Jim Beam wrecked me, body & soul

We had a pretty quiet weekend. Saturday was spent recovering from a gargantuan hangover that experienced as least as many stages as death and loss. Technically, the first stage was confusion as B summoned me to bed early that morning from the couch in the sunroom. I had angrily stormed out of the bedroom the night before, sobbing, after he had accidentally spilled a huge cup of water directly between my legs in an attempt to urge me to hydrate myself. Every morning, noon, and night, this man urges me to drink more water, and this is only heightened in the times that I try to replace all the H2O in my body with alcohol (both beer and Jim Beam on Friday night, if you are keeping score). Also, you should know that I am very prone to sobbing in the early hours of the morning after a serious bender like that. One night B stuck his finger in my belly button, I suggested this act was akin to rape, and, of course, left the bedroom, sobbing.

The second stage of the hangover was headache, of course. Although I took 3 aspirin tablets, this was the kind of hangover that makes your head as heavy on your neck as a baby's, and all you can really do is lay in bed with your laptop on your stomach and webstalk dead girls on Livejournal while you wait for the Indian buffet to open so that you can try to soak up all the booze that's left in your stomach with some naan. Yeah, that kind of headache.

When the clock struck 11:00 AM we trucked it down to the India Palace. Although we always walk there, it's only about 2 blocks from our apartment, I had reservations regarding whether or not I could make it this time. It is July in Memphis and I was already experiencing symptoms of the next stage of hangover: clammy sweatface. B always expresses this stage as what happens when your body's trying desperately to eject any leftover alcohol in whatever means necessary, and while he is a person who might randomly vomit 2 hours after waking up with a hangover, I am a sweaty girl anyway, and as soon as I stepped out in the hot late-morning sun, beads of JB broke out all over my face, with a particularly high volume emitting from my upper lip, or, as I call it, my sweatstache. I grunted all during the trek to IP, holding my stomach, which should have been a warning of what was to come.

Stage Four: Debilitating stomach ailment. This was the final stage of hangover that stuck with me all day, making me both the laziest and whiniest person on earth. I don't know what's wrong with me kids, and why I can't hang like I used to, but Goddamn, all day I was wracked with the most vicious tummy ache that ranged from full-out monster poop to a huge gas bubble that makes you feel as if you're pregnant with a stomachful of wriggling ghost puppies. We went to see the new Batman movie at 8:00 that night and I was still limping around and pitiful from it. I bet you are thinking that maybe the Indian food did it, but I wouldn't blame anything on that lovely naan and tandoori. Palak paneer wouldn't try to hurt me.

I never learn my lesson though. I mean, I didn't touch a drop on Saturday, and I rarely booze it up on liquor anymore anyway, but by next weekend I will have forgotten all about my troubles and, if offered, will swill again. This heat is oppressive and it makes me want a tall drink beaded with drops of cool sweat.