Monday, January 4, 2010

TMI for 2010.

I woke up mid-morning on January 1 with my face in a pot. There was a towel under the pot. And a bottle of water next to it. The Ex was moving around the camper's kitchen, asking me if I wanted some Gatorade. I drank a bit and then set the cup on the floor.

I woke up awhile later (ten minutes? An hour?) and the Ex was boiling something on the stove. Apparently, he was attempting to sterilize the pot I had puked in repeatedly throughout the night.

"I'm so sorry..." I moaned.

I rolled off of the bed he'd made for me out of sleeping bags and stood up, dizzily. A shooting pain ripped through my hip. "Why does my hip hurt?" I asked.

"Because you fell when you staggered back into the camper this morning," he answered.

"I fell?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said. "Twice."

Aww, crap. WTF happened???

Too exhausted and sore to figure it out, I fell back asleep for a couple of hours. When I woke up, I was alone in the camper. I vaguely remembered hearing the Ex and the Kidlet getting ready for a ride on the quads, but I had no clue how long before that had been.

I managed to get myself to the sink before throwing up. Not much came up but pink bile. I wasn't worried because I was pretty certain it was the Gatorade that had been red. Dizzily, I got myself to the bathroom. As I sat on the toilet (which is in the same place as the shower of the toy hauler), I was suddenly dizzy and hot. I stripped off my shirts and leaned my head against the door.

Sweat poured off of me in rivers. I tried to kick off my pants, but they were tangled up with my silk thermals around my ankles.

My stomach was a mess. I couldn't decide if I needed to poop or to puke. Apparently, I needed to poop. But as I closed my eyes and leaned against the door, all I could do was hope that I wouldn't puke until I was done pooping.

And then I woke up. Face-down in the shower. It was when I knocked my face against the shower floor when I woke up. Apparently, yes. RetroMama passed out while on the toilet.

I managed to scramble up off the floor and strip off the rest of my clothes. I crawled back into bed where I probably passed out again.

The Ex came in to check on me and asked me how I was doing. I told him I'd passed out on the toilet and he begged me to let him tell one of our friends. I was beyond caring at that point. He came back awhile later and told me everybody was hanging out on a rock near our campsite and I should get dressed and come out, blaming The ScapeGoat for feeding me so much champagne and then I could go back to sleep. He told me I needed to just show my face. One of the other wives hadn't emerged yet, so I would be okay if I owned it.

The problem was this: I didn't know what I needed to own.

I remembered being handed the enormous vodka tonic at about 11 or so. I remembered going and trying to get the Ex to come out for the midnight festivities and him refusing. I remembered having a (plastic) glass of champagne at midnight and some hugging and kissing. I remembered going back to the camper to say Happy New Year to the Ex, and him refusing (again) to come out. We said Happy New Year and I kissed him. But nothing happened.

I remembered going back to the campfire and ripping one of the teenagers a new one about his cell phone and texting activities. I remembered yelling at one of the other teens to stop interrupting me. Somehow at that point I had an entire bottle of champagne in my hand. And I was drinking from it.

I remembered that at some point, all of the wives came trooping into our camper, trying to get the Ex to come out. We all kissed him and left without him. There was dancing in someone's camper.

I remembered that there was some guy who was camping at the other end of our circle that was there. I was talking to him when I threw up. Draped over one of the little girl's quads. Apparently, I only hit the back wheel.

I finally remembered falling when I tried to get into bed. But that was pretty much it.

I dressed as quickly as I could (which was probably really slowly) and made my out to the rock. I walked up with a smile on my face and the middle finger on my right hand pointing to the sky. I headed straight for the ScapeGoat.

It was out at that rock that I found out that I had been walking around with a second bottle of champagne when I'd gotten sick. And the ScapeGoat thought it was really cute to ask if I wanted a Bloody Mary. Or perhaps some champagne?

I told him to "fuck off" and said that I would probably never drink again. That I didn't feel that bad except for the whole "passing out while taking a crap" thing. Stunned faces all around. The Ex was impressed that I admitted it in front of the whole group.

I hung out for awhile and then headed back inside and fell asleep again.

When I woke up mid-afternoon, I felt hungry. Sore, but hungry. I made myself a couple of sandwiches and went to hang out with some of the wives, refusing the crackers and dips they offered (crab and spinach dips just didn't sound like a good idea)...

Eventually, we would settle in at a new fire that FNBF made closer to our end of the camp. I would refuse every drop of alcohol offered. And things would start to come back to me. I would discreetly ask about the previous night's behavior, and try to piece together the missing 90 minutes.

And when you ask four different people (all of whom were also drunk), you will get four different stories. With four different heroes.

So, I've decided that I am just a very fortunate girl. Lucky to have an Ex that still cares enough to clean me up after a hard night of partying. Lucky that I have friends who look out for me. Lucky that after the night when I was drunker than I've ever been in my entire life (seriously, I've NEVER fallen down drunk before. EVER.), the worst that happened is that I've got a sore hip, a bruised jaw and a bruised forehead.

And it was all my own doing.

Happy New Year.

1 comment:

  1. You know, if you're going to do an Elvis impression, there are much better images to choose from. You've probably got a pretty good pelvic twist/thrust you could show off or some fancy footwork.

    You're lucky I wasn't there. I wouldn't have let you get that drunk and I would have ripped The Scapegoat a new one for offering you more booze!

    I hope your various wounds and sore spots heal quickly so you can get back on the road and get ready for Surf City! One more month!!