Why Sara and Vodka Don't Mix

Without giving away too much information… In the very recent past, somebody slipped me a little something that, while not entirely inappropriate for the occasion, may have been frowned upon had certain people known it. Spiked Sprite, to be exact. I didn’t know exactly what it was spiked with, but it was good, and I didn’t have too much of it. Which made me wonder why it got me as tipsy as it did.

I found out today, why.

It was spiked with vodka. See, Sara and vodka have an agreement: I don’t drink it, and it doesn’t knock me on my ass. Which leads me to my next story.

Several years back, when I was finishing my undergrad, I had a very close friend who was also my drinking buddy. In fact, we were each other’s drinking buddies primarily because we both have family histories that involve addictions, and are both prone to them ourselves, and so each of us was in charge of laying down the law if the other started to take the drinking too far. It worked well for us. Well, this same friend knew of my reaction to vodka, and never let me drink it (not that I ever really wanted to). One night, after school, we were going to go out. Didn’t know where we wanted to go or what we wanted to do, just that we were going somewhere together. Well, while we were out driving around and talking, he said something that really upset me, and I got very quiet and turned my face toward the window. I didn’t want him to see me cry, but of course he quickly realized I was doing just that, and immediately began apologizing and telling me that he didn’t mean it to sound so harsh, and he hated to see me cry ever, even more so when he was the one who caused it, etc. I sniffled and forgave, and we kept deliberating on where we would go. Finally, we decided to go shoot pool. Another important note: by this time, it was 8 p.m. and I hadn’t eaten since noon.

So we get to the pool hall, and he orders his own drink, then asks me what I want. I tell him to surprise me, and he orders me the same drink he had – one for which the main ingredient was vodka. Okay, I figure, he’s sorry for upsetting me and so he’s gonna get me good and drunk. I can accept that. So the drinks come, and we begin to drink them, as he shoots the shot (Rumpleminz and Jaegermeister mixed together) that he ordered to go along with his. When he asked the waitress for a second shot, I asked to join him in that. After drinking it, I set the shot glass down dramatically and giggled. He said, “There’s no way you could be drunk already off that shot!” and I told him I wasn’t drunk off the shot, I was drunk off the vodka in the other drink. He protested that there was no vodka in the drink he ordered me, that he would never order vodka for me. When I showed him the drink menu, his jaw hit the floor. He swore he didn’t know.

A few minutes later, he finished his turn and told me it was my shot. I said no it wasn’t, it was his. He explained, quite patiently, “I just shot. I missed. That means it’s your shot.” In the same pedantic tone, I explained to him that if I bent over that pool table, I was not getting back up.

I had to be assisted to the car that night, and needless to say, I didn’t drive home. Good thing he had a nice, comfy couch.