Being Friends with the Bartender is Harder than You’d Think
Two Saturdays ago started completely normal. I woke up and had a daiquiri at a Mexican restaurant and then immediately went wine tasting in Woodinville. Totally normal. Clearly, my day was off to a great start at 1pm. I then went from wine tasting to a BBQ and then to the Storm game. I had a packed day and not a minute to waste (read: waste not drinking).
Having drank all day, I was already doing quite well by the time I went to go meet some friends at a bar in Pioneer Square. My new friends work there. One is a waitress and the other is a bartender. I dragged a couple of friends and promised them a fabulous evening.
As soon as we arrived, we sat at a table marked as reserved because they knew I’d be coming in for the first time. I ordered an Absolut and tonic from my friend the waitress. She went to the bar and told my friend the bartender that I had finally arrived and the drink order was mine.
Hearing “This drink is for Kim Wetter” obviously means that it should be a strong drink. He hand delivers it to the table and bends down to tell me that he made it just for me… with Grey Goose. A lot of Grey Goose.
When people tell me a drink is strong, I normally don’t bat an eye. I took a large sip and was shocked by the all-vodka taste of my vodka tonic. But I’m no complainer. Mush onward! To the bottom of the glass!
A little while later, he brings over a Jager bomb and just sits it down in front of me. Supposedly he had made a mistake at the bar and instead of throwing the drink away, he decided to give it to me.
A little while after that, he brings over two shots of whiskey. He wanted to celebrate my first visit to the bar by getting sneaky drunk with me. This required him to bring over two shots as if I ordered them, then he’d kneel down to “bus the table,” and take the shot with me. We did this about four times. We also ran across the street to take a shot at a different bar on his 15 minute break.
It should surprise no one that I was hammered by the end of the night. I stayed until close, spilling my guts to my new friends at the bar and then taking myself home in an UberX.
I woke up the next morning feeling fine – or so I thought. I went up to Ravenna for a Bloody Mary brunch and as soon as I had a sip of Bloody Mary, my stomach turned. I couldn’t eat. What’s worse is that I had to go on a river float in a couple hours!
I got back to my house as the river float group was showing up. I informed them that I couldn’t go. I was too nauseous. I had been drunker the night before than I have been in a very, very long time. It was all my fault, but I just couldn’t go with them.
They refused to leave me. Seriously. So they dragged me with them and I said, “Okay, but if I vom on the river, this is on you.”
And… I vommed on the river. Hard.
About halfway through, the water and motion was making me feel like Lucille 2. I was closing my eyes to try to make the sensation stop but it just wouldn’t. I was absolutely, positively miserable.
But the thing is, I probably won’t learn my lesson here. I’ll still go back to that bar where I know the bartender. I will always have a hard time saying no, especially to shots. I will still get occasionally white girl wasted. I will always let my friends convince me to go do “fun” things. That’s just who I am.
Despite all of that, it’s hard to regret any of my choices. The only pain I caused was to myself for a day. And I have to remember that at least half of it was a damn good time. That’s all we can really ask for in life, amiright?