Last Saturday's Debauchery
Well, "debauchery" was the word that came to mind, but when I looked it up in the dictionary, it says: extreme indulgence of one's appetites, especially for sexual pleasure, orgies.
That was not last Saturday's debauchery.
Okay, here's the word I think I meant -
Debacle: a breaking up of ice in a river, etc. or, which better fits, a stunning, ruinous collapse or failure, often ludicrously calamitous.
I don't feel like looking up Calamitous, but Debacle seems to fit the bill.
So, anyway, there was this charitable "socialite" event called The Green Tie Ball and seeing as I've never been to a Ball (I'm thinking Cinderella here), I was all hyped up to go, glass slippers, pumpkin, prince and all.
I searched and searched for an appropriate outfit, something sparkly and green, and lowcut, which I never, ever go low-cut, and if you'll notice in the picture, where do I get a blemish that weekend????
Right on the chest, glaring, mocking me, saying, "You can buy some nice costume jewelry for once in your life, but I'm going to completely sabotage you by popping out onto your chest, so no one notices the nice bauble around your neck because they're all too busy looking at that zit next to your push-up-bra enhanced boobies."
That should have been my clue to forgo the evening.
But anyway, I got the top for $19. (Didn't know not only am I witty and quirky, I am also quite the savvy shopper.)
So, even though I had the friendly blemish, I had found the 'perfect' jewelry for the event, had the right shoes, a flowy chiffon black skirt, free babysitting all night long, a Pricelined Chicago hotel room, and the gumption to PAR-TAY.
Well, I did. And hubby did. And about 4,000 other people in the city of Chicago did too. There were 50, yes, swear to you, 50 bars, all serving VOX Vodka, which I am never, never, never, ever drinking again (that brand at least!). There were three stages of live music all night long, and in this one picture, the lead singer grabbed my digital camera and took this photo of the crowd jamming:
There were 75 restaurants from Chicago represented, and I favored Morton's steak with a brown sauce over the top, Baby Lamb chops blackened with sesame seeds, and another restaurant where they were serving coconut-encrusted shrimp with a pineapple-tomato-y salsa.
This is where I went wrong. Where I always go wrong. I hadn't eaten much during that day, getting the kids ready to go to our friends' home overnight, packing my bag, doing laundry. So, yeah, I kind of forgot to eat. That's my excuse anyway, and I'm sticking to it, although the 12-15 cranberry vodkas with a splash of OJ didn't add to the situation in a very positive way.
I got my photo taken with Chicago radio personalities, Kathy and Eric from The Mix, and of course, me being me, the first thing I said to her was, "Weren't you talking about your boob job the other day?"
I met some very cool people at the event, some who's names I remember like these two classy chicks, Kerry and Kathy!
And some, I have no idea who the heck they are:
And then, we even ran into someone from college, who was fondly referred to as "The Butt" because he had a very nice tushy, and of course, I had to remind "The Butt" that he and Hubby had shared the same girlfriend at different stages in college, so technically, me and The Butt had been together if you look at it like that. Because, Nika was with The Butt, Hubby was with Nika, I was with Hubby, and by default, although never physically, I would then be associated with "The Butt." But, all I ever did was pose with him for a picture in Daytona one spring break while he was showing off "The Butt."
So, that is most of what I can recall, until Hubby reminded me we hijacked a taxi to get back to our hotel, telling the person already in the taxi that we would pay for her fair. Then Hubby reminded me (days later, when I could actually formulate a thought to match a sentence) that I had my feet sticking through the window to the front seat of the cab, and the driver had told us to "Get Out Of MY Taxi" more than once.
Then, I remember this: We're going up to our hotel room, and I feel the need to vomit. And this is really, really, really bad conduct for a thirty-six-year-old mother of three.
I projectile vomit the vodka, the shrimp, the steak, the baby lamb chops, the cranberry and OJ and more vodka...all over the wall just outside of our hotel room.
If I close my eyes hard enough, I can still see the stain seeping through the walls and down to the carpeted floor of the three-and-a-half star hotel we'd Pricelined for $132.
Somehow, inside, I manage to get out of my ball gown and toss on a jammy shirt. Then, instead of enjoying a romantic kids-free evening with my husband in a bed with 300-thread count sheets, I fight my way through the night stuck in a two-by-two bathroom. I couldn't find my way out. Seriously. Then, I gave up, and passed out.
Charming, aren't I?
I come to and find the door handle and with throbbing head, aching body, hot skin, raccooned eyes, matted hair, I make my way out to the bed. It's 8:45 a.m.
I sleep until 10 a.m. then we have to get home.
This is the very hardest thing to do. Get up. Fortunately, my Hubby, is actually Prince Charming, and although I've pulled this crap far more than my allotted share of times I should be allowed to get completely obliterated, he is a Prince forever, packing up all the stuff strewn all over the hotel room, getting out my bra and clothes, which I cannot even manage to put on and just pull on my dirty shorts to go with my puke stained jammy top. I cannot leave the room and continue to throw up.
Finally, I tell myself I have to get control. My body hurts so much, I cannot even urinate, I can't hold my head up, I can't look forward. My skin is hot, yet I'm shivering, my legs are weak, my mouth is dry, the smell of disinfectant outside our door slaps me right into retching-land and I cannot do anything.
Prince Charming gives me the plastic container from the inside of our insulated cooler and I grab a hotel towel... now I'm not only a drunk, but a thief too. We make it to the elevator door and I pray no one is there, but of course, a cute little family starts walking down the hall as I'm retching into the plastic container. I motion for Hubby to find the stairs. I sit on the stair and cry. I am pathetic. How and why would I do this to myself, to my body? I can't move.
Hubby offers to get the car and tells me to come down when I'm ready. For me, I could have curled up on that hard cement floor and slept until God knows when at that point. But I had to move. I wanted home, I wanted my bed. I wanted death. This is why it is not smart to drink like this. Nothing else is important. I wasn't thinking about my kids, my family, nothing. I was thinking death would have felt better.
In the car, which, by the way, this is a sidenote, I have thrown up in Hubby's car before, due to a similar drunken stupor, and that time, two of his employees were in the back seat. That's another story for another post... but, since I've been known to vomit in his car, he was sure as hell not going to allow me to do it in his very, very nice car that he has worked so very hard to afford and loves it so much that he doesn't even want food in it ever, and usually grimaces if the kids need to go in it. But, that's his baby, and he has a right to want to keep it nice.
So, I don't, (thank God, and this saves our marriage, I am certain) puke in the car, and we make it home, with me demanding that there is no music on, no windows open, no traffic report played). I am in the front seat, head between my legs with the cold stolen towel placed over my head to keep out the sunlight, and my face in the container. We arrive home.
Prince Charming has now evolved into a King because he sends me to bed, goes to our friends home where the kids are, and he stays there with them watching the Bears game and hanging out until 6:30 at night. I lay in bed the whole, whole day, except for a couple retching moments and a half-hour steaming hot shower at 2:30 in the afternoon. Prince Charming aka now the King calls before he comes home and I ask him to get me some McD's french fries and a milkshake, which he does, which I absolutely cannot eat even at 7 p.m. that night.
I feel sorry for the kids. I feel as I had let everyone down that day, all because of overconsumption of alcohol. I just don't know when to stop. This weekend however, is an alcohol-free weekend and I am drying out. I may need to start setting limits because more than just my body will be affected.
Now, as a post-script, my married-mom-friends tell me not to beat myself up over this; it's because I don't drink on a regular basis; it's because I am a Stay-At-Home Mom and events like this don't come around often; it's because there are so few nights just to get out and do and be and say and act however I want.
Heck, maybe I can blame this all on the kids!