This morning–it is pink bathrobe and a hangover. Had a Strongbow or two at the pub with my friend Robin, and once home I thought to myself, ‘it’s my day off, why not drink more?’. And so I did, partying late into the night…which meant that I blissfully passed out on the sofa at approximately 830pm. In truth, we were watching an old episode of Saturday Night Live, with Tim McGraw Luda and T-Pain, so who can blame me for drifting off? Ben nudged me once or twice…”Hey, are you sleeping?” “No, I’m not sleeping…it just feels so good to close my eyes”
I woke up after ten, Ben had fallen asleep as well–and we found our way to bed. This morning I woke up with a start, my head pounding, my mouth dry. I can see from the light under the door that Ben hasn’t left for work yet, so it’s not even seven in the morning. I come out in my bathrobe, my hair askew, my face puffy, and generally looking how I feel. The kitchen is a mess, and while I imagine that food would help, it would involve doing dishes, and that seems like an awfully large obstacle to overcome to make breakfast happen. Writing feels a similar mountain to climb–I just kind of stared at the screen earlier, not really comfortable with the forming of works and phrases, so instead I try to look up photos of a boozy Judy Garland, and instead come across this wonderful list of boozy artists and their hang over cures:
How fun, from Ernest Hemingway to Hunter S Thompson, Dean Martin to Zelda Fitzgerald, the answers range from twelve amyl nitrates mixed with beer, speed, and frankly just more booze mixed together. Robert Mitchum invented the Ramos Gin Fizz, which is a mix of gin, lemon juice, lime juice, egg white, sugar, cream, orange flower water, and soda water–which was said to be a favorite cure for the likes of Frank Sinatra and Jim Morrison. Actress Tallulah Bankhead drank a combination of champagne and stout in the wake of a hangover, but she once wrote: “Don’t be swindled into believing there’s any cure for a hangover…like the common cold it defies solution”. (Well maybe don’t drink directly out of a shoe…that might be your problem girlfriend).
Zelda Fitzgerald’s cure was my favorite on the list; she had such a lovely little boozy routine. Before she started getting her 11am lemonade and vodka on, she’d go for a swim. Then the day would be spent drinking, reading, writing, and exercising at her ballet studio, before filling her garter flask and going out in on the town with F. Scott and co. (Self destruction and mental illness aside, doesn’t that all sound just a little bit fabulous?).
The worst hangover I’ve ever had was after a night of Jager-bombs and Karaoke with my friend Shannon in this small town bar. I was so drunk that I called my fiance from the parking lot, not knowing where I was. I later woke up on the lawn of Shannon’s mother’s house, and endured an epic struggle to get up off the dewy grass, open the front door, climb and pass out on the floor, next to the couch where Shannon was sleeping. The next day, I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t drive home, I couldn’t drink water–I was in a hell of my own making. At least Shannon felt comfortable taking part of the blame–“You know, I feel 45% responsible for this”, she said I was dry heaving on the side of the road, on the way to the lake. She decided that a swim would be my cure, and I agreed, but didn’t know how I could make it to the water…even though it was less than a five minute walk. But once we reached the baptismal waters, I stripped off my dress, walked right off the pier and the cold water brought me back to life. After the lengthy soak, I was able to stomach a meal, drink some coffee–and I felt…better, but I wouldn’t be back to drinking by 11am, that’s for sure. Nor will I today for that matter…and I didn’t drink a fraction of what I had that night–I’m just much older is all. I did sleep a little bit more, before being awoken by the sound of the steel-capped five year old upstairs that really must leap and bound like they’re Billy Elliot before endlessly dragging furniture around the hard wood floor. I got up reluctantly, drank some coffee and thought more about my own hangover cures…we don’t have a pool here, and I miss the days in Australia, for a good swim can cure just about anything. So once I finish here, I will wash the dishes, make some bacon and eggs, go next door and box that noisy little bastard around the ears. And certainly that could be just as good as a Ramos Gin Fizz and a refreshing dip…though right now I’d much rather just jump off a pier.