Tag Archives: drunk

Signing or something like it

Totally unrelated to this post: I started this week off with a drunk/crazy/drugged woman ramming into me at full-speed in the middle of a crosswalk. Without skipping a beat she looked back at me and slurred, “LOSER,” in a thick Russian accent. I love you too, New York.

Do you guys know about ‘signing?’ Is that only a redneck thing, or is that like a suburbs-in-general thing? Annnyway, for those of you who don’t know – ‘signing’ is the act of stealing a street sign that meets one of the following criteria:

  • The street name is your first or last name
  • The sign is for one of the city’s iconic streets (I can’t tell you how many people have Peachtree Street signs down south)
  • The street name is funny. One time, in college, we walked like a mile and half through Boston at 2 AM because we wanted to steal the Public Alley 420 street sign only to discover someone else had already stolen it.
  • You’re drunk. This also applies to the story above about Public Alley 420. The best part of that night was when halfway through our trek, one of the key instigators of the mission stopped walking and said, “You guys… Where are we? What are we doing?”

Once secured, the sign is then displayed in one of the following locations:

  • Garage
  • College dorm room/ Frat house
  • Pool or game room in a half-finished basement (usually alongside other signs that have been stolen for the above reasons or stop signs)
  • Broom closet (usually for the signs that were stolen under the influence)

While I’ve never successfully stolen a sign, I have a great appreciation for signing and I think I’ve adopted its spirit… At least when I’m drunk. I loooove collecting random shit that I find when I’m out. I’ll wake up next to a box of steeply discounted Jelly Belly-flavored candy canes that I purchased at a Duane Reade at 3 AM, a pamphlet about the Mormon apocalypse (is that a thing or did I just make that up? If I made it up, I think we narrowly escaped it by electing Obama), or, most recently an AWESOME singing Santa hat I found abandoned on a bar during Santacon. I love that hat.

Anyway, my boyfriend’s building totally facilitates my drunk-collecting habit, because there’s a ledge by the mailboxes where people drop off everything from enough Restoration Hardware catalogs to build a fort to a all of the random junk that you’d never, ever want. This was all a roundabout way to show you guys this picture of my spoils from a recent drunken outing:

“Tiffany, come on. Let’s go.” “BUT WHY ARE THERE CASSETTE TAPES HERE AND WHAT IS THIS WOOD?!”

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No, that doesn’t mean you’re a lesbian

“My mom is a flight attendant so she always brings me their extra liquor bottles. Here, take a shot.”

One of the better things that happened as a result of my ending up at Shorter College was that I  got to study abroad basically for free. I spent the Spring semester of my sophomore year in London with a bunch of kids from non-Southern Baptist colleges. You know, normal college kids.

I’d gotten drunk only three times in my life, but the day I arrived in London I made the snap decision that I was going to begin drinking. I like to think that I packed all of the life lessons of Freshman year into those four months and that when I came back to the US, I returned a woman transformed by real life. As alcohol is the best social lubricant, beginning to drink also meant the beginning of my hanging out with people I wouldn’t otherwise hang out with. Over the course of my stay in London, I worked my way through a cast of characters that in retrospect were fit for a Van Wilder movie.

It started out with like-minded peers – the kids who liked indie rock as much as me. Then I met the stoner circle, who’d ask me to play guitar for them while they’d pass a bowl around their dorm room. It seemed the more I was down to drink, the more I liked EVERYONE, and so I moved my way through each group until I got to a group of wild and crazy party girls.

I don’t even know how I ended up in their dorm room, because I had a terrible cold and was on antibiotics, but there I sat, drinking cheap wine and taking a double shot of grey goose from a plastic bottle stolen from an airplane. My mom told me over the phone that alcohol would reduce the affects of my medication, but I’m pretty sure she didn’t warn me that drinking on antibiotics would DESTROY ME. I had no idea what was about to happen.

Our study abroad group had just discovered that the drinks at gay bars were significantly less expensive, so we were almost exclusively hanging out at G-A-Y, London’s giant (and probably terrible) gay bar that boasted a floor for lesbians and a floor for gay men. Before I knew it, we were in line and one of the wild girls was like, “You know what would be great? If we went to the lesbian part of the bar and tried to see if we could get free drinks.” My response was something along the lines of, “Dude, totally! I’ll definitely kiss a girl for a free drink!”

Baby Tiffany was not just drunk – she was fuuuucked up. Here’s a rundown of my sexual experiences at this point in my life: I a virgin, and I’d made out with like four people.  Until moving to London, I’d only kissed my high school boyfriend, who I was still completely obsessed with two years after the end of our three month relationship. Once I got to London, I made out with my RA a few times and I think one time I slept in his dorm room. His interest level in me was about as high as your standard college boy (that’s an optimistic description) and I was completely infatuated with him because, well, I was a stage five virgin clinger. When I think of all the Fall Out Boy lyrics I posted on my Facebook profile back then I’m just… So glad there was no such thing as a minifeed.

After the end to my almost entirely imagined love affair with the RA, I made out with two other boys in London. I felt like a sassy bitch and the cocktail of alcohol and antibiotics made me ready to take on the next feat of college craziness – lesbianism. Someone should have told me I wasn’t ready for this idiotic rite of passage. That’s some Junior year shit. Alas, none of my new friends understood the depths of my naivete, so down the stairs to the lesbian bar I went. The wild girl ordered an entire pitcher of something blue and the two of us downed the entire thing while we talked about boys. I listened, wide-eyed, as the wild girl told me about her open relationship. She was so cool.

“So… What type of girl do you like?” She asked me, turning around on her bar stool and examining the hardly crowded lesbian bar.

“I… don’t know?” I honestly had no idea what type of girl I would like, if I liked girls. I knew the type of girl I wanted to be, so I decided maybe I’d like girls like that, but Kiera Knightley was nowhere to be found. I ended up talking to a girl with two-toned hair and thick black eyeliner. She also happened to be the DD for her friends. I stood no chance, but luckily(?) for me the night got spotty after that.

I woke up the next morning to the usual post-drinking memories rushing back into my brain. The one difference was that this time the memories were not so usual. Did I really start talking to the ugliest lesbian at the bar? Did we dance? Did we then go to that terrible American sports bar afterwards and did the bouncer almost not let me in except the lesbian convinced him that I was fine and promised I would not drink anymore? Did I really stay in the booth while everyone else danced and did I throw up underneath said booth because I convinced myself that everyone was doing it? Did I then leave and walk ALL the way home because I didn’t want to wait for the bus? Did I throw up in the public restroom of our dorm building? Did I bump into the RA? Did the below conversation really happen?

“Hiiiiiiiii”
“Hey Tiffany…. You’re wasted.”
“No! Itswhatevah, I’m whatevasoberrrrr. YOU GOT NEW MOUTH WASH.”
“You remembered what type of mouthwash I have?”
“Yeahhhhh… Youuuuu hatttteedddd it. It wasgrosssss.”

Did that really happen? Yes, yes all of it did happen. 

I was miraculously ok with the throwing up in the bar, the walking home through London by myself in the middle of the night, and even the admitting to the object of my affection that I creepily remembered his feelings of regret surrounding a purchase of off-brand mouthwash. I wasn’t, however, prepared for the, “WTF is wrong with me,” feeling that accompanies any sort of deviance. Someone told me I gave the ugly lesbian my phone number and this simple fact spiraled me into two days of questioning my sexuality. I didn’t even kiss this girl, but I was so confused.

“If I got her phone number, does that mean I’m gay??”

God I was a fucking idiot when I was 20.

Photos from a similar night that also went terribly wrong. That’s a story for another time…

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Twentynothings

“Let’s be honest, we’re still going to be getting this drunk in our 30s.”
“Fair… But eventually we’ll have kids and settle down.”
“Nah, we’ll just be drunk around the kids.”

New York is often hailed as the epicenter of arrested development – the perfect little petri dish for nurturing one’s bad choices and self-obsession. It’s so true, and it’s exactly why so many people sigh and say, “Oh, New York… What a great place to be young.” It’s exactly why so many of the married and child-rearing move outside the city to places like Ohio, or Jersey City.

When I first moved here, one of my friends referred to the city as The Adult Playground. I didn’t exactly know what to expect from that description, but I liked the phrase so much that I’d bounce up and down yelling, “Adult playgrounddddddddd!” every time we walked down the street doing something New York-y.

My first night out as a New York resident, I ventured down to Alphabet City. I’d never been to the East Side, but I’d heard Alphabet City in so many of my friends’ cool new York stories.

“They have a bar that’s camping-themed! You can get s’mores there!!”

I love s’mores. 

As I walked up the subway stairs to the fabled city, I had high hopes that here I’d find The Adult Playground. I assumed that Avenue A was a grown-up-fucking-Candyland; the streets would be lined with sex, they’d lead me through the magical forest of illegal substances down to the river of sample sales and never-ending happy hours.

I ended up in a 200 square foot AC-less basement apartment. I drank grape juice mixed with some old vodka out of a cup that had definitely not been washed since its previous use and got hit on by a guy whose hard sell was that he could fix my guitar for free. When I got home I threw up on my American apparel dress.

And this, ladies and gentleman, is exactly what it’s like to live in The Adult Playground. Sure, you might have a job, and a life, and a bunch of other things you use to justify that you’re different than you were in college, but you know you’re just one happy hour invite away from waking up at 4 AM in your bed, next to the wrapper or something you assume you ate, but you’re not sure what it was, and a bunch of missed calls from your coworkers and/or friends. Even the most responsible New Yorkers I know have stories like this… It’s not us, it’s New York! We promise.

As you may know from Facebook, I’ve requested the help of all of you in providing me with solid examples of life in the playground. I don’t feel that simply explaining what it’s like is enough, so here are items I’ve pulled from your emails, gchats, AIM, texts, conversations, etc, etc, etc. Don’t worry, I’ve changed identifying details – thank you all so much for helping me out!

Here’s what it’s like to be a 20nothing in New York City. If you’d like to turn this into a drinking game, take a shot every time you see the word ‘drunk’:

1: did you have a good night?
2: yeah i did
worked out a tiny bit, but not much
then we made dinner and ate pot lollipops which was fun
1: do those really really work?
2: ehhh
we ate two and i felt a little relaxed
and like, body high-ish
we also had had some wine
but i didn’t feel drunk
so I think it worked?
…..
I was a bouncer at a series of parties that had a reputation for getting VERY out of hand. Fifty percent of the time the cops shut the party down before 1am. One night in particular we used a Venue called “Castle V”. It was owned by a 50-year-old who called himself Vox Illuminati. Vox may have had a few screws loose. We were setting up before the party when the FNDY and NYPD, who’d gotten wind of the party, came by to give us a friendly warning that if the party happened it would be shut down. This friendly conversation ended in Vox screaming “You’re going to tell ME WHAT TO DO?!?!?! I WILL END YOU!!!!!” while the terrified looking FDNY fire inspector quickly ran out the door.
…..
1: so
a couple thing
s
that you’ll find funny
i’m still drunk
just walked into work late ‘ from my doctors appt’
…..
I assumed he was as unserious about the plans we made as I was, but I forgot he probably wasn’t drunk on a Tuesday.”
…..
Email, attempting to attend a party: Last week they sent me home when my cold became too conspicuous.  Maybe I can be conspicuously drunk and they’ll send me home for that too.

…..
We talked for a few minutes, and I gathered that she was quite wealthy, just from the way she rambled on about her dad and his jet, yacht, etc. I must have really hit it off with her, because I was invited out for a night on the town with her and her friends. “I don’t have any nice clothes…” was the best excuse I could muster. Her reply? “Fuck that, we run this city.” And with that, we set off.
We made it back to her suite on 5th Avenue at about 6:30 in the morning. I slept for about 45 minutes, and then woke up to her, out-of-her-mind and yelling that it was time for me to go to work. She said my ride would be ready in about ten minutes. It was a helicopter. No shit. I hate helicopters. I puked. I got back to my hotel, showered, changed clothes, and went to my meeting.
…..
1: how was your weekend boo?
I was laughing thinking about fri
so fun!
2: seriously!
until all the sudden i was too drunk and Manuele, who I’ve never spoken to before and I don’t think he speaks English, was trying to convince me to come home with him
and i was like NO. what?! NO
1: SHUT your mouth
2: so Susie pushed me in a cab and i went home and got sick
1: OMG
are you alright?
2: yeah, luckily when i’m too drunk my reaction is to leave immediately…
it’s the one smart thing i do
……
My friend was throwing a “Dance Party at the End of the World” event, in which he’d crafted a dance mix, interspersed with Orson Welles’ radio broadcast of The War of the Worlds. We were to dress in our 1920’s finest, and the drink menu was strickly gin martinis. I have an unfortunate (impressive?) ability to appear only slightly intoxicated when I am in fact bordering on black out drunk. I don’t slur my words, but had anyone known how far gone I was, they would’ve been watching me. I joined my friend outside to have a cigarette, and before I knew it I was agreeing to share a cab with her back uptown. Without my bag. Without my keys. Without my phone… Dressed in only a black velvet gown and duster.
…..
1: How was the night?
2: Oh you know… drunk emailed my boss…. drunk emailed that guy I was dating earlier in the summer.
1: Ohhhhhh, and?
2: It wasn’t bad though. I was just drunk-eating something he likes, so it reminded me of him.
1: Justifiable.
…..
Needless to say, the cops did come to shut the party down at about 11 PM. Instead of opening the doors for the cops when they came knocking, Vox made the bouncers lock and barricade the only entrance to the building. A 30 minute stand-off ensued while Vox stood behind the door, screaming obscenities at the cops. This was ended by an FDNY latter truck lifting 2 FDNY fire fighters, and 6 cops in the bucket onto the roof. When Vox saw this he jumped out one of the windows, onto the neighboring roof, and then ran across to a tree, where he hid from the police for 2 hours.
…..
I got into my building because the outside door never locked properly, but it turned out my roommate was visiting his family in NJ. I spent the night (which dropped down to 12 degrees) shivering, drunk, crying, kicking the door, and dozing in our stairwell. And that’s why I don’t drink gin martinis.
…..
The road may not be paved with adderall, and gingerbread houses would result in terrifying rat infestations, but we do live in the closest thing to an adult playground I can imagine. It’s pretty fantastic.
Peace, love and Candyland, 
BWCE
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Airport drunk

It seems as though I am ALWAYS drunk at the airport. Whether I am hungover drunk or fuck-it-my-flight-was-delayed-5-hours-and-they-have-wine drunk, I am never in a fully conscious state of mind while at the airport. I’m either overly friendly to strangers/ flight attendants or totally rude/ about to throw up on strangers/ flight attendants. So this morning, while I sit here at the airport totally hungover because last night Chris and I discovered $5 martini night at a restaurant near me, I’ve decided to do a Best/Worst post about being drunk at the airport.

Best times to be drunk at the airport:

  • When the drinking starts AT the airport, because you’re like FUCK IT, I’m on vacation bitches.
  • When there’s entertainment: This one time, at the airport, I watched a very nice cop help a very drunk and belligerent guy pay his bar tab (and then I’m guessing she took him to the hospital for alcohol poisoning).
  • When you like someone else’s haircut. Yes, yes I have complimented someone’s haircut while drunkenly navigating my way through the aisle of my plane.
  • When you discover the free wifi service, Boingo, that’s only $12 a month for unlimited airport wifi. The best. Ever.
  • When you’re at the LaGuardia Delta terminal that they’ve recently redone and they have box wine and skinny girl margaritas in the food court and they’re cheap.
  • When your mom’s driver will pick you up at the Trinidad airport, give you money for cigarettes and they also have steal drums that you can play, because it’s motherfucking Trinidad.

Worst times to be drunk at the airport: 

  • When your vacation is ending, not starting.
  • When you’re hungover, but still kind of drunk so the whole trip is like you keep waking up from a stupor and remembering things from the night before… But you’re not at Waffle House.
  • When you’re so hungover that you throw up in three airports and a plane on the same day.
  • When the airport you’re hungover in has no Boingo wifi hotspot (Savannah, I shake my fist at you!).
  • When you have Mexican tourist sickness and your family realizes they’re leaving Mexico a day earlier than you so they rent you a hotel room and give you like 700 pesos and you’re not sure what that means but you assume it’s $1,000 at least but then you very quickly spend it all on Mexican flag colored cookies for your roommates and tequila shots. Also you cry while watching Grey’s Anatomy at the airport bar next to some business men.

That is all. I’m going to go pass out on my flight now.

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Oh Drunk Girl, we are the same

As you know, I’ve had a hard week at my job dealing with the mounting stress of Valentine’s Day. There are problems in life that involve effort – making a plan about resolving them, listening to ‘You Can Do It!’ music while running on the treadmill, etc. Then there are problems that you just have to let wash over you and know they’ll end in a matter of time. This is the second type of problem, and I’ve decided to let it wash over me and wash it down with a lot of vodka.

I feel encouraged by the fact that I didn’t have a hangover yesterday, in spite of drinking almost that entire bottle of Skyy Vodka, smoking cigarettes and eating only raw food all day… and chickpeas, which Franklin told me aren’t raw, damnit. I think my body is telling me that YES, this is exactly how I need to proceed through this stressful situation.

I started out the weekend with the intention of drinking heavily and guess what? I succeeded!! I ended my night by breaking my vegan diet and eating a spicy special on my couch, but how I got to that point is so awesome.

First off – I saved a drunk girl! I don’t know from what, but as I was leaving my friend’s apartment I happened upon this:

Looks like a crime scene, no?

Anyway, after the several minutes it took to figure out whether or not she was actually dead, I saw her apartment keys and let myself into her place. I tried to get her to stand up and walk to her bed, but she didn’t even want to get off the floor . Our conversation went something like this:

Me – Hey, hey! Let’s get you inside.

Drunk Girl – I uhhhhhhh, nooooas;jkfs;jkasf

Me – No, you really wanna go inside your apartment. Let’s get you inside your apartment.

DG – Nouehahahheeeeekkksdf;kafd;kad

Me – Oh, honey. You really don’t want to be out here in your hallway (starts to pull DG up)

DG – ;jadfs;dfkldfjkldfjkladsfjlkdfskljkjdfuhhhhhhhhh

I ended up having to pull her into her living room by picking her up and dragging her into her apartment.

After throwing her keys on the floor and going over the Angela’s, I continued my quest to drink heavily. The funny thing about helping drunk people when you’re about to get drunk is the very limited amount of time that you have to feel self-righteous. It took all of an hour before I fell in the bar and Austin and Angela had to help me off my knees – I apparently decided hanging out on my knees at the empty bar was a good choice.

Shortly after that I headed home, “decided” to break my diet and buy a Spicy Special and cheese fries, and went to the bodega. While I was waiting for them to make my sandwich, the cashier walked away from the register. It was at this point that I realized the chocolate bars by the register were good for the taking, and I decided to steal a chocolate bar. I slipped one into my purse, and after the cashier returned, didn’t notice and left again, I took a second.

When I woke up this morning and surveyed the wreckage in my living room (somehow I put away the rest of my sandwich and fries, but left my underwear in the middle of my living room) I saw the two chocolate bars sitting on the coffee table. They serve as a great reminder that on any given night I’m only one failed attempt at opening my door away from being the drunk girl I helped.

Yes, there is a price tag on my sweatpants. In case you’re wondering, it says $2.99.

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