We have all been there at one time in our life- drank too much on a Friday night to the point where you are absolutely out of commission the next day. And that day was probably either when you were in college or on your twenty-first birthday, right? Well, not for Erin! I still apparently think I can party like its 1999. And party I did on Friday night! Instead of “Who Else But Erin?” I should have been asking myself, “Who do I think I am?”
The night started off simple with dinner at Sugarfish with Anthony, where we had sushi and sake. So far, so good. Next, we met our friends, Ray and Nicole, at El Cholo where my first of many bad decisions that night took place. I thought it was fine to order a skinny margarita and a shot of tequila- apparently I packed my balls in my purse that night as well. Then we went to visit our friend Jeff at Rock’N Fish at LA Live, who was bartending that night. I took a seat, took out my wallet and my balls and ordered a vodka based gingerbread martini. Even drunk that drink sounds disgusting, but I thought-‘tis the season! To sum it up, my gingerbread martini tasted like grandma in a glass. It was as warm as cookies on a snowy day but tasted a little fragrant like perfume….grandma in a glass! As my boyfriend told me the next morning (while he was seeing me at my absolute worst), “you should have stopped there, Erin. You should have stopped there.” Stopped? Stopping is for losers, right? So, I ordered a crazy ass rum drink that was larger than life and is making me gag in my mouth right now thinking about it. Needless to say, I danced my ass off at Ray and Nicole’s house afterwards, gave her a big smooch and don’t remember stumbling home that night.
The next morning, I awoke next to Anthony (thank God, right?) with a splitting headache and no recollection of how I got there. And yes, I am 31 years old. Mom, you can stop shaking your head now- we walked home… I may be an idiot sometimes, but I do follow the rules. When I walked out to the kitchen to get a drink of water, I followed the path of clothes that led from the door to the bed. In Anthony’s house, you have to take your shoes off at the door and we both have a pair of flip flops that we are allowed to wear inside. As I mentioned in prior posts, my boyfriend has a touch of OCD. I was shocked when I saw that his flip flops were still at the door, which means (and it didn’t take Scooby Doo to figure this one out) that he violated his own rules and walked to his bed….BAREFOOT! I then saw one of his socks, a broken shot glass by the fridge (huh?) my jeans (inside out but sitting on the ground neatly like I floated out of them), my ring and my necklace. I at least had the respect to put on my 'inside' shoes (who cares if they were on the wrong feet) and walk to bed last night. I scarfed down four aspirin, chugged some water and went back to bed, feeling like I just got ran over by a reindeer…damn you, grandma!
After having a hilarious, nonsense filled conversation with Anthony about Snoopy’s best friend, Woodstock (Anthony was convinced his name was Tutu) I began to feel a little queasy. My first thought was, maybe I should eat something. So, I drank a glass of almond milk and had a handful of gingerbread men cookies. One would think I would have avoided gingerbread altogether after last night but apparently I wasn’t that smart. A few minutes later, I felt better and as I was telling Anthony that the gingerbread were doing a happy dance in my stomach, they took a left turn at my liver and headed straight up the esophagus. BARRRRFFFF! Well, at least I felt a tad better now. And because I was feeling a TAD better, Anthony thought I needed pozole, a Mexican soup that cures hangovers but doesn’t have tripe in it like menudo. And this amazing pozole was in the Valley- ugg! But because I thought it would help, we got in my car (yes, I drove…again, I must have packed my balls) and started driving.
Just as we were pulling out of the parking garage, I took a bite of my banana, which I thought would be good for my stomach, and just as fast as it went down, it was on its way up. I pulled over quickly and puked outside of Subway sandwich shop. Again, I am 31 years old. Ok, now I was better. To the Valley we go! We finally get there and as we are searching for parking outside the Mexican restaurant, I felt some more churning in my tummy. There was nothing left but bile in there, but apparently it needed to exit my body at that very moment, in the 7-Eleven parking lot. Yup, 31 years old. I should having given up right then and there and chalked it up on the blackboard as Erin 0, Alcohol 1 but I continued to make my way into the Mexican restaurant, order the soup and tried to eat it. It got the best of me though, and I told Anthony to get it to go as I darted outside to my car, sat in the driver’s side, and puked out the door as people on the streets and my boyfriend watched. 31 years old.
After a long, uneasy ride home, I spent the next 8 hours on the couch watching Duck Dynasty in my PJ’s. What did we learn here, kids? Don’t drink! Or if you do drink, leave your balls at home. And if you do happen to bring your balls? Don’t order the gingerbread martini!
