Hung Over and Over It - The Day After

The B-Party was something to remember, only I don't remember a damn thing. I'm just glad it's over. If only I could have completely fast forwarded through the next day.

Sunday, August 21st

After the prior night's festivities, I wake up at 9-ish, wondering where the hell I am and why my feet are so dirty (a thought I would later recollect). I surprisingly don't feel like I'm on my death bed... yet.

Just as I'm starting to feel a little queasy, my brother (the groom) comes barreling through the door with McDonald's breakfast. My saving grace! I inhaled three hash browns and two breakfast burritos in an attempt to forego the hangover looming in the background. I know that I have a plane to catch and need to get my ass moving. I shower, pack up my stuff, talk to my dad about seeing the cop that arrested me when I was sixteen, and get ready to go to the airport.

I've always had a thing with motion sickness, like whenever I'm in a car or airplane or carnival ride, basically anything that moves. I once threw up on one of friends when I was in sixth grade at the county fair. It was in the ride that you are completely enclosed with one other person and were turned upside down repeatedly while the body of the machine was moving in a circular motion (I'm making myself nauseous describing it). I threw up water melon in my mouth and I turned to my friend to show her that my mouth was full of barf...opps. I vomited projectile style all over the enclosure and all over both of us.

Anyway, the ride to the airport was nothing special except that I was starting to feel a little sick to my stomach. I thought if I could make it to the airport, everything would be alright (yeah, right). I did make it to the airport and said goodbye to my brother by yelling, "It's okay if you have herpes!" I'm glad I still had my wits about me.

In the airport, I purchased three drinks; a bottled water, Gatorade, and a Diet Mountain Dew. Just in case, I also bought some crackers and cherry Twizzlers. As I waited for my plane to board, I knew I wasn't feeling 100%, but I thought I was getting better. I sufficiently hydrated myself and ate the crackers.

I made a joke on the way to the airport that I would have to sit by a fat person or a screaming kid. Well, it turned out to not be a laughing matter because a woman sat right next to me...with a one year old baby (this was one of those "oh shit" moments). I definitely would have preferred fat at this point.

The plane ride was basically hell. It was so turbulent that I would have bounced out of my seat if not for my safety belt being fastened (how are those supposed to save you in a life or death accident by the way?). The headache started in the frontal portion of my head. I was told that I needed to pass out in order to survive the ride. I did for 20 minutes. I woke up and my head had a heart beat. I think my brain was so swollen that it was becoming too big for my skull.

Then the kid started playing with a little toy... that had a big ole bell on it. Next thing I know she dropped it on the floor and began a full on temper tantrum. Oh my God. Now, not only did my head have a heartbeat, but it was throbbing all the way down to my last vertebrae. I seriously thought my brain was going to implode. Never in my life have I felt such pain.

The captain came on the intercom and informed everyone that we were beginning our decent, "into the San Diego area" and that we would be on land in about 25 minutes. That last twenty five minutes was hell on earth. The plane had to travel through clouds again, which meant the it would virtually be playing bumpy cars with air pockets and I was along to join the fun. I had fought the urge to vomit this far and I was determined to make it until we landed, that was until my body said, "I told you were going to pay bitch!" I grabbed a flight attendant by the arm and asked if I could use the restroom. She replied, "Well, you better not seeing as it's so bumpy." Crap. I told her in not so many words that I was going to puke everywhere. She pointed to the little airplane barf bag.

I had no other choice. I puked in the green plastic bag.

I had to hold onto my own vomit until the plane landed. I wiped my hands and mouth on my jeans and felt like shit. The flight attendant came back with a garbage bag and cold and wet towels. A lot of good that did after I had already wiped the chunks off on my clothes.

Finally, people started unloading the plane. I was in the back and had a little wait time. I thought I started to feel better, but that was just wishful thinking. Involuntarily, I practically ran over the other passengers in the aisle to get to the bathroom. The hash browns, breakfast burritos and cherry Twizzlers didn't look so appetizing the second time around. Again, I felt better and convinced that I wasn't going to throw up anymore.

I stagger off the plane and call my husband, who is waiting for me with his two brothers. Shit, shit, shit. I start feeling a rumble in the jungle and I know I'm in for the long haul. I just hope I can make the 20 minute drive to my house.

We drop one brother off at another terminal and begin the journey home. I have my head out the window like dog trying to fight off the urge to puke... and it's a losing battle. I look around and pick up a styrofoam cup, rip open the lid and hurl (I figured if I could puke in an airplane barf bag, I had pretty good aim). The car reeked and my brother in law started dry heaving in the back seat. At this point, I feel like I had slammed my head into concrete block about a million times.

I puke once more into another styrofoam cup, but this session was different from the others. I had nothing left in my stomach and began a series of noises which must have resembled a dying cow. I'm talking throwing up from the deepest, darkest pits of my stomach.

We pull into the garage and thank God. I know I'm on the downhill side of the worst hangover of my life, but not yet totally out of the woods. I throw up, pass out, wake up, try to eat and throw up again. Enough already!

The hangover lasted a total of two days and inspired me to dive into a "non drinking" phase. Thus the title for these last few entries, "Hung Over and Over It."

Hung Over and Over It - The Big Day

After sufficiently embarrassing my family the evening before and waking up with a nagging headache, the last thing I want to do is go to a bridal shower. Who in the hell actually likes bridal showers? I push through the awkward socializing and butt kissing like a champ and try to prepare mentally for the B-Party.

Saturday, August 20th

I'm sitting with the bride to be and my brother (the groom to be) at their place shooting the shit. I feel like I'm going to pass out, but I can't and so I chug a Bud Lite and a Red Bull (my body is saying, "You are going to pay for this bitch!").

Since I was a tequila champion the night before, my brother buys the most expensive bottle of tequila he can find for the B-Party. Bad idea.

The party gets started by all the bride to be's friends coming over. There was a gigantic blow up penis, boobie tassels, an enormous penis flashlight (I carried that around all night) and a cake complete with a frosted penis that stood about 6 inches high. Basically, all the things necessary for a B-Party.

I'm feeling slightly out of place and I figure the best solution is to get everybody wasted. Bring on the tequila!

The rest of the evening was basically disastrous. In between shots at the bar, I had a bisexual lady hit on me. She told me, "You're beautiful and I want to make out with you," and when I told her I was married she said, "Well, haven't you ever wondered?"

Umm... NO!

She was a friend of a friend of one of the girls that was there and I spent the rest of the evening avoiding her.

The night was winding down, or maybe that was me falling on the ground repeatedly, but out of my drunken haze I see a police officer. No, I didn't get into any sort of altercation, but why in the hell do I recognize him?

Oh wait, that's right... he was the police man who busted me for shop lifting when I was sixteen (I'm talking a felony charge and spending some time in the clink)! Of course, I cordially introduced myself and thanked him for setting me straight. He looked at me like I was insane, but I'm sure he was thoroughly impressed that I had obviously taken a new direction in life.

The journey home was filled with peeing in the street, talking shit to random guys and basically all the things a belligerent drunk asshole does. I vaguely remember puking my guts out when I got home and eating some cold ass buffalo wings. But I don't remember calling my husband and he still hasn't told me what the hell I said to him!

The full glory didn't start until the next morning though.

Hung Over and Over It - Meet the Focker's

Well, after my episode of insanity the night before, I managed to pull my shit together for work the next day.

Friday, August 19th

This was the day that I was to fly to Colorado and begin the drunken festivities that are a prerequisite for my family at any social gathering. If I had a problem with hives, I would have an intense breakout every time I thought about my family, let alone have physical contact with them.

My mother and brother, Chester (yes, that is his REAL name... my mom liked the "ch" sound) came to pick me up. As soon as we start walking to the car, Chester gets in my spaghetti by telling me that I look too skinny and that I need to gain about 20 pounds.

Immediately, I want something cold, refreshing and alcoholic in my mouth.

I tell my brother to get off of my nut sack before I drip dirty ball sweat in his mouth. My attempt at shutting his mouth by grossing him out does not deter his efforts.

I also learn in the car that we are going to dinner with my other brother (and groom to be), the bride to be and the Focker's (the in-laws). I guess the Focker's have been waiting to meet me. What the hell does that mean?

We show up at the restaurant where the Focker's, groom and bride to be are already there and are sufficiently wasted (I would be too if I had to endure a shitty Rockies' game at 3:00 p.m.). I order two Miller Lites in a futile attempt to catch up. As usual, I slam the beers, but this time something is different.

I keep trying to get this big burp I have in my throat to come out. I'm sitting in the booth shaking my neck and head like a rooster. Already the Focker's are looking at me like I'm the kid who managed to get out of a locked closet. As it turns out, a burp was not trying to escape my stomach, but a large amount of beer foam.

I proceed to burp foam out my mouth and onto my clothing and the table for a good five seconds. Wow, talk about an awkward moment and who in the hell burps beer foam?!?. I immediately yell at the server and order a shot of tequila for me and my brother, the groom (I'm thinking right about now he needs it). Then I order two more shots for the both of us for good measure.

A little background on my brother, the groom. He is 34 years old, never been married and no kids. He is quite possibly the most tactless person I have ever met (yes, there's somebody worse than me). When I introduced my future husband to my family for the first time, he says, "Hey Martha, how did Donny's dick taste your mouth last night?" Oh, and my dad was in the conversation. This is only ONE instance in which my brother has caused me to feel utter humiliation and there are countless others no less embarrassing. But...pay backs are a bitch!

The dad Focker prods me for a little dirt on my brother, the groom. So, I tell them that my brother's balls are so big that he has a bra for them. Now I'm waiting for my brother's response. It should be something along the lines of, "At least my shit doesn't need padding." I wait and wait...nothing. He just sits there in the corner.

The flood gates proceed to open.

Before I know it, I'm telling my brother's future in-laws the time when he and his friend let me watch soft porn when I was 11 years old while they made a beer pyramid and when, at the urging of my brother, I screamed, "I want to have your baby!" to another one of his friends while he walked to receive his college diploma in front of 5,000 people (I think I was 13?). My poor father.

After taking a breath to reload my air supply, I realize that everyone is starring at me with their mouths wide open. I think Father Focker shit his pants. I hadn't even gotten to the really good stuff. Before I can continue my rant, my mother whispers, "Martha I don't think this is appropriate dinner conversation."

I respond by saying, "Yeah, and it was SO dinner appropriate when my brother (the groom) asked me if I spit or swallowed when I was in college."

I just had to take it to the next level and honestly, I feel no shame. Just to see my brother's face turn from red to purple will put a smile on my face for a long time.

And just think, I still had the bridal shower and B-Party the next day.

Hung Over and Over It

I made it back from Colorado and the B-Party in one piece, but just barely. I would like to give you a synopsis of last Thursday, Friday and Saturday in three separate entries.

Thursday, August 18th:

Since I was flying to Colorado for the weekend, my husband thought it would be a good idea to invite his two brothers out to San Diego for the weekend. I work literally two minutes from the airport and I picked up Brother #1 at the airport at 2:00pm, but before I did this, I dropped off a friend who was flying to Maryland. I had the brilliant thought that I needed to send her off in style. So I bought three little hotel liquor bottles and a diet 7-up. I peer pressured her into drinking two of the bottles before she got on the plane. Being the good friend I am, I drank one with her.

So, I pick up Brother #1 and proceed to head down to the beach to go surfing. Of course, I need to make a liquor store run before going. I slammed two 16 ounce Miller Lites and hop into the ocean with my surf board. No big deal right?

After 30 minutes or so I get out, drink another beer and decide it's a good idea to go for a run... a 5 mile run. The idea is extremely odd in the first place, but that's not the end of it. In S.D. there is a boardwalk that everybody uses to walk, run, rollerblade, bike, etc., and I went running at the time that every Tom, Dick and Harry are exercising.

Then, I just started screaming at people. I thought I am the cheerleader of the boardwalk. Anybody who looks like they are going to break a sweat, I give them a "Good job!" or "Keep it up!" I even pushed the envelope more by yelling at a black lady, "You go sister! That's what I'm talking about!" Seriously, I yelled some words of encouragement to everybody I saw.

At the halfway mark I needed to hydrate myself. I spotted some guys drinking domestic lite beers. Perfect! I slam a beer like my life depends on it and finish off my run, but don't worry, I still kept screaming at everybody that I went by.

It's not over yet.

Finally, I'm back at the beach and I rip off my sweaty running clothes and change into my swim suit. Like a maniac I down two more Miller Lites and run into the water and swam for an hour.

What's up psycho?

Bachelorette Party

My brother, who is 34 years old, has finally decided to forego bachelorhood and join the ball and chain club and I have been invited to the all important Bachelorette Party for his fiance. Since I'm the only sister my brother has, I'm a bridesmaid by default and I feel an obligation to go and mingle with all of her friends.

I have this vision of meeting all of these women I don't know and watching them from the corner of my eye give my the "up and down" stare repeatedly. This group of friends is in their late twenties and early thirties, but it doesn't matter what age a woman is because most of us never outgrow our ability to make an outsider feel completely uncomfortable and socially inept.

Normally, I wouldn't have too many reservations about meeting a new group of people, especially when we're all going to be wasted. But I've already been warned by my brother (the groom) that this particular group of friends can be catty, which becomes apparent when a moderately attractive female infiltrates their territory.

I consider myself moderately attractive.

So, I have to go and make nice with all of her friends that I have never met and I don't even know the fiance that well to begin with!

All bitching aside, I'm going to have a great time getting the fiance plastered. Hey, she's marrying my brother and he would consider it an injustice if I didn't make an ass out of her.

Besides, he's going to Vegas for five days for his Bachelor Party. I would give anything to have some cock n' balls so I could be invited to go.

Ouch

My ass blew up again and again at work today. I feel like battery acid is coming out of my anus. Every time I get the "poopy" cramps, I want to stick a cork up my butt. Instead, I resort to awkwardly excusing myself from whatever meeting I'm in or phone conversation I'm having (because shit can never decide to come at a convenient time) and sit in pain on a piece of uncomfortable porcelain while sweating through my clothes. Not to mention the wide array noises that erupts from my ass. They're kind of like snow flakes...not one of them is the same.

AND I had to scamper into a ditch last night while I was running and crap on in what looked like raw sewage. Oh, and I wiped my ass with some leaves I found. I'm feeling a little itchy-scratchiness going on downtown.

Crapping while running has been my forte since high school. There's not a car I wouldn't squat behind or bathroom toilet I wouldn't stick my ass on. When the Poopy Monster takes over, a person does things he/she normally wouldn't do, unless of course, paid a large sum of money.

Yes, I am obsessed with bowel movements, and it's not just limited to my own.

Basically I can't wait to go running tonight.

Blahhhhhh!

I hate being grown up.

The only good thing about it is I can eat ice cream for breakfast and stay up late watching all the MTV I stomach any day of the week.

But then if I do chose to eat ice cream, I'll have a sugar rush in the morning and feel like crap the rest of the day at work (and work days last entirely too long already) or I'll just end up joining the overweight and obesity club like the other 2/3 of Americans (not that there's anything wrong with that). Same goes for MTV, if I stay up too late, I'm a pile the next day or I think I need to get plastic surgery to look like Angelina Jolie. Now that I think about it, her lips are WAY to big for my head.

I did have a itsy-bitsy chance to live the life of luxury (not that my life is sooooo horrible now), but I married for love. And when you marry for love, the majority of the time it is to a person in the same social class as you. I'm glad I married for love because the thought of having to see some old, fat, hairy in all the wrong places naked man is not my idea of of a good night.

Back to being a lame grown up. Actually, I would rather be financially supporting myself than living with Dad rent and expense free, thus creating a total waste of space. That doesn't mean I wouldn't want the opportunity for a couple of months!

Kids or no kids?

Recently, I've been contemplating the prospect of having children, which is not necessarily a good thing. I'm 25 and my biological clock has started.

At first, my clock was saying, "Hmmm... kids are kind of cute, but you do have to wipe their shitty ass."

Then, it was like, "Ahhh!! Will that freakin' kid every stop screaming!?! I'm gonna...wait, look how cute she is! Oh, the scream is like the sound of angels."

Now, that damn clock is telling me, "Kids are the coolest. Don't you want to be a mommy?"

Basically, I'm doomed. I've definitely caught the baby bug. I sometimes get chills at the idea of me being a "Mom." The whole responsibility of being one of the two most influential people in a child's life is overwhelming. On the other hand, it's kind of exciting! I know that my in-laws and my own family would be hysterical at the notion of my husband and I starting our own brood. And I mean "hysterical" in a good way, seriously I promise.

Then there's the other side of having kids. You know, the whole give up your own life to raise your children to be productive members of society. I'm looking forward to the stretch marks and really can't wait for the throw up in my hair and shit all over the room. And I don't believe that whole, if it's your own kids throw up or shit, it's really not that bad. Are you kidding me?!

My husband and I went to NYC for our 2nd wedding anniversary. There happened to be a heat wave while we were there. Walking around in 100 degree weather with 110% humidity is like being in a sauna, except there's no exit. Anyway, we were strolling down Manhattan and we see this kid in a stroller. The mom is near by and there are other small children around. The kid in the stroller starts coughing and coughing. Then, he threw up red stuff all over himself. The mom was like, "Oh" and shrugged her shoulders.

Gross. So maybe I've persuaded my biological clock to shut up (at least for a little while).