If Carlsberg made hangovers … then they would make menopausal woman’s hangovers!!
FFS – what has happened – I used to get a bit of a headache after a night on the sauce – but now there is a minimum 3 day recovery period!
But unless I stay pissed for the whole of December (which seems a lovely idea but may well result in January looking for a new job, new liver and new lover) then they are a necessary evil.
Not drinking isn’t an option – it is actually a medicinal need to get me through the party season where I am obliged to change out of my pajamas of an evening and if making a special effort to take my hair out of one of my many scrunchies.
The hangover I had Sunday was epic – starting with waking and hearing a deep sigh behind me… FUCK! I was home alone this weekend – surely I had not brought someone back… .. NO NO NO.. Someone nestles into my neck then I remember. Sweet Dog… Sweet Dog was in a huge huff when I came in having been left alone for 5 hours and I didn’t want to be in bed myself so broke the very last ‘dog rule’ (the other ‘dog rules’ of not allowed to be on sofa; not allowed to jump up on people; never to be fed from our plates being broken a long time ago) and brought her up with me. I laugh at the thought I’d seriously thought for a minute I’d pulled – a Domino’s pizza and the remote control and my bed companions of choice at the moment.
I am not bragging here but I reflect and suspect there are many people might not be talking to me now. I vaguely remember someone pointing at some mistletoe…And I think I told him that I’d have to be under anesthetic rather than mistletoe to kiss him. Menopausal honesty moments are rather more frequent when drunk.
I also have a horrible feeling I might have shown some people the HRT patch on my bum.
I remember the start of the night – fairly tame at Wagas. I check Facebook. Shit – forgot that I had thought it would be hysterically funny to pretend to pluck my chin with the chopsticks.. Fortunately Pauline has put a picture up on Facebook and tagged everyone lest they forget.
I decide to spend the day in bed determined that the only thing to get me up today will be my bladder. But Sweet Dog is not for it – insisting by patting me on the head less than gently with her paw and frantically running to the door and back. Feck sometimes I think kids would be easier – can’t shove Sweet Dog in front of Peppa Pig with a large bag of chocolate buttons.
So I head out in my pajama top and my jeans from last night (still got some standards!). Within 3 mins Sweet Dog is doing the most massive slimy poo I have ever seen. For the first time ever I seriously consider not picking it up. But I just can’t. So I scoop it up and retch so much I look like a woodpecker making my way to the DogShit Bin. Opening it to make my deposit brings a whiff so bad I start to shake. I don’t puke due to my bodys incredible capacity to never part with a single calorie. Ten minutes later she shits again – I swear to god I can see her smirking – teaching me a lesson for leaving her all alone. I vow to make her watch Paul O’Gradys Love of Dogs on catch up so she can see how blessed she is!
I may have overestimated my ability to party as off out again tomorrow. But this time I am NOT drinking. Nope… Sparkling water and maybe a J20 to shake ti up. But that is it. As I am NEVER drinking again. EVER!
Well maybe one Jack Daniels.
Or two – as it is Christmas…..And it’s Karaoke. And I do a fabulous ‘Fairytale of New York’ which I swear I sing so much better after a Jack or two…