Story Time: Drunk Golfing is the Best Golfing

Sometimes you just need a drink at 8am.  Sometimes that drink is at a golf course club house with your work acquaintances and a hot bartender who is going to feed you vodka like water all day.  Sometimes you’re a hot mess.

I’ve learned a lot of morals in my 25 years.  Things like; don’t swim after a fin in the ocean because you think it’s a dolphin that you want to name Cornelius and become friends with.  Or don’t go out on a rooftop in NY in January when you’re drunk and its covered in ice.  Or most importantly; don’t talk to someone dressed as a nun with no legs playing electronic ‘Wheel of Fortune’ games in a New York City hotel lobby.  I suppose those are stories for other times.  In this story the moral was…..um…..well how about I just tell the story and then we can figure out the moral together.  It will be like a team building exercise.

The company I was working for had a golfing event in Rochester, NY which was about an hour or so from Syracuse where I was living.  I will use code names as to protect everyone’s identity.  I drove out with my co workers, Dom and Queen Beatrice.  Dom was the Dirty Old Man of the group, hence my name for him.  You know this guy, we all know this guy; the old guy who is the most helpful person you know, but also has the most dirty jokes.  We all love this guy.  And I don’t feel the need to explain Queen Beatrice, mainly because I’m not 100% sure where I got it from.  We were playing in foursomes and our fourth was already there.  We’ll call him Babaloo.

We were early for our 9am tee time and walked into the club.  The bartender was just walking in and Dom was the first to break the ice.  “Welp, it’s almost 9.  Get me a scotch.”  Once he had ordered I knew I had to represent for the non AARP card holding members of the group so I ordered myself a vodka tonic.  The bartender was young, hot and serving me vodka.  The only thing that can be assumed from this point on is that I was going to be in intoxicatingly intoxicated trouble.  Say that 5 times fast…while intoxicated.

We had a phenomenal time golfing.  I hit things, I drank, I tanned, I flirted with my boss; it was a superb day.  After the first 9 holes we were all getting loose.  And by loose, I mean me and Babaloo were pulling 360’s down hills in our golf cart.  Throughout the day we indulged from the lovely little man driving around the course with adult beverages and stopping back to the club house to see my shot serving boyfriend.  Then it happened.  The tipping point came.  If I drink all day at a steady pace; I’m an all star, no worries.  But all of that went out the window when I met my match: The Travel Mug.  Queen Beatrice had brought vodka and cranberry juice to make our own cocktails on the course because we’re classy bitches like that.  She had decided to call it a day, knowing she had to drive us home that night.  So she offered me what was left, saying it wasn’t much.  She handed me the travel mug.  I assumed it was the pre-mixed cocktail and figured I’d just slam what was left.  I was parched and didn’t want it to get warm, ok?  What happened next was a series of Darth Vader breaths mixed with squeaking and severe eye watering.  I had just gulped down roughly 3 shots of straight vodka.  Oops.

After Queen Beatrice picked her jaw off the fairway she told me that was straight vodka. I thanked her for warning me by tipping over and falling directly on my ass.  After the game wrapped up we headed to the club house for a complimentary buffet dinner where they had give aways and speeches…I think.  The dinner portion of the evening is a little foggy.  I do remember heading to the bar to see boy toy bartender and do shots with Dom.  As cute bartender poured more lemon drops for me and shots of Jameson for Dom, I could feel my balance, speech and chance of keeping my job after this weekend all slipping away.  But I hung in there.  I’m Princess Champion, damn it.  (By the way, I did end up keeping my job.  I think it’s my lovable charm that saved me once again.) With Dom being the oldest on the team in the state and me being the youngest; it only made sense that we were the group’s alcoholics.  Once they stopped eating “dinner” and I stopped eating ice cubes and limes at the bottom of my cocktails we had to head home.  My sexy drink retriever gave me his number and I left with Dom and Queen Beatrice.  It took me a solid 20 minutes to remember we were in Rochester and had a drive home ahead of us.  Then it also hit me that I live an hour away from bar boy.  Yelping, “What city are we in?!” was my subtle way of figuring this out.  Needless to say; bartender’s napkin phone number went out the window.  The drive home would prove to be my kryptonite.  There was far too much vodka swishing around in my tum tum with far too much nothing else.  Every time we hit a speed bump it sounded like a water jug when it bubbles after pouring yourself a cup.  I believe I made Queen Beatrice stop at one point for something…or something.  Then I also believe that I got rid of the only thing in my system; vodka.  I did this by throwing up in case you couldn’t figure that out.  It was basically like someone spitting up water after they’ve drowned.  I bet Queen Beatrice was pretty happy I opted for a liquid dinner at this point.  I’m not typically a ‘sicky’ when I drink.  So this came as a surprise to me.  So now when I drink on a golf course for 10 hours I tend to avoid long car rides immediately following.  I’m not stupid.

When we got to my apartment I had one last task I would be faced with.  I had to get my golf clubs up the stairs to my 2nd level apartment.  I convinced Queen Beatrice I’d be fine on my own.  I can be very persuasive, although also very wrong.  I got on the first step and immediately was dragged backwards by the clubs and fell, once again, directly on my ass.  Attempt two looked painfully similar.  This wasn’t going to work.  But I’m a thinker; an idea woman.  So, I took out each and every club and carried them upstairs separately and the bag also.  It took roughly 6 trips and 30 minutes but, ahoy!  I made it!  It was so exciting that I’m using the word ahoy!  It was still only about 10pm at this point and I was supposed to attend a surprise party.  I decided to take a quick power nap on the couch and then make someone come get my drunk ass and take me to the party.  This power nap of course turned in to me sleeping until around 2:30am and being woken up by my roommate when she got home from work.  I was confused, I was thirsty and I had 16 missed calls / texts, give or take, asking where I was.  I had to respond before drifting back off to dreamland and wasn’t really sure what to say.  But decided honesty was the best policy.  “Sorry I missed your party.  I was drunk golfing in Rochester for the past 10 hours and then passed out.  I understand if you want to find better friends.  Love, Amy.”

So I guess there are a few morals I could take away. I’ll tell you what my biggest moral take away was. I’ll also let you in on the real “kicker” of the night. Remember my struggle to get the golf clubs upstairs? My moral of the story is to always, always make sure you walk around the corner…………..

to the elevator.

I think I failed life.