So I'm not eighteen anymore. And I have Saturday morning fresh in my memory to prove it.
You see, I forget this teensy weensy little factoid when I'm out and so, when people suggest tequilas, and Patrons and other shooters, I'm generally game. The magnitude of Saturday's hang over needs to be committed to blog to serve as a future reminder to self.
How To Have A Hang Over:
1) Wake up. Realise The Daughter is with parental unit and pine for her.
2). Check call records on phone. Realise have phoned Larry at 02h36.
3). Send text: Humble apologies for dop n dial.
4). Panic. Wake Teacher Friend up. Receive information that Teacher Friend's battery died and she used phone to phone husband upon return home. Husband's name is Lars, the name directly after Larry on phonebook. Was misdial error which was quickly rectified. Breath sigh of relief (did not remember even thinking about Larry, let alone phoning him. Which is good, I suppose. Since did not actually do either of those things.)
5). Shower. Scrub body with cleansing vigour. Exit. Take headache pills.
6). Receive reply: You didn't...
7). Reply: Good. Do not feel like a total arsehole at all. Brilliant.
8). Brush teeth. Thrice.
9). Go to shopping centre. Attempt to buy cat food for The Cat (which is apt, I suppose, since The Cat is, in fact, a cat and therefore eats cat food.). Pet shop closed. Think may never feel normal again, especially considering am too embarrassed because of perceived alcohol fume emission to exhale in packed Saturday morning lift. And feet are damaged from new heels the night previous to tackle broken escalators.
10). Go to Kauai. Order breakfast burrito. And orange and carrot juice. Inhale.
11). Buy cat food, return home, feed cat.
12). Drive to parental unit's abode. Drive 20 km/h below the speed limit and exhaust self with concentration.
13). See The Daughter. Envelope her. Do not let go until her whingeing ("Crampa, tell Mommy to stop hugging and kissing me") starts to pierce eardrum and bring on fresh wave of nausea.
14). Explain state of being to The Incubator. She advises that there is left-over spaghetti bolognaise in the fridge, as well as two energades which had been bought because of the suggestion that I may be running in her area. (Pffffftttt!)
15). Down energades. Devour spaghetti bolognaise.
16). The Incubator invites self to join her for a cigarette. Puke in mouth a little bit. Find The Daughter. Demand 87 hugs and kisses.
17). Father announces he is going to shops. Suggest that will not make it through day without: two hot dogs, platter of sushi, 1 x litre Coco-Cola, 1 x litre ice green tea and suitably mindless rom-com DVD.
18). Dress The Daughter and Self in rain-proof attire. Hit garden. Aid in the climbing of trees and racing of leaf boats in gutters. Feel incredibly ill, but realise a child who is exhausted from having done something than child who has been kept indoors all day. (Mutter several prayers expressing gratitude at 1) the cooler temperature and 2) the fact that sun is well-hidden and is thus unable to scorch eyeball).
19). Father returns. Devour 2 x hot dogs plus entire litre of ice tea. Suggest TV in bed to The Daughter.
20). The Daughter falls asleep on The Pant's tummy. The weight of child on weak stomach makes self feel nauseas. But enjoy the closeness to The Daughter. Fall asleep.
21). Wake up. Ravenous. Devour entire platter of sushi. Salmon sashimi makes self gag. Consider whether have overeaten or not. Drink cup of tea, litre of coke and two glasses of water.
22). Bath with The Daughter. Try and convince child that splashing and making noise or trying to engage mother in actual two-way conversation where mother is slightly intelligible are bad ideas.
23). Settle on couch with The Daughter. Put DVD on. Fall asleep.
The elderly hangover: A Whole Day Affair.