The beer count made a huge jump Friday night, I'm not exactly sure how many, but it usually takes about 15 to induce vomiting, so let's call it 15.Yes, Friday night was the first time I heaved due to drinking in quite a long time. Got to say it would be a brutal experience if I wasn't loaded at the time.
Anyway, Saturday morning gave me a good refresher courses in the many different stages of hangover I experience a day after drinking like that. I'm sure everyone's hangover experience is different, but here what usually happens to me.
STAGE ONE: Waking up. The first 10 minutes of the day I'm in pure amazment that I actually feel great and ready to tackle the day. The thought of going for a bike ride or run actually crosses my mind. I just can't believe how great I feel. I can't wait to drink some more tonight.
STAGE TWO (10 minutes later): While I don't have a huge headache, I realize how tired I am. I think I'll just stay in bed.
STAGE 3 (5 minutes later). I think I'm gonna puke again. Man I feel like shit. I'll never drink again.
STATGE 4 (1-2 hours later). After falling back asleeep and waking up, the day actually begins. I'm exhausted, don't feel like eating, and now I'm filled with deep thoughts about how lucky I am to have two great kids, a great wife and live in a nice hut. Then I start thinking about how stupid it is to get drunk and miss out on some moments with the wife and kids.
STAGE 5 (30 minutes later). Paranoia sets in. If I've been out drinking I wonder just how much money I spent, did I go to the MAC machine, if so, how much did I take out. What stupid things did I say, do, try to do. Is my wife pissed at me? Do my neighbors hate me? I can't remember anything.
STAGE 6 (1 HOUR LATER). I have to do something to prove to the wife I can handle this. I get my arse outside, cut the grass or do some sort of chore to show I'm not totally in the tank (which I am).
STAGE 7 (1 HOUR LATER). Extreme tiredness sets in. I want to lay on the couch and watch the Mets. It's a great feeling. I could do this all day, but here comes stage 8
STAGE 8 (1-2 HOURS LATER). EXTREME HORNINESS SETS IN. Not sure what brings it on, but it happens. I get off the couch and find the wife, but she (and I can't blame her) doesn't feel like dropping whatever she's doing to screw a tired, hungover dude who still smells like a brewery. She hints at some nocturnal activity later, and I'm sent back to the couch. Where stage 9 set in.
STAGE 9 (30 minutes later). I fall asleep while watching the Mets or some other sporting event. Problem is, it's like sleeping on plane where you keep waking up and you're not sure exactly how much sleep you are actually getting.
STAGE 10 (1 hour later). Normalcy is returning as is my appetitte. A McDonald's quarter pounder with cheese would be the best meal in this spot, but due to diet and lack of a McDonald's in my back yard, I settle for peanut butter and jelly and some chocolate milk.
STAGE 11 (1 hour later). I'm completely back to my old self. I'm not tired anymore, no paranoia - I'm able to laugh off the entire night before. How do I celebrate? Crack open a cold one.
There you have it.
Some other notes:
-- Speaking of celebrating, good riddance to Marty Brodeur and the douchebag Devils. You know it's the mark of a team on the decline when a division championship team that was talking about the Stanley Cup just a week ago can take it's only solace in the fact that it swept an injury-riddled team in the first round.
-- When the Canes win the Cup, I want two things. I want them to take that damn cup and parade it through the streets of Hartford for the loyal Whale fans. Then, I want Peter Laviolette to take it to Mike Modano's house and knock him over the head with it.
-- Mark you calendar. Friday, June 9: The great Allen Oldies Band will be playing Maxwell's in Hoboken. In a May show there last year, they played from 10 p.m.-3:30 a.m. WITHOUT TAKING A BREAK. If you are free that night, you must go.
That's all for now.
5 comments:
Cat,
That is effin' hilarious. Nice work.
What I am about to say will draw due rippage, but it is the truth:
I haven't been hung over since New Year's Day.
Clearly, I am trailing in the total '06 taste count by a vast margin. It's like Philly finishing 28 games back of the '86 Mets.
Anyway, I went to a BBQ last Saturday afternoon and was enjoying some frosty tastes for the first time in a long while. It was fantastic.
I had two Fat Tires and two Coronas and was probably a little beyond buzzed (yes, that's how low my tolerance has plunged. Again, pathetic, I know).
Suddenly, I realized we had to leave because I was performing the desk function that evening. So Ericka drove us home, I recouped for about a half-hour, then I went to bang out some pages.
It wasn't so bad at first, but once the tastes wore off and the hot sun from the BBQ turned me tomato red, I was ready for sleep circa 7 p.m.
The following six hours were hell, and to top it off, I then learned it was my night to stay late and check the rag. So I didn't arrive home until well after two bells.
Cat, there's nothing worse than working the night after drinking or a few hours after having a few tastes.
I've worked a few Sundays after a long Saturdya and have totally been in the tank.
It's brutal.
Pete: the Phillies finished 21 1/2 games behind the Mets in 1986, not 28, but your point is well taken.
Working a few hours after tastes is a recipe for disaster. Last summer, I went out to the pitch-and-putt, played a round and had a couple on the course. Only problem was, it got really hot out there, and I knew I was in trouble when I dozed off on the subway. I was lucky I didn't get mugged, but I was totally blown for that entire shift.
(You know who this is, but I'm going to post the comment anonymously anyway to distance myself from the .00001% chance that someone who'd give a damn would read this.)
May God Bless Mrs. Pendleton.
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