It's hard for me to pin-point exactly where it all went
wrong. But if I were to take an educated guess, my money
would be on the moment Cathy said her company Christmas party was
an "open bar." Fourteen hours later I find myself cradling
the toilet and looking up at a very curious three-year-old.
"Daddy, you don't look so good." Her shrill voice pierces
my brain and sends my eyeballs into my socks. I do all I can
to create some semblance of a smile, but I'm afraid that if I open
my mouth to far, a bourbon laced demon will fly out and cover the
floor. A second later Lu is joined by her little sister,
whose loaded diaper nearly renders me unconscious, but I held it
together. Even though the pungent odor was enough to burn the
wings baby angels and melt the tires of a speeding
eighteen-wheeler, I refuse to throw-up. A sequence of deep
controlled breaths (in through the nose, out through the mouth) and
the calming thoughts of soft purple pandas feeding rainbows to
Chuck Norris easily settles my stomach.
As I lay there drifting in and out of worlds James Cameron would
be proud of, I find a bit of solace knowing its Saturday, or maybe
it's Friday? To be quite honest I'm not sure what day it is,
but whatever the case, Cathy is home and she gently swoops in and
shoos the girls away…
"Come on girls, let's leave daddy alone, he's not feeling
"Why?" Lu curiously exclaims. As a parent I'm
hoping the visual of my shaky, sweaty and unusually flammable skin
turn this into a public service announcement of sorts. That's
right Lu, take it all in. Let the image of the pathetic man at the
base of the toilet be a symbol of bad judgment for years to
"Well…," an explanation was forthcoming and deservedly so, but
how do you tell an impressionable little girl that your father
drank like an immature sailor and acted like a woman who has just
had her first dribble of alcohol since she stopped regularly breast
feeding her newborn child?
"Daddy had one too many last night, and that's why he doesn't
feel good." Perfect. It says it all, without really
Just as the girls begin to remove themselves from my presence,
Cathy bends down and places a glass of water next to my head and
whispers, "You just can't hold your liquor like you used to.
This is what happens when you get old." Later that day when
the carnage was over, Cathy informed me that not only had I drank
my weight in wine, I somehow managed to smuggle a full glass of
beer out of the bar, in the front pocket of my coat
(Awesome). A feat she was both embarrassed and amazed at,
when I suddenly revealed it and began to drink my frothy wonder in
a cab, three miles from our house (Double Awesome). A full
glass! In my coat pocket! She would then go on to give
me a lecture that began and ended with, "I am much too old to be
supplementing our 'barware' with stolen glasses from a place
that claims to have the city's oldest pickled egg" (Yeah, not so
As the day continued to pass S-L-O-W-L-Y… by, I noticed two
things. First, as bad as this hangover is, I can't even
imagine what it would have been like before the invention of
porcelain toilets. Everything from their cool-to-the-touch
neutral colored exteriors, to way it perfectly anchors a slumbering
body over its oversized waste hole, they're basically begging to be
caressed by the inebriated. They're really a feat of modern
ingenuity. The second thing I noticed was a strange array of
methodically placed items that began showing up between my
At first I thought nothing of the tiny Lego castle that appeared
on the top of the toilet, but soon other odd tidbits began to
appear: a small blanket, a stuffed frog, a bowl of Cheerios and a
tiara. Although I have yet to see an actual being anywhere
near my throne, I had the feeling I was being watched.
Perhaps it was my guarding angel, a tiny cherub of hope or the
ghost of hangovers past, and then it happened, I died. Well
at least I thought I did. I felt a glow and a warmth come
over me. Honestly, I didn't think I drank that much, but
whatever. I could see the light! It was bright,
unusually bright. In fact, it was way-way brighter than I
ever thought it'd be. However, rather than running toward, or
giving in to this "light" that so many people have found comfort
in, I find myself cringing and my ultrasensitive eyelids burning.
Maybe this was the wrong light, wait, where exactly am I
I slowly open my eyes to discover I haven't exactly left this
world, not even close. My assumption that I was riding
my very own light-highway to Cloud City was nothing more than Lucy
shining an impossibly bright Maglite directly into my peeps, and it
was making me sick.
"Daddy," she said with a whisper, "How are you feeling?"
"Where's your Ma and Ruby?" I said holding up a hand to
block the light.
"Changing the laundry, Rubers is sleeping. I'll take care
of you." She was sweet, but behind those
usually innocent eyes of hers, a storm was brewing. It
was as if someone had given her (maybe as a joke, revenge or moral
lesson, CATHY!) a very specific list of things to say that would
ensure that this very hangover would end in a spectacularly gross
and somewhat cataclysmic finale. She wasted no time and got
right down to business.
"Daddy would you like to eat some scrambled
eggs?" The thought of eggs made my stomach jump.
"No thank you…."
"How about some chili, that will make your belly feel
better?" My stomach flops again. Why is she asking if I
want to eat, I can barley pick my head up. And furthermore,
when has chili ever been a cure for anything?
"You know sometimes when I have a belly ache I like a glass of
creamy milk." Ding-Ding-Ding, we have a
winner! The thought of "creamy milk" was all it took, 'cause
I absolutely lost it. It was as if my stomach had a date with
the floor, because it felt like it was trying to physically leave
my body. I couldn't control it. There were no brief pauses in
which to catch my breath, just a disgusting non-stop flood of
holiday cheer. I began to hear a babies crying, airplanes
crashing and monks praying. Convoluted images like Pat
Benatar's "We Belong" video, Olli North and Stormin' Norman
Schwarzkoph baking tarts, and a Rubik's Cube solving itself all
manically flashed before my eyes. Then nothing…
The moral of the story is this: There may be times when
your better judgment or common sense slips. There may even be
a time when you feel the need to slip a full glass of beer into
your coat pocket. But I have learned that it is almost
impossible to slip anything pass a three-year-old.
One week later….
"Lucy, you need to finish your peas." Lucy pushes the bowl
aside, puts her hands on her stomach and says, "No thank you.
My belly is full, and if I eat any more then that will be "one bite
too many," and I remember what happens after that, and I don't
wanna sleep in the bathroom."
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