Tag Archives: hangover

Hard Truths

27 Aug

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It is arctic-freezing in the office.

…Two air conditioners war from lobby to the WHS Pimp’s office for the sake of incoming clients, who never arrive. I, meanwhile, have turned to ice, attempting thaw now by spending “lunch” pacing…while one-thumb punching in this blog.

I feel a little bit awful.

…This is because Cecil and I spent last evening getting blitzed. Which seemed like more than just a good idea at the time. It was a long-coming, multi-purpose necessity.

…Like the tater tots and pizza, which followed.

At around 11 pm.

….Also now: a regret.

…Funny thing about blow-out binging…it never seems to adhere to the: “chances you don’t take” regret rule. And why is that? It’s only fucking fair.

But, no. No, but no, but…no.

(Another water swig, pausing to make sure it goes down n’ settles.)

Minimal Hangovers are like the nagging mother of bad ideas. Not a big enough punch in the gut to say, “Wow…am so not gonna do that again in a long while.” More like,”There are smarter/healthier ways of doing things, and you should be a more responsible adult…with two more long work days ahead.”

…Minimal Hangovers are the bitchy little “I told you so’s” of day-afters. Which sorta just pisses you off more than prob’ly a full blown blitzer.

…At least then you could be like, “Yeah! I told you that was a totally serviceable set of reasons to get tanked! See! A repercussion that is equal to the joy/rage/disappointment/situation which preceeded it! Embrace it, as it all pukes out in front of you!”

(More water. And more.)

….Have peed no less than ten times today. An every-swallow effort to force-cleanse in the opposite direction of how it currently wants to. And I have done this. To myself. No denial here. Only regret.

…Regret and insane yearning for some fucking ginger ale.

So: there is that, then.

(Water, water, water…to infinity…)

…Also: I want a taco.

Why?

~D

How To Work With A Hangover

12 Feb

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Due to unfortunate circumstances, today has been one of the longest days ever. 

And it’s all my own damn fault. 

…But no matter whose it is, people have to get up and go to work, every day.  And SURELY I’m not the only person who has unwisely “tied one on” the night before, with nauseating repercussions.  Surely I can’t be the only one who has made facial intimate acquaintance with the toilet bowl that all the co-worker’s butts spend time on.  But just in case this hasn’t happened to you (YET…because I feel I can safely say that “it WILL, oneday”), let me offer you some free advice which may help you to get through the day.

1. Have a one-stall bathroom
Not that you can help what kind of facilities you are given, but I find (after today) that having ones own privacy in which to blow ones own chunks, is always preferred.

2. Clean-Prep
If you are like me: a major germaphobe…then it would behoove you to Lysol wipe down every surface NOW, before the fireworks begin.

3. Prepare the runway
Move all the shit between you and the bathroom out of the way, so an easy clearance of access is made. 

4. Fess up to an ally
When the WHS Pimp (or whatever co-worker you have nearest to you) queries about your strange furniture rearrangements, cleaning kick, and why you look particularly like shit today, just tell them the truth.  If they are decent people they will nod with compassion, and intercept all incoming traffic to stay away from your office.

5. Talk as little as humanly possible
Save all the customer calls for later, and dive into emails and paperwork first.  Pretend that everything is going to be okay.

6. Pre-hydrate
To tell the truth, if you’d done this correctly last night you wouldn’t even BE in this position today.  But everybody makes mistakes, what’s done is done, and all you can do now is prep for the inevitable fallout. Lukewarm mint tea (so as not to scald you later in exit) and vitamin waters are excellent attempts to brave and temper the situation.  You will still lose.  But at least you were smart about it.

7. Once the race begins, be prepared for the long haul
Inevitably, if you’re going to have a hangover at work, it’s gonna be one of the bigger and badder kind.  Which means that this won’t all be over with one little hill climb and deadly descent. No.  That would be too easy.  And not nearly humiliating enough. You need to know, right now, that this is going to last well past noon, my friends…reducing you to a shaking mess of blood-shot-eyes and dry-heaving pile of sick, which in between bouts still has three reports, 25 booking calls, and 13 contracts to do.  So pace yourself wisely.

8. Embrace law of averages
I hate math. But sometimes you can make it work for you.  If you focus enough to take note of each sick bout for a bit, you will see a pattern of time emerge, and can then break up your work load accordingly.  For instance: I know to be true, that this report takes me about 30 minutes to complete per day.  Add an automatic 30 more minutes onto that due to your total lack of brain function or giving a shit, then break it up into appropriate chunks of “non sick time” or “the amount of time you are able to go without hurling your guts out.”  Complete each chunk then take a rest period and prepare for the inevitable.  After it happens, clean up, attempt to hydrate, and repeat.  In this way, you can complete your 30 minute report in roughly an hour and a half, including one extra tea brew, and a couple of nauseating phone answers.

9.  Beware of the false-hope fake-out
At some point it all is going to stop.  Stop for a while.  Maybe the longest of all. Maybe in five minutes it will be even longer.  Maybe it’s already been that five minutes and it’s still “stopped.”  Maybe this is now…for reals…the long-last END of all the — oh wait. Nope. Nope. My bad.

10. Fight the sandman
When this is all over (also known as sometime around 12:30 or so) you will feel utterly annihilated.  Not only because of your personal fight, but adding on top of it all the usual customer crapdom and paperworking insanity that is your average day.  There will be nothing left.  And you’ll find yourself sitting in your swivel chair, staring into space until you are jerked back to reality with a phone ring.  Were you asleep?  What happened?  Where are you?  Oh fuck.  It’s work.  Answer the phone and do your job.  But each time you hang up, the death stare returns again.  You have at least 4 hours left to your day, and now is not the time for sleeping.  So what do you do, now that all your “busy work” of the day is complete?  You make more tea.  You organize the supply closet.  You clean the bathroom. Again.  You consider FBing, only don’t know if you can take an accidental food picture posted by friends right now.  You decide, instead, to open up your blog and post something.  And not just “anything”…a carefully thought-out list of aid to all the poor bastards out there who might, just might, have a day like today.  Only tomorrow, instead.

~D

Contagious Hangovers

7 Jan

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For some reason, I thought that once Boss got a steady girlfriend,  he would start to calm down. 

…He strangely enough, actually picked an age-appropriate one, so I got some silly idea that a grown woman just wouldn’t put up with his mid-life-crises-boozopoly-of-ridiculousness, insisting he suck it up and stay somewhat in control.  So far she hasn’t been much in the way of positive  influence.  He’s not getting any worse, so at least there is that, but it’d be a damn feat of major achievement to sink lower on the scale than he’s already resting at…in the direction of which his personal life of woe has taken him.

To be fair, his wife DID leave him for a woman.

…If you weren’t here for that episode, by all means catch up here.

I find, (after years of careful study), that when a man of a certain age who has been married forever, all of a sudden finds himself wifeless once more…he’s gonna do either one of two things:

1) Revert back to his early College years of never shaving, showering, changing his underwear, doing laundry, eating anything not out of a fast food bag, and walking around smelling like a distillery all the time.

2) Revert back to his later College years of bathing in Aqua Velva, buying ridiculous man-toys (usually in red, with rims), sporting sunglasses (even when it’s raining, and dark, at 7 a.m.), wearing his hat all the time (only backwards), to cover thinning hair…and dressing in tracksuits (with the crotch down to his knees) with blinding white trainers…like he thinks he’s Lil Wayne, and not a 260 lb-plus, bald, white man.

…Boss took the second option, threw in a case of energy drinks and a lot of cheap whiskey, and ran with it.

It’s been a very disturbing ride to have to witness.

I don’t think he owns actual “pants” anymore, for instance. 

…Certainly his Dockers and belts have gone by way of the Caveman, now that there is no one to pick out his clothes for him in the morning.  I suspect that the new line of track suits he’s been living in ever since the break up, are actually servicing as both PJs AND day-wear, as most days (when or if he actually comes into the office…at or around noon or later) he looks like he’s just rolled out of, if not “bed,” at least directly off a counter top, or couch or the seat of his truck cab, and walked in the door. 

You can’t hide the perpetual hangover look, even with Oakleys and ten gallons of aftershave splashed on to attempt it.
 
…Then there is the potty mouth. 

I have ALWAYS owned the title of Absolute Curse Master, here at the office. Always.  This has never in the history of ever, (going on it’s sixth year), ever been disputed.  I’ve put a lot of time and effort into it.  Almost no one, outside of David Mamet, could out “shit-to-the-asshole-pissing-dickface-sunofabitching-pigfucker” their natural inclination to get verbally, offensively, pissed off…with more power…than me. 

…But Boss has been trying.

…And it sounds ridiculous.

…Because these words do not come to him with the natural poetic fluidity that it does to one who has studied it as an artform…so it is forced and heavily repetitive and wholly without imagination or love of the language and musicality of it.

You have to fucking respect the goddamn structure of a correctly pissed-off sentiment, for shits sake.  You don’t just throw “fucks” around at random, every third word.  Unless you’re from the projects, a gang, Boston, Scotland, or Ireland.

EVERYBODY KNOWS THAT.

…Basically, his current lifestyle, (since snipping free from the Lipstick Lesbian who has been training him on how to be a human for the past I-dunno years)…has become a wincing, sigh-inducing, train wreck…leaving us nearly perpetually without an authorizing signature when we need things, a WHS Pimp at his wit’s end without any building report projections, or correct Inventory accumulations, literature and sign prep…a thoroughly pissed-off contingent of Contractors still waiting (since November) for authorization on expense checks and Hotel per diems…and a me…getting yelled at for the 11th time, cuz the “who-de-haw” on that one build STILL hasn’t been repaired, due to the fact that we STILL haven’t gotten a fucking truck order in as yet.

…And this is just ending the “slow season.”

This Friday, we will be opening THREE road shows at the same time…which coincidentally, is ALSO my show’s Opening Night.

…And Boss KNOWS this…

…As I have been reminding him of it DAILY for two weeks.

…So, as my sleepless, perpetually line-running brain, arrived at work at 7:52 this morning and was told by WHS Pimp that Boss wouldn’t be in today, because he didn’t want us to catch his hangover…cuz he’s thoughtful that way…I sorta, a little bit, lost my shit.

It was really a pity he wasn’t here to hear it.

…Cuz I feel it would have grown his cursing lexicon of available string-theory vocabulary, significantly.

And I feel really bad about that.

~D

Death By Wine-ing

4 Sep

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Know what’s not awesome?

Hangovers.

No matter how much fun you are having at the time, there is a limit that every person can contain…we all know what it is, even if we pretend that we don’t.  If you push yourself beyond those limits, there will be consequences.  You may think you will trick them this time…subvert them by drinking ten gallons of water and consuming enough starch to feed all of Italy.  But come six A.M., I promise you, your consequences will be hurling themselves at a toilet bowl, as invisible red-hot pokers skewer your brains. 

Over and over and over again.

…About the time that you think you might die of dehydration and regurgitation of all your inside parts (like a sea cucumber)…that is when you realize that maybe drinking isn’t your real superpower…maybe you mistook this thing that you thought was your “gift”…and maybe you never wanna see alcohol or food ever, ever again.

It’s a quick way to lose eight pounds in a day and catch up on your bed rest.  Other than that, it’s really limited in the “usefulness” department of life.

Sunday was one of those days for me.

Listen, I don’t drink to excess all that often. I never even got my first hangover until age thirty-one (unwisely timed the same day as a tech cue-to-cue.) I may joke about it a lot…but sister here doesn’t deal well with projectiles coming out of my mouth at mock the speed of sound. Mouths are for eating, drinking and kissing. If you want, you can use yours to talk too. What they are not for are assassination attempts on your life. Even if it is sorta your own fault. And especially if you weren’t completely outta control to achieve it all.

This is where “age” starts to suck.

…I mean, come on…there was no hard liquor involved, no mixing of the beer and energy drinks. Just a couple bottles of wine (each)…and some late night pasta. That’s all. What could possibly go wrong with this combo? Certainly people have done it before this. Thousands of people have. Ok, sure…they’re Italian and French and are weaned on it from birth, but if I used that excuse based on my own genetic profile, I’d be able to swill Tequila like water. (Which I found out this one time, that I can’t.)

…The point is: It wasn’t nearly as bad as it could have been. And also, by 6 A.M. there was nothing left over in the “process” department, to spew. Just water products. Not that terrifying blood-bath of red wine one would expect in such circumstances. Instead, I hugged onto my little bucket, with a bad case of the shakes, and tied my hair in a knot on top of my head, squeezing tears out silently (along with my dignity) on repeat over the next three hours.

Three. Hours.

I don’t even know what I could have left to get rid of at that point. Kidneys? Brain matter? At last I just gave into the beast and decided to stop feeding it even water…that dieing might just be my best bet at that point. So I tried to ignore the voice in my head to push more liquids, and passed into a coma-like sleep instead. Honestly, I really cared very little about the eventual outcome and which would win out. I only felt a little bit bad for whoever might stumble onto the body laying beside a bowl of pink Pepto vomit, that I clearly was in no condition to clean out prior to my untimely passing.

Not to totally blow the ending or anything, but I didn’t end up dieing after all. You may have guessed that by now, however. Waking, instead, with the taste of roadkill and rotting sea creatures in my mouth, (which we are all familiar with)…I plodded my way to the kitchen for the making of hot tea and a cold compress of frozen veggies on my brains.

Because I am an adult grown-up!

It’s my word against everyone elses!

I getta pick how I spend my Holidays, dammit!

I getta choose for myself!

This is the thing that they never tell you when you’re a kid: the glory of excess.

…And how it will mock you from the toilet.

…And when you clean out your own barf-bowl.

~D

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