Letting a betch bring her own booze to a restaurant is like Satan giving me a truckload of gasoline and leaving me in charge of the 6th circle of hell: things are going to get lit up. Moderation is clearly a term that escapes me, especially when planning for a BYOB dinner. Of course I need a bottle of Carlo de Rossi, a handle of tequila and a carafe of sparking Andre…all for myself. It’s go time.
Since I am given the freedom to bring my own booze, it’s like a personal challenge to the world to how drunk I can get. Generally speaking, at this post grad state of my life, binge drinking is usually frowned upon and considered a part of an unhealthy lifestyle. But when coupled with binge eating, even the prudest abstainers of the jungle juice will join in the libations and eat and drink with uninhibited merriment and joy. Now I get why Jesus was so hellbent on turning water into wine wherever he went. Now that’s a man I cant wait to party with.
The most mortifying moment is when the waitress offers to open your bottle of wine just to realize it’s a twist off. (In comparison, it’s not that bad. After doing the walk of shame 15 blocks, Halloween morning/the day of the NYC Marathon, after being dressed in JUST a unitard a la Lady Gaga in Poker Face, it puts things in perspective). If you’re in a classy establishment (read, more than $7 per entree), that corkage fee still seems to apply to wine that you have to twist off. Just another way the man is trying to hold us down.
The best thing about going to a BYOB dinner is the fact that while you’re drinking yourself into a dizzying oblivion, you’ll probably also be puking as soon as the clock strikes 12, so eat all the salmon sashimi you can because it won’t count! Basically it’s like they are negative calories. More effort coming up than going down, but don’t even pretend you don’t love it. BYOB dinners are particularly encouraged if you’re one of those poor souls in Weight Watchers. It’s -2 points a meal.
Going out to dinner with your betch friends is all well and good, but as most things are, anything is better with a
little lottle booze in the mix. Acquaintances walk in the restaurant and you suddenly find yourself running to embrace them like a POW embracing American soil, while in your sober life if you saw them, you’d most likely grab your phone and start texting yourself just to avoid talking to them.
Foes become friends, friends become besties, and boyfriends become exes. Everyone’s drinking, laughing and shit talking, and it sneaks up on you, but you soon realize everyone is yelling at each other in the resturant. Not even in a mean way, just in that, alcohol inhibited lack of volume control way. Ya know, when you’re having a good fucking time. Since that box of white wine you’re crushing is cutting through you like a diamond glazed dildo, you head to the bathroom. Getting up for the first time after a long night at the
dinner booze table is always an experience. You know you live for that rush when you get up and realize, holy shit. I’m gonna black out tonight. I don’t hate it.
One of the first times WB & I celebrated our birthdays together was in a seedy, underground byob sushi resturant, where we were both entirely underage and obviously pants shittingly drunk. I’m glad neither one of us remembers that night with too much clarity, or we would have realized early on that our codependent symbiotic relationship would be the most self destructive thing in our lives six years later… but some lessons just need to be taught the hard way.