I HAVE multiple personalities. No, not like Sally Field in Sybil. Rather, these unique identities are multiple drinking personalities that emerge late at night, after I’ve been throwing ’em back for a few hours. Depending on what I’m imbibing, I adopt demeanors that can range from demure and nostalgic to slutty heathen wild child. And these drinking personalities aren’t one-trick ponies: again and again, I’ve seen that wine makes me weepy, that vodka makes my toes tap, and that whiskey makes me downright insane. Come along as I introduce you to my other selves.
Enjoying a glass of wine can be a sophisticated sort of relaxation, or, paired with the right food, a gastronomical adventure. My penchant for vino began as a kid, when I would watch with envy as my mother enjoyed her daily five o’clock chardonnay, known in our house as “wine time.” I adopted this tradition some time ago, and my own “wine time” is often shared with girlfriends, a way for us to relax and catch up.
Of course, when you’re drinking with friends, that one glass of wine always turns into a bottle and a half. And then, Sappy Sara makes her appearance. For whatever reason, white wine is a potent emotional elixir, coaxing cheesy sentiments from my girly little brain, which flow from my mouth almost as easily as the wine flows from the bottle. In my experience, this inevitably turns an early-evening catch-up session into a schmaltz-fest, filled with nostalgia and weeping. “Our friendship is so important to me,” I’ll often find myself slurring, after clumsily sloshing my glass in an earnest, sloppy toast. “I cannot tell you enough. No, I cannot tell you enough how much you mean to me. No, no, I cannot tell you enough. I love you so much, I loveyousomuch.”
With lady friends, this onslaught of sentiment is not such a big deal; after all, we embrace our emotions, clutch them, own them. I can’t say the same about men — especially my boyfriend, a/k/a/ Robot Sam. Think I’m exaggerating? I once asked Robot Sam to tell me about his feelings, and his response was, “Well ... I’m feeling kind of hungry. And a little bit tired.”
Imagine his distaste for my wine-induced ramblings about meaning and emotions and cuddles and puppies. Take my birthday, for example. This year, Robot Sam took me to Sorellina (1 Huntington Avenue, Boston, 617.412.4600), where we enjoyed a bottle of riesling with dinner. Between the candlelight, the corner table, and the three glasses of wine, it was all I could do to keep the waterworks from drenching our entrées. I talked and talked and talked about how much Sam meant to me, how much dinner meant to me, how much meaning meant to me. In vino veritas, so they say — but in my case, it’s In vino an awkward amount of emoting.
Speaking of awkward, let’s talk about dancing, and how I’m about as suited for it as I’m suited for, say, a moustache. Despite my stint as a college sorority girl and my penchant for sparkly tank tops, I have terrible, terrible rhythm. I know it, my friends know it, everybody in the club knows it. When I dance, people clear the floor — not in a “We’re in a movie and this is the protagonist’s moment to shine!” sort of way, but rather in a “Whoa, I’m embarrassed for that girl and her eight left feet!” manner.
I’ve accepted this lack of coordination, and I tend to avoid dancing, unless it’s at weddings. Or if I’ve been drinking vodka. Specifically, vodka and Red Bull, which not only gives me wings but dancing shoes, too. A few of these cocktails and suddenly Disco Sara emerges. She’s Britney, Beyoncé, and Jennifer Beals, all rolled up into one fierce package of dance-tastic-ness. My dance fever is most likely to rear its ugly head at the Phoenix Landing (512 Mass Ave, Cambridge, 617.576.6260), where, on Friday and Saturday nights, ’80s music and Top 40 smashes reign supreme. A night at the Phoenix usually begins with me glued shyly to a barstool and ends with me standing on a table, shaking my pathetic white-girl booty and screaming along to “Wake Me Up Before You Go Go.” In between these bookends, countless vodkas have teamed up with that sweet potion of energetic trickery to fool me into believing that I am a dancing queen.
Then there’s tequila. Oh, cursed maiden of death, bringer of blackouts and hangovers that rival the Black Plague. I learned the hard way that there is no faster way to knock me whimpering to my knees than to slam a few shots of tequila without carbo-loading for three days first. These days, I take my tequila in margarita form — and before it sucker-punches me in the gut, tequila sets me into flirtation overdrive. I don’t want to say that I’m slutty when I drink tequila, but ... I’m slutty when I drink tequila. (Maybe slutty is the wrong word. Certainly flirty would describe it. Touchy, even. Or downright shameless. No matter the adjective, there’s no doubt about it: tequila is my Spanish fly. Or Mexican fly. Whatever.) The Cactus Club (939 Boylston Street, Boston, 617.236.0200) is my love den of choice when I’m jonesin’ for margaritas and a little action. The patrons are hot, the bartenders are hot, and after a few margaritas ($6.50 to $8), I feel hotter than the Tijuana sun. Sexy Sara? Not quite. Maybe Self-Confident Sara, or perhaps Delusional Sara. Yeah, that’s probably it. Sigh.
Last but not least, there’s my most favorite drink — which brings with it my least favorite personality. After college, I spent a few years living in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. It’s not exactly the deep-and-dirty South, but it’s far enough below the Mason-Dixon line that I developed a teensy drawl and a penchant for bourbon, which I drink on the rocks. (It’s the only way, unless you want some bleached-blonde redneck trailer troll named Jolene screaming at you about how you’re a “fuuuuhhhhckin’ pussy.”) It wasn’t until I started drinking it myself that I truly understood why people who drink bourbon morph into rowdy, slobbery, chain-smoking trainwrecks. One sip of that sweet, smoky, liquid enabler and I’m on the express rail to Crazytown. The more bourbon I suck down, the thicker my drawl (and I was raised near Boston). For me, bourbon isn’t just liquid courage — it’s liquid balls. Liquid balls of steel. I trash-talk. I yell. I make rude observations about the people around me, and if they happen to hear me? Well, I don’t give a fuuuuuhck. Shit-Talkin’ Sara will kick their asses, anyway.
Case in point: my recent 10-year high-school reunion. I’d resigned myself to skipping it in favor of a night out with friends, a celebration of my present rather than a rumination of my past (or some crap like that). When reunion night rolled around, instead of pouring myself into an out-of-my-price-range outfit in an attempt to trick the people who made my teen years a living a hell into thinking that I live a more-glamorous-than-thou lifestyle, I instead met up with Fletcher and Special Ed from WFNX’s morning show, The Sandbox, who were finishing up a gig at Kitty O’Shea’s (131 State Street, Boston, 617.725.0100). These guys are the anti-glamour, the perfect alternative to the small-talk bullshit I was sure to encounter during a night of reuniting with people with whom I was never united in the first place. We hit the bars, and I hit the bottle. Hard. After reuniting myself with a few rounds of Jack Daniels, it occurred to me: I am, like, way better than those high-school assholes! I should, like, totally haul my ass over there and rip their stupid party to stupid shreds! Yep, I’m crashing my reunion, boys, and you’re coming with me! Yeeee-ha!
This, friends, this is where bourbon gets me into trouble. It makes me think I’m smarter, prettier, tougher, and funnier than anyone in my immediate vicinity. In truth, it only makes me louder.
In my liquored up state, I was convinced that I knew exactly where to find the class of ’97 and their strained simpering, so we hopped in a cab and I gave the driver the name of the bar we were headed to, plus an approximation of the address. But when we hopped out ... no reunion. Bourbon had failed me.
No matter. Fortunately, we were right near Harvard Gardens (316 Cambridge Street, Boston, 617.523.2727), which has one of the best nighttime soundtracks around. In we barged. Up to the bar for more bourbon, more yelling, and some elbowing people out of the way with all my self-entitled might. I think I might have actually screamed, “Out of my way, bitches!” to a group of nicely dressed girls. If you’re reading this, ladies, sorry about that. It wasn’t me. It was Jack. @
[Illustration by Dee Densmore]
