Let's start with the backstory first. Jackie and Kelly have been my best friends since high school. You know a friendship is real when you see each other in fugly catholic school uniforms every single day and still acknowledge one another. I'm talking FUGLY, people. When I first met Greg and told him I wore a uniform in high school, he was all "ohhhh do you still have it"... until I showed him a picture of me in said uniform, and he agreed it was probably best it ended up in a landfill somewhere.
I wish I had a picture of me wearing it, but for now, this comparison will have to do:
Remember that nipple pimple (maybe we should call it the Nimple?) I told you about? Well, it was out in full force for the wine tasting. I called it - no makeup would dissuade this sucker from missing out on the action. As we took this picture, I told Jackie and Kelly I planned on photoshopping the pimple out. They laughed at me. They didn't realize I was serious. Lo and behold...
The wine was flowing. There was a group of older ladies in our group who had already drank their weight in vodka and pomegranate juice on the bus (at 8:30 in the morning), and there were free pretzels being offered. Things were going well. Until my shit-talking friend Jackie made fun of me for being buzzed by the second winery (there were 5 tastings at each winery, so I was probably on number 7 at this point). I pointed out that Jackie was in a sorority in college. She pointed out that I lived in Italy for two years. As you can guess, I lost the argument. So I punched her and we got kicked out of the winery.
Just kidding, this winery was too fancy for drunken brawls. What I proceeded to do was far more mature than that. I proceeded to try to keep up with her. Bad choice. During that time, we had a photo-shoot in the vineyards, where we may or may not look a little intoxicated.
You might be saying, "Wow, Jackie sounds like a bad friend". And you would be right. But when I turned to the very same bad friend on the bus when the sensation of puke first came on, convincing her I couldn't make it to the bathroom, she looked me directly in the eyes, gave me a gentle pat on the shoulder, and said "Fuck yes, you can make it to that bathroom". And make it I did. Where I proceeded to toss my cookies, shortly followed by a heckling from the older ladies who were conveniently seated outside the bathroom. And I quote, "WOW, SMELLS LIKE SOMEONE PUKED ON THE BUS" or "WOW, GUESS SOMEONE CAN'T HANDLE THEIR LIQUOR!" Listen ladies, if I wanted the world to know I'm twenty five years old and can't drink more than 3 glasses of wine, I would write a blog post about it or something.
When I returned back to my seat, Kelly also laughed at me, proving that I have at least two bad friends. That evening, all of those Merlot Meatballs remained in their final resting place, in the septic tank of the huge green bus that lugged us around Long Island. And those very same bad friends took me to a diner, made me have some soup and ginger ale, and laughed with me as we recounted the whole fiasco.
I love having terrible friends.