Food Mountain

I guess I am not going to get back to talking about my trip to Tucson. Maybe because some dark and terrible thing happened there that I cannot speak of. Or more likely because I just don’t feel like it for some reason. Feel free to make up whatever stories about my trip that you want. And if you wanted to send those stories to me, that would be pretty cool too.

 

I decided that I wanted to tell you about the first time I drank in public. It was at a work function, which is always the best time to test your alcohol tolerance. And I had not really done too much drinking before then.

 

We were staying overnight at a hotel and the teambuilding of the night before was like 40 fucking rounds of putt putt golf. I am not even exaggerating on that one. Plus it was hot as balls outside so I was already miserable. And I hate golf.

 

One of my co-workers, R, is a bit of a party guy and he disappeared before the event even started and came back with a hurricane. When he left and came back with his second one I decided that I wanted to taste it. To my surprise it did not taste like hairspray (margaritas), paint thinner (any hard liquor), or bitter wheat vomit (beer) like all the other alcohol I had tried.

I even got a fancy glass to take home that I still drink out of

 

So I ordered a hurricane for myself. I drank about half of it before I felt much of anything. By then I was two holes in the putt putt game and was teamed with 3 people I did not know at all. They were boring the hell out of me and talking about work bull shit.

 

When that hurricane hit me, I realized I was fucking starving. I hadn’t eaten anything in 7 hours, and then it had only been a salad. I stopped one of the people that worked there and asked “Isn’t there food somewhere around here?”

 

She pointed vaguely to the other side of the mini golf course. “You have to play through to get to the food.”

 

I set down my putter and golf ball and replied “No thanks, I’m hungry now. And as an adult, I’ll eat when I want to.” And I set off across the putting course. I have zero patience for being told what to do, and I was really very hungry.

 

I managed to walk through about 6 or 7 other groups that actually cared about finishing the game. But I didn’t care. All I wanted was food. I was on a quest. A quest to food mountain.

 

After about 10 minutes I found some weird fish taco station. And I was pissed! I hate fish. I wanted real food. I asked the woman  that was manning the station, “Is this the only food?”

 

She laughed and pointed again, even farther away from where we were. “I think there are burgers over there somewhere.”

 

By this point, the alcohol was hitting me HARD. I felt really silly and relaxed and warm. I ran into my boss. He tried to talk to me but I stopped him. “Sorry, I’m busy trying to find some mythical burgers.” I didn’t even wait for his response. I was on a mission.

 

But the burgers were nowhere to be found. None of the other teams had seen them. Nobody seemed to know anything about them. I was wandering around this huge putting course, lost and semi drunk asking people about hamburgers. Luckily, everyone knows I am weird as fuck and I don’t think anyone really thought much of my behavior.

 

And then, I saw them…. It was food mountain! The legends were true!

 

They were up on a platform under a heating lamp. The red light was like a beacon in the night, drawing me in like a moth. I raced up the steps with excitement. I could already taste that sweet burger meat.

 

I was alone. Alone with a mountain of mini burgers and a pan of french fries. This was my own little private heaven. I made two triple burgers and filled a tray with fries.

Basically

 

 

And then, for some reason, I decided I needed to find R. So I wandered back through everyone trying to play through the course and fended off their vulturous attempts to eat my food. I was doing fake karate chops and telling people how to get to food mountain themselves.

 

It didn’t take long to find R. I’m not sure how many drinks he’d had by that point, but he was very loud.  I finished my food and then had a brilliant idea.

 

The week before R and I had gotten into an argument about my flexibility. He didn’t believe I could touch my toes to my forehead and it was not something I was willing to do at work. But at a work function, after half a hurricane, I was more than willing.

 

So I sat down and said, “Give me a minute, I don’t normally do this with pants on.” And proceeded to show him that I could totally touch my toes to my forehead. (I do yoga and it really isn’t that hard). R laughed and took a pic and admitted that I was right and he was wrong.

This

 

And then I went to find my original group. But I was so turned around I decided to go back to the beginning and follow the course through till I found them.

 

Unfortunately, there was an ice cream station at the beginning of the course. And there was no way I wasn’t stopping at that thing. I decided it was too hot for ice cream so instead I talked the guy manning the station into giving me a mouthful of hot fudge and then an ice cream bowl full of mini m&m’s and sprinkles. It was amazingly delicious.

Candy mountain!

 

 

I never found my group and so just waited there at the end of the course, eating candy and sprinkles until my co-workers made it through. By the time they arrived R had shown everyone the picture of my flexibility stunt.


But they were mostly too drunk to remember. A bunch of other fun things happened that night but I feel like this story is long enough.

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12 thoughts on “Food Mountain

  1. Do you know, I’ve never had a hurricane? Been in a hurricane, yes — but I’ve never drank (drunk? drinked?) a hurricane. And I lived in New Orleans for three years. I’m apparently a failure as a Louisianan. I must rectify this oversight immediately!

  2. Ha ha ha! With that group (and since I don’t drink), finding food mountain seems more interesting than drunk putt putt!

  3. My (idiot) ex-husband ordered a hurricane àt a bar in New Orleans. It came in a Big- *scratch that* HUGE-gulp cup and he downed the entire thing in less than 15 min. Then he ordered another one. Didn’t make it 1/4 way thru #2 before he started feeling sick. He could barely walk and outweighed me by around 130 lbs. Somehow I managed to schlep him to the far side of the courtyard (after being urged by a stranger to fish him out of the men’s rm stall). He almost got us kicked out by appearing to be passed out with his head down on the bar. I won that night since I got the pleasure of kicking him every time his hand stopped tapping the bar (conditions agreed to by the manager) AND I made friends with the pretty bartender, Semaj, who made me all the shots she concocted at bartending school in NYC. My favorite, the ginger man, tasted like gingerbread in a glass.

  4. In high school I used to have a buddy who worked the closing shift at Dairy Queen. We used to drive around to the back door late at night on weekends and he’d sneak us entire cups of hot fudge.

    I never thought to ask for sprinkles, but that might have been pushing it anyway.

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