One of my very worst was New Year's Eve 1989 (I believe). We were playing
Quarters with shots of Rumpelmintz. Just trust me when I say that it was ba-a-a-d. Hours on a bathroom floor...
(thank goodness it was clean!). Projectile vomit...
It was not pretty.
This is a picture of our liquor cabinet, which is actually a gorgeous piece of carpentry built in the 1800s. Nobody would think that inside, there might be a surprise...
One might think that with all this booze (and I didn't even OPEN the drawers!), we drink like fish. Nope. Since we moved here in June 2007, I think we've actually made 10 drinks, maybe. (It's just always nice to have
) (The Cuervo's on the second shelf in the back on the right, Jack!
)
When I was growing up, my stepdad used to tell my sister and me (and yes,
me is correct -- it is an object pronoun), "You're not even a real person until you turn 25." I hated hearing it, and I just KNEW that he was mistaken -- until I turned 30 or so. In retrospect, you're NOT a real person until you're AT LEAST 25. I think back to my early 20s and wonder how I made it to 39.
