Scene: 4:00 am, I roll over in Joe’s childhood bed realizing that this is the moment. This is the time. Yep, this is right about when I’m going to puke. In the dazed still-drunkenness of early morning, I realize in slow motion that no, I’m not going to throw up just yet, but I need some fluids in my system to heal.
4:05-4:40: Travel down narrow staircase to Moroni kitchen. Desperately search for icy cold water. Diet Coke in adundance. Will not do! Drunk, already hunkered down in a thunderstorm of pre-hangover nausea, yet still avoidant of tap water. Find one remaining water bottle in fridge and bring it upstairs to drink. *Joseph has a normal sized house. In current state, every action seems to take 89 minutes.
4:49-5:20: Swig water bottle on floor next to dead bug the size of pinky. Realize vomit is inevitable, but that even when sober and peppy the journey to Joe’s bathroom is treacherous (narrow stairs, obstacle course around unfamiliar furniture to other side of house). Grab first plastic bag in sight and line garbage can before passing out in bed again
6:11: Barforama!! Otherwise known as, “Are you there, partially-digested baked beans? It’s me, Margaret.”
6:13- I swear to GOD 7:45: Sit on floor staring at garbage can. Think of fond memories of Holly puking into unlined wire garbage can. Feel resourceful. Realize that the Ann Taylor Loft (hey, I’m savvy with the dolladolla bills y’all) garment bag o’vom is only loosely tired at the bottom end. Cry inside. After another month of sitting on the floor contemplating a) life and b) how the hell I’m supposed to sit at mass in three hours, I get up and clutch the bag in a certain way where nothing spills and hey, I’ve designed a new form of hobo hand(barf)bag. Feel like a genius once more. Decide the bag needs to be brought downstairs to the trash can. Finally make it downstairs only to literally wander his house forever thinking about what to do. You know how when you’re hungover even breathing is laborious? Well, try attempting to stash a 4-foot sheet of plastic filled with vomit in an already-overflowing garbage can while desperately hoping the boyfriend’s parents don’t wake up and see you with your greasy, smoke-filled hair in the grossest half ponytail imaginable, sporting a green practically tie-dyed muumuu dress, creeping around barefoot and snuggling up to a travel pouch of intestinal contents. Hubba hubba. Oh, and then drink a Diet Coke.
7:50-8:30: Get back upstairs. Have forethought to line the garbage can with another plastic bag. Back to bed.
8:30, 30 seconds: Must vomit. No, I can hold it in. So tired. WOHP! (sound made as ‘holding in’ of vomit is futile)
8:33: Begin the good ol’ song and dance of “OMG HOW CAN A FAMILY SURVIVE WITH ONE MEDIUM-SIZED TRASH CAN THAT IS FILLED TO THE BRIM, WHERE’S A NIGGA S’POSTA PUT HER VOMIT BAG?”
9:30: Wake up in bed to Joe's mother whispering “Joseph? Allie? Joseph?” outside the door. Doting boyfriend kindly explains that no, mom, we can’t go to mass, Allie had one too many, as in two, rum and pineapple concoctions last night made from a rum so bottom shelf it was imported from the underground railroad, or something else below ground, har har har, in addition to her 5 cups of foam from a keg, and now she’s puking in bags and stashing them all over your house.
4:05-4:40: Travel down narrow staircase to Moroni kitchen. Desperately search for icy cold water. Diet Coke in adundance. Will not do! Drunk, already hunkered down in a thunderstorm of pre-hangover nausea, yet still avoidant of tap water. Find one remaining water bottle in fridge and bring it upstairs to drink. *Joseph has a normal sized house. In current state, every action seems to take 89 minutes.
4:49-5:20: Swig water bottle on floor next to dead bug the size of pinky. Realize vomit is inevitable, but that even when sober and peppy the journey to Joe’s bathroom is treacherous (narrow stairs, obstacle course around unfamiliar furniture to other side of house). Grab first plastic bag in sight and line garbage can before passing out in bed again
6:11: Barforama!! Otherwise known as, “Are you there, partially-digested baked beans? It’s me, Margaret.”
6:13- I swear to GOD 7:45: Sit on floor staring at garbage can. Think of fond memories of Holly puking into unlined wire garbage can. Feel resourceful. Realize that the Ann Taylor Loft (hey, I’m savvy with the dolladolla bills y’all) garment bag o’vom is only loosely tired at the bottom end. Cry inside. After another month of sitting on the floor contemplating a) life and b) how the hell I’m supposed to sit at mass in three hours, I get up and clutch the bag in a certain way where nothing spills and hey, I’ve designed a new form of hobo hand(barf)bag. Feel like a genius once more. Decide the bag needs to be brought downstairs to the trash can. Finally make it downstairs only to literally wander his house forever thinking about what to do. You know how when you’re hungover even breathing is laborious? Well, try attempting to stash a 4-foot sheet of plastic filled with vomit in an already-overflowing garbage can while desperately hoping the boyfriend’s parents don’t wake up and see you with your greasy, smoke-filled hair in the grossest half ponytail imaginable, sporting a green practically tie-dyed muumuu dress, creeping around barefoot and snuggling up to a travel pouch of intestinal contents. Hubba hubba. Oh, and then drink a Diet Coke.
7:50-8:30: Get back upstairs. Have forethought to line the garbage can with another plastic bag. Back to bed.
8:30, 30 seconds: Must vomit. No, I can hold it in. So tired. WOHP! (sound made as ‘holding in’ of vomit is futile)
8:33: Begin the good ol’ song and dance of “OMG HOW CAN A FAMILY SURVIVE WITH ONE MEDIUM-SIZED TRASH CAN THAT IS FILLED TO THE BRIM, WHERE’S A NIGGA S’POSTA PUT HER VOMIT BAG?”
9:30: Wake up in bed to Joe's mother whispering “Joseph? Allie? Joseph?” outside the door. Doting boyfriend kindly explains that no, mom, we can’t go to mass, Allie had one too many, as in two, rum and pineapple concoctions last night made from a rum so bottom shelf it was imported from the underground railroad, or something else below ground, har har har, in addition to her 5 cups of foam from a keg, and now she’s puking in bags and stashing them all over your house.
Well, at least I got out of mass. But most importantly, his parents laughed at me and poked fun at me and treated me like their daughter rather than the Jewish Yankee With a Drinking Problem Who Shouldn’t Be Allowed to Marry Our Son.
Now, I only hope that this post hasn’t dropped my readership from 1 to 0. But I must tell you, the image of Allie, schlopped-up Tituba hairstyle, in muumuu, wandering aimlessly around the boyfriend’s parents’ house with a garment bag full of barf clutched in a death grip like a trophy, will forever bring a smile to my face. Even crumpled up in bed in the midst of all the pukey dizzy drama, I was already laughing at myself. And this makes me afraid that no, I’ll never stop drinking. To life, to life, l’chaim!
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