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He loves making new BFFs.

September 24, 2009

I wanted the first meeting between my boyfriend and my friends to be super special. Which is why I decided we should meet up at a cheap pub in the city. He had just recently returned to Canada from training in the States, and had not had alcohol for a couple of weeks, if not months. Being the brilliant girlfriend that I am, I decided this night was the perfect opportunity for us to have a few drinks together, and with my parents, before heading out. So out came the rum and the vodka. As the night progressed, somehow one drink led to another, and a drink turned into a shot, and another, and another, so that by the time my friend came to pick us up, we were both very classy and drunk.

At the pub, we chatted for a few minutes with my friends, ordered some more drinks, and about ten minutes into it, my boyfriend excused himself to go to the bathroom. He disappeared, and a few minutes after that, I excused myself as well.

I already had the bathroom door in sight as I walked towards it, but something off to my right-hand side caught my eye. I stopped and did a double-take.

Yep. There was my boyfriend. Seated at a table of perfect strangers, chatting and laughing and drinking.

I made my way over, casually sitting down next to him and joining the conversation while kicking him under the table in a “let’s get back to my friends” kind of way.

But the thing about LO, whether straight-up or tipsy, is that he loooooves making new friends. And he usually does, wherever he goes. I swear, he could walk around with little colorful BFF bracelets and just throw them around like Mardi Gras beads and people would show their boobs. It’s a phenomenon I just don’t understand.

A few minutes into this conversation, a round of drinks shows up at the table, and I try to wave them off because I hate accepting alcohol from strangers, but LO’s new friends are encouraging us to keep going, and the shots keep coming and coming. So we keep drinking and drinking. On these people’s tab.

The conversation, on my boyfriend’s part is mainly composed of the things he loves to talk about while drunk: the millitary, sandwiches, and slurred Polish versions of how much he loves me (these people were not Polish). By the time I dragged him back to our table, both of us having forgotten about the bathroom all together, we’re both lucky we can even stand (again, we’re so classy!)

We finally start a conversation with my friends when, all of a sudden, I realize LO is not at the table. He’s gone again. Before I can start looking around under people’s feet, I hear a large commotion coming from the area near the bathrooms, and a friend of mine grabs me over. When I get there, LO’s friends, who are clearly no longer feeling the BFF vibe, are all standing up, shouting obscenities at him, while he tries to talk to them like a gentleman. I have noooo idea what they were so pissed about, until this day – maybe they disagreed on favorite sandwich condiments?. But the big crowd and the big mess pretty much meant that we had to leave the pub, as per special orders.

And SOMEBODY vomits in somebody’s car on the way home, no names mentioned. This wasn’t going to be a night filled with shining moments.

But the funny part of the story is not actually what happened that evening. It’s what happened the next morning.

Because, as I start telling LO about what took place and he cannot remember most of it, he scrolls through his phone and finds a new entry from the night before:

“Big Punisher. #phone number#”

And, as I play around with my camera, this gem happens to be sitting on it:

Big Pun looks like he can eat Little One.

We both thought we were going to die laughing.

My dad also stopped by later in the day, sharing with us some of the details of our apparently memorable trip home from the pub, which neither of us can really recall.

When my dad makes a comment about going to take a shower, LO, inappropriate as always, mentions something about grabbing some one dollar bills (the night when he saw my dad in his underwear was maybe a week ago and they’ve joked about it since).

My dad laughs. But turns to him and says, “I think I should be paying YOU for what I saw last night.”

And, despite trying to drag information out of him, he still refuses to share. Only smirks, as if only he holds the secret to some embarrassing story.

We didn’t drink for a long time after that night.

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