Sunday, April 23, 2006

Contrary to Popular Belief, I am Not Dead

I just look and feel that way.
And, if you want to read a really long story about the weekend that left me this way, here it is:

Friday, against all medical and intellectual advice, I left my bed.
Not only my bed.
But my house.
Though Robin had asked that I meet her for lunch at 11:30, it was impossible.
It took me three hours to get ready.
No, really.

And this is not a Girl Moment get ready thing of changing outfits 22 times (I don’t do that stuff), refluffing the hair, applying gobs of makeup and making snazzy jewelry changes.
Oh no.
It was much more a stand in the shower - soap two body parts, sit down before I fall down.
Stay down for 5 minutes.
Stand.
Repeat.

So, after the 45 minute shower, we moved on the to 1 hr, 20 minute hair drying process.
Stand up, flip head over, dry hair for 2 minutes, realize I’m about to pass out, sit on bathroom floor, lay head against the cool porcelain lid of the toilet, pray for death, attempt to stand again, blah blah blah.
You get the idea.
Oh yeah, Repeat.

By noonish, I was dried, dressed and looking pretty damn good, if I do say so myself.
I was talking well enough that Stephen couldn’t even tell I was sick.
But just in case:
I took a pain killer, a few Tylenol (to drop the fever) and a shot of Crown.
No judgement here, kids. No judgement.
This is the ONE day a year that I’m totally permitted to get so drunk I can’t see straight.
It’s Skit Dance!!!
And no, I won’t try and explain what that is.
Just know that myself, my best friend and all of his med school buddies spend at least 12 hours imbibing free alcohol, watching semi-pornographic films created by med school students and doctors/instructors of the UAMS campus and, in general, just being complete asses.

Is it intelligent to begin drinking at 1 PM when just 7 hours earlier you were vomiting?
Is it good judgement to start hammering down Tanqueray and Tonic when you’ve had nothing to eat save a Hydrocodone and some Tylenol?
Is it advisable to do shots of tequila when your kidneys are shutting down?
Should you be out drinking when you didn’t drag your sorry butt to work?

No.
You may now refer to me as Psoriasis, Queen of Bad Judgement.

This is why I will now have liver damage:
1 PM - 2 PM: Tanqueray and Tonics (3) at Stephen’s.
2 PM - 7 PM: Fat Tire beers (3), shots of tequila (2), pita chips and artichoke spinach dip forced on me by Ragland because he was pretty sure I was going to pass out otherwise (about 20), large blue disposable cups of tepid, cheap, keg beer served by the pool (4), gay best friend trying to force feed me Tuscan ribs when I’ve already told him I don’t eat ribs but he’s so drunk he’s sitting in my lap (1), skanky women invited to the pre-party by their not-so-cute-but-gonna-be-a-bonafide-doctor-in-less-than-a-month-boy toys (2), cute straight men (2) at Ragland’s.
7 PM - 12 PM: Styrofoam cups filled with free box wine (3), red plastic disposable cups filled with free keg beer that was horrid beyond reason but again, I use the word free (5) at the Med School.

My mother, God love her, woke me up at 10 Saturday morning with a handful of medical goodness.
All my normal drugs, 3 aspirin, a huge bottle of water and a quiet voice.
I love that woman.
She then felt my head, ran to get a thermometer, took my temp and proclaimed:
"Jayzus, Bricky, you can’t even get drunk right. Your father and I hoped you would do enough of the hard stuff that it would kill off whatever’s damaging your kidneys. Instead, you come home with a fever higher than yesterday. Get in the bath, I’ll get the ice cubes."

Note: My parents were in town for one of my brother’s fraternity functions.

The day progressed with much pain and suffering, but it was completely worth it.
It also progressed with many tears.
Friday night, though very drunk, brought many sobering thoughts.
I’m losing my best friend.
The person who has been my rock for almost 8 years is moving 13 hours away.
I think my already broken heart was smashed a bit more.
I needed to do the girl thing - cry a little, hide the fact that I was crying and then pretend the whole thing isn’t occurring.

And in the spirit of pretending nothing was going wrong, I allowed Zach and Anita to take me out on their boat today.
Zach felt the need to sling someone around the lake on a tube.
Anita wasn’t up for the challenge, but I thought: Heck, why stop damaging yourself now?
So we suited up, gassed up and moved out.

VERY long day on the water.
Cold, cold water, blistering hot sun and a fast boat with a maniac at the wheel.
I think, at one point, he dragged me over a duck.
A real, live duck.
I saw the tube start to cut across the wake, saw the line of ducks and then . . . argh, feathers.
One would think that at these high velocities, I would embarrass myself.
It tends to happen once or twice during the boating season.
Last summer, I crash landed so badly that my suit went so far into certain areas of my body that I still don’t think I’ve retrieved all the lycra/spandex.

Amazingly enough, I waited until tonight to embarrass myself.
You guys knew this was coming, I can’t possibly go through a weekend without something embarrassing happening, right?

We get home from the lake and I beg off grilling out because I’m dead.
I literally feel as though a vampire has drained all the blood from my body.
So I drive myself home, do a bit of landscaping that could wait no longer and then shlep into the shower and wash the sun-block and sweat from my body.
My friend Jaime had called and said she was driving through Conway on her way back to Fayetteville and wanted to stop in and talk for a while, so I was anticipating company.

But it was girl company.
And someone I had known since God was a boy.
And she’d seen me in many, many states of undress, so you will understand how the following occurred:

I got out of the shower and put on undergarments.
I then proceeded to dry my hair.
As I was drying my hair, I heard the doorbell.
Assuming it was just Jaime, I started to walk to the front of the house.
For whatever reason, and thank heavens for this, I grabbed my bathing suit cover up and threw it on.

So there I am:
Black lace bra.
Matching panties.
(Again, no judgement, I own VERY few if any undergarments which are NOT black . . and the first thing I did when I got a REAL job was throw away ALL my undergarments and buy nothing but beautiful matching sets that made me feel gorgeous and hap-hap-happy. This explains why in all my mortification stories I’m always dancing around in black lingerie. It’s all I own.)
White, see-through, high collar but cut down to mid torso tunic/bathing suit cover-up.
Half dry, half wet hair.
Sun-burned face.
Opening the front door, expecting Jaime.

Is it Jaime?
Of COURSE not.
Why would it be Jaime?
That would make too much sense.

It’s my brother.
And two of his fraternity brothers.
One of which is Military Mike - the 22-yr old who keeps hitting on me. And made a drunken spectacle of himself at the bowling alley by constantly hitting on me.
Friggin A, wonderful.

Yeah, apparently they were in AT’s truck mud-riding and got hungry and knew there wasn’t any food at my brother’s place . . and are used to me catering to my brother’s every wish . . . and knew I would cook for them if they just showed up.
Because they were in AT’s truck, and not my brother’s, T didn’t have his garage door opener or the keys to my house.
And, I DID learn my lesson last time and quit leaving the maid’s key under the back door mat.

I was so tired, so drained and so used to being mortified that I didn’t even run for cover.
I just opened the door, said "Have a seat, I’ll be back in a little while" and calmly went back to my room to finish drying my hair and put on clothes.
To their credit, they didn’t mention my state of undress.
Not in front of me anyway.

As they were leaving (after I had cooked for them), my brother comes back into the house and says "Why you gotta let all my friends see you in your panties?"
My answer: "I thought you guys were Jaime. I wouldn’t have answered the door like that!! When are you going to learn to call before you come over?"
His response: "Military Mike thinks you answered the door like that because you want him."

Jayzus.
Was I that stupid at 22?

I’m hoping this has taught me a lesson.
And that lesson should be:

Do not leave the bedroom unless you are fully dressed.
It doesn’t matter that it’s your house and you live alone.
Inevitably, if you leave your bedroom in anything less than a complete outfit, someone is going to see you in your panties.

6 comments:

Indiana said...

And sometimes even when you leave the bedroom fully clothed someone still gets to see your panties ~grin~

Jenni said...

Hope you feel better.
Teasing men with black lingerie always brightens my day =)

Coyote Mike said...

next time, threaten them with nudity, then hire a fat man to answer your door naked, just to teach them.

Officially Fabulous said...

First of all- can I just say you are one HELL of a woman! Damn! Call me impressed! Secondly, I'm sorry, but I actually laughed out loud about the duck, PETA can picket me, but that was a hilarious visual! Thanks for that. And thirdly (is that a word?), I personally think you should answer the door naked. (okay, just kidding about the last).Hi-larious post!
~ Fab : )~

janestarr said...

Boys are stupid, especially at 22. Just know that you give them many found memories and then chuck it. Feel better dear Megs!!

Ang said...

Argghh!!! I had commented here, but it is gone...

the drift was a bit of black pot and kettle finger pointing! Who's calling who the party girl??!!!

Good on ya!