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Posts Tagged ‘booze’

NTKOG #118: The kind of giggly sororstitute who sashays into a casual bar on a Monday night and demands orgasms, sex on the beach(es), redheaded sluts and other mega-questionably crafted cocktails.

I am: a pretty serious boozehound. Go ahead. Smell me. Gin and cigars, sir.

I am not: diabetic. Yet. Try to calibrate my boozin’ to keep me thus.

The Scene: Brighton Beer Garden with the lovely brookem, out for some Monday night cocktails. All first-time blogger meets are — it cannot be denied — supremely first-datey. But after a few seconds of “who are you in real life? what do you do?” back-and-forth monologue, we fall into an easy conversation that drips liberally with TMI.

You know the convo. Guys who couldn’t get the condom on, the perils of breaking in virgins, …crampiness. I fill her in on the joys and perils of taking a blowjob class and we sip for a moment in contemplation.

Later, as we finish our third round and begin to move toward the inevitably homeward barstool shift, I turn to her. “So what NTKOG are we doing tonight?” After only a second, she asks, “Well, speaking of blowjobs, are you the kind of girl who would ever — order a blowjob shot?”

My inner classic cocktail snob recoils. Any mission that sparks this much disgust, though — it’s perfect. We wave the bartender over and when she asks what we’re having next I start with bravado: “Can I get a–” then my vocal chords constrict. Goddamnit, TKOG, channel Cancun, sorority socials, reality TV! “Can I get a … blowjob shot?”

The waitress reassures us that 9pm on a Monday is a perfectly fine time to be ordering shots (enabler!) but the bar doesn’t have whipped cream. What’s in a blowjob? she asks a fellow bartender. “Yeah, we don’t have whipped cream,” the woman smiles. “The cream is the best part of a blowjob.” Uh, agreed?

We brainstorm for a few moments about similarly embarrassing cocktail, when the original bartender suggests a slippery nipple. A moue of approval rises from the chorus. After I send the bartender off to slip up some nipples for us, brookem turns to me: “What’s in a slippery nipple, anyway?” No clue, but I have a gut instinct that it’s the same ingredients as a Cocksucking Cowboy.

This drink would be about perfect, dumped into eight ounces of Ghiradelli hot chocolate.

Two nipples, ripe for the slippin'.

Bailey’s. Butterscotch schnapps. My god, do they sell this in Big Gulp size?! I was, in fact, so enthused by the discovery that I immediately had to share it with someone by finally making good on my threat to send a man a drink. One lone man sat across from us in the sea of couples, so I nodded toward him and asked the bartender to send him one.

Brookem and I were all fluttery feminine optimism for the four point five seconds it took us before she noticed the orphaned beer sitting next to said dude. Oh god, what if I’d sent a drink to a guy with a girlfriend? Was I an attempted homewrecker?! The beer’s owner returned from the restroom and — even worse. The worst, in fact. The guy was super mega cute. I mean, picture Vince Vaughn crossed with Conan O’Brien. Now stop picturing him because he’s MINE ALL MINE.

Bartender ignored my frantic flagging to send the drink to the cuter guy and placed the shot in front of the first guy, nodded over toward me. The guy raised his glass to me; I grimaced. Then he tasted the vaguely alcoholic sugarbomb and it was his turn to grimace. Pale waltzing lord, I managed to send a guy a drink gayer than three dudes hanging out by a wishing well in front of his cute friend. Do I win at dating forever or what? Brookem and I finished up our convo and skrinkered out of there right quick, studiedly avoiding eye contacted with our buttered-up comrade.

The Verdict: So embarrassing drinks, it turns out? Exist for a reason. Cute guys? Um, we already know their purpose. ANY MEETING OF THE TWAIN? No, no, oh my god no.

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A couple more days to enter to win a friggin’ iPod Nano! It’s red! And gets radio reception, apparently! I wouldn’t know because my iPod is like a 64kb iPod Mini. (Also, dudes, sorry for being totally blog-world absent this week: the computer at my new office doesn’t. do. internet.)

NTKOG #107: The kind of ethanol-fueled writerly type who knocks back a snootful in the privacy of her own parlour then commences to Creating Literature.

I am: partial to: 1) the occasional snort of brandy; 2) my own company; 3) pretending, and often, to be F. Scott Fitzgerald.

I am not: an alcoholic.

The Scene: My apartment. Alone. I’d spent a Saturday night out celebrating Porn Star’s birthday with Anglophile and some of his friends — a rambunctious night, capped at a skeezy bar ’til the last train home — but maintained only a buzz due to some combination of the prohibitive cost of alcohol and the fact that Porn Star and Anglophile are non-drinkers. In fact, through some confluence of medication-mixing, religion and incomprehensible personal preference, all of my Boston friends are non-drinkers. Kind of hard on a girl, what? Still, I’ve seen Lifetime Movies, and I know that when the going gets tough, the tough crack open a jaunty little Bordeaux.

I should have known that this NTKOG was turning against me when I realized I didn’t have a corkscrew. Apparently, in a fit of boozy benevolence, I left The Ex all of my corkscrews in the break-up. Still, have Merlot, will MacGyver. Spent ten minutes sitting on the edge of my bed with the upside-down wine bottle clamped between my knees, thwacking the bottom with the sole of one of my cowboy boots. This yielded nothing but a pissed-off neighbor. After a few more strange tricks, I ended up jabbing the rubberized cork with a pocket screwdriver and digging it out in a few large chunks.

Um, hope Delta Burke’s available to star in TKOG: The Movie.

After I filled up a coffee mug with the liberated rosé, learned three key lessons: 1) DO NOT PAY THREE DOLLARS FOR A BOTTLE OF WINE; 2) especially if you are drinking it by the bottle, and 3) have no sparkling conversation to distract you from the fact that you are drinking THREE DOLLAR ROSÉ.

What I hoped would happen: I’d engage in a witty inner monologue before loosening the muse and pounding out forty-five pages of wonderful and inexplicable fiction. (Not to brag, but Drunk TKOG is something of a wordsmith. You may know her from such literary masterpieces as: “What Grown-Ups Mean When They Say God Is Dead,” “Post-Prandial Depression And Other Erotica” and about sixty thousand regret texts peppered with esoteric interwar British naval slang.)

What actually happened: After a mug and a half of the godawful pink vinegar, I lost the will to continue swallowing, and ended up spending the next seven hours in a slowly sobering melancholy state, listening to The Weepies’ “Gotta Have You” on perma-repeat and obsessively google stalking myself.

Um, I thought booze was supposed to make you fun?

The Verdict: Oh lordy, this was a fail on so many levels. Turns out alcohol is, at best, a social performance enhancing drug and not in fact any sort of panacea. That much was old news. What I did learn, however: rock bottom isn’t just a figurative phrase. It is in fact a very literal term for the drop of wine you lick off a pocket screwdriver, alone, at 4:30am. Good lord. Never again.

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NTKOG #56: The kind of girl who, with grace and poise, can choke down a mason jar full of Scotch with the best of the Old Boys.

I am: a huge fan of hard liquors. Give me gin or brandy any day. But first, go ahead and give ’em a little shake with some simple syrup and something from the citrus family.

I am not: able to drink: a) any straight booze; b) whiskey at any degree of dilution.

The Scene: Cambridge, late afternoon. Sister’s bff Duran is in town and I’m taking her around while Sister’s at work. Of course, in true TKOG fashion, my version of “showing someone around” is “buying books then boozin’ with them.” So, loaded down with presidential biographies and a Jim Shepard collection, we turn our attention to cocktail hour, and stumble upon a little corner bar called Plough and Stars.

The interior’s gorgeous, the sound system is playing warbly old recordings of WWII era lounge, there’s not a single woman in the joint and a suspicious number of the patrons have bouffant hair and are drinking PBR. Jackpot.

Before we even grab stools, Duran asks the bartender for a Jameson, neat. He casts her an appraising eye and says they don’t have Jameson, but he has a whiskey that’s even better. They both spend a few minutes getting their super-Irish on, discussing peatiness and smokiness and the rolling green hills of Eire, and just when they’re on the verge of hugging, she orders a shot of his recommended whiskey, neat, water chaser.

I order the same.

Although I should probably point out that it took me like twenty minutes to drink this shot. But no big deal because IT WAS WARM ANYWAY. God whiskey drinkers are weird.

Whiskey: quaffable.

For context, I’ve taken occasional nips of whiskey — only really high quality stuff, after a really super great experience with way too much Jack one night in high school — and it always just … I mean, you guys, it makes me want to vom or die or pull my organs with knitting needles through my ears. I do not like it, is what I’m saying.

When this came, though, Duran tucked in right away, while I angsted. Finally I pulled in a little sip and — it was actually pretty okay. Strong but kind of creamy and maybe a little spicy.

TKOG: Dude, this is actually really good!
Duran: Wait a sec. It’ll hit you.
TKOG: I don’t know what you’re — oh. …oh.

But as long as I stuck to small sips, and was pretty liberal with the palate-cleansing water, I actually totally enjoyed it. Plus, after exactly one (ONE!) whiskey, Duran and I were giggly-drunk, spilling highly confidential secrets and gossiping about boys and just generally in delightfully girlish moods, which I’m going to go ahead and permanently assume is a pleasant side effect of whiskey-drunk.

Also can I seriously tell you how amazing this bar was? At one point, a super drunk guy corralled me and made me read through every text message on his iPhone to enjoy a conversation in which his ex threatened to commit suicide and he told her, "No, meet me at the bar, we'll fuck to save the friendship" and she told him "We'll see -- I'll show up if I don't commit suicide first." When I left, the guy was cheerfully telling the bartender: "There's a fifty-fifty shot my date will show up tonight!"

Kilbeggan: totally drinkable even by wimpy dudes who are 100% afraid of whiskey.

The Verdict: I am willing to concede that when I am 1) with good friends, in 2) a really charming bar, I actually do enjoy 3) one shot of 4) this specific brand of whiskey. Not to pile on the disclaimers or anything…

While I am still definitely, definitely not a whiskey girl, I would totally order it again if my drinking companion were also indulging, or possibly in place of wine when I make my occasional jaunt to a cigar bar. Primarily because I have this long-cherished fantasy of one day walking into a bar and ordering a scotch, neat, and the bartender reporoving me: “That’s a man’s drink,” and me leaning against the bar, knocking back half the drink, then looking up at him — jaded, broken, but full of determination — “It’s a man’s world, buddy.”

Were this not the unlikeliest bar exchange EVER, I’m going to go ahead and assume it would probably happen in a cigar bar and now know that I’m free to spend a few whiskey-sipping days chasing it.

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NTKOG #8: The kind of girl who can walk into a bar alone and immediately insinuate herself into the hippest group there.

I am: incorrigible within my own social group, but loath to approach random strangers and strike up random friendships.

I am not: drunk-extroverted. Can’t you tell?

The Scene: After a little poking around through my social avenues, I found online an ad for Crawl In Boston, a company that sponsors pub crawls through the city. In particular: a pirate-themed pub crawl tonight, crowned with a fabulous booze cruise. So not me, right? I decide to go and immediate fret over what to wear. Fast forward to this morning, pouring with rain: I email Justice and tell her I’m skipping out, and she basically schools me: ‘So, what, you’re never going to go out ever again? How are you going to deal with the winter? Don’t. Be. Weak.‘ And, spurred on, this afternoon I throw on some cute boots, an all-black outfit, and my amazing Machete Necklace (a dramatic fake blade that looks like it’s about to slit my erstwhile throat.)

I ride the green line to Government Center and, once there, am compeltely lost. Fortunately, in between righting my constantly inside-out umbrella, three or four pirates scamper past me in full costume. No sweat.  I roam down State Street, gritting my teeth, anticipating the complete awkwardness of insinutating myself into a social group. And then, I am approached by two Random Dudes from Philly.

RDFP: I love your necklace. Is that real?
TKOG: Real necklace, yeah. Real machete, not so much.
RDFP: I love it. [to friend] I just fell in love. [to me] I’m in love with you.
TKOG: Oh, um, thanks. Are you from around here?
RDFP: No, I’m from Philly.
TKOG: Cool. What’re you doing in Boston?
RDFP: Falling in love with girls who wear machetes around their necks. Come have a drink with us?
TKOG: What?

The guys have already walked half a block away when I turn around:

TKOG: Yeah. I’ll have that drink with you.
RDFP: Really? Okay. Wow. Come join our group.

The Verdict: Guys, look, I can’t tell you about how to insinuate yourself into a social group, but as for being insinuated? It’s nice. Very nice. I caught the guys’ names and met the rest of their group (three or four more dudes, some married, some not, plus one random soccer-mom tourist from Miami Beach they picked up somewhere around lunchtime). From there we poked around for a few more bars, but ended up in the very same bar the Pirate Crawl was meeting in.

Turns out the pirate crawl was mostly old guys and Renn Faire-y chicks dressed up in full garb, dressing and eating plasticky nachos. The tourist-from-Philly group? Lots of joking around, free drinks for me + soccer mom, and making fun of the pirate people.

Soccer mom and I ended up hanging out with the Philly boys for four or five hours, got fed like eight rounds of drinks without having to pull out our wallets, and left on good terms with the gentlemen with no awkwardness of unfulfilled expectations or any of that Lifetime Movie stuff.

So am I that kind of girl? Okay, so maybe I was kind of cheating by letting the guys insinuate me into their group, but dude, hanging out with randoms you meet on the street? Totally awesome. Especially when it allows you to be The Kind of Girl who can get tipsy of a Saturday evening without ever having to pull out her wallet. (And plus, I have a place to stay — with Soccer Mom — if I ever decide to crash in Miami and have an urgent craving for Russian food.)

The major lesson I learned from this: never go out on a weekend without a truly fabulous statement necklace. ’cause dang, dudes, the right necklace is basically made of beer & cute Philly bachelors. Win.

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