the bathroom was taken.
He’s such a sweetie. He eventually took me to his parents’ house where he was still living at the time. I was actually staying at Tim’s house ’till I got my own place (had just broken up with ex boyfriend, ‘member?) but he didn’t want me sleeping there with all those people around. So he brought me home where I insisted upon taking a bath. I did, changed into my pajamas and sat on the couch in Josh’s room (which was in the basement). He sat with me and I snuggled up next to him, beginning to feel better as the alcohol slowly worked its’ way through my system. We watched some TV and at one point I passed out asleep on him. I woke the next morning on the couch alone with a fold-out table beside me. On the table were two Ibuprofen and a glass of orange juice. I groaned for water instead of OJ and took the Ibuprofen, because I was an ungrateful little wench. Later that day Josh took me to Steak N’ Shake to help absorb the leftover funk in my belly. Hangover Rule: Grease ALWAYS helps.
So that’s the tale of the time I marked my man with my own vomit, and how I got the nickname that my brother in law STILL calls me sometimes to this day: