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Sunday, January 2, 2011

No, darling. Of course not.

Disclaimer: This story has mild nudity and references to drugs and alcomahol.
Second Disclaimer: If you're expecting a super duper mortifying, incredible story, prepare to be disappointed. I've lead a mild, trouble free existence.

So far, it appears the awkwardness on this blog has been minimal to nonexistent. To kick off the new year, I'm going to share a story with you all. This goes back approximately 9 years, to when I had verrrry little experience with drinking. Like I said, I've always been a cautious kid, not taking risks (or what I perceived as risks), for fear of getting hurt, in trouble, or a combination of the two. I was raised on after school specials, warning of the dangers of drugs and alcohol, and also with family words echoing in my ears about alcohol being a scary, dangerous thing that past members of our family have enjoyed a bit too much. I was ANTI. Anti-drug, anti-alcohol, anti-everything.

I'll never forget the New Year's party at a friend's house. We'll call her R for the purpose of this story. I must have been about 16, and a very naive 16 at that. Her room was attached to the rest of the house, but still slightly separate. She lived with her Dad at the time, a very cool guy who could cook better than anyone I ever knew. He even owned a restaurant at one time. He also like to smoke pot. We headed into the main house to the kitchen, passing her Dad hanging out on the couch watching tv. Smoking pot. When we were back in R's room, I said " guys? What was that smell?"...........laughter. Uproarious, tears-rolling-down-the-face laughter. R, my big sister figure, put her hand on my shoulder and said in a gentle voice "sweetie, that's pot." How was I to know?! I had never smelled it in my life! Maybe a faint whiff at the Renaissance Faire, with my friends chiming all at once "thaaaat's not patchoooouli!!" but I had never come into direct contact with it or knew anyone who had. That I knew of. Like I said, completely naive. This isn't the embarrassing New Year's story, (thought my friends still give me grief for that one once in a while...I love my friends) but I wanted to paint a picture for you of the how's and why's of my inexperienced, self-sheltered naivete.

Moving on. Fast forward to when I'm actually 21 (maybe 22, I have a poor concept of time). Mind you, I had never been drunk yet. Ever. My friend Carolyn lived with her boyfriend-at-the-time Chris, and they threw the best parties. They had a pool, jacuzzi, and always a very well stocked collection of alcohol. It was common practice to bring blankets and pillows to crash out on their floor or couch, mostly to be safe and not drive, but also because there was ALWAYS the group IHOP breakfast run the next morning. Amongst the party-goers were my best friend Morgan, and the ever-fabulous Pourya. Pourya is a very handsome, very charismatic, VERY fun individual. We used to say "instant party! Just add Pourya!" The guy knew more jokes than Robin Williams. He's also a gentleman. Polite, smooth, you couldn't help but adore him. We were just friends, though he was an incurable flirt.

That sets the scene (bored yet? You'd think I was setting this up to be the greatest story ever! Try not to be disappointed). Morgan had recently been introduced to the finer things in life, such as Chopin vodka. Like all of our great discoveries, she was excited to share this one with me as well. The problem is, I had already had one or two jello shots. I wouldn't even say I was "affected" at this point, but young, naive Bonnie didn't know anything about "waiting a bit until it hits you". Morgan poured a shot of Chopin, which I tentatively tasted and went BLECH! "Wait a sec, let me add a little cranberry juice". Mmm... okay, that's not terrible. That wasn't so bad! So she poured another. And I think another. I honestly don't know how much I had. It was almost ten years ago! Gimme a break! Anyway, I DO remember sitting on the couch with Morgan, she and I pointing at each other and laughing ridiculously. "Aaaaahahahahaha you'resodrunk!! AAAAHAHAHAHA!" It was great fun. Until I laid down with my pillow and blanket on the floor. The world tilted upwards, then downwards, then swirled all kinds of directions. Suddenly it wasn't so fun anymore. Oooohhhh, I don't feel so good. And I think I have to pee. I don't even know how I made it to the bathroom without breaking anything or myself. I sat down to go pee, resting my forehead in my hands, willing myself NOT to be sick. In a moment, it became very apparently that being sick was exactly what was going to happen. I flipped around, and promptly hurled. Repeatedly. Bare ass exposed, puking up pale red jello shots and vodka with cranberry. At least I felt better after that! (Hey, full disclosure, man. I told you I have no pride left)

Here's the potentially embarrassing part. It will remain one of life's great mysteries. After rinsing my mouth out in the sink, washing my hands and splashing my face, I opened the door to leave the teeny-tiny bathroom. I hadn't locked the door. Standing RIGHT there, startling me, was Pourya holding a glass of water.

"Are you alright, darling?" (He can get away with pet names like this, because he has the most beautiful Persian/European mix accent. It's gorgeous.)

"Yeah, I'm fine now. Ummm.....did you come in to check on me?"


"Did you, like, open the door and come in to check on me?"

".......noooo....? I thought you might need some water though."

Pourya escorted me back to my sleeping spot and tucked me in.

"Thanks, Pourya, you're awesome."

"You're very welcome, darling. Let me know if you need anything else."

About thirty seconds passes. "Pourya?"

"Yes, darling?"

"I'm going to be sick again."

"H'okay! Up we go! Let's go!"

Surprisingly, I wasn't hung over the next day at all. We all went to IHOP, had a great breakfast, and rehashed the previous night's party. Morgan was lucky enough NOT to be sick, but I do remember that she laid down for a bit by the pool, dabbing her face with the cool water. That's so Morgan. Dignity always intact, always elegant somehow. Lordy there were times I wanted to hate her. For years now, she's called me "Bridget Jones", and I've had to reluctantly agree that there are some parallels. That scene where she slides down the fireman's pole and squashes the camera with her exposed bum? That would SO happen to me.

For years, I maintained that Pourya had opened that door to see my exposed hiney pointed skyward while my body rejected all that alcomahol, then politely closed the door. And OF COURSE, Pourya being Pourya, would never ever EVER let me know if he actually had. This might not sound so mortifying to you all, and I'm sure there are FAAARRR wose stories you could share with me (please do! That's what the comments section is for!) but that's the story of the very first time I got drunk. I was incredibly body self-conscious, and the idea that somebody like Pourya, who is always so smooth and charismatic, would see me like that was enough to make me cringe and turn my face red for YEARS.

If you're curious, I'm still friends with Pourya. We lost touch for a little while, but stumbled into each other when I joined up with the IVC orchestra while Brandon was deployed to Iraq. Oh yes, Pourya is also a very accomplished violinist. Of course he is. We caught up on old times, went for tea on a regular basis, and I FINALLY asked him the burning question that had been haunting me for nearly a decade. Did he in fact open that door?

His answer?


"No, darling. Of course not."

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