the infirmary
Saturday was not the best of days. I didn't get home until a quarter to five in the morning, and though I didn't really have that much to drink, I think the week of celebrating my birthday had finally caught up with me. I'd been blissfully hangover free since the bender started on Tuesday, but whater I had on Friday night into early Saturday morning opened the floodgates of bodily misery.
I forgot to turn off my alarm again. I always do. It has three settings--three types of nature sounds, a buzzer and a radio. I never tuned the radio, so I set the buzzer and nature sounds (in this case, the "sound of the ocean," ten minutes apart. I also set my clock ten minutes ahead. I haven't turned that clock back yet, but I will right before I go to bed. At 8:30am (really 8:20am) the sound of crashing waves knocked me out of bed and into a particularly nasty hangover. Luckily, I fell right back to sleep, figuring I'd be right as rain in a couple more hours.
Sadly, this wasn't the case, and when I woke up around 10:30am, the back of my head felt like it'd been chewed off by a rusty saw. This was a familiar feeling, though I've only really had it once before. I've got a pretty iron stomach when it comes to alcohol; I've only had to throw up once. Saturday morning felt like it would be the second time. I spent a good deal of time in bed, trying to figure out whether it'd be a morning of kneeling before or sitting on top of the toilet bowl. I made it into the bathroom to expell waste products in a conventional manner and took a shower, and that eased my headache somewhat. I got a glass of water and faced my roommates. The living room looked kinda line an infirmary. H was sitting on the futon and P was sunk deep in the couch. H mentioned that we should all go to the medic--the greasy spoon breakfast nook down the block--which usually fixes me right up. I couldn't tell if my stomach was being cranky because it wanted me to add or subtract from its contents, but I had to eat something eventually. We all bundled up, because we all had the shakes, and made our way to breakfast.
We had to sit outside. Some local rag wrote about how cool the place was--more specifically, the writer wrote about how cool one of the waitresses is, word has it, he's crazy in love with her, word gets around fast here--and now it's become more popular, so it's a little bit harder to get a seat. We couldn't get in to the counter, so we grabbed a table outside. And the fucking sun was seriously fucking with me. I kept my beanie cap pulled down low. I squinted my eyes. I sipped my tall glass of water. It was becoming quickly apparent that the last thing my stomach wanted was food, but when the waitress came by to ask us what we wanted, I immediately said, "ham, scrambled eggs, hashbrowns--extra crispy."
From the inside portion of the restaurant, two of the people I'd been drinking with the night before emerged. They hadn't been to sleep. They also hadn't stopped drinking, and were raging drunk and still wearing the same wine-stained clothes. I was kinda jealous, because they were still on the upswing, and I was sadly crashing really hard.
Breakfast came. I took a forkful of hashbrowns, a sliver of ham, a speck of eggs. I stood up from the table and gave H 10 bucks and told her to have them box it up for me, and I walked home. Good thing it was close. I raced straight for the bathroom and stood at the sink. I didn't feel as sick as I did when I was at the restaurant, but I didn't feel good either. I ended up suffering through a pretty bad battle with the shits. I'd won, but I was left in a weakened state. After about a half-hour on the bowl, I made it out on to the futon where I laid motionless for about eight hours.
H and her boyfriend fled town. "We can't go out again tonight," they said. There was a Halloween party at the barn going down, and everyone was going. P was again sunk deep into the couch. After H and her boyfriend left. We both sat in the living room in almost complete silence, laying down under blankets on opposite ends of the room watching television.
We watched the Fat Albert movie. Then college football--USC v. Washington State followed by Hawaii v. Fresno State--after the second thing, P got up off the couch, got dressed and headed out to another party. I was still planted firmly in the futon. H's dog laid down next to me. He didn't get drunk the night before, but I think he was feeling sympathy pains. He knew who would be feeding him dinner.
At about 8pm, the head ache was almost completely gone, but now my stomach was making noises. Different kind of noises. I got up and tested the waters with a couple of tortilla chips. No adverse reaction. I grabbed the styrofoam box of breakfast and heated it up and tore into it. Human again.
I figured I'd just stay in, but I got a call. One of the women I work with said she didn't care about my hangover and that I was to get my ass out of the house and get in my costume and meet them at another coworker's house ASAP. I didn't have a costume. And I couldn't find anything to put together, so I just got in a shirt and tie and some dress pants. I put my nice jacket on, brushed my teeth and left.
The coworker who called me was dressed as a nurse. Now that I think about it, I should have made a crack about her crappy bedside manner, but at the time, I really couldn't think that much. I still felt like roadkill. It was just me and five women at the house and they were all tanked on martinis and putting on makeup.
The party was fun. A band played a nice set. I nursed a Smirnoff Ice and a Keystone Light over the course of four hours. I was able to drive a whole slew of drunk people home safely and without getting pestered by the fun police. I guess I should get a medal.
I forgot to turn off my alarm again. I always do. It has three settings--three types of nature sounds, a buzzer and a radio. I never tuned the radio, so I set the buzzer and nature sounds (in this case, the "sound of the ocean," ten minutes apart. I also set my clock ten minutes ahead. I haven't turned that clock back yet, but I will right before I go to bed. At 8:30am (really 8:20am) the sound of crashing waves knocked me out of bed and into a particularly nasty hangover. Luckily, I fell right back to sleep, figuring I'd be right as rain in a couple more hours.
Sadly, this wasn't the case, and when I woke up around 10:30am, the back of my head felt like it'd been chewed off by a rusty saw. This was a familiar feeling, though I've only really had it once before. I've got a pretty iron stomach when it comes to alcohol; I've only had to throw up once. Saturday morning felt like it would be the second time. I spent a good deal of time in bed, trying to figure out whether it'd be a morning of kneeling before or sitting on top of the toilet bowl. I made it into the bathroom to expell waste products in a conventional manner and took a shower, and that eased my headache somewhat. I got a glass of water and faced my roommates. The living room looked kinda line an infirmary. H was sitting on the futon and P was sunk deep in the couch. H mentioned that we should all go to the medic--the greasy spoon breakfast nook down the block--which usually fixes me right up. I couldn't tell if my stomach was being cranky because it wanted me to add or subtract from its contents, but I had to eat something eventually. We all bundled up, because we all had the shakes, and made our way to breakfast.
We had to sit outside. Some local rag wrote about how cool the place was--more specifically, the writer wrote about how cool one of the waitresses is, word has it, he's crazy in love with her, word gets around fast here--and now it's become more popular, so it's a little bit harder to get a seat. We couldn't get in to the counter, so we grabbed a table outside. And the fucking sun was seriously fucking with me. I kept my beanie cap pulled down low. I squinted my eyes. I sipped my tall glass of water. It was becoming quickly apparent that the last thing my stomach wanted was food, but when the waitress came by to ask us what we wanted, I immediately said, "ham, scrambled eggs, hashbrowns--extra crispy."
From the inside portion of the restaurant, two of the people I'd been drinking with the night before emerged. They hadn't been to sleep. They also hadn't stopped drinking, and were raging drunk and still wearing the same wine-stained clothes. I was kinda jealous, because they were still on the upswing, and I was sadly crashing really hard.
Breakfast came. I took a forkful of hashbrowns, a sliver of ham, a speck of eggs. I stood up from the table and gave H 10 bucks and told her to have them box it up for me, and I walked home. Good thing it was close. I raced straight for the bathroom and stood at the sink. I didn't feel as sick as I did when I was at the restaurant, but I didn't feel good either. I ended up suffering through a pretty bad battle with the shits. I'd won, but I was left in a weakened state. After about a half-hour on the bowl, I made it out on to the futon where I laid motionless for about eight hours.
H and her boyfriend fled town. "We can't go out again tonight," they said. There was a Halloween party at the barn going down, and everyone was going. P was again sunk deep into the couch. After H and her boyfriend left. We both sat in the living room in almost complete silence, laying down under blankets on opposite ends of the room watching television.
We watched the Fat Albert movie. Then college football--USC v. Washington State followed by Hawaii v. Fresno State--after the second thing, P got up off the couch, got dressed and headed out to another party. I was still planted firmly in the futon. H's dog laid down next to me. He didn't get drunk the night before, but I think he was feeling sympathy pains. He knew who would be feeding him dinner.
At about 8pm, the head ache was almost completely gone, but now my stomach was making noises. Different kind of noises. I got up and tested the waters with a couple of tortilla chips. No adverse reaction. I grabbed the styrofoam box of breakfast and heated it up and tore into it. Human again.
I figured I'd just stay in, but I got a call. One of the women I work with said she didn't care about my hangover and that I was to get my ass out of the house and get in my costume and meet them at another coworker's house ASAP. I didn't have a costume. And I couldn't find anything to put together, so I just got in a shirt and tie and some dress pants. I put my nice jacket on, brushed my teeth and left.
The coworker who called me was dressed as a nurse. Now that I think about it, I should have made a crack about her crappy bedside manner, but at the time, I really couldn't think that much. I still felt like roadkill. It was just me and five women at the house and they were all tanked on martinis and putting on makeup.
The party was fun. A band played a nice set. I nursed a Smirnoff Ice and a Keystone Light over the course of four hours. I was able to drive a whole slew of drunk people home safely and without getting pestered by the fun police. I guess I should get a medal.
1 comment:
Martinis? Martinis? My god, have they not heard of Margarita's?
Happy belated Halloween J!
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