I went to Whistler this weekend. Not to ski or snowboard – don’t be ridiculous. I went to spend two days in a condo with 11 of my closest friends. Now, let’s be honest, 8 of them were skiing or snowboarding like you would expect. They left four of us behind to head up the “drinking team.”

Unfortunately, this means that when we arrived Friday night, the actives (that’s what I’m going to refer to the people who did actually ski and snowboard) were exhausted from a busy day out on the mountain. You can’t really blame them though because our two cars got in at 10pm or later. But, as members of the drinking team, we had to push onward. And, to be fair to the actives, I don’t think I stayed up that much later than them. I had my pimp cup with me and it’s no small task. By the time I had a Sprite and Vodka with more vodka so added orange juice so it wouldn’t taste so bad, I was done. If you don’t know, orange juice and sprite don’t really get along. It kind of congealed a bit. We called it miso soup. But I drank it. KO’d.

The actives were up at 7am to hit the mountains which means I had to crawl from the couch bed to a bed upstairs to rest more comfortably while they cooked breakfast and got ready. I barely remember this as I was half asleep and probably still drunk but I am told I literally crawled up the stairs on my hands and knees.

I woke up a little after 11 because my friend Eric told me it was noon. It was not noon. Eric and I then turned to responsible mode as soon as we saw a grocery list left out for us. No one should trust us to do the shopping. $200 at the grocery store was quickly followed by $200 at the liquor store. 12 people. 1 more night. Whatever. You don’t know me.

The best thing about going to the liquor store alone? No one knew what we bought. So we got a half fifth of gin and decided to re-fill the gin bottle from the night before. Then, when the other two members of the drinking team finally woke up, the mystery of the gin started. We convinced them it wasn’t us, tried to convince them they didn’t drink anything the previous night, and pointed out it wasn’t watered down because it would’ve frozen in the freezer. Brilliant.

After we cleaned the condo, marinated the steaks and got our lives back together, we started drinking casually. Just a mimosa here and there. Every once in a while, one of the girls would say, “But what happened to the gin?!” Finally, Chris told her that Jesus must’ve done it. Jesus gin.

I will fast forward to after dinner where we went out. At the second bar, I danced by myself. No one wanted to dance with me but I’m fine with that. The 6 other people on the dance floor seemed fine with it to. But, it leads me to the weekend’s biggest problem:

Gay or Canadian?

That’s right – I cannot tell if a girl is gay or if she’s Canadian. She is most likely one or the other if I’m asking this question. After dancing towards a girl or two, the answer was clear: Canadian.

So I danced by myself. When I finally went to go meet the rest of our group playing pool, I walked off the dance floor, missed a step clearly in front of me and ate shit in the middle of the bar. I then proudly announced it to all my friends and took a shot. I honestly was not hopeful that my night would last much longer than that.

But it did. I was up till 6am (time changed pushed this further) and was not the favorite person of our condo when I blew the air mattress up at 5am and decided to make a drunk snack. First, the air mattress had to be blown up as someone had to sleep there and we all knew it but didn’t plan ahead. Not my fault. Second, we had hella leftover steak. Tell me you wouldn’t want some steak and eggs.

I think they were a bit more annoyed that in my drunken state, I wanted to just say, “Steak and eggs!” over and over and over again.

Steak and eggs. Steak and eggs. Steak and eggs. Steak and eggs! Steak and eggs. Steak and eggs. Steak and eggs. Steak and eggs. Steak and eggs!