Because I haven’t posted in a week. I start this blog wanting to write and now that it’s up and running I don’t feel like writing. It figures.
I really don’t feel like doing anything, truthfully. Sleeping. That I feel like doing. Again, perhaps it’s the heat? I don’t know. Well, bear with me. I’m sure the urge to write will kick back in soon.
I’m back from the little vacation and now I am in my post-vacation depression. It happens every time I return and it takes me weeks to recover. It’s so bad that I’m thinking of never going on vacation again. Ok, that’s not entirely true. But it does seem to get worse with every vacation I take. *sigh* Does anyone else suffer from this?
We went to Amelia Island, Florida. Those of you who read my old blog will think I’m crazy when I say that I LOVE it there. It’s crazy because I hated Florida so much that I complained incessantly about it and vowed never to return to that “God-forsaken swampy shithole” once we left. However, in my defense, Amelia is only a few miles over the Georgia state line, and it’s safe to say that a good portion of the population there (both visitors and residents) are from Georgia. I can tell by the accents, the Georgia Bulldog red everywhere, and the friendliness. Oh, and all those Georgia plates in the resort parking lot are a good clue, too.
This was our second trip there this summer and The Husband and I are so enamored with it that we are already planning to buy a home there. We want to do it sooner rather than later because the real estate market in Florida is so bad right now and homes are ridiculously cheap. I mean, we wouldn’t be living right on the ocean or even the marsh, but mid-island homes can be had for a steal and there’s beach access every few blocks. This plan of ours is ludicrous to us and everyone we know. Why? First, as mentioned previously, we vowed loudly never to return to that state again (except to visit Disney World). Second, we don’t even own a first home – I mean, we live with my parents! And last and most important, we don’t even have jobs. Hah!
Here’s the really insane part – we love it so much that we are actually looking for jobs in Jacksonville. Wow. Considering we just relocated to Atlanta because we hated Florida so much, I have to re-read what I just typed for it to sink in. How stupid are we?
Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I did not move back to Georgia weather like this! It’s hot. It’s humid. It’s Texas hot and Florida humid – a real bad combo. I just keep telling myself that, unlike Texas, the heat will break and, unlike Florida, the humidity will subside.
While driving around Athens today, we saw an interesting and, quite frankly, ludicrous bumper sticker. Athens is a college town so crazy head-scratching bumper stickers are the norm. But this one was so ludicrous, I thought perhaps we were hallucinating. Sadly, we weren’t. It said “Carter/Mondale.” Yeah, because 21.5% prime interest rates were just wanted the American people wanted. Long lines for gas were fun social outings. And because the Iran hostage crisis was a real treat for everyone. What the fuck? Of course, the lady was driving was uglier than a monkey’s butt Amy Carter. I swear she had a moustache. The really scary thing was that she had spawn in the backseat. Heaven help us.
According to my stats, I’ve gotten several hits today from people looking up “pee” and “peeing” and “peed”.
What the fuck, people, what the fuck? If you are someone who found yesterday’s post by one of the above key words, PLEASE PLEASE let me know why the hell you are looking up things involving pee. I would love to know. Really, I would. Do you drink it? Like to bathe in it? Like to involve it in sex? Or do you just like the color of it? I am so curious.
I guess it could be worse. At least pee is sterile.
This is for Liz, bless her poor ass-drinking heart, in the hopes that she may recover that little part of her soul.
Bucket
A few years ago, I worked for a small town law firm. A few of us were pretty close and spent a lot of time at various happy hours around the city. You see, lawyers are a hard-drinking lot and as a paralegal, you learn to keep up. As a lithe 110-pounder who can eat twice her weight, I could keep up just fine, thank you very much. As long as I was drinking water and eating something fried, I could have, say, a drink an hour. I hate beer and wine, so I prefer to stick with the hard stuff and usually the same thing. My point? I wasn’t a lightweight and knew my limit.
Enter the Christmas Party. Oh yes, those two little words strike fear in a lot of people’s hearts. Let me share my humiliating experience with you. I’m not bragging, mind you – I’m commiserating with Liz. And, well, it is pretty freakin’ funny. It was at our little town’s most exclusive restaurant – my boss was a friend with the owner. We had lots of yummy food and plenty of strong drinks. The party started at around 5 pm and ended (at least for me) around 10. I ate the entire time and had four Stoli Vanil screwdrivers. At 10 pm, I was feeling tired and a little buzzed and despite the pleas from my co-workers, including my boss, to stay, I decided to call it a night. After all, we all had to be at work the next day.
As planned, I called my husband and told him I was ready to be picked up. I even asked him to take a co-worker home as well because she was in no shape to drive either. After I hung up, I sat down in a chair in the banquet room, which, by the grace of God, had cleared out. Everyone had either gone home or headed to the bar. After sitting for a minute, I stood up to have one more go round with the loo. Well, I tried to stand up. I quickly sat back down because my head started to spin. I felt horrible. I called my husband back and asked him to come inside to get me because all of a sudden I did not feel well and I really didn’t think I was going to be able to walk straight. At that moment, my boss came back into the room to say goodnight. He said, “Are you alright? You look a little woozy.” With that, I puked all over him. All over his expensive custom tailored lawyer suit and his tasseled Italian loafers. I puked so much, and for so long, they to bring me a bucket from the kitchen (thus earning me the nickname “Bucket”). God bless him, he sat there with me, held my hair, wiped my face and sent a waitress very discreetly to the front of the restaurant to ask my husband to pull the car around back. It took three men to get me to and up into the car. He met my husband with “Hey C, good to see you. K’s had a little too much to drink.” Husband was mortified. He thanked my boss profusely, apologized profusely, and my boss would have none of it. “Happens to the best of us sometimes.” All I could do was mumble “I’m show shorry. I canf beeleeef dis is happennnin. I’m show shorry.” They even allowed me to take the bucket home.
Blessedly, we only lived about five miles down the road because since I couldn’t hold my head upright and my head kept banging onto the side window every time Husband made a turn. Not that I felt it. Once home, he helped me out of the car and into our only bathroom, where I slept half-naked on the floor all night long. By morning, I was all better (save my cotton-mouth and an achy head) and showed up at work. Boss never said a word. I went into his office and apologized yet again. He told me not to feel bad about it – I wasn’t the only one who’d had a bad night. The girl I was supposed to take home? She ended her evening by puking in her boss’s BMW.
After that, I did not drink anything for a very long time. When I did drink again, I limited myself to one. Lesson learned, right?
Turning Wine Into Water
I was excited about seeing the legendary Carole King. Husband’s company sponsored the concert and gave some of its employees free tickets. So, technically, for my husband it was a work event that I was lucky enough to attend. The concert was outdoors at Atlanta’s lovely Chastain Park. Husband’s company provided the food; I was providing a bottle of wine since the park lets you bring in your own beverages.
It was hot. It was humid. I was thirsty. I was hungry. I was late. I arrived as everyone was finishing up their food; Husband managed to save me single chicken kabob and a bottle of water. The concert was starting, so I didn’t want to stand in the very long lines to get anything else. I had my kabob and my water, thinking the lines would die down. They didn’t, and I really didn’t want to miss the concert. Still thirsty, I had some wine. Thankfully, so did Husband’s co-workers. Since it was so hot and so humid, our thirst and the lines for water never subsided, so we continued to drink wine. All told, I think Husband’s co-worker and I polished off a bottle and a half. Each. We are both small women who, admittedly, did not drink wine on a regular basis. We were both smashed.
Now, not being the huge Carole King fans that co-worker and I were, Husband could have prevented this himself by going to get us some water, dammit, so we wouldn’t have to miss anything. But for some reason, he didn’t. So I blame him.
I didn’t really feel all that bad until the concert was over and I had to stand up and walk. Boy, the standing just kills me! Here’s where it gets good. Or bad, depending on your point-of-view. Husband and his co-worker had carpooled over from the office in the car of another co-worker. I was going to take the three of us back to our hotel in my car which I parked…somewhere. I had never been to this venue before so even sober it would have been a little challenging to find the car. But I was smashed, so it was impossible. After thirty minutes of following two very drunk women around a large park, Husband spots the car. I say “There it issssh, right where I lefth it, hunnnny.” We pile into the car, with Husband driving of course. The traffic is still awful, so all we do is sit. I slur “I hafff to pissh like a raashhorsh!” Co-worker slurs “Yeah, me tooooo!” As we were stuck in traffic, there was nothing Husband could do. I almost got out and just peed on the street, now understanding why this is a regular occurrence in New Orleans. About twenty minutes later, Husband pulls into a convenience store. Too late. I had peed my pants about three minutes earlier. Yes, I peed myself, in my car (leather seats, thank God!), in front of Husband’s subordinate co-worker. We both still had to go, so we get out, me with my soaked pants, and stumble into the c-store. I am so glad she was as wasted as I was – she just had better bladder control. We still laugh about it to this day. Poor, poor Husband…..
But wait! There’s more! We got back to the hotel, made sure co-worker got into her room okay, and headed to ours. I somehow managed to get my contacts out and cleaned, I scarfed down my pill, and collapsed into the king size bed to sleep it off. Whew, right? Wrong. About 3:00 am, I awoke, sat straight up in bed, and projectile vomited on the entire bed, the floor, the walls. I am really surprised Husband did not divorce me over this – he had to stay in that room all night long with me and my…deposits. We didn’t know what to do, call housekeeping? No way, he said; too embarrassing. He managed to strip the offending sheets off the bed and put me on the floor, I think. I probably slept in the bathroom again.
In the morning, he left without too many words. I was left to handle the mess. I had to check out by noon, and at 11:15, dragging my ass out of that bed was the hardest thing I have ever had to do. Second hardest was calling housekeeping to tell them that I was checking out and could they send someone up immediately because I had been, *ahem* ill during the night. I then had to spend the next six hours while my husband was in a meeting doing something that didn’t require much movement. I had planned to spend the day shopping. So much for that. I found a nice, cool Barnes and Noble and forced my self to drink coffee, which I hate. After that, I found a shady spot in a parking garage and stayed there for the next few hours, trying not to die.
I cannot put into words how bad I felt – physically and emotionally, knowing the embarrassment I caused my husband. I didn’t drink anything for about two years. Now when I drink, one drink - that’s it. There you go, Liz. Share the joy.
Daddy came out to greet us as we pulled into the driveway Wednesday evening. He greeted each of us with a hug. He told us he had missed us, he’s grown so used to having us around. He asked us if we had heard what had happened. We said no; we’d been listening to the comedy channel on XM for most of the drive. He told us that a bridge in Minnesota collapsed. Um, okay. It didn’t really register with us, not knowing what exactly transpired and being so numb for the road (and other events, which I will detail later). As we went into the house, the TV was on. He described in more detail what had happened. He said he was so glad we were ok.
Earlier that day, we too traveled over the Mississippi River. Without incident. As we’ve done so many times before. Lucky us.
My thoughts and prayers are with the people affected by this tragedy.
