I probably didn’t have alcohol poisoning and I doubt anyone slipped me a roofie. Unlike my husband, who says it was probably the 17 drinks I had, I am pretty sure I only had about 12. Vodka. Why can’t I quit you? (Or tequila. Or whiskey. Or rum. OR RIPPLE IF IT’S OFFERED.)
Friday night the girls and I headed to Chevy’s for a birthday dinner (because we’re fancy. Also we needed someplace low-key enough where we could be our usual rambunctious selves and not receive death threats (or threats to be put out, whichever.) I had corn chowder soup that was heavy on corn, light on chowder, but it was actually tasty. I didn’t like the quesadillas I’d ordered, though, so I didn’t eat much of those. Even though I’d made dinner before I left home, being mother extraordinaire that I am (domestication rules!), I didn’t eat any of it because we had extra kids and there’s no buzzkill like that of a hungry, just-visiting child. I had two margaritas plus a few sips from neighboring drinks because vodka. Pay attention.
We drove down the road to party because we are still of party age – of course we are - and I can’t not dance once the invitation has been extended (seriously, click on that link; that one was funny.) I had another margarita. And then I danced. And then I had…something else. Was that a vodka gimlet? A mint julep (“What fantasy is this? Are we hearing voices now like Joan of Arc?” in my Sadie Shelton voice.) I sipped from every drink upon the bar and then I danced some more and wondered why it takes so damn much for me to get tipsy. WHY? I’m just a lil’ ol’ thing. Hours later I was at home still wondering why I can’t throw back two shots and have a buzz, why I have to get the absolute total amount of Novocain to not feel dental work, why I had to have two damn epidurals with the first kid. It’s just wrong.
At 3:00 a.m. I fell into bed thinking about my Listen To Your Mother audition the next day. I still hadn’t decided what to read (OK, I still hadn’t written anything.) At 6:08 my eyes popped open. Something was wrong. What is this, what is this feeling, why do I need to — and I ran to the downstairs bathroom not wanting to have my family hear me hurl before the sun came up (would it have been better if the sun were already up? Doesn’t matter; it was still coming out hours later when the sun was officially there to stay.) I lay upon the sofa until 9:30 when the boy finally peeled himself from the bed (and I am thankful for that usually never happening occurrence.) I dragged myself from the sofa back to bed where I remained until well past noon (with random trips to the bathroom.)
Chevy’s! Chevy’s poisoned me. I should call and complain. They served me bad cheese! But then I remembered that my leftovers went home with Lee and she wasn’t sick so…
The audition! I’m not going to make it. Then here comes Shirley’s loud ass:
I can’t; I’m sick.
Get up. You asked for this, you got it. Get. Up!
I can’t; I’m going to throw up all over them while I try to read.
Get some Pepto, have some applesauce and Gatorade, but you will get out of this bed. And maybe stop it with the vodka.
You hate me.
Even though my sister-in-law did not want to drive me an hour away to Gaithersburg (don’t deny it; I know and I thank you for doing it anyway), we made it there. I’d found an old blog post to read that I thought was fairly funny, I showered, and my sister brought me ginger ale and Pepto. I HAD NOT CONSIDERED WHAT THE MOTION OF THE CAR WOULD DO TO ME OMG OMG PULL OVER BEFORE I BLOW CHUNKS ON THE DASHBOARD AND POSSIBLY IN MY PURSE.
I did not vomit. I did not need the car to be pulled over. I breathed. I put on my game face and the directors laughed in all the right places. I was buoyed thinking I’d done well. And the minute I walked out the door back to the car the charade was over. Please just get me back home. I remained in the bed until well into the following morning, only leaving for the bathroom and applesauce. I lived this way, existing on applesauce, water, and bananas until Monday afternoon. This wasn’t the alcohol. I know what too much drink feels like. This was a food/viral combination and I don’t ever want to see it again.
Shut up, Shirley.