A few years back, the company I work for hosted it’s annual staff party at a local hotel. Being gracious hosts, the hotel offered the attendees a discounted rate in order to discourage drunk driving and encourage alcohol sales. One co-worker got a hotel room for the night.

Since someone had a hotel room, everyone was encouraged to meet at the room and partake in a bit of pre-drinking before the party started. Another benefit was that we all had a place to store our booze while we were downstairs (a.k.a a bathtub full of ice). I was a rye and ginger girl at the time, so naturally, I brought a 26’er of crown and a 2L bottle of Canada Dry. Best gingerale ever.

However, I was uncertain as to the amenities offered by the hotel, so I brought some of my own drinking devices, including a shot glass and a cup. Since alcohol was going to be involved, and since I was going to be carting around the drinking paraphernalia, I was concerned about breakage. So, I brought as many unbreakable things as I could.

I arrived at the hotel room and started making myself a drink. Instantly, I was teased about my drinking devices. I defended myself by saying that I wasn’t sure if the hotel would have glasses and/or shot glasses. Turns out, I wasn’t being made fun of because I brought these things, I was made fun of because of the things I brought.

Namely, the cup. The only plastic cup I had was a collector cup from my Burger King days (when I paid for the BK equivalent of a happy meal, of course). It was a Pocahontas cup.

For most of the night, I drank out of the cup in the hotel room only. As the night wore on and I got more and more intoxicated, I became less self-conscious of the cup and ‘the rules’. I started carrying it around downstairs amongst the other attendees. Luckily, it was dark and no one noticed. Not even security.

Surprisingly, the rest of the night was rather uneventful. Or maybe I just don’t remember it. The friend that had the hotel room had brought her boyfriend to the party. He had never met us before, so he used this first experience as a way to decipher which work friend she was referring to in the conversations following that fateful night.

At the time, there were two Heather’s at my work. On the inside, I was disappointed that there was someone else with my name and that I wasn’t one of a kind anymore. On the outside, well, it was pretty much the same story, because I have a hard time bottling up my feelings. At the end of the day, the other Heather and I are/were very different people. The other Heather was taller and blonder.

One day, work friend went home and was telling boyfriend a story about me at work. She started saying “Heather this” or “Heather that” when he cut her off; he wanted to know which Heather she was talking about.

So… is that “blonde Heather” or Pocahontas?

Fuck. Me.

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