Listen, my children, and if I’m able I’ll talk about Alexi Vrabel. On the eighteenth of June, in Twenty-eleven Hardly a man is now in heaven because just last weekend occurred this fable.
Okay, I’ll cut the Henry Wadsworth Longfellow version of this story and just tell you that I’m a twenty-four year-old woman who got slizzard for the very first time in her life this past weekend. I know some of you are like, “I’ve seen Tequila She-Beast before, whatchu talkin’ ‘bout?” And some of you are like, “That one time you were fun, wasn’t that because you were D?” And I’m like, “No, I was buzzed. Tipsy. I’m talking about REAL LIFE, DISASTEROUS DRUNK.”
It all started with a wedding. My friend, Laura, whom I’ve known since elementary school, was getting married to her high school/college/grad school sweetheart, Grant. I went to high school with both of them, and I always liked them as a couple, so I was really happy about this wedding. In fact, I cried four times at the ceremony, like the premenstrual fool that I am.
Anyway, like I said, this was a high school romance. This means that 27.4% of my high school class (we had a graduating class of 51 students) was in attendance. I was not allotted a date on my invitation, so, I was staring at the mouth of a demon that took its form in a mini-high school reunion. And I was never the class favorite, that’s for sure.
Cue the rum and pineapples.
One by one, the cocktails came. Some were even delivered to me by Bayside Academy Class of 2005 alumni. It was strange. Somehow, they weren’t rum and pineapples; they were little elixirs offering the power of social prowess. I was congratulating the cheerleaders on their engagements and comparing cell phone pictures of dogs with the football team and student council.
After six Magic Potions, I stumbled in my stylish, assymetrical, black suede pumps over to my clutch on a well-decorated table. I dug out the iPhone again…but this time to text my boyfriend. (I want everyone to know that there were zero misspellings and grammatical errors, thankyouverymuch.)
“Can you pick me up in 45 minutes?” “Actually, can you pick me up right now?”
I had to leave my car overnight at the reception hall in order to get home safely with my boyfriend. The whole car ride, I knew I was being loud, repetitive, and so dumb…but I couldn’t even stop myself. I kept asking him if I was annoying or if he liked me less. He always had the most pageant of answers.
We got home, and I declared that I needed a shower. I proceeded to sit and lay alternatively in the shower. The Boy kept making sure I was okay. But I wasn’t. I was hot. Too hot. I got out of the shower and into a towel. I plopped my wet ass onto the bathmat. My nursemaid came by and was giving me advice (he went to a big college, which always translates into having many courses on drunken practices). I told him to “get out right now” as I lifted the toilet seat.
I threw up.
I kept thinking about how my mom still, to this day, comments on how neatly I would vomit as a child. Nothing had changed. I’ve maintained my puke skills like a pro.
I flushed and called to The Boy. “HEY! Can you bring me the Tilex? This toilet has a ring. I want to clean it.”
Yes, I cleaned the toilet as I was recovering from heaving everything out of my system. The Boy rather liked that quality about me.
He retrieved a bucket and a bottle of water and put it by my bedside. We stacked my pillows so I’d sit upright and turned the TV onto Bravo. I took two Advils (the kind that tastes like candy), and I fell asleep to the hum of housewife banter while sitting completely vertically.
THEN I WOKE UP AT 7:30AM TO GO ON A KAYAKING TRIP WITH MY BOYFRIEND. Because when someone takes care of you, you take care of them.
And that, my dear friends, is the tale of my first puke-drunk experience.