Irresponsible Drinking

My first hangover was one of the least glorious days of my life.

I woke up on a Sunday morning after an Orthodox Jewish weekend retreat for teenagers (haha), in the front seat of a friend's car, smelling of puke (possibly urine?), wearing one shoe, and having no recollection of how I got there.

In brief, my friend proceeds to tell me how I had passed out the previous night after accidentally drinking the majority of what I thought was a water bottle. By that point, I was already so far gone, I couldn't tell that what I was drinking was more "Poland" than "Spring." I was carried in and out of houses, had fingers shoved down my throat (by my crush at the time--mortifying!), and had been somehow fed a muffin in efforts to keep me from dying.

I show up at home, petrified of what awaits me. I should have been back the night before, didn't call to say I'd be late, am wearing one white tennis sneaker and one black sock, have alcohol seeping out of my pores, and am feeling so ill that I no longer want to be alive.

Dad opens up the door, notices nothing unusual as I spin some tale about how there was an optional extension to the retreat, and tells me that I have an hour to get ready...

Get ready for what, you might be wondering, as I was for a brief moment...

Until I remembered that my cousin was having a first birthday party for her oldest son. My entire extended family would be there (the first great grandchild! Kenaiyna Hora!), and I was puking my brains out.

To this day I don't know how I made it through that party without my cover getting blown. I was practically wearing a flashing neon "HUNGOVER" banner on my chest.
I guess my family couldn't imagine that their darling 15 year old national finalist bible scholar cousin/niece/granddaughter was getting shit faced at Russian open houses in Manhattan Beach...


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Over the years, the nature of my hangovers changed. For a while, no matter how persistent I was, I would not get hung over. This may have had something to do with my being perpetually drunk, but I digress.

Time inevitably caught up with me. Hangovers are now full day, complete incapacitation ordeals in which I can hold down nothing-no greasy breakfast, no alka seltzer, no ginger ale... not even water--until about 7 pm. The only things that help are time, sleep and the occasional bong hit.

It's brutal, it's long and I know I deserve it-which certainly does not help.

Some especially memorable hangovers include:
-The day before Yom Kippur 2 years ago. As if that "holiday" isn't torturous enough...
-My last day at SIP (a bar I worked at last year), when I showed up in a tutu as promised, and 40 minutes later paid a girl 50$ to cover my shift
-The day after Killian's goodbye party, when I puked so much from 2 sips of a ginger ale that they almost kicked us out of Red Bamboo and had to sleep it off at her Dad's house

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My last hangover was the result of an open bar fund raiser that I went to with my friends from work. I don't know if job related stress was the root of our binge, or the combination of all our personalities lead to consumption greater than the sum of its parts... but boy oh boy, did we get saucy. To the point that I'm uncomfortable disclosing some of the events.

But to sum it up in one detail, we ended up at some hellacious club called Butter.

And yes, I know how many things are wrong with that.

The next morning, I wake up naked and alone in a room that I've never seen before. Apparently I knew that had I gone home, I would not have made it to work the next day, so my coworker invited me to stay at her place.

Still drunk, we both puke, brush our teeth and get on the train, clutching our heads in discomfort and shame.

Upon arrival, it was immediately apparent that I could not stay at work. I could barely talk to people, every 5 minutes I had to run to the bathroom, I reeked of cigarettes and booze... It was a bad scene.

That week in my office there had been a meeting the theme of which had been "honesty is the best policy." So I called my boss, told him the situation and asked if I could go home. "That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard," was his response.
I'd have to stay the whole day.

(So much for rewarding honesty. Next time I'm calling in with a stomach virus.)

So of course, it gets better. Or worse, depending on your love of tragicomedy.

In my position, interaction with buyers is primarily over the phone. Most of the people I work with will never even know what I look like. But that day, I had volunteered to take someone on a final walk through inspection of their unit.
I had completely forgotten until the concierge called me to say that the buyer was on his way up.

I went to the bathroom, puked again, splashed some cold water on my face, sucked it in, smiled, and walked out to greet him.

We go down to his apartment, and they're redoing the floors in the unit directly across the hall from his. These fumes are unbearable under normal circumstances, and my circumstance is far from normal. The plumbers working on his apartment had been smoking in the bathroom, so the whole back of the apartment smells like an ashtray.
The gods were against me.

I knew it would be a challenge, but I was going to make it through this walk through without tossing my cookies. Again.

So this guy is taking pictures, shmoozing me, getting phone calls, being real thorough... We're talking white glove, fine tooth comb inspection here.
But I'm being a trooper. I'll make it back to the office.

Finally, we're done. I lock up the apartment, walk back down the hall, press the elevator button to return to my office when it suddenly hits me.

Bile rising in your throat is never a pleasant experience, especially when you're in a professional environment and have nowhere to go.

Thankfully (?), some construction workers were in a unit across the hall with the door open. I excused myself, ran into the apartment, kicked a Mexican out of the bathroom, closed the door, and puked my ever loving guts into this toilet.

Only to realize that the toilet was not working.

So I shut the lid, straightened myself out, walked back out and said "sorry about that, thank you for your patience." As if I could salvage any hint of propriety or smoothness at that point...

Hopefully the guy just thought that I was knocked up.


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So obviously, I'm never drinking that much again.

Until the next time.