Whiskey and Wine

Well then, that is a week/weekend I don’t need to relive any time soon.

Here is a little about the week:  I half finished exactly five posts covering varying topics throughout the week.  Things like how cake batter truffles are the devil, how well my dogs did at the tournament (again), and the joys of miraculous weight loss (even if it is water weight) came up.  Then as if on cue, I would get distracted by something shiny, if by shiny you mean work.  Nothing ever got finished and rather than bore with you the exhaustive details of last week’s adventures, here is the short version:

I made these beautifully festive cake batter truffles for a party. They are delicious. But evil.

  • Cake batter truffles are the devil.  Sinfully delicious and tragically very easy to make.
  • My dogs kicked some serious ass at the tournament.  We had a lot of fun and I love them.
  • I lost five pounds of which I am convinced all five of which were water weight.
  • I worked a lot and solved the problems of the universe but didn’t work out at all, which I am still angry at myself about.
  • I attempted to make green velvet cupcakes from scratch and failed.  This is because I suck at baking.

How is that?  Good?  Good.  Now for the reason you really here:  Whiskey and Wine.  The title here should actually be: Whiskey, Wine, Hard Cider and Vodka but that was just too long and didn’t have a nice ring to it.

Disclaimer:  On the whole, I do not drink often but I do periodically indulge with regularity.  That makes perfect sense in my bleary eyed mind this morning.   Every now and then on a night out I will enjoy a glass of wine or three with dinner.  When visiting with friends, there might be one or two cocktails involved.  I partake rather infrequently and typically exercise good judgment.

That was not the case this weekend.

Do we all know what Saturday was?  If you said, “The one day a year when Liz drinks so much she has a hangover three days later” then you answered correct.  If you said St. Patrick’s Day you would also be correct.

New rule:  St. Patrick’s Day can NEVER be on a Saturday again.

Why you ask?  If the holiday is on Sunday through Thursday, one exercises some modicum of self restraint because work is sure to expect hangovers and therefore calling in is not an option.  If the holiday is on a Friday, one works all day, thus avoiding the temptation to get the part started at say 10:30 am when most of the pubs in the local vicinity open for the festivities.  So at worst, one starts imbibing at a perfectly respectable hour of 5:30 or 6 at the earliest.

I made both bread bowl and Irish Stew from scratch. I also drank the remaining half beer not used in this recipe. It was delicious.

But with Saturday… Saturday you have no real plans except to party.  It starts with a little green beer at brunch (because of course one slept in after doing some pre-party partying on Friday night because it is no longer St. Patrick’s Day but St. Patrick’s Weekend).  Then while putting together an Irish stew which calls for half a Guinness, one has to finish the other half because wasting beer on a drinking holiday is blasphemy.  And of course, one should have a few free drinks at home before heading out to the pub crawl.  After all, we’re taking advantage of free public transportation so we can have a buzz before we even get to the party.  And from there it gets really ugly because once one is out among the throngs of green wearing drunken masses there are no inhibitions.  After all, one has Sunday to recover.  There are a lot of after alls in there.

Ah...public transportation.

Judging by the dozens of hangovers 24 hours later, I am not the only one who had too much fun on Saturday.  Heck, I even ran into a few of them on Saturday night.  Here are some of the highlights, accompanied by seemingly random photos:

The boy shows off his Guinness.

I was drunk dialed by the boss.  This actually happened early in the evening.  It was hysterical and goes to prove that anyone who has a cell phone regardless of age and experience can commit this social faux pas.

Coffee and Whiskey. A perfect combination.

I carried three beers at once without spilling.  I have never done this before successfully.  Cheers!

I misplaced $200 cash.  I haven’t found it yet and I suspect it may have been lost at Filthy McNasty’s.  I have never lost money when I am out partying.  Apparently there is a first time for everything.

I killed three greyhounds.  Not the dogs, but the drink.  Nothing says Irish like pausing in the middle of hard ciders and shots of whiskey with three vodka heavy drinks.

It snowed while we were trapped in the mall.

I got locked in the mall.  No, really.  The mall closed at 9 PM but somehow at 10 PM we found ourselves in the middle of the mall trying to get out.  There was a point where we actually contemplated calling 911 because we couldn’t get out of the mall.  Then we realized we could go back into the bar and go out the front door.  But first we had to sneak across the stage during a live show.  Not kidding.

I bought a tank top.  It was 28 degrees and snowing heavily, so of course it made sense to buy a tank top.  It’s a cool tank top but I can’t look at it yet without thinking about the 8 shots of fireball whiskey that went with it.

I drunk texted a random stranger.  The details of said text were apparently disturbing enough that I received a reply.  Nice.

Real place. It was a good time.

I took a lot of photos. Apparently I wanted to remember parts of the night I might not remember otherwise.  Good news is, I remember everything except for where the $200 went.  How awesome is that?

Apparently pool tables can be covered in plastic to protect them from this phenomenon: the ditching of drinks everywhere.

I started a party on the bus.  Traveling from one pub to the next via local public transportation, I got an entire group of people riled up and ready to party with us.  And so they did.  And it was epic.

I would really like this sign. Please and thank you.

I drunk dialed Nicki.  And on this call, I proceeded to giggle about how cute the wannabe 12 year old gangsters were on the back of the bus with the boy and I.  Apparently the boys were closer to 14 and not amused by my commentary.  Good times.

As a general rule, if the police show up en masse at a bar, it might be a good time to go home. We have no idea what happened but a fire engine and ambulance also arrived.

You don’t even want to know the lowlights of the evening.  Let’s just say, however, that I lost an entire day of my life that I will never get back.  In short:  Sunday sucked.  I am not 21 anymore.  Eight shots of fireball after midnight are NOT the way to keep the party going.  Nope, it is a sure fire way to find myself semi comatose on the couch praying for the world to stop spinning…at 5 PM the next day.

Do you laundry and eat a doughnut. Thanks for being open, Jelly Donut. Your maple bar was delicious.

This is the worst hangover of my entire life.  Notice I say this IS not this WAS.  This is because I am still in the throes of the most wicked evil and absolutely vile hangover I have ever had.  And this includes that time in college we decided to turn Cranium into a drinking game where we did shots of alcohol that corresponded to the color of the question we got wrong.  Yeah.  This is THAT bad.

Red: Fire Water, Blue: Blue Curacoa, Green: Apple Pucker, Yellow: Tuaca. Don't do it, people. DON'T DO IT. I still can't drink an appletini without thinking of that night.

Now it is Monday.  I can still taste the Fireball in the back of my throat and my stomach lurches without the slightest bit of provocation.  Judging by the line of co-workers in sunglasses at Starbucks whispering in hushed voices, I am far from alone.

Yoga tonight.  I need it after all that.  Happy Monday.  Let’s make it a good week, shall we?

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