We Have A TrueLemon Winner!

Here is my true story of how tequila collided with Japan.

Many, many years ago I was lucky enough to have been included in an exclusive business retreat in Cabo San Lucas. Everything was top-notch from First Class flights, to a fabulous 5-Star hotel on the Sea of Cortez; to an elegant evening party at a private villa overlooking the sea, with tables placed around the edge of an infiniti-edge pool, a mariachi band and a bar overlooking the estate. We walked in around 6 pm, and there was probably a waiter for every 5 people at the party, as soon as we stepped onto the terrace trays of icy margaritas were passed around – and it was really hot so they went down very fast and smooth. I wasn’t a big tequila drinker at the time, so I underestimated my ability to handle it.

The first tequila incident happened as I was being spontaneously whirled around in a waltz to the mariachi band. I was a little loopy and went spinning toward the pool – but was caught by a fellow party-goer with pretty good reflexes. Whew! That would have been pretty embarrassing at meetings the next day, wouldn’t it?!

You would think that would have been my signal, to you know, STOP drinking. But it was really, really hot and then the waiters started serving really delicious cold white wine at dinner – and it tasted soooo good! I figured, I was sitting down so no harm, no foul. Plus, it was one of those nights when everyone got a little tight and we were having a great time.

After dinner, the hosts presented rare and expensive bottles of tequila to each table for an apertíf tasting. Who knew tequila could be so smooth, so complex? We all compared the 3 or 4 or bottles on the tables, and did some sipping-style shots. Several sipping shots. We killed the bottles.

Then the party really started, and the band picked up and switched to some covers – and I was absolutely f*cking blasted out of my gourd. I suddenly had an urge to smoke, but of course no one smoked in social situations anymore so I was forced to think creatively… Hmmmm… Japanese people like to smoke, this party is being hosted by the Japanese executives congregating at the bar above the party – I’m sure they will find me charming and witty (it turns out tequila also makes me delusional, more on that later). I headed up to the bar where all the civilized people were – and it started out great. I was given these delicious frozen lime drinks (no tequila in these), and they were really tasty so I kept drinking them – and puffing away on some Dunhills I had carpetbagged off of the man who turned out to be the BIG CHEESE of the whole division (of a HUGE corporation).

Conversation turned to 9/11… I turned to one of my many Japanese companions, and tried to make some intelligent observation on Admiral Yamamoto’s famous statement about “the sleeping giant” – but it came out through my tequila filter like this:

“Heh, it’s kind of like Pearl Harbor – and you guys have to admit that whole Hiroshima, Nagasaki thing – well you totally had that one coming to you. Hahaha!”

Silence.

Silence.

Silence.

Awkward.

American executive counterparts literally gaped in horror. Awkward.

Finally, everyone cracked up laughing and toasted with shots yelling “Bonzai”. Awkward. Lots of “Bonzai!” shots followed….

The next day, as I crawled from meeting to meeting I was greeted with smirking “Bonzai’s!” everywhere I went. Walk of shame can not even begin to describe how bad this was. I was a pariah. At lunch time – I could see the dread frozen on everyone’s faces wondering if I was going to land at their table – I skipped lunch. Unfortunately with really good tequila you are neither hungover nor memory deficient so I remembered every excruciating detail and still cringe when I think of it. My manufacturer’s rep HATED my guts from that day forward and would always nervously eye any alcoholic beverage in my vicinity for years afterward.

**In the interest of historical accuracy I should note that I had gained a lot of weight during this time period, and was looking rather rotund. For some reason, I wore a yellow and black chiffon dress to the party – so in addition to coming off like a xenophobic ass, I also looked like an insane over-the-hill Bee Girl. It was just ugly on every possible front.

I decided it was best for me and tequila to part ways, except for an occasional margarita now and then. And I did lose the Bee Girl chub; mainly so no one from Japan would ever recognize me – best incentive to diet EVER.

Okay, I don’t really care about the prize (who am I kidding, I’ll gobble that shit up if it’s free), but this competition seemed like it was designed for me, since I am positive I have the first-place story in my pocket, seeing as it just happened last Friday and it involves a real-life PROSTITUTE.

You see, my boyfriend decided to throw together a last-minute pre-Cinco de Mayo (Treinta de Abril, I guess?) party last Friday, so he cooked up some delicious carnitas tacos, made some margaritas that were basically 80% tequila with a little bit of lime juice, and invited people over. Most people showed up with some sort of dip or chips or something, and a good amount of guests arrived bearing their own bottles of tequila. But that really didn’t matter, because the margaritas were SO STRONG. The way the night went was that if at some point you saw someone holding even a small glass of the margaritas in their hands, within an hour you were guaranteed to see that person drunk off their ass, making poor decisions.

So anyway, we’re drinking and dancing to Shakira and ignoring the neighbor below pounding on his ceiling with a broomstick and taking shots of tequila while slapping each other as chasers, and having a grand old time. Suddenly, someone declares that we should all go to a dance club called Tube, which is about 25 blocks away. We all think this is a FANTASTIC idea, so everyone takes off in small groups. Keep in mind there are about 15 of us, and we have started and finished THREE handles of tequila. And it’s only 10 PM.

Anyway, the group I was walking with was stumbling our way down the street, and along the way one girl in our group asks a random woman (based on her face, she was anywhere between 19 and 45 years old) at a bus stop to light her cigarette. Things get a little fuzzy, but the next thing I know, this random bus stop lady is joining our group and coming to the club with us! And I won’t bury the lead: She was an actual prostitute, and her name was Honey.

So I’m walking arm-in-arm with Honey the Prostitute, and we arrive at Tube. For some reason, I end up buying Honey a drink, and next thing I know, she is dancing and MAKING OUT with my straight female roommate (who has never, ever given in to this sort of Real World-esque behavior before). After about 10 minutes at Tube, my boyfriend has drunkenly decided that he has already had enough and wants to go pass out at home. So we leave, but I have for some reason become rather invested in making sure Honey is okay because I feel terrible for her, so I bring her along and demand that we walk her home. The important thing to note is that I am making it my personal mission to get this prostitute home safe, while I have left my completely trashed roommate all alone at Tube, miles away and across the river from our apartment, to fend for herself. Oops.

We stumbled down the street, with me holding Honey’s stilettos because she was tired of walking in them, and I basically had to carry her because she definitely could not stand on her own. I wish I could remember what we talked about for 25 blocks, but I do know I tried to talk her out of her profession, and she kept kissing my cheek and telling me how no one has ever taken care of her like this. Heartbreaking, I know. When we were about three blocks away from Honey’s house, she suddenly grabbed her stilettos and ran off into the night, never to be seen again. At some point, I must have given her my number, because I woke up to a text message from a Portland area code that says, “Home safe..love you..need you full name so can find you on facebook…much love”.

So that was our night out with a prostitute. And if you’re wondering about my poor, neglected roommate, she ended up meeting random guys who lived on our side of town, hitching a ride with them across the river, went to another bar with them where she was given a glass of water from a stranger, and then somehow managing to stumble home. So no harm done! And a poor, neglected prostitute was guaranteed at least a night of safety.