So yesterday I had a hangover. Naturally I am now a sworn convert to clean living in which my body is a serious temple into which I will pour only substances of the highest nutrient value. Such as avocado juice and dried cricket powder and such. I mean if I can pour vanilla flavoured ethyl alcohol down my greedy gullet until I wiggle my bottom to “Shaking that ass” then surely I can come at crickets.
I don’t want any more hangovers. I am done with them. I’ve had them periodically for twenty years or so (okay more like 23) and it’s over between me and hangovers. And alcohol. Actually it’s not over between me and alcohol, that would be a rash choice that I shouldn’t make when I’m still in a delicate condition after yesterday’s hangover.
It wasn’t a terrible, I-may-never-rise-again-can’t-keep-a-panadol-down sort of hangover. In fact it didn’t even require paracetamol. It’s just that I was so floppy and silly and moody and unproductive, to such a degree that I started to remind myself of a small child in dire need of a bottle of milk and a nap.
Here’s what I won’t miss about hangovers now that I won’t be having them anymore:
- Slapdashery – With a hangover, I can’t be bothered to do anything properly, which means that I just have to go back and do them all again when I’m in better shape. This makes me cross with myself for up to a week beyond the hangover. Yesterday I shoved a box of felt shapes into the doll’s pram. These will spill out again next week, or get lost altogether and make someone cry one day soon (probably me). I also popped three and a half pairs of socks (one missing of course) into the washing machine when it had got all the way through to the rinse cycle. Rinsing is not going to wash socks. But I just needed them out of my jaded face. “That’ll do”, I thought, which should be the catchphrase of the day, along with, “oh for fuck’s sake”.
- Sloth – I honestly did move around like a sloth. My reflexes had apparently taken a severe blow to the balls and curled up to die. It took me so long to hang out the washing that by the time I’d finished, the first bits I’d put out were almost dry. I played snakes and ladders from a horizontal position on the couch and didn’t notice that half way through the game the rules changed to suit the children so that we were sliding down ladders and climbing up snakes. For fuck’s sake. Oh to think of what I could have achieved yesterday in the garden with the sun shining and my husband at hand for heavy lifting.
- Gluttony – I ate a whole packet of barbeque shapes before declaring that “they are not what I feel like” and seeking out something else, like doughnuts. It takes two of those to realise that they’re not going to do the trick either. This cycle continues until dinner time when I decide that I should have a healthy dinner and a kilo of grapes.
- Irreverence – It was ANZAC Day yesterday and while I reserved quite a bit of time to think about my grandfather and the ANZACS and the fallen soldiers all the other military people, I didn’t get my slothy arse to a service anywhere. In fact whilst half the country were up and out by dawn, I was dribbling into my pillow.
- Random acts of weirdness – I had a conversation with the Jenga blocks. I bloody hate those blocks, you can’t get impatient with them whilst cleaning or they just won’t go the fuck back into their box. You have to gently coax every little block into its proper place; they’re like petulant toddlers those blocks. I have no time for petulant toddlers, so when I saw the Jenga blocks sprawled out luxuriously across the playroom floor, I told them what I thought of them. “Oh for fuck’s sake,” I said, “what the hell are you lot doing out of your box? You are the biggest pains in my arse ever. I have no time for you today and if any one of you gets under my foot I will throw the lot of you in the wheelie bin.” Later, I lay flat on the kitchen floor, mainly because I couldn’t think of anything else to do, and because it felt silky and cool and nice.
- Idiocy – I laugh at pretty much everything. I laugh because my daughter has chocolate ice cream on her nose and none of us could be bothered to tell her for a whole five hours. I laughed at the dog’s bottom. I laughed even more when he farted and my daughter defending him by blaming the BBQ chicken. I was in hysterics over the fact that BBQ chickens, when not smelling delicious, smell like farts, especially in the car, and because my son said, “But how could a dead chook fart?” (I’m laughing again now, that must be residual idiocy, the toxins are probably not out of my body yet). I laughed about things we did the night before (probably don’t ask) and I sort of cry-laughed when I was told of things I’d forgotten (definitely don’t ask).
- Bad parenting – Here’s what I don’t say when I have a hangover: “Get off your i-pads and go outside”; “Here’s your quinoa salad, buckweat wrap and green smoothie darlings”; “Don’t watch the telly”. Here’s what I might say, “Can someone get me a coke?”; “Oh for fuck’s sake”.
- Dishonesty – I also say, “Mummy doesn’t feel well, she might have a bug so stay well away”.
- Disorientation – you only realise what day it is at about 5pm, which is when you also realise that school goes back tomorrow, the girls have no winter stockings and the drink bottles were last seen at the pool in the first week of the holidays.
I could go on. These are just nine of the deadly hangover sins. But these days I don’t bounce back so well from the wrath of grapes and I won’t be myself again before about Thursday, so I have to go to bed.
But you read it here first. No more hangovers for this little black duck. It’s squeaky clean living for me from here on in. No more wasted days. Or nights of being wasted. Off to drink my kombucha and massage my lymph glands.