The Hangover

Laying in bed, with the room spinning around me, every pore in my body flushed with sweat and a wave of intense nauseousness overcame me in an instant. Like a puppy who doesn't want to "weewee" in his own crate, I sprung out of bed and ran to the bathroom. Although I was severely intoxicated, I knew darn well who would have to clean up the puke fest that was about to take place should I not make it to the bathroom in time.

I clumsily fell to the floor, feeling the cold tile against my skin. For a split second I thought I might be okay. Maybe I can bounce back from this. On second thought, No, I can't! I gathered my strength to lift the lid and then the dreaded seat. Please God, I cannot deal with seeing pubic hair in an old urine drip. Not only is that more than I can take, but I'm pretty sure that is more than I deserve.

As I clung to the gleaming white toilet bowl, heaving up the last bits of tuna poke, onion rings, and too many rum and cokes to count, I can honestly say that I have never been so damn happy to have a cleaning lady. Sure, I always appreciate a clean bathroom - especially when I don't have to clean it. But that kind of appreciation pales in comparison to actually having a clean toilet when you need it the most.

There is a God! Not only was it gleaming white, but there were even a few faint specks of fresh Comet residue. I was free to puke about the place. And I had heard this before, but now I'm sure it is true. If you play Sarah McLaughlin's "In the Arms of an Angel" in your head - it makes any situation a very sad one. As I knelt on the floor, I had that song playing in mind, and it was indeed a sad, sad moment for sure.

At one point, I even pleaded for my husband to assist me during this horrific episode. Luckily, I mustered the strength to say, "Get. Me. Sprite. And a pillow." I knew I was going to be there awhile...and I was right. Like the attentive husband he is, he brought me my favorite pillow, a blanket, and large glass of Sprite nestled between the plunger and garbage can.

The smell was gross. The taste in my mouth was even worse...a very bitter cross between chunky and acidic. Around 4 a.m., I pulled myself together long enough to crawl back into bed. I tried to keep up my normally very positive attitude.

I bet I'm through the worst of it.
My stomach has got to be empty by now. 
Maybe I can utilize this experience to jump start my weight loss program.

Well, the first two turned out to be true anyway.

When I woke up the next morning, I have to say I felt a little too old to be dealing with a hangover. I mean, is it really becoming for a 38 year-old mother of three to drink anything labeled an "Adios Mutha Fucka?" I don't think so. Luckily, this type of behavior happens at most - once a year. I guess the fact that it is only February means the remainder of 2011 is going to be awfully boring! (And most likely lacking tuna poke).