not dead but dying

Erica brought it to my attention yesterday that I haven't written anything in a while. This isn't because nothing has happened to me lately, but because of a combination of an extreme amount of work, effectively making it impossible for me to take a half hour out of my day for paid blogging, and my ever-present excuse -- laziness. So I will pull together all of my faculties in an attempt to post something today, even though I am pretty sure I killed at least 10% of my brain cells this weekend and am not entirely certain my sentences are complete.

It was Berta's 30th birthday celebration on Saturday, and although I have been taking it really easy on the drinking over the past few months (although Hector would probably disagree) I decided that all the stops would be pulled for this party. We got rooms at the Holiday Inn right next to the bar the party was at, which I feel was extremely responsible and forward-thinking. Unfortunately, Hector found out he would have to work Sunday which put a damper on things and made me vow not to get totally wasted so he would have to deal with me. Cut to 6 hours later, and I am black-out drunk. Apparently, four drinks is all I can handle these days, since it reduced me to falling in front of the elevator and cussing out guys punching security guards outside the bar. Hector says he had to carry me because I refused to walk, and wanted to be left behind in front of someone else's hotel room. Wonderful. So much for Plan A. But on the plus side, I had a really good time before scenes started missing and I remember distinctly having some great conversation with Laura which we don't get to do as often as we should anymore. So aside from pissing Hector off and probably making his day miserable Sunday, things were not as bad as they could have been. Until I woke up Sunday morning. I am not exaggerating when I say I was still pretty drunk. I had the spins, and I had to run to the bathroom multiple times when I was getting my stuff together to attempt to empty the contents of my stomach. Hangover: 1, Me: 0. In an effort to hide the fact that I had smuggled in Sheba, I went out the side door of the hotel rather than through the lobby and spent the next ten minutes painfully making my way in the bright sun around the entire hotel to my car. When I got home I threw everything down and proceeded to sleep for the next 4 hours. You know you're getting old when sleep does nothing to cure your hangover. I woke up feeling only a little better and spent the rest of the day feeling sorry for myself. My dad came over and although he acted sympathetic, I think he gets a sense of satisfaction from seeing me suffer for my sins. I guess it's not every day you get to watch your daughter curled up on the couch in last night's makeup, moaning every five minutes and shaking uncontrollably, evidence in the flesh of the poisons of alcohol.

Thank god I will forget all about this in a month so I can do it again for Thanksgiving.