Shaken, not Stirred...

Back when we were doing our Masters at Queen’s my classmates and I partied quite a bit. It was an interesting year like that. I had arrived full of idealism for the world of post-secondary education, ready to push through until I had a Ph.D. After three weeks I had already decided that academia was no longer for me. The Queen’s English Department sucked the life out of me. Despite its lofty reputation, it was one of the worst educational atmospheres I had ever experienced and not conducive to learning at all. But luckily, the worst of my academic years was socially one of the best. The core group of us were united in our irritation with academia and driven in our conquest of alcohol and good times.

My friend Dave and I, both having previous bartending experience, decided one night that we would hold "The Daves’ Martini Party." Everyone brought a bottle or two and we just kept mixing. And these were not your garden variety martinis. These were hardcore concoctions of at least 5 oz of straight booze. It was not long before things got out of hand. It was not long before things got messy. And of course, like chefs who tests their recipes before serving, Dave and I mixed ourselves into a frightful state. It’s one thing to drink too much of one liquor, but drinking too much of every liquor is never recommended.

At one point, late in the evening, I became obsessed with how great the olives were tasting. I switched from a chocolate mint martini back to a straight up and dirty Gin (see what I mean about mixing?) The gin was perfectly chilled, because let’s face it, otherwise you might as well be drinking gasoline, and along with a quick dash of vermouth, I filled the entire glass with as many olives as I could. According to sources, I diligently popped every olive in my mouth, counting aloud as I went, all the way to 18. Then, gulping the rest of the drink, I apparently turned to Dave, all smiles, and said, "Well, I’m going to be sick tomorrow… but I’ll deal with that… tomorrow!"

Luckily, my apartment was only about three blocks from Dave’s so the stumble home with my girlfriend and a friend visiting from Baltimore was fairly uneventful. The next morning, I woke up about 10:30. It was amazing, I had woken up in time for class. I sat up, and miracle of miracles I felt ok, a little hungover, but nothing out of hand. I walked to the kitchen to get a glass of water and only then noticed that the sink was full of vomit. "Oh Lord," I thought to myself, "that’s just fantastic." I looked over at my friend from Baltimore, still passed out on the couch. I couldn’t understand why she would have puked in the sink, especially since the bathroom was actually closer than the kitchen. Well, she had been very drunk. I sighed, bewildered, and wandered back to the bathroom. "What’s up?" asked my girlfriend. "Well, there’s a lot of vomit in the kitchen sink." I replied. "Yeah," she said, "You were sick for a long time."

What? Was it possible that, in fact, I was the complete idiot who had walked past the bathroom and emptied my half-digested liquor cabinet into the sink? Was I trying to get a drink of water at the time? How could I have absolutely no memory at all? I cleared my throat and sure enough, there was a foul acrid taste back there. It was the first time that I had ever completely blacked out, and for the amount of drinking I’ve accomplished over the years, that’s pretty amazing. I was still almost certain though that it could not have been me. I peeked back into the sink, and sure enough, the certification of my own incompetence was there: an undeniably high olive content.

For whatever reason, I still decided to go to school, but ended up leaving the room 4 times to vomit. There I was, a serious student, trying to get a Masters degree, and I was straddling a toilet still amazed that I had puked in my own kitchen sink. Good times.

And generally, I have no troubles with psychological taste aversions, I got right back on the horse as far as gin, vodka and whatnot are concerned, but I’ll tell you, it took me a heck of long time to get back to eating olives.