Archive | cocktail flu RSS feed for this section

The Truth About Getting Older

28 Apr

Let’s take a moment to talk some truths on what it’s really like to get older.  Not talking here about how wrinkles suddenly begin appearing on your forehead, or your neck.  The neck wrinkles are what really throw me.  I have a girlfriend who is six years younger than I am but she’s got the neck of a 70 year-old.  How does that happen?  At 39, I’m proud to have the neck of a 32 year old.  But do dudes really notice that?  Don’t think I’ve ever heard a dude say, “She was hot, but her neck wrinkles were a total turnoff.”

But I digress.

Let’s talk about the important stuff: how fucking terrible hangovers are when you’re older.

It’s cute when I hear my young friends say shit about how they were hungover.  How they had a tinge of a headache, took an hour nap, and then felt so much better.  I remember those days – about 20 years ago.  A hangover in college was nothing – it literally felt like I was about to get a bit of a headache.  All it took was a glass of water, a 15 minute nap, and I was golden.  Fast forward two decades and it almost feels like I need to call 911, have a full blood transfusion, a new liver, and a lobotomy to feel better.  Fucking worst.

The really stupid part is that they’re so easily avoidable, I mean, how hard is it to just say no to that one last drink?  That delicious drink that is heaven in a glass?  My limit is four – I know it is – and yet there are times when I think to myself that as long as I drink another glass of water that I’ll be fine.  Then 3 hours later I’m laying in my bed having a panic attack because I know the hangover is going to get me.  A legitimate panic attack – not awesome.

For those of you who are still young, here are all the awesome things you have to look forward to:

  • Headaches: headaches that feel like your brain will explode out of your forehead causing your eyes to pop out, and then your brain to ooze out of your eye sockets.
  • Dry mouth: the Mojave dessert will reside in your mouth.  No amount of lip smacking, tongue tapping, or water will be able to quench the dryness that settles in your mouth.  You could take a match and strike it on the roof of your mouth.
  • Queasiness and vomiting: you will want to vomit the world.  Your stomach will rumble, and you probably won’t be able to hold down the water that would actually help you get rid of the hangover.  There will even come a moment in the middle of the night where you might think, “I should probably just make myself get sick and I’ll feel better.”  Then while you’re vomiting last night’s half digested pepperoni pizza you come to the realization that no, vomiting is going to make you feel better.  Only God striking you dead on the bathroom floor will make you feel better.
  • [And now the part that no one ever wants to talk about] Stomach cramps and the big D: get ready for (I’m struggling to actually write the word because I hate talking about it so much that I’m just procrastinating and trying to avoid it but I feel like I need to tell you how it really is so I’m talking myself into it and trying to avoid it all at the same time so I just am trying to figure out how to just write it and it’s making me nervous and grossed out at the same time but here we go so get ready…) explosive diarrhea.  It’s going to happen.  You, my friend, are going to get to a moment when you say to yourself, “I am rotting from the inside.”  It’s going to happen, and you might cry while it happens because it’s so incredibly disgusting, and you should cry.  Because you did that to yourself.  You did that – you made your body do that and it’s your fault.

Typical recovery time can be anywhere from 24 to 48 hours.  No joke.  And I’ll tell you what?  They morning you wake up after having fought off the hangover is like being totally reborn.  You could conquer the world you feel so fucking amazing.  And three days later when you’re at Happy Hour and you’re still apprehensive about whether or not you should have one more drink, I hope you remember when you were sobbing on the toilet because your insides were coming out your backside.

And that, young friends, is what you have to look forward to.

Advertisements

I’d Rather Have Bieber Fever than The Cocktail Flu

10 Feb

Just kill me.  Seriously, just put me out of my fucking misery and kill me.

I am paying for all the fun last night.  Epic fun.  There were drinks, there were more drinks, there were deviled eggs, there was a cute 23 year old whom I totally should have gone home with.  Only then I started thinking that I could totally be his mom and if I had been on MTV’s 16 and Pregnant that one of my kids could have grown up with him – which means I would have been molesting my kid’s friend.  That totally kills the vibe.  Then there was more drinking.  I have vague memories of being at dinner.  Here’s an example of how wasted I was.  I ordered a hamburger, and then when the brought it out I was so surprised and confused that they had brought me a hamburger when I didn’t order one.  Oh, nice.

Then my drunk ass took the 12:49 train from the city.  Yeah, I was the drunk bitch who passed the fuck out on the train. Thankfully, I didn’t miss my stop.

Somehow I managed to stumble home, threw my coat on the floor and stomped up the stairs. Only to find that I had stripped the bed of all the sheets.  A normal drunk person would have just said, “fuck it” and passed out without the sheets.  No, but NO, my drunk ass decided to make the bed at 2 in the morning.

Fast forward to 7:00 this morning when the hangover hit.  So I decided to pretend it wasn’t happening – if I just closed my eyes and talked myself out of it it would go away, right?  Yeah, that shit doesn’t work on hangovers.  2:00 PM was the magic hour when I finally got my ass up out of bed.  It’s 6.5 hours later and I’m ready to go back to bed for the night.

Now the only thing that remains is the desire to die.

The morning after

2 Nov

I want to vomit and I want to die. Though not necessarily in that order. Long night of drinking turns into a long day of cocktail flu. Swore up and down I wouldn’t drink that much and wouldn’t stay out too late.

Four cocktails and two beers later I looked at the clock and noticed it was past 1:00 in the morning. Guess I was wrong. Thank god I didn’t order one last round at 1:30. Can only imagine how amazing having my stomach pumped would feel.

But we had such a magical and romantic time. He spent hours talking about his wife, and how if she ever cheated he’d leave her, and how he knew they’d be together forever, and how lucky they both felt to have found one another, and how much he loved their new baby. Really romantic. And then there was that awesome time when we were at the bar and our legs accidentally touched so he totally readjusted himself and moved as far away as possible without actually changing seats. It was great.

I want to vomit.  And die.

And then make out with him.  But not necessarily in that order.

My liver’s not what it used to be

24 Oct

Here’s what I learned after my reunion with my friend from college on Monday: I’m too old to be going out on a Monday.  Three beers – with a very high alcohol content – knocked me on my old ass on Tuesday.  As a matter of fact, it’s quite possible that I’m still drunk right now.  Yes, I know it’s two days later, and yes, it’s possibly related to the fact that I had another beer today.

Sunday night it seemed like a good idea to go drinking.  Monday afternoon it seemed stupid.  Monday night it was an amazingly awesome idea.  Tuesday morning I cursed myself while dragging my ass into work.  Tuesday night I was so happy to go to sleep. And tonight going out seemed like a smart plan.

Will let you know how it all plays out tomorrow.  If you don’t hear from me, it’s because I’m too drunk to type…until Friday night when I’ll be in my pajamas by 5:30 and will be in bed shortly thereafter.

Getting old is super lame.

The Easter Bunny Can Suck It

9 Apr

Day after Easter and there’s no Easter candy to be found at my house.  No hollow chocolate bunnies.  No Reese’s peanut butter eggs.  No jelly beans.  No damn peeps.  Nothing.  Not a damn sugary tasty bit of goodness.  Why?  Because I was robbed.  Somewhere along the way life took over and decided that I was too old for Easter baskets.

That, my friends, is a chocolate covered load of bunny crap.

Next year I want an Easter basket piled high with stuffed animals, and too much candy.

Know what the Easter bunny did bring me on Easter Sunday?  A gift that made me repent for all my sins – and I’m an Atheist (shocking, I know).  A gift that made me want to bury my head in my hands and cry, or vomit, or vomit and then cry.  That’s right, I had a hangover on Christmas.  I’d like to blame my brother-in-law for that.  No, he didn’t force the red wine down my throat – but it’s his fault there wasn’t something more suitable to my liking at his house.

Note to self: never drink red wine again.  Ever.

Nothing like hanging out at mom’s house while trying to get the house to stop spinning and praying to the sweet baby Jebus that you don’t vomit all over the Easter ham in front of your niece and nephew.

Black Label

13 Jan

I love happy hour. And I love half priced drinks and hanging out with friends. It’s fun! Plus it keeps me from being on my couch all night, clearing out my DVR, and wishing I had simeyhib better to do.

I can’t remember why I thought it was a good idea to suggest doing shots of Johnnie Walker black label last night. Nor do I remember why, after my friends said they didn’t want to, I bought a round anyway then yelled at them to do it.

Happy hour is awesome. Hangover at work the next day is not. It’s like hooking up with someone and thinking maybe you shouldn’t do it, then waking up the next morning and hating yourself for doing it.

“Tequila” is mexican for “You Will Want to Die”

5 Nov

It’s 2:00 in the afternoon, I’m in a tropical paradise, and all I want to do is die. If I weren’t so hungover I’d pull myself out of bed, fling the sliding glass doors open, and jump off my balcony. Sadly, I’m too scared to do it. Not because I don’t want to die, but because I’m afraid that moving that much would make me vomit. Again.

Fuck you, tequila. Fuck you.

I should have trusted my judgment and told the waiter to run away with his unopened bottle of tequila last night. Instead Oingo Boingo and I proceeded to rip it open and pour it down everyone’s throats. I know I did at least four shots…and that’s on top of the mixed drinks and champagne.

I woke up several hours later, naked in my bed. How I managed to take my contacts out without losing an eye is beyond me. Too bad I only managed to put one away. The other is lost. Glasses for the rest of the trip! Not that it matter because I’ll probably die in this room.

What will they tell my mother?