Never drinking again (v. 32963.8)

My weekend was spent on the couch, a sofa I bought in Tallahassee in 1998 that has become something of my Archie Bunker chair, hopefully without the sizeable ass imprint. I’d have to get up to confirm this, and given that my fatigue alone allowed Cricket to claw at both arms of this furniture at least twelve times this weekend, movement isn’t likely.

Friday night began with what I remember as a relatively sober happy hour with a wonderful group of local bloggers to whom I will link when my fog clears. At our second bar, I recall ordering a round of shots with the word “slut” in the title, which clearly did as much for my head as it did for the women’s movement. My dear friend and gracious driver then took us to a favorite haunt in NE, which is the turning point at which I stop remembering slices of time and start remembering moments. Snippets. Flashes, maybe. Like that moment when I invited myself behind the bar and started to talk up customers, which we all know is endearing to bartenders the world ‘round and makes them give you that Mentos grin rather than calling the police. Or that silly time during Kim’s pool game when I assisted a striped ball into the closest pocket with my hand, which is shown to make tipsy pool players want to give you a noogie, not beat you upside the head with their bottles of Budweiser. I recall being awake at 3 am when I received a text message. I was dropped off just shy of 9 in the morning. You ache a little too just reading that. I know.

I’m not sure if I mentioned this at any other time, but I have lived my life as an ibuprofen junkie. Cramps? Advil. Strained muscle? Check. Eyebrow-plucking injury? It does the job. When the Great Hives of 2007 rolled into town with the circus, my doc banned my sacred ibuprofen given that it was high on the list of likely culprits. Which left me with Tylenol and deep-fried Twinkies to relieve any and all pain.

So when I found myself this weekend a) resting my cheek against the toilet seat, because just throwing up already would HAVE to relieve the pounding in my head, and b) simultaneous cramps that let me know that God and Oprah continued to bless me without children, and c!) a head cold with pressure that would make the heartiest hurricanes proud, I could do nothing but take Tylenol and wish I had a deep fryer. There was no Advil at this party, which is akin to being locked in a darkened closet with Clay Aiken on repeat. (You should ache a little just reading that last part.)

In two days, I have watched four episodes of House, two of Women’s Murder Club, one each of Dead Zone, Family Guy, American Dad, and the Office, and four football games. I watched one episode of 30 Rock three times, and during the last viewing began hatching my plan to abduct both Ms. Fey and Mr. Baldwin simultaneously for placement in that box under my bed. I have placed a total of two phone calls. I ate Campbell’s tomato soup for breakfast because I didn’t have any other food except cat kibble, and we all know how well that went over the last time. I didn’t brush my teeth until Sunday afternoon.

No reason to check. Yep, still single.