Drunken Adventures from Maren and Katie

Since August 2008, I have made a string of rash decisions that have yielded interesting consequences.

August 2008: Go to Las Vegas by myself for a job interview. Run into Maren. See the world is much larger than Orlando.

September 2008: Move to Ohio in an effort to get a real job in Chicago. Economy collapses. Do not pass go, do not collect 200 dollars. Stuck in Ohio for 6 months.

February 2009: Move back to Orlando and in with Maren. Take the GRE without studying and enroll in grad school. Have some of the greatest drunken adventures of my life and begin this blog.

October 2009: Go to Vegas with S. Meet an Australian, lie about a book deal, and write an epic blog post.

November 2009: Make plans to live in Australia for two months in the summer. Land a disgustingly amazing internship.

January 2010: Take a fourth job after a family tragedy. Run myself ragged trying to save money, but still make time to embarrass myself in a series of drunken shenanigans.

February 2010: Depression finally sets in. Withdraw from classes. Make plans to go to Vegas in March.

Ultimately, I don’t think I was meant for grad school. At least not now, anyway. For the past two years I’ve been waiting for a spark of inspiration. I’m sure it’s not in Orlando. So I’m going to scour the globe to figure it out.

I had a conversation with a guy from my new job the other day. Until I get health insurance, I’m going to consider this man my therapist. He brought up a valid point about why I bartend 60 hours a week – escapism. When I’m behind the bar I can mentally tune out. All of my witty banter is me on autopilot, because let’s face it; it isn’t difficult to outwit drunks.

So why am I mentally trying to escape for 60+ hours a week? I’m too smart to not always be mentally present. Something has to change, and I’m going to make it happen.

I’m curious to see how the next couple months of my life will play out. Rest assured, it will be documented.

-KFD

I started off the New Year with the intention of saving money, keeping busy, and focusing on school. Part of this entailed getting yet another job, bringing the total current amount to four. If you know me, this makes sense, because clearly an idle hand is the devil’s playground when it comes to my life.

So, I spent this past week training at my new job. Another bartending gig. This bar is located in a little more touristy side of town, which looks like it will be supplying me and S with an endless supply of foreign pretty. Be happy, as long as I work here there should be blog fodder.

On Wednesday night I worked my second training shift. Two brothers came in and sat down at the bar. They were cute, in their twenties, and from Ireland.

Attention, ladies and gentleman. We have a winner.

They sat down by the service well, which was fortunate because that’s where I was training for the evening. I began to shamelessly flirt with them and they proceeded to down beers and shots and toss compliments my way. So far a good night.

The older brother was a Web designer, the younger a merchant marine. They were in America for a wedding in Athens, GA, (where the younger brother broke his third metacarpal in a scuffle) but were passing through Orlando on their way to South Florida.

I asked the younger brother what the merchant marines were like, and he told me that his ship was made up of a bunch of Russian guys who spend all day drinking beer. I’m in. I jokingly ask where I need to send my application, and he gravely replies that no girls are allowed on his ship? Why, you may ask? Apparently when hundreds of men are left alone on a boat for four months at a time, they have certain urges that need to be fulfilled. To introduce a girl into that mix would lead to lots of rape, or “surprise sex”, as he called it. Point taken.

As the night progressed, the brothers became more than a little tipsy. The other bartender and I chatted with them about their homeland. The younger brother casually mentioned his disdain for the English and desire for a completely independent Ireland. I’d be lying if I said that I paid a lot of attention to foreign affairs, so I nodded my head and went with it.

The older brother called it quits early and went back to his hotel room, leaving his younger brother behind.

Drunk and on his own, younger brother (from here on out called Irishman) became a little more bold. With a lecherous gleam in his eye, he began to shamelessly flirt back, culminating in him saying (verbatim), “Katie, from the bottom of an Irishman’s heart, I would drink a gallon of your piss just to see where it came from.”

Hello, new soul mate.

At the end of the night, he asked what I would be doing the following day and I let him know that I would be bartending at my other job. We exchanged numbers and he stumbled out the door with a mystery Swedish man.

The next day I sent him a text before work letting him know what time I was working and where the bar was located. To my surprise, he hopped in a cab and arrived at my bar around 12:30.

My friends, it was as if I delivered a party favor to my bar guests. They marvel at his accent, each person attesting that they, too, were Irish, even if only a miniscule amount. Our new guest helped me sell an unusually high number of Irish Car Bombs. Irishman notes that his people are the creators of that, but at that point it really didn’t mean anything to me.

The big ha-ha of the night was when they made him attempt to speak with an American accent. As the center of attention, he was more than happy to oblige.

“Well hi-dee-ho! I like me some beer, some Nas-car, and some fried opossum!”

If this is how we sound to foreigners, shoot me now.

Guests started to feed him shots, and he took the opportunity to make a toast. He raised his glass and toasted five of his buddies who have been captured by Somali pirates and are currently prisoners.

Awkward glances are exchanged. Typically, we toast to how shitty our jobs are or how messed up the opposite sex is. You could tell that everyone felt a little shallow.

At one point he leaned over the bar in front of a couple of guests and asked if I’d like to hang out with him after work. I had no intentions of sleeping with him, but the international diplomat in me says that it’s only fair to at least make out with him. After all, he was leaving the next day on a boat for four months and he tipped 30 percent! Assured that my guests, who probably will never understand my reasoning process, thought I was a whore, I accepted his invitation, but walked away quickly before my face turned beet red.

We kicked everyone out of the bar as we closed down. Irishman hung outside on the patio, talking to a couple of regulars. I stopped by to pick up empty glasses and he grabbed my ass as I walked by. I am way too sober for this.

After we turned in our cash drop and finished cleaning the bar, I let Irishman back inside. The first thing he did was hug me from behind and kiss my neck. I am way too sober for this.

Mark, my fellow bartender, snickered and walks away. Two minutes later I have a text on my phone.

Mark: That was so awesome!
KFD: So much awkward. Murder me now.

I played it off by pretending it never happened, which worked until he kissed me in front of both bartenders. Fucking great.

I hurried out of the bar, foreign pretty in tow. As we hopped into my car, I received a text from Guy, the other bartender on duty.

Guy: We have the Irish molestation on camera if you go missing!

I love how supportive my coworkers are.

Jon Bon Jovi was playing on the radio as we pulled out of the parking lot. Have you ever been (poorly) serenaded to a Bon Jovi song by a drunken Irishman? Sadly, I can now say that I have. Pardon the redundancy, but I am way too sober for this.

On the ride home we talked about foreign affairs and he trashed England again. Because of England, he is unable to attain full Irish citizenship unless he renounces Catholicism and pledges his allegiance to the Queen. Ireland is looking like a more undesirable place to visit by the minute.

KFD: So…you seem to have very strong political ideals. You’re not an activist, are you? Are you in the IRA?
Irishman: Well…yes. Kind of. I’m a Quarter Master.
KFD: Which means?
Irishman: I donate guns to the Irish Republican Army, because I want them to kill as many Englishmen as possible.
KFD: Is that why you’re in the merchant marines?
Irishman: Well, it does make shipping the weapons easier. I also have stock in Israeli arms, so I profit when they go to war, allowing me to provide my countrymen with more guns.

What.

So here I was, driving through downtown Orlando with a member of the IRA. Quickly, I ruled out all of the questions that I wanted to ask. It’s probably better not to know all of his motivations or past activities.

Lucky me, he volunteered some information. About five years ago, his mom was gang raped by British soldiers. Since that day he swore he would do whatever it took to help take down England.

Right about then we pulled into my driveway. I am way too sober for this.

We went upstairs and I gave him a brief tour, which ended in the kitchen. I poured myself the stiffest drink I could stomach and we went out on the patio to talk.

On the patio I found out more about my new friend. When he was younger he was kicked out of high school. Why, you ask? Well, three reasons, really.

A)     He tried to burn down the school. One day, he noticed that a couple of teachers were trying to break into his buddy’s locker. Said locker contained three ounces of marijuana. One of those ounces belonged to him and he wasn’t about to see his friend get in trouble or lose his stash. In an effort to distract them, he made a Molotov cocktail and threw it at the building next door. In broad daylight.

B)      He was a prick to his German teacher. Irishman is apparently fluent in several languages and kept correcting his teacher. The teacher didn’t appreciate the douchebaggery and instead kicked him out of class.

C)      He punched a teacher. His shop teacher was unhappy with his work and hit him over the head with a piece of wood. He sustained a black eye and broken nose. Naturally, he retaliated, punching the teacher in the face and putting her in a coma.

He explained to me what it was like to grow up in Belfast, which is the Parramore of Ireland. His neighborhood was so shitty that even the armored police cars refused to control it. However, he assured me that instances of burglary were very low. The main worry was being hit by a mortar shell. Wonderful.

Somehow this conversation lead to more kissing, and we went back inside. I left him to entertain our house cat and I secretly pounded back a couple shots of vodka in the kitchen. Finally a little drunk, I am no longer too sober for this.

We made out a little bit more, went to sleep, and in the morning I returned him to his hotel. On the drive over, Irishman half-jokingly mentioned that he really wants American citizenship. He told me to let him know if I’d be interested in entering into a scam marriage with him.

I doubt that anyone who knows me would be surprised if that’s how my first marriage came about. It worked for Ryan Reynolds and Sandra Bullock, right?

-KFD

It’s interesting to check the statistics for this blog. I know a lot of our facebook friends are casual readers, and that’s cool, but I’m more interested in the people who find us by accident. Sick fucks.

You see, people aren’t googling “Awesome alcoholics” and finding us (although that should really be ranking). People are searching some really twisted shit. They must be really disappointed when they figure out that we are not a butt-plug emporium or whatever it is they’re searching for.

I often text Maren about the more interesting search results. A couple of the best are listed below.

-          Cops ass boobs rape

-          Ass rape whore slut

-          Genital tattoo

-          Wile Coyote butt tattoo

-          Red bull and vodka affect equilibrium

-          Male ass lock

-          Ucf walk of shame

-          Sexy acrobatics rape videos

-          Kiefer Sutherland

Our parents would be so proud!

On that note, I saw the most interesting homeless man underneath the 408 overpass near Anderson Street the other day (and no Maren, it wasn’t your favorite literate homeless man).

He had two posters attached to his home (read: bike). I don’t think they were meant to solicit money. I’m not sure why they existed.

The first was a yellow poster with a Star of David scrawled on it. The second was a poster with a lot of nonsense words. Across the top he had scrawled “Ped A Phill” which I am going to assume is the phonetic spelling of pedophile. Underneath it and written vertically were the words “non-denominational” and “ambiguous”, both spelled incorrectly. There were a couple other words, but I couldn’t discern what they were trying to convey.

These signs left me with way more questions than answers. Is that how sex offenders have to advertise these days? Was the poster advocating or rallying against pedophiles? If he is a pedophile, is he equal opportunity? Maybe he has a preference about gentile or Jewish kids?

Something tells me I’m going to start driving near that overpass more often on my quest for answers.

-KFD

God, where to start? I meant to post a couple of shorter adventures, specifically the tale of the clown and the broken bed, the 20 year old, and spooning in a middle school at 4 a.m. with a crying man, but Vegas outshines all of them.

Our Vegas adventure can best be summed up into one word and two phrases – “Fate”, “No expectations” and “So much pretty”.

Seriously, story of my life. Why weren’t you there, Maren?! Luckily our text messages were saved and can serve as her commentary.

So how did Vegas come to fruition?

At the beginning of September I found myself sober and hungry and six hours in class. To remedy this situation I meet up with S at a local Chili’s. S is an old sorority sister and a good friend. We have a similar business sense, so it’s nice to be able to catch up on occasion.

As we enjoy our straight-from-the-store-N’-pour-because-that’s-what-you-get-when-you-order-two-for-one margaritas the topic turns to debauchery. My favorite subject.

S: I really want to go to Vegas, but no one is able to come up with the money.
KFD: Uh… I’m made of money.
S: Really? There are some good vacation packages for October since it’s a slower month.
KFD: I can do that.

And within two days our flight was booked. The anticipation for Vegas was as excruciating as it was delicious. For the low, low price of $450 we were able to book a four night, five day stay at the New York New York hotel. It was on.

Cut to October 1^st.

Since S and I are both slackers, we waited until mere hours before our flight to pack and had a mini sleepover.

We wake up at 6 a.m., get dressed, and begin chugging mimosas. Our steadily rising BAC helps our chat turn into a business meeting. I’ll leave those details for another, less drunken blog.

In order to make this post as accurate as possible I documented this trip through several mediums: note cards, my iPhone note app, a voice recorder, text messages, and a camera. Note cards proved least effective (since I have the penmanship of an Octopus) but most convenient. We also signed up for Loopt, an iPhone app that lets people see where you are. Sometimes you have to plant the seeds for hilarity.

Note taking started at 8:30 a.m. on October 1^st and continued until 9 p.m. on October 5^th. I don’t think I’ve put this much effort into anything (including college) in my life. You call it alcoholism, I call it dedication.

We get to our hotel around 2:30 p.m. and boy do I need a drink! The flashing lights and cacophony of slots ringing bring up flashbacks from my last trip to Vegas. S and I hurry to our room, change clothes and look for the most appealing watering hole.

Nine Fine Irishmen. Yes. Dressed to the nines in heels and brightly colored tops we make our way to the bar – but alas! – every spot is taken. Thankfully a host takes notice of the dismay on our faces and guides us upstairs and sits us in a private corner of the bar where he introduces us to the bartender, Lucas.

Host: Hey Lucas, take care of these ladies. Whatever they want, give them doubles.

S and I glance at each other. We can identify a cheap Vegas ploy when we see it, but we go along with it and order a Stoli Razz with Sprite and a vodka tonic.

Um…ever had a tall glass filled with vodka?

Lucas is now our best friend. Not only does he make a mean drink, but – as we’d find out later – he’s crazy knowledgeable about real estate and accomplished at giving pep talks. Best of all? Our bill, which should have been about $25, was $10.

I think I’m in love.

We make a mental note to come back and visit our new beau and head into the casino. Before we start giving our precious pennies to the slots we sign up for an MGM Mirage Players Club card. Because the penny slot players *always* get comped. Just ask Ethel with her fanny pack stuffed with her lucky teddy bears. Textbook definition of a high roller.

While hanging out at the players club counter S sees a man speaking Spanish and decides to strike up a conversation. We find out his name is David and he’s a filmmaker from France. I say “we” because when I’m drunk I can understand Spanish almost perfectly. Seriously. It helped that S and David are both from Europe and speak proper Spanish. Which sounds beautiful, by the way. We also find out that he’s on his way to Orlando, so naturally I promote my bar. See? Even when I’m on vacation I’m still an amazing employee.

We get our card, throw away some pennies, consume some free drinks and decide to head out onto the strip.

A quick note to novice travelers – don’t walk the Las Vegas F’n Strip in your high-as-hell strappy heels. Your feet will never be the same.

Our walk down the strip takes us to Diablo’s for a margarita, the Bellagio to watch the fountain show (if only we’d known what had recently jumped into that fountain), and, finally, to Carnaval Court.

We grab a beer, chat up the bartenders and watch the flair show and the terrifying Black Eyed Peas cover band. Suddenly, we spot some pretty.

Pretty in this case happens to be two quiet, sharply dressed guys. One with an ubiquitous newsboy cap.

I’ll admit – my flirting style isn’t exactly what one would call “good”, “normal”, or “socially acceptable” and I resign myself to focusing on my beverage.

Of course, my undiagnosed ADD and roving eye helps me quickly spot what appears to be Wayne Newton in a sparkly jump suit. S says it’s Elvis. The only way that thing looks like Elvis is if you took his wax statue from Tussauds and put it under a heat lamp.

S, ever the Ad/PR person, sees an opportunity and asks the two pretties what they think. It’s officially Elvis and I’m odd man out. S finds out that the pretties (Shane and Mark) are from Atlanta and, given the close proximity of our respective homes, we should all hang out.

God I’m glad we’re together!

Drunk and sore I refuse to walk another fucking step. Instead, we flag down a taxi. This is when we meet Hector, the cab driver. Hector doesn’t speak English, but that’s okay, because I’m in the zone. S converses with him and I just listen and smile in my drunken daze.

Bring on blackout #1!

Allegedly…

S and I thank the cab driver and go back to the hotel. Her buddy Scotty is supposed to drive in from California and stay a couple of days, but he won’t get to Vegas for another couple of hours. Jet lagged and drunk we decide to take a quick nap. Four hours later I wake up, still in my heels, skirt and top. Scott has been at the hotel for two hours waiting for us to wake up. He’s holding a handle of Crown Royal and a liter of Smirnoff.

KFD: We’re gonna do this shit!
Scott: Are you the girl who told S to prepare her liver?
KFD: Uh…yeah.
Scott: That makes so much more sense now.

I’m told that we then do shots of Crown Royal neat – a cardinal sin as far as Sober Katie is concerned.

It’s approximately 12:30 a.m. and we’ve already lost precious drinking hours. We head over to the New York New York’s club, Rok Vegas. I’m a little groggy and only my life juice, sugar free Red Bull (with the necessary addition of vodka. Geez, do you even know me?), can save me now. S and Scott band together and don’t get shitfaced. Lame.

I make an attempt at dancing, but Sober Katie knows it was probably flailing with generous helpings of googly eyes. To be honest, the club was a little lame. Even the alcohol wasn’t helping.

As I went up to the bar to close out my tab I heard the accent that would drive the rest of my trip.

“Why hello there, where is your boyfriend?”

I cock my head and meet eyes with Warren, a middle-aged Australian. He chats me up and I decide that an Australian conquest will be part of my trip. Not Warren, mind you. Old people are gross. (Sorry, S.)

I send a text to my soul mate, Maren, and set my official goal for the trip.

KFD: I’m going to make out with an Australian. It’s like they find me.

S, Scotty and I leave Rok Vegas in search of sustenance. We cross the bridge and check out the MGM Grand. It’s about 1 a.m. and for some ungodly reason everything is closed. We see the famous lion den and get closer to see if they’re out. Unfortunately it’s just some cleaning lady. Boring.

The only restaurant that’s open is Wolfgang Puck. That’ll do. This is when we separate the men from the boys. I slur out my order for an Elderflower Martini. S and Scotty order water. What the hell?

It turns out they added an extra ingredient to my martini – asshole. Because that’s what it tasted like. A true alcoholic does not waste alcohol or send a drink back, she just makes her friends help chug it.

Food is devoured, the drink is finally finished and we make our way back to the hotel. I am drunk.

KFD: Scott. SCOTT! I love you! Let me know when I’m marrying you, cuz I’m gonna take you for all you’re worth!

On the walk back I realize that I have drank myself blind. I only know this because it’s illegibly scribbled on my note cards.

While wobbling around my hand brushes up against a guy’s hand.

Random Guy: Trying to hold my hand?
KFD: Who knows?

So he takes my hand and we continue walking.

KFD: So where are you from?
RG: San Francisco.
KFD: So you like to take it up the ass?

His friends snicker and he gives me a look of disgust and drops my hand. Obviously someone doesn’t get my sense of humor.

Two a.m. in Vegas and we’re heading to bed? I’m almost ashamed to admit it.

Little did we know the adventures that were in store for us in the coming days.

Maren is in Saint Louis for two weeks, so unfortunately this is a Katie-only adventure.

Every couple of months I get to catch up with one of my best friends from high school. While it’s sad that our meetings are so infrequent, it’s probably in the best interest of my wallet and – more importantly – my liver.

I was sitting at home yesterday, trying my best to get through some of my class readings – when I get a text message from her. In order to protect her identity let’s call her M.

“Any plans for this evening? Want to get a tattoo?”

My interest is piqued, and there is no way this will end well.

In order to get the balls to ink myself, excessive amounts of alcohol must be consumed. This is why I love living downtown. A slew of bars are at my fingertips.

M gets to my house and we begin our assault on Orlando. First stop is Graffiti Junktion. Like any good alcoholic, we know that food is instrumental to ensuring that a bar crawl doesn’t end in the bathroom. From there we go home to do a shot (the first of many that evening) and walk to the other end of downtown to meet M’s boy du jour at The Lodge.

We exchange pleasantries and grab a drink as we plan out where we want to go. A guy across the room catches my eye. A Friday’s alum. For some reason, I’m terrible when it comes to recognizing old co-workers. I try to be slick and look away quickly. As social as I am, I hate catching up with people I haven’t seen in a while. Small talk is the worst. Unfortunately it’s too late and he walks over. M and I put on our best smiles and engage him in the usual small talk and he says he remembers me because I was so funny. I change my verdict on recognizing people. As long as they stroke my ego they can chat with me all they like.

After reminiscing with him we high-tail it out of there to begin some hardcore bar hopping. We go to Lizzy’s and then Finnhenry’s. M has the bright idea to order a round of tequila shots. I can slam tequila with the best of them, but it doesn’t mean I’m enthusiastic about it.

At this point in the evening I become a seductive drunk. I see my mark and begin the process of giving him the googly eyes. Unfortunately I never bother to pick attractive guys and the last time I pulled this move at Finn’s I ended up in a taxi with six guys from Ireland. Not good.

Googly eye recipient notices me and begins lip syncing to LL Cool J. Delightful. Then he whispers something to the bartender and she comes over to inform me that I have a free drink coming. This was too easy. I politely decline and we scoot on over to One Eyed Jacks.

Karaoke night! Obviously more shots are in order. We peruse the song selection while Asian Rick Astley astonishes the audience with his golden pipes.

Then, out of nowhere, and older man materializes between M and her boy toy and hands me a shot. Just as quickly he returns to the shadows.

I’m a gambling lady and the prospect of a roofie only slightly deters me. I examine the shot. It’s green and I assume it’s a Leg Spreader. Until they come up with a shot called Forcible Penetration, this is probably the most aptly named shot to spike.

“Hey guys, if I start acting weird in 30 minutes can you take me to the hospital? K, thanks!” And down the hatch it goes.

Pleased with himself, older man returns and I thank him for the shot. Kind of.

Me: “Hey, you’re not going to rape and kill me, right?”

OM: “Yes.”

Me: “Fuck.”

He tries to get my number and I decide that leaving is in the best thing for me and my lady parts. We travel over to the labyrinth that is Tanqueray’s. How many bars is that? Six? Cripes.

As soon as we enter our bladders decide that is time to visit the restroom. Only one of the stalls has a door. Oddly enough, M doesn’t even care and goes straight for the doorless stall. As soon as she’s done with her business she jumps out, pants around her ankles, and surprises a lady. I laugh so hard that I almost pee again.

There’s a band playing some god-awful jazz music, but we’re drunk so we stick around. Why not? I take this time to slow down and try to use my googly eyes on the attractive drummer. No dice.

Around this time M and her boy go to the restroom and I’m stuck defending their seats from hipsters for 20 minutes. Annoyed, I decide that I’m done with jazz fusion and I want to leave. I go to the restroom one more time and see M and her boy tumble out of a stall. With ruffled hair.

My classy buddies and I leave and start heading home. We pass the tattoo shop on the way. Luckily it was closed. Phew. As we pass Casey’s we decide to grab one last drink. Matthew is working the door. Who is Matthew? Your guess is as good as mine, but Colleen and I met him at Casey’s on Tuesday and he is awesome.

Me: “Hey Matthew!”

Matthew: “Hey Katie!”

Ladies and gentlemen, I surely know how to make an impression.

M decides to order more shots. Red Headed Sluts to be exact. You know I’m gone when Jager touches my lips. I believe by this time I’m up to six shots. Direct eye contact is impossible. Friday’s guy is here. Third time we’ve run into him. Try and tell me Orlando isn’t a small city.

I triumphantly slam my empty shot glass down and someone leans in close behind me. I turn around and it’s Colleen!

Colleen: “As soon as I walked in Matthew told me where to find you.”

Best doorman ever.

Colleen is with a girl in a wheelchair. My friends are amazing. The next thing I know Colleen presses a buttery nipple into my palm. The shot, of course. This is guaranteed to interact nicely with the beer, tequila, jager and vodka.

After that the night is a blur. M said we took a pedicab home. All I know is I woke up alone with my ID, credit cards, cash and phone. Success!

Trump that, Maren.

What? You didn’t know that was Katie-speak for “Maren, if you don’t mind could you please pull the truck over?  I have to evacuate my stomach of these poisons within.”

Yeah–neither did I.

GIANT DISCLAIMER: The information contained in this blog is factual but also for entertainment value.  As I no longer work for  Friday’s I don’t really give a damn but Katie might.  That being said, any manager-type who stumbles across this information just assume any part of the story that would be a conflict of interest for Katie’s employment is complete fodder and a set of vicious lies implemented to make the story better.  Or blame all of it on me (Maren) because we all know I’m the degenerate one with no real future anyway.  Just give yourselves a little pat on the back for firing me, you OBVIOUSLY did the company a huge service.

So Katie and I have this blog and it has been running smoothly and all of the “research” has been a blast.  But we cannot add another story without first recanting what may have been our best and funniest adventure ever.  The first one.  The official sealing of Maren and Katie as a drinking team dynamo.  The opening of Roll Bar, Orlando.

Roll Bar had been scheduled to open its doors sometime mid-August, but like these things sometimes go, had to push it back.  Katie and I had several friends who were going to be bartending at this new “Vegas-style” meets “Makos- whores”- “upscale” bar in Metrowest.  Namely, these friends were flair bartenders currently teaching us to be complete badasses for an upcoming local competition that Katie had signed us up for.  Basically, we were little flair puppies.  Bottle flipping and fire-blowing were literally aphrodisiacs for us at the time (Katie’s Note – They still are).  I am not afraid to say that Cocktail-esque routines rendered it difficult for me to imagine keeping my pants on.

Whatever, I’m young.

So Katie and I made the agreement to be there together at the opening in order to support our master teachers.  Of course a wrench has to always be thrown in for effect.  The opening got pushed back to a Sunday, and to make up for having to push the date back the owners decided to do a completely open bar no exceptions.  Oh glory!  But wait…Sunday? SUNDAY?!?! At the time Sunday nights were our shift at T.G.I. Hate Myself.  While we normally loved this shift and the adoring fans who would visit during we were much more inclined to spend a night drinking ourselves stupid for free than monkey dancing behind a bar for a bunch of drunks.

As the date neared, Katie and I tried everything within our power to get the shift covered to no avail.  One thing I believe Katie and I have proved is that to remedy situations (ANY situation – happy or sad) we will drink.  So Katie and I made the conscious decision to go to a local unnamed establishment to get none other than fucking drunk before our shift.  Spiteful drinkers we are.  Halfway through this little pre-work adventure Katie lets it drop that she has found someone who is willing to come in for her at 9:30 and work the rest of the shift so she can go to the opening.  This is like a full-blown kick to the stomach for me.  The only thing that made the idea of missing this blessed event bearable was knowing that Katie would at least be with me, agonizing together.

Now it was on like Donkey Kong–I was FUCKING GOING.  We both immediately got on our phones texting like mad, calling all red-shirted, fun-loving, Friday’s bartenders–who wants a money shift?  Usually the service industry (especially behind the bar) is a fairly easy place to get people to pick up your slack.  Who doesn’t like walking home with $200 cash in their pocket just for slinging some drinks and making fun of people to their face?  Tonight was not such a night.  Come 3:55 and I have to begrudgingly vacate my barstool and assume the position on the other side of the bar.

Apparently, between finding out this news and my clock-in time I had done some pretty heavy-duty (unnoticed) anger drinking.  How I didn’t get fired that day is still beyond me, maybe I conduct myself better as a working drunk than I thought?  Not to be beaten or admit any kind of defeat, Katie and I maintain our course to get me out of there at 9:30 with her.  Enter Joe Shmoe, yup, that’s really what we call him, and yup, he actually responds too and likes it.  Shmoe knows someone from another Friday’s that just got validated as a bartender and was an eager little beaver looking for shifts.  He put in the call.  She agreed.  Fucking Christmas morning in my eyes, I could already smell the shots and bad decisions the night held for us.

9:30 took an awful long time to roll around but come it finally did.  I danced through Newgirl’s introduction to the bar, assuming that the only true beauty associated with working for a corporate restaurant is that they are ALL THE SAME and this little lady will fit behind my bar as if it were her own.  WRONG, WRONG, WRONG–but we’ll get to that.

Katie and I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.  We took my truck (a beast of a tahoe) and didn’t even go to my place to get clothes.  I am not one of “those girls” that has to go hunting for hours through her closet to find the perfect outfit only to have some bitch spill shit all over it.  I am also incredibly resourceful and I have an array of items always with me in the truck.  Fucking free drinks have already started and that bar is going to be dark as hell anyway, I would find something in the backseat to slip into.  So Katie drove while I rooted around and fashioned together something decent enough to get me in the doors.  A little eyeliner and a low cut tank top later and no one would be the wiser.

We found all of our regulars.  Apparently they were hip to the idea of free drinks as well.  This was the beginning of the end, as everyone decided that shots were in order.  I mean EVERYONE.

Now, keep in mind that even though this is probably the most infamous of the Katie and Maren drinking adventures it was by no means the first.  In short, I believed Katie to be well versed in her liver destruction.  But apparently the odd combination of an inhuman amount of shots, running into match.com guy, beers in between shots, flair bartenders, and being elbow to elbow with our regulars did something miraculous to Katie.  I turned my back for two seconds to stare at the wonders of bottle flipping and tin catching and when I returned my attentions back to Katie I realized that she could no longer make direct eye contact.  Our good friend Nathan from Village Tavern had suddenly been put to the task of keeping Katie upright.  So much for closing the bar down and continuing our drinking adventures with all of the bartenders after hours.

As security guards begin to surround us I make hasty goodbyes and a plan of attack on how to get Katie down the stairs and safely into my truck.  Luckily Nathan was up the challenge of helping me guide her [upon my next visit to Roll Bar it was made evident that Nathan and I took the stairs that happened to be located right next to the elevator--awesome].  Apparently we like to make things more challenging then need be.

And so the worst part was over, or so I thought.  I am not a frequent flyer of the Metrowest area and in between making sure Katie remained coma-free and navigating my vehicle I somehow ended up in God-knows-where-ville.  I mean far, far, far from anywhere that looked familiar or populated.  It was at the point that I started speeding and swerving in the sheer hopes that I would get pulled over just to not be alone.  Still not getting an accurate picture?  Think banjos and sayings such as “you got a pretty mouth boy.”  Needless to say I entered panic mode and started seriously contemplating who would say my eulogy and if they would get the story right.

Katie: “Skew Skew Blurble Blurble” ::shakes shoulders::

Maren: “What’s that Katie?” ::most confused face ever::

Katie: :::Ralphs::: All over herself.

Amazingly, Katie was talented enough to throw up in the car, without rolling down the window and not get any of it anywhere on my seat or floorboard (the same can not be said of her clothes and purse).  At this point I have pulled the truck over and am wildly checking for human waste.  Keep in mind this was at the time when my passenger door could still be opened from the inside, which proved both helpful and hilarious.  Katie realizes the vehicle has been stopped and makes the wise decision to exit it before continuing to throw up.  Please keep in mind the aforementioned fact that there were no street lights and poor visibility, it’s an important piece of information, as we were both unaware I had managed to park at the top of a hill.

Katie: :::Opens door:::

:::Hastily exits truck:::

:::Rolls down large hill–head over feet style:::

Maren: :::Completely forgets horror of current situation and laughs so fucking hard she nearly pees herself:::

Katie: [COVERED in both vomit and various grass and leaf clippings] :::Crawls back up hill on her hands and knees, somehow heaves herself into the truck and goes comatose:::

Now I have told this story many a time and never can I get through it without laughing, even now as I type I have to set the computer down and regain composure.  I drive until I see lights and highway junction signs–for the fucking turnpike.  No. DO NOT ask.  To this day I have no idea how I ended up that backwards and far from home.  3:30 am and we have finally made it back to 802.  Katie manages to lurch/stagger her way up my steps and onto my love seat where she passes out in the most God-awful, spine-wrenching position I have ever witnessed.  Her mouth completely agape, snoring like a freight train I manage to get her shirt off of her and into the wash (sorry boys she had a tank top on underneath so try and keep the visualizations of that caring moment G-rated).

I change into my favorite pajamas and sit on the couch to watch over my new best friend…all the while knowing that this is the official inauguration of a fucking stellar campaign.

In case you need your hand held through this one the normal font is Maren J. and the bold is KFD.

It really is the “nightmare before Christmas.”

I had an interview yesterday and pending a freaking HAIR drug test (no, not the FBI–even though you’d think that) I have acquired a photography position with Discovery Cove. But I had to interview first so of course I am yet again business casual. Katie loves when I do such things because then she gets to put on some “fierce” heels and we pretend like we’re worth something while we drink (see Business Attire).

Yesterday started off pretty productive. Went to the gym, checked the status of my grad school application and finished a Chuck Palahniuk novel (Survivor). Of course this was because I was sober and Maren was out of the house.

Productivity halted the minute Maren entered our beloved 802. Red Bull and berry vodka was consumed and plans to continue drinking were made.

Which brings us to $2 Tuesdays at Cantina. Easily one of the greatest deals in downtown Orlando. Margaritas, tequila, corona and tacos – all $2. I’m sure you can imagine how this will eventually lead to the ruination of our livers.

So what do Maren and Katie do when congratulations are in order? We drink–duh. As we’re sitting in our office (the kitchen table) discussing where to grab lunch and adult beverages it dawns on me–TWO DOLLAR TUESDAY at Cantina!! Yes folks, two dollar Coronas, tacos, margaritas, and of course Pepe Lopaz crap tequila. God I love Orlando sometimes. Of course it wasn’t long until we decide to do said tequila shots:

Katie: “Oh God! that shot made me feel like I just made out with a Mexican. I mean it literally gave me razor burn!”

Maren: [eye twitching]

Suddenly I jump from my barstool and sprint down Orange avenue. My long lost bestie Mr. Anfernie Pickle is walking down the street and I must hug him…NOW! This results in me leaving Katie by herself for around 30 minutes while I talk to Ant at Finns. This detail is important as it is a literary device known as foreshadowing.

We decide to leave behind what could easily become Wasted-ville and play responsible. Road trip time. So into the bowels of Bithlo we go in order to get some feed for my horse. As we wind down this sorry section of Colonial Dr it occurs to the two of us that there are several dive bars in Bithlo. This is about the time that we get the crazy idea to have a white-trash-dive-bar-experience while in our “dressy attire.” We tend to like making a scene.

After some food, beer and shots it’s time to make our way out to the dreaded town of Bithlo (even sounds white trashy, doesn’t it?) to pick up feed for Maren’s horse, Pride.

Oh Maren, why do we have to travel to BFE for something that is probably readily available at pet stores all throughout Orlando? Upon noticing the town of Bithlo and how it generally looks like it is falling apart, we decide to test out our sassy business casual attire at the diviest-looking bar we can spot. Bottlecaps, you won’t know what hit you.

We pull up to Bottlecaps and Maren says “Oh! They have a patio!” But by patio, we mean picnic tables and a makeshift tent overhead. We enter just in time to catch the tail-end of happy hour. You just can’t beat $5 pitchers of Bud Light.

Stereotypes are in place for a reason. And let me tell you the rednecks? Well they don’t disappoint. The following events are further proof that Katie and I make good times happen.

There is a lack of male talent at the bar (why don’t more people hit the bars at 6:30?) so we decide to play a couple games of pool. Maren takes a swig of her Bud Light and screws up her face and pulls a pig tail-shaped piece of plastic from her mouth. I laugh, dismiss it and drink my beer. Much to my chagrin, I am greeted with the same plastic surprise. But true alcoholics never let questionable foreign objects stand in the way of their buzz, so we plow ahead.

Before we start our game we check out the rule sheet. Our favorite rule is “If balls are hung, please see bartender.”

Hm… a bar full of redneck alcoholics. What would be a great idea? How about playing some Nirvana, Blink 182 and Dashboard Confessional?

So we start to jam out and unleash our inner pool sharks when we are approached by a Drunky McCreeperson.

DM: Hey…Who is this on the juke box?

Me: :::blank stare:::

DM: Wait, don’t tell me. Kurt Cobain?

Me: :::blank stare:::

After our bout of witty repartee, he swaggers over to the juke box and flairs his hat. Then he does a little move that I like to call “the donkey kick.” I am a kid on Christmas morning and he is my Furby. I squeeze my pool stick and bite my mouth. Not laughing is an impossibility at this point. Maren and I gaze at each other as we try to avoid making eye contact with Bottlecap’s own Michael Jackson. For the rest of the night, anything that is worth high fiving over instead receives a celebratory donkey kick.

After our game I mosey (because in Bithlo, that is an actual speed) to the bar for $1 jello shots. While there I have the pleasure of meeting Kanarf/Murph. Maybe his debilitating alcoholism gave him a speech impediment. Maybe I wasn’t really paying attention, but I swear that furry old man’s name was Kanarf.

Several little plastic pieces later Katie and I decide to enrich our livers with Bottlecap’s finest one dollar jello shots. What two dollar Tuesday? You just got owned! As Katie is purchasing said shots a strapping young man asks her name. And by strapping young man I mean ridiculously drunk barnacle of an old hairy man whose claim to fame is he went to Woodstock and owns a $200 pool stick. I’m almost positive through the slur and the overgrown facial hair he says his name is Murph, Katie is sticking with Kanarf.

Murph/Kanarf hobbles/lurches his way over to our pool table where he claims if he were a little less drunk he’d show us girls “how to really play.” Oh joy. So instead of pool he starts to tell me a story about growing up on a farm and how he had a dog named Yeller that got rabies so he had to shoot him. I am NOT making this shit up. This man was so irrevocably fucked up that he truly believed a beloved Disney movie was his own life. Oh alcohol and your wonders. It is my dream to one day live in that kind of senility.

I beat Katie in pool twice, because of her own fuck ups with the eight ball. Twice. In a row. hah!

Even funnier than Maren and Katie attempting to navigate a redneck dive bar? Maren and Katie trying to carry 50 Lb. feed bags in heels across muck and who knows what else. Hey, I told you we had a purpose for being in that area of Orlando. So we drove back to our more populated-running-water-side-of-town. And we almost, almost were mature enough to stay in for the rest of the night drinking peacefully at home researching needless crap on our macs.

But then the phone rang.

We get back home and head straight for the freezer and make a drink. We receive a call from Meghann and we end up back at the infamous $2 Tuesdays. This will not end well.

Beer and tequila is consumed and we decide at this point that we need to dance. We head over to Eye Spy for 80s night. One shot later and Maren and I are doing nothing to help the stereotype that white people dance ridiculous. We robot, running man, snake, bop, and stripper grind in the center of the dance floor. At this point I am sure that every straight man on the dance floor wants to jump our bones. Deep down, I know that I am very, very wrong.

By now we have been drinking for eight hours straight and things are getting blurry. I no longer feel that I am obligated to follow societal norms. I recognize a weirdo that I worked with when I was 17 and tell him that his countdown to my 18^th birthday was one of the creepiest things ever and I am so glad that he got fired. Then, inexplicably, I accompany him to the dance floor and we make out. Who do I see immediately afterward? A guy I met through Match.com a year ago. I am not a happy panda.

Back to Two Dollar Tuesday it is. Meghann and Anthony were holding a table. Pepe Lopez the mouth raping Mexican fire water is back to haunt our bodies. I-Bar is but a blur of bad dancing, endless shots, and poor life decisions (my favorite kind). I suddenly cannot through my beer goggles see katie. She has left me. Where on Earth would she go? Why didn’t she take me with her? Meghann easily convinces me she has left the bar when all along she was in the same spot on the dance floor that I had just vacated. Natural deduction told me it was OK to get into my truck and head home sans Katie. [please refer back to previous statement concerning foreshadowing]

I text Maren only to find out that everyone left me. Alone. In Creeptown, USA. Suffice to say I am fucking pissed.

We text fight and I slip out of the club and wave down a taxi. The taxi driver, AKA my new bff understands, nay, empathizes and agrees with my point. Maren IS being an ungrateful whore-bag. I thank him for his time, tip generously and am greeted by Maren, who has been sitting in her truck for 20 minutes. I am obliterated, angry and way beyond making sense.

Words are shouted, cell phone call logs are shoved into faces and when I wake up we are spooning. I guess we made up.

It is 6am and I groggily awake only to realize that:

1.  It is 6am (I swore it was only 1:30 or 2)

2.  Katie and I are spooning. No, not just spooning we are tangled.

3.  We are sharing a pillow–comfortably.

I make the conscious effort to make sure we are both better covered with the blanket As I rest my head back onto the pillow I go through my phone log and text messages. There are always blank spots in my memory that only that little machine can help piece back together. I lay there next to Katie for another five minutes and then it hits me… MY GLORIOUS BED! Suddenly it seems everyone at 802 has the same revelation and as I beg for the couple of hours left to me before work my roommates and drunk friends one by one make their way into my room and lay on any available space on my bed. So much for that one.