In Honor of the Weekend, A Party Story

I'm sorry to do this to you; but, I must tell this story. It involves vomit.

Believe it or not, I was a 'good girl' all through high school. I didn't really 'party', except with my girlfriends (and they were very harmless, girlie parties that involved chick-flicks and midnight Taco Bell runs ((OH FOR SHAME, I know!)), I didn't smoke, drink (and by that, I mean alcohol) and I didn't do drugs. I had 'dorky girlfriend fun', which, which I thoroughly loved.

When I graduated from high school, I went to my town's community college and the group that I often blog about kind of started becoming 'the group'.

One evening we were hanging out at my girlfriend's house, and I think it better that I not name any names, just in case... There were a few of our platonic boy-friends and two of my girlfriends there. My friend's parents were not home, they had a dinner date and I don't know what made us decide to do this; but, we decided to spread our wings and try some liqueur.

We virgin drinkers took a few shots. They tasted horrible! We wondered what all the alcohol hype was about. Then, the buzz started kicking in. We decided to do another shot or two. Then, we decided that doing things like riding her parents stationary exercise bike was the most fun we'd ever had. We sat on the couch and laughed giddy laughs, the room had never been so funny before. We were having a grand time until...

We heard the garage door opening. Her parents were home early!

The counter-tops were littered with alcohol bottles.

The boys darted to the kitchen along with my friend who lived there to try and rid the counter-tops of the clutter that we had created...the clutter of bottles that could land us in a world of hurt.

They were unsuccessful. When my friend's parents walked into the house, the bottles were still on the counters.

UH OH. Even in my shnockered state I knew this wasn't good. I sat on the couch, with my back to the whole scene, hoping that I wouldn't have to speak or interact with the 'rents.

The parents were scary calm. Like a calm before a storm. The kind of calm where you know you're in deep, deep trouble. Our poor friend. We got to leave. She had to stay.


On the ride home I was in a big, bumpy, stick- shift truck, the kind of truck that doesn't have a back seat. I was shnockered, sitting up front, stuffed in the middle, sandwiched between my two designated driver platonic boy friends.

The car ride to my friend's house was long. The world around me started spinning. I started to get very warm. I wasn't having fun anymore. When we dropped my girlfriend off at her house I told my designated drivers that I didn't feel good. I looked at my girlfriend's front yard. The lawn looked so inviting. So comfortable. So green. So flat. I wanted to get out of that truck and lie on that lawn so bad! I understand how drunk people end up passed out on lawns! I told the guys that I needed to get out and lay down. They refused, we were right around the corner from my house and they probably figured I would try and run from them...I used to like to run, wild and free when I drank... what can I say...I've always liked running!

I begged and pleaded, I tried to tell them that I wasn't feeling well. I started to get dizzy again. That's when it hit me, a sudden wave of warmth overcame my body, an instantaneous hot flash, I knew I was about to throw up. I was in the middle seat of my friend's truck, sandwiched between the boys. I didn't know what to do. I didnt' know where to throw up. I had enough sense not to puke in the boys' laps. I didn't want to puke all over my friend's dash or floor board...so, I guess I did what any polite, virgin drunk girl would do...

I looked down and sitting on my lap, wide open, was my purse...and...before I could think twice...

I threw up... in my purse...a lot.

All over my wallet.

All over my keys.

All over everything.

My purse turned into a punch bowl...only it wasn't a bowl and it wasn't punch that was in it!

I heard a lot of shuffling around me. A lot of, "holy shits," a lot of questioning, "did she just puke in her purse?" The boys clung to the edge of the truck doors like their lives depended on it, getting as far away from me as they could in the small space that a pick-up cab offers.

They responsibly decided they couldn't take me home like that. So, instead, they took me to my friend's garage where I could sit and lay my head down on a pool table. The boys pulled my hair back into a pony tail, put a jacket around me...and took off with my purse...

They went to the bathroom and began cleaning it out for me!

Sometimes my friend still laments about having to stick his hand into my vomit laden purse.

They rinsed it out and washed everything off for me.

Kudos to my friend, kudos.

I had survived my first experience with alcohol...an experience which will live in infamy.

Sheesh.