Boone's Farm Regrets

I’m pretty sure we can all remember the first time we got drunk. For some, the over consumption seemed fun. An exciting experience that made the next adventure in drinking a longed-for escape that can now be looked back on with nostalgia. For others, like myself, it was a descent into hell with the fear and pain of never escaping its nauseating clutches that makes me, to this day, shudder when I recall it.

My friend, Sandy, was of the first persuasion. Her first experience of getting drunk and throwing up was “fun” and she “couldn’t wait to do it again”. She went on to become an alcoholic.

I can remember it like it was yesterday. I was going over to my best friend Janie’s house after school under the pretense (for my parent’s ease of mind) that it was a sleepover. I left out the part about her parents being out of town and Janie’s older sister was going to babysit us. Anne’s idea of childcare was just to be sure that no one died. She did not care in the least that we were planning on having a drinking party. That was the forbidden fruit of which I had never tasted and could not resist the temptation to get high on liquor. I was fourteen, a freshman in high school and just beginning to enter my years of adolescent experimentation with altered states. I had tried smoking cigarettes but not pot, yet. From the time I was a child --I had always been allowed a sip of Budweiser from my Dad’s glass– or his hi-ball at large family gatherings– or a taste of the sweet Manischewitz wine he enjoyed once in a while. In my naivety the thought of getting drunk sounded really cool. It seemed daring and adventurous. Teenager that I was, I really loved to push the moral authority envelope when I could get away with it. Becoming an atheist led to shoplifting-or maybe shop-lifting led me to become an atheist? I don’t remember. Hitchhiking for the thrill, sex at fourteen; anything that rejected the moral teachings of my Catholic upbringing, all were signs of my immaturity and inability to examine the existential aspect of morality: That God or no god(s), some form of higher morality was really the better road to take in life. The journey to my self discovery was not just to be vicariously lived in the Prodigal Son story nor of Esau selling his birthright for some lentil stew, but was for me to poke my finger in God’s all watching eye of guiding Commandments and ask, “What are you going to do about it?” God may have had more important matters on his agenda than to notice a rebellious fourteen year old bent on swerving off the path of Biblical righteousness. I escaped his wrath only to stumble, jump or if I’m honest here: leap head-over-heels into the pitfalls of my own lack of experience with life and its consequences.

Back to the night in question, and my drunken revelry shared with a bunch of late 1960’s teenie-boppers enjoying achieving a high on Boone’s Farm Apple wine…

With Janis Joplin screaming out “Take another little piece of my heart” on the record player and Amy Phelps (one of the teenie- boppers) singing back-up in a perfect imitation of the soulful voice, we proceeded to dig into the huge quantity of spaghetti Anne had prepared for us. I ate lots and lots of spaghetti and drank lots and lots of cheap wine. Well, by now I’m sure you can see where this is going and it ain’t good!

I found myself at some point, rather early in the evening’s revel, up in the attic bedroom of Janie’s brother, Bobby. It seemed like a cool place to hang out and stay up as late as we could. Unfortunately, after sitting still for a few minutes I began to feel disoriented and detached from my body. I couldn’t even remember walking up the stairs or sitting down on the bed. Everything became very fuzzy in my mind and the room began to spin. I tried to focus on fun- but the combination of Boone’s Farm and spaghetti was causing my digestive system to rebel. I felt the nausea hit quickly after that which caused me to get up quickly and head down those seven deadly steps of sin before my dinner was returned via the same hole it had entered. I kept moving as fast as I could in the state I was in but the contents of my stomach, unable to wait, was catapulted out of me and spewed down the stairs in front of me.Lubricated by the cheap wine, it continued to guide my path all the way to the second story bathroom and that is where I stayed for rest of the night, puking my guts out (as the saying goes).

To this day I feel regret and shame for whoever had to clean up that trail of digestive chyme. It was probably Anne. No good deed goes unpunished.

The next day was a school day and I limped off to classes after the worst night of my life was quickly turned into the worst day of my life. I had continual nausea, was completely dehydrated and my headache seeped into every limb of my body as if I had been catapulted and splattered against the wall of my sobriety. “Let that teach ya!”, my body screamed at me.

Needless to say, that lesson taught me to curb my enthusiasm for over-indulging with Bacchus’ nectar! (I say that facetiously- Boone’s Farm wine should not be considered nectar by anyone-ever!)

For up to a year after the event, I could not even smell wine without gagging. I always drank in moderation, unlike my friend, (who is now a recovering alcoholic) who so loved her first drunken experience that she couldn’t wait to do it again….and again….again. I look back on that night of teenage calamity with the realization that when we know better, we can do better.