Cringeworthy the Third: "College"

The Time: Spring 2006

The Place: Ferris State, Big Rapids Michigan

Outcome: Omelets maybe? My memory gets fuzzy at this point.

It's a fact that the best stories stem from the college years. But I'm not here to tell of my rockstar partying days, clutch beer pong shots, or zany antics.
Although I do have one piece of advice for my sister, who has just started college:
I know you have AAA.

If you're ever out drinking attending a study group, and are too wasted tired to make it home, you may not have to spend money on a taxi.
Three times a year you can call AAA roadside assistance. They will tow your car and get you back to your place for free.
You're welcome.

Anyway, back to me acting like an idiot.

I was twenty in the spring of 2006, just finishing up my sophomore year of college. It was the night before my dad was scheduled to come and help move all my stuff back home for the summer.
Exams were over, I was no longer working, and my dorm room was about half-way packed up.
It was pretty obvious where I would be spending the rest of the evening...

Now, I was only 20. Obviously not legal. I anticipated a simple evening of dancing, socializing, and saying good-bye to friends who were graduating. I would be home by 2AM at the latest. Plenty of time to sleep, pack up the rest of my stuff, and be ready for when my dad came at 9AM the next morning.

Except it did. Spectacularly.

As I handed my I.D to the bouncer at the door, something completely amazing and unexpected happened.
Instead of reaching for the Sharpie to identify me as a minor, he looked at me, looked at my I.D and said: "You're going to be chill tonight, right?"
"Absolutely!"

And then I walked into the bar with a wristband.

More like half-ran really. I couldn't believe my luck, and wanted to make sure I got in before he changed his mind.

And did I keep it calm by sticking with beer or one shot drinks? Hell no! I started in on long islands like it was my job.

Surely I won't regret this decision.

But before you think I'm a complete idiot, here's a little back story regarding long islands:
The Michigan town I grew up in sits right across the border from Canada where the drinking age is 19. So really, I had been legally drinking for over a year. However, as I would find out later, there is a huge difference between Canadian long islands and their U.S counterparts.
Personally, I blame the metric system.
It boiled down to this: In Canada, they give you one metric shot of rum and fill the rest with sour mix and a splash of coke. I could consume three or four over the course of an entire night and still be fine.
But as we all know, in the U.S, a long island consists of not only rum, but gin, vodka, tequila and triple sec. Making it so there's barely enough room for the sour mix and splash of coke.

I think we can see where this is heading...

Classy. As. Balls.

The bar finally closed and somehow I'm still on my feet. Getting some greasy diner food sounds like the best idea ever, and there's only one place open this time of night...

This place seems vaguely familiar...

The rest is kind of a blur, I know a group of us went there and got a booth. And I'd like to think that I politely excused myself for a quiet sit down in the ladies room, but in actuality it was probably more of a drunken stumble and loud projectile vomiting. 

Such a lady am I.

 Fortunately, I had some good friends with me. That or they were just tired of dealing with my stupidity.

Anyway, one of my buddies lived in a house across the street. He dragged me across the road and deposited me on a couch. I immediately passed out and he went back to finish his eggs.

What seemed like moments later, my friend is shaking me awake. In the distance it sounds like a phone is ringing.

"Hey, wake up! You have like six missed calls. Weren't you going home today?"

"What? Oh shit, shit, shit. Where are my keys?!"

It's past 10 o'clock in the morning. My dad has been waiting for over an hour. 

Imagine for a moment that you're a parent. (Hell, maybe you already are.)
You've driven three and a half hours to help your baby girl come home from school. She's the first one in the family to go away to college. Her grades are good, and you can't help but feel a sense of pride in knowing that you've done a good job raising this one.

Yes, very proud.
And a robot.

But there's no answer when you knock on her door, and when she finally answers the phone, her voice sounds funny. She apologizes profusely and tells you she'll be right over.
Fifteen minutes later, your daughter comes bouncing up the steps. Reeking of smoke and wearing what are obviously bar clothes from the night before, there appear to be pillow creases on the side of her face, and she is displaying an unusual sensitivity to light.  

Uh, hey Dad.

 If my dad was angry he hid it well. But he also wasn't about to let me off easy. Especially after I unlocked the door to my dorm to reveal the mess of boxes that littered the floor.

I could have sworn I had packed up more than this.

Every other word out of my mouth was some variation of "I'm sorry".
My dad sighs, "Lets just get this stuff packed up."
He leaves to go pull the van around, and that's when the hangover hits.

I would welcome death.

I'm feebly chucking stuff into boxes when my suitemate makes an unexpected but very welcomed appearance. She hooks me up with some aspirin and helps move boxes around.

Several hours later everything is packed in.

Success!

And considering the circumstances, taking my dad out to breakfast is the least I can do.
So we go to breakfast at, where else?

The same diner whose bathroom I had puked all over mere hours before.

 And then I drove my car three and a half hours back home. Still hungover.

But we did learn one thing.

To avoid an even more embarrassing repeat, in the years that followed, Dad made sure to show up the day before I moved out.
You know, for the time honored tradition of getting wrecked with his daughter.

Cheers!