Sunday, October 5, 2008

And yet I guess it makes me smile

Sunday, October 5, 2008
10.37

I'm sitting crippled on the couch heaving hot whiskey-fumed breaths into balloon after balloon. Data charges chaotically about, having already had herself a little sugar pick me up, just a wee snifter to prepare herself for the build-up to a party that still lies four and a half hours hence. My head moans, my belly burns, my very being reeks.

Breathe, inflate. Breathe, inflate. Breathe, inflate.

Do not hurl. Party favours and whiskey vomit do not a happy couple make.

12.26

Halfway through the shopping for shit and I need to piss. It's deep, this need. I've been drinking water all morning, fighting for normality, the semblance of sedation. We do not, as a rule, buy this kind of junk and I have no idea where any of it lives. Crisps? No clue. Coke? Couldn't tell you. Cocktail sausages? I'm fucked if I know. Don't they come frozen? I no longer feel like throwing up, but I'm right on the edge of an equally inappropriate mishap.

I reach for someone wearing a t-shirt that proclaims: Got a question? - Just ask!

'Why did I drink last night?' I whisper desperately. 'Why?'

'Wha'?' he grunts.

'Where are your straws?' I repeat.

'Next one over.' he replies, backing away from my terrible need.

14.15

I have yet to shower. I wrap the parcel that will soon be passed. Wrapping paper, tinfoil, newspaper, tissue, repeat. Four times I fail to rip sufficient tinfoil from the roll. I think about crying but reckon Data who is, I'm told, 'stressed' by the imminent arrival of her guests, has that shit covered. The doorbell chimes, like Bow Bells in my brain. If it's polite to be 20 minutes late what the fuck is 45 minutes early? Genocide?

It's not a guest. It's my paternal aunt who to my eternal embarrassment, I see only when she comes to drop off presents for my children on their birthdays and Christmas. I have no doubt that there is some recipricatory ettiquette that I should be following but I generally take the road less travelled on this baby. The road of sitting there, being a thoughtless bastard. She lingers too long, this generous lady and when I get back to that parcel from the past it is:

14.47

And here comes a problem, a real doozy. Data and Riker have pre-emptively worked their way through a 'share-size' bottle of Fanta. 1.25 litres seemed like loads to me, but apparently fucking not. A nip to the local shop is the obvious solution but that would leave me still showerless and frankly, putrid. Common Law could go in my stead, I guess. However, despite being up and cleaning since seven am, she has failed to squeeze in either the obtaining of a provisional driving licence or indeed the learning to drive. The useless cow.

And so I go. I return. I dash upstairs. I undress, do the babywipe thang, re-dress in fresher, marginally less deadbeat clothes, brush my teeth just one more time and saunter downstairs to greet the gift bearing four year olds.

It can only get better, right?

11 Johns and Janes for the comment whore:

Sniffle&Cry said...

For rhyming eternal with paternal, a nod (and a volley). For selfless effort in the face of a vomity hangover, there is reward for you in Heaven with virgins, and nice stuff too.

Radge said...

Sounds like it can scarcely get any worse.

Poxy drink and its ills.

fatmammycat said...

Oh poor thing, no doubt it's down to the appalling company you keep.

Conan Drumm said...

Oh how I remember those sticky days... were there skittles in the mix? They're like instant ADHD for that age group.

stipes said...

I think you should have a lie down in a dark room

gimme a minute said...

Sniffle:
Oh man, I had to read the post to find the rhyme, it was subconscious. All the good shit is accidental.

Radge:
It got worse. Of course it got worse.

Fatmammycat:
Indeed. I was bound and whiskey boarded in the Guantanamo of the south city.

I bear no responsibility.

Conan:
Meanies. Cheap jellies. No skittles.

They seemed to do the trick regardless.

Stipes:
I think that too. I also think that I should walk the earth. The Bridge Crew have other ideas, on both counts.

problemchildbride said...

Musical statues and musical bumps. No prep necessary except for a prize. I did ours with Bowie. The kids loved it. Then birthday tea last so when they're filled to the brim with sugar and additives you don't have to deal with it becasue it's going home time.

problemchildbride said...

Also balloons. Kids can easily spend half an hour on the balloons alone, leaving you to lurk unmolested in the doorway inhaling coffee and cocktail sausages.

Rosie said...

they're like instant ADHD for my age group too, Conan.

or for me, at least.

Medbh said...

How was the clean up?

gimme a minute said...

problemchidbride:
We played musical statues too. And then the adults arrived.

If there's anything worse than children when you're hanging, it's grown-ups.

Rosie:
Cheaper than many a drug, at least.

Medbh:
It both sucked and blew.

 
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