…my grandma drinks alcohol.
It was a night like any other. My grandma and I were relaxing while watching the Mets when she said
“if you hear a banging on the wall, please come into my room. I’m not feeling well tonight.”
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“My chest hurts…”
This worried me considering my grandmother has has bypass surgery in the past and our family has a history with bad heart health.
“…but I just think it’s indigestion.”
“Would it make you feel better if I slept in your room with you?”
Now, before you make fun, my grandmother has a ginormous king bed. Like, seriously. King Sleepy broke the mold when he made this puppy.
“If you wouldn’t mind.”
I proceeded into my room to grab my pillows and cell phone charger and got comfortable in my grandma’s room. About a half hour or so went by.
“So how are you feeling now?”
“Okay. Maybe I’ll feel better after a drink.”
One thing about my grandma is that she has at least one glass of red wine a day. If not two…or three. Often her one glass will be by her bedside as she goes to bed. Sometimes it will be at dinner, or while watching television. Regardless of where she sips it, it’s a daily tradition for her. My mom loves wine too. And so do her sisters. At any given time my mother has 20 bottles of wine on hand in our household. Mom, if you’re reading this, don’t text me and tell me I’m lying because I’ve counted.
Back to the story: I heard some putzing around in the kitchen so naturally I went to sneak a peak. The ice cream was out. And so was the liquor. I knew this could only mean one thing: chocolate martinis.
Mind you the time was now 12:30AM.
She scooped vanilla ice cream into a blender. Added portions of cream de cacao, Godiva chocolate liquor, vodka and ice. Blended that baby into oblivion and reached for the cabinet where she keeps her glasses. She pulled out a martini glass. Now, my grandma is a DRINKER, so she doesn’t have you typical restaurant sized martini glasses…she has double martini glasses. Meaning, you could take two, possibly 3, martinis you order in a restaurant and pour them into this sucker. It. Was. HUGE. Naturally, she filled it to the brim. She got back into bed and within 30 minutes it was gone.
“I’m feeling better now. You can sleep in your own room.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes…I think I’m going to become an alcoholic.”
And with that, I went to bed.
Personally when I make chocolate martinis I make them with vanilla vodka, but my grandma’s recipe is delicious. Just incase you’d like to serve up a summer treat, these martinis truly are sweet, tasty and refreshing:
Makes 2 (non-grandma sized) servings:
1oz Godiva Liquor
1oz Cream de cocoa
1oz Vanilla Vodka
1-2 scoops of chocolate or vanilla ice cream–your choice!
Pour the ingredients into a cocktail shaker with ice. Shake, strain and pour into two glasses.
To make the drink frothier and frozen: pour ingredients into a blender with ice, blend and pour straight, no strain.
Tonight was supposed to be a simple night, a night in which I just stayed in and watched a movie with some friends because all of the parties around campus were cancelled due to frats being on social probation. But obviously being who I am, the night absolutely did not go this way–not at all. This is how it went down…
I was hanging out in the house when one of my sisters walked into the room and mentioned something about an Irish festival downtown. I’m not Irish, at all, but I was bored, and needed somewhere to go and something to do–even if it meant driving a few drunk girls home from an Irish, a.k.a beer, festival. So we discussed it, and it was decided that I would drive my friends car, along with her and 2 other girls to the festival. Once everyone was ready to go, we got into the car, and we were off. It wasn’t more than 2 minutes until I realized both the gas AND check engine lights were on, so of course I was screwed. My friend decided we should probably stop and get some gas–good idea–so we did. After a measly 2-gallon fill we were on our way for real this time. It took us a while to find a spot, but eventually we found a parking lot and a spot which took about a 50-point turn to get into. Nonetheless, we parked, and started walking over to the festival.
The festival wasn’t too large, but it wasn’t small either. It consisted of vendors selling food, drinks, beer, shirts, jewelry, beer, hats and beer. There was also some live music which was quite enjoyable. My friends, all 21, got some beers, and we walked around until we stumbled upon an Irish step-dancing group consisting of little girls and boys. We watched their ENTIRE performance, but spend the entire time arguing whether their hair was real or not. Once the performance was over, we did some more walking, and got some shepards pie for dinner, then went to check out the music. It was interesting, and one of my friends, whom happens to be very Irish (but doesn’t have red hair…odd) was thoroughly enjoying herself. We watched a few songs, then decided it was time to go. What kind of night would it have been if we all just went home though? My friends were only 2 beers each into the night, and I still had so much energy traveling through my body that I needed to go somewhere else. So it was decided to go to a bar–an Irish pub–right by where we parked our car. I was praying that they wouldn’t be checking ids at the door, but of course they were, so I took out my North Carolina id…the one I spent a fortune on, the one I had an 0 for 1 track record with, as I tried to use it to get into a bar last semester, and they wouldn’t accept it. So I pulled it out, and low and behold–they let me in! I was SO high on life from that moment on that I was ready for anything life was going to throw at me for the rest of the evening. I wanted to look up at the sky and shout “BRING IT ON!” but then I realized the bouncer probably wouldn’t have liked this, and all that I had just accomplished would diminish, so I refrained from screaming–instead I just whispered to my friends, and texted a few others.
The bar was nice. It was also a restaurant, which I was used to because I worked at an Irish bar/restaurant all summer–I felt at home. My friends ordered drinks and we took a look around. There was a stage and some instruments set up, so we knew there would be live music–excellent. My friend was still in an extreme Irish mood, and all she wanted to do was here some hardcore Irish music, so when she saw one of the band members, she requested a song, but he responded saying “we don’t play that stuff”–shot down. She’s a fighter though, so she just got right back up and went on with her life…soul survivor. A few minutes passed and the band went on–that’s when the 4 of us fell in love. For up on that stage was a guy in a green shirt–a guy in a green shirt that not only played the guitar, but the bagpipe as well, and not just any bagpipe–a leopard print bagpipe. Surely I had died and gone to heaven…but in actuality I was still alive. They played a few songs, and they were pretty good. My friend was still on her little Irish High, while another one of my friends, a music major, seemed to look a little aggravated. Obviously I had to question this, so I asked what was wrong. She then proceeded to tell me that the fiddle player was holding his bow the wrong way. I couldn’t believe my ears, or hers, because she was wearing earplugs to protect herself from going deaf at an early age. Enough said.
After the band finished their first set they took a break, and my friend, the music major, went up to the fiddle player and asked about his bow-holding-ways. He said something about how the way a fiddle bow is held is different from the way a violin bow is held (they are the same thing physically) but he admitted that he definitely holds his hand up on the bow a little higher than normal. Our eyes followed bagpipe-boy off the stage, and around the bar. We played rock, paper, scissors to see who would get to kiss him first, if the chance happened, but obviously it didn’t, but if it did, I would have been third…just incase you were wondering. One of the band members returned to the stage with a few stacks of CDs they recorded. I noticed one of them was a little odd looking, and when I read the title, I realized the band had done a Celtic tribute to The Cure. I didn’t know what to make of it all, but “Love Song” is one of my favorite songs, so I went up to the bassist and asked if he would play it for me, he said they usually play that one out of the Cure covers they have done, and that it was so cool I asked for that song–as if anyone has to tell me how cool the things I do and say are, sheesh–don’t they know I know I’m cool? But seriously, I’m a loser.
Anyways, they were getting ready to go back on when I spotted bagpipe boy walking toward me–I knew it was now or never. I stopped him and said “I just have to say, 1. that’s probably the coolest bagpipe I have ever seen” he laughed and said “thanks!” I then continued “and second, you’re probably the best looking bagpipe player I have ever seen” he laughed again and was modest by saying “that’s very nice of you to say” but then, unfortunately, I continued “maybe that’s because the only other bagpipe player I have ever seen was my kindergarten principal–I should have just stopped at “the best looking bagpipe player”. Thankfully, he maintained his sense of humor and laughed, saying “thanks, that’s very nice of you to say…I think?” and laughed again. I assured him it was a compliment, and he walked onto stage after laughing and thanking me again. My life was complete for that short amount of time.
They went back on, and I began to notice 2 very drunk guys dancing like idiots in front of the stage. Obviously I had to join them. So I danced along side them as they stomped their feet, clapped their hands, and did some weird hip and arm movements that I think yet to have been discovered by choreographers across the USA. My friends documented it all via my digital camera, and laughed the entire time. Then, they said “by request” and they began to play their Celtic cover of “Love Song”…it was FANTASTIC! The song ended, they played one more song, and then took a break, so we decided it was time to leave.
We got back into the car and drove back to campus, dropping one of the girls off at her apartment, and then returning to the sorority house so my friends could change before we went over to one of the frat houses to meet my other friends there. Once we arrived at the frat, we went upstairs to my roommates friend’s room, and just relaxed on the back porch, which is really just a roof…with no railing around it–safe? We listened to music, chatted, danced, you know…the usual. My friend managed to spill a drink on her pants, creating the PERFECT “piss” stain. It looked 110% like she peed in her pants without missing a beat! Obviously I took a picture and posted it right to facebook–I love BlackBerries.
Here’s where the real drama starts though–we spotted one of our sisters down below by a car with a random guy in back of the house. We yelled her name to say hello and the guy appeared to be putting his pants back on. Apparently, he wanted a little bit too much from her, and she didn’t want to get involved, so we helped her out, but then someone saw him, and thought he was peeing on one of the brother’s cars. This is where all of hell broke loose…legitimately. The next thing we knew, one of the brothers, who happens to have an extremely bad temper problem, was outside SCREAMING and chased the guy away. The guy RAN and my friend came upstairs to stay with us. My roommate ran downstairs, and so did I. Upon arriving downstairs I saw basically all of the brothers trying to hold back and calm down one of the brothers who was screaming quite loud and going crazy. I decided it was a good time to go back upstairs. A few minutes later–more screaming. We heard banging, cursing–the works. We wanted to get out of there but then my roommate texted me saying DO NOT open the door. So we stayed in the president’s room, with the door locked. I felt so Anne Frank, it was ridiculous. We were all freaking out because that one particular brother was flipping out, banging on doors, throwing things and breaking them for virtually no reason at all. Finally, one of the other, sane, brothers knocked on the door. We let him in, and we told him we thought it would be best for us to get out of there. So get this, he lead us out of the house through like a back way–a secret escape route! We avoided the Nazis! I mean, we got out of the house alive and in one piece!
The three of us went over to our sorority house, just 2 houses down, and relaxed for a few. Then I decided it was time for me to go back to my dorm, so my friend walked me home. Later, I found out that someone stole a banner off the side of our house, and that one of my sisters chased the guy down! She told DPS (dept. of public safety) what had happened, and they gave her full permission to beat him up, and that they would watch. What a champ, what great officers, and what a night!
Oh, and all 3 of my roommates are sleeping out…yet again, so yeah…I’m still pathetic!
And it’s only Friday…