Mmm, bile...
Feb. 15th, 2005 02:48 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
trinityvixenHere's the short-short version: I'm at work with a hangover, food poisoning, and a cranky boss.
My life isn't melodramatic enough to merit a serious entry, so, inspired by The Know-It-All (which is awesome and everyone should read--hilarious! even with a riotous stomach!), here's my update of my life as a comedy.
Sunday night, I used some of my open margarita mix with an eye to using it up before it went bad (a la the Williams-Sonoma misfortune), and I discovered I quite liked the mix. It was tart, and with a little salt, would have been perfect. Lisa agreed, and it was decided we would make frozen margaritas by the pitcher to use it up last night. We did, and, much to my delight, Lisa did her lobster impression, even Carrie was impressed with the margarita mix, and Eugene finished off the tequila to avoid us getting into any more trouble.
I made a smallish dinner to make up for a Biggie-sized Wendy's lunch, and because I only had a little sauce left. When I went to put the sauce on, however, it came out a bouillon-soup consistancy instead of a creamy one, which really should have been all I needed to know to throw away the noodles and start afresh. You'd think, anyway. But, no, I proceded to smell the inside of the jar--it was slightly off--and taste a bit of what was inside with my finger--couldn't say if it was off or not. Without proof of vomit-inducing grossness (yet, anyway) I went ahead and melted some cheese (on top of it being foul, there wasn't enough to cover my noodles) and ate it anyway.
I should mention here I wasn't drunk at the time I was making the noodles. I'd only had one margarita then. I don't know why this clarification is better than just chalking this up to drunken stupidity (as opposed to my very real sober stupidity). I feel a compulsive need to be honest. If I didn't, I'd say that I had a few, blame stomach problems entirely on the noodles, and leave it at that.
Cut back to last night with Carrie and Eugene leaving for Valentine's dinner. Lisa and I watched CSI drunk and happy and slobbering over Greg and Archie (of course, Lisa likes the Asian, and I can't even say she's got yellow fever, the damn half-Asian that she is!). Lisa somehow found her way out to Andy's, still rather pink. I intended to secretly watch Mumford and then did nothing of the sort. By 'secretly' I mean 'while no one is around' (I have a bit of sensitivity about this from years of being asked "Again?" by my father when I'd watch a movie more than once in a fortnight--this from the man who watched Indiana Jones or Star Wars every weekend of my young life).
I fell asleep in my room around 10 pm, passed out, actually. I think I debated bringing Mumford into my room to watch on my laptop, remember none of the reasons why this was a bad and ultimately abandoned idea, and woke this morning to find, when I touched the mouse, that I'd opened the Divx player but nothing came on when I hit play, meaning I'd never queued up anything the night before. I haven't used Divx to play movies since downloading another player better able to handle movie files with bizarre extensions that I get from Bit Torrent. Out of curiosity, I checked on what was the last thing I'd watched whenever it was I'd used Divx.
Turns out, it was porn. Lots of porn. I was a little confused until I remembered that whole episode where I was watching porn and asking personally invasive questions about other people's sex lives about a year ago. Ah, yes. Remind me to remove the Divx shortcut from my desktop. Heaven forfend one of my family members sees that. I had enough of that crap when Devin stayed with us and used my computer and I ended up with a crapload of infected files and a temporary folder in IE that was chock-a-block with porn ads.
So, at 6:30 am this morning when I gave up on sleep, or, rather, my body gave up on it for me, I'd already realized I wasn't going to be able to keep sleeping off this hangover, that my computer was open to a program I'd only ever used for porn, and that I was most likely going to be ill. I took a twenty minute shower, mucking about in the bathroom while waiting to vomit. Didn't happen, so I went back to my room, dragged the rubbish bin closer to the bed and set about wasting time.
I mentioned only just yesterday that I'm terrible at wasting time on the internet. It seems so easy for most people, but not me. I re-read old fanfics that I like, read SomethingAwful, SuperheroHype, browse select sections of the New York Times (unless there's an interesting link on the front page), and check LJ and e-mail so frequently I never log out of either, even at work. Now, that me had two and a half hours to kill before work.
I read a lot more of the Times than I ever did even when I got it delivered--notably the book review section, which sent me off to the New York Public Library website and requesting a hundred books that will all be delivered at once, even though I've got four to get through now. I requested just about anything I thought of or read about. I clicked on links, tabbing it in Foxfire or whatever that browser's called just because I could. Poor Liz M, pity her. I forwarded articles to her that I thought she'd appreciate, but, aside from the one about the gay penguins, I'm not sure she cares. I did find out that they're making Return of the Living Dead Parts 4 and 5. After forcing Heddy to stay in on a Saturday afternoon to watch Part 3, I think most people know I have cause to be excited about this, even if 5, subtitled "Rave to the Grave," resembles the deplorable House of the Dead movie a little too closely (oh, another heads up: there's a sequel being made to that, too, though not by the Uwe Boll guy who blows so very much he makes Paul W.S. Anderson look like a directorial auteur).
It took a lot of this reading to finally make me ill around the time my alarm went off. I like to think that my being sick is a direct result of having to listen to Debbie Gibson talk about her Playboy spread. It makes for a handy excuse, like blaming food poisoning from dated cheese sauce. I've had to clean a rotten beaker of milk buffer today. If I didn't get ill because of bad food from dinner, surely I'll give myself something nasty for lunch no matter how hard I wash my hands.
I snagged a Gatorade on the way to work, managed (I think) not to appear too ridiculous to Eugene and Carrie as they got ready this morning. If anything happened last night after I passed out, they were tasteful enough not to mention it, but I invite them to do so here and now, or tell me later. I missed Lisa calling me, too, to let me know she'd safely gotten to Andy's at 9:30. Huh. I really did think it was 10. She said if I missed her call, it was because I was "Drunk as a box of " and the word at the end sounds almost but not quite entirely unlike 'sknus' or even the proper 'skunks.'
I should be mad at being so thoroughly wasted--and thus breaking my New Year's Resolution--but I'm not pressed about it. At least no one was home to molest or vomit upon, and we're generally pretty good at respecting privacy, so I'm going to assume neither Carrie nor Eugene tried to wake me when they saw my door was closed. My only possible moment of embarassment could have been from walking out of my room in search of my tape player; I wore a robe, though, so no flashing the neighbors, though shirtless guy is just asking for it. Don't ask me why I went looking for the tape player, I'm the last person who would know. I'll assume it has to do with a pressing drunken need to listen to my Powderfinger tape, something I blame on getting wasted too many times in Australia and on being unable to operate anything as complicated as my computer to listen to the mp3s I ripped from Kate. Seeing as I didn't get around to using the Divx player, I'm thinking this theory has a solid foundation.
So far at work, I've managed to pull the stupidest mistake since not putting the DNA in a PCR run, which is pouring a gel into the mold without adding the acrylamide. I had to redo it, but hey, I think I did a better job second time around (even without counting the whole 'missing the main ingredient' piece from the first one). The good news is my boss has gone home to care for her sick daughter (she's vomiting; man, food poisoning's epidemic, I tell you), so, despite having to be around her while I was violently hungover, I at least won't be staying late again, and I'm going to Midtown with Carrie when I get out.
I demand fast-food. That's the problem with having a hangover in our area. There's not a McDonald's for miles. In Australia, I could just run out to the all-night BK, grab a fry with Amy, go back, do another thirty pots of beer, and call it a night. At Columbia, there's always Tom's, but, even better, Evil Mart (aka Morton Williams) had those truly awesome Salt and Vinegar chips that got me over my last hangover. You need salty foods with hangovers. The Gatorade helped though, and I might be genuinely in love with their Fruit Punch. Good stuff. Only $1.75, too. That, as the rest of this has been, was sarcasm, in case any of you missed it.
No, the subject line doesn't refer to my opinion of Constantine (which I apparently called Hellblazer a short while ago, SHAME ON ME--incidentally, I read more about John on a Hellblazer fansite this morning). Who wants to see Constantine this Friday? Turns out I'll be in town instead of on a mini-fellowship of the rum with Heddy (and really, after yesterday, I think that's a good thing).
I'll get back to you guys on times, but I'm not buying tickets en masse. Let's just agree to meet up and have fun mocking and crying all together. Better than crying alone. Or being drunk alone, which I can now comment on with authority.
My life isn't melodramatic enough to merit a serious entry, so, inspired by The Know-It-All (which is awesome and everyone should read--hilarious! even with a riotous stomach!), here's my update of my life as a comedy.
Sunday night, I used some of my open margarita mix with an eye to using it up before it went bad (a la the Williams-Sonoma misfortune), and I discovered I quite liked the mix. It was tart, and with a little salt, would have been perfect. Lisa agreed, and it was decided we would make frozen margaritas by the pitcher to use it up last night. We did, and, much to my delight, Lisa did her lobster impression, even Carrie was impressed with the margarita mix, and Eugene finished off the tequila to avoid us getting into any more trouble.
I made a smallish dinner to make up for a Biggie-sized Wendy's lunch, and because I only had a little sauce left. When I went to put the sauce on, however, it came out a bouillon-soup consistancy instead of a creamy one, which really should have been all I needed to know to throw away the noodles and start afresh. You'd think, anyway. But, no, I proceded to smell the inside of the jar--it was slightly off--and taste a bit of what was inside with my finger--couldn't say if it was off or not. Without proof of vomit-inducing grossness (yet, anyway) I went ahead and melted some cheese (on top of it being foul, there wasn't enough to cover my noodles) and ate it anyway.
I should mention here I wasn't drunk at the time I was making the noodles. I'd only had one margarita then. I don't know why this clarification is better than just chalking this up to drunken stupidity (as opposed to my very real sober stupidity). I feel a compulsive need to be honest. If I didn't, I'd say that I had a few, blame stomach problems entirely on the noodles, and leave it at that.
Cut back to last night with Carrie and Eugene leaving for Valentine's dinner. Lisa and I watched CSI drunk and happy and slobbering over Greg and Archie (of course, Lisa likes the Asian, and I can't even say she's got yellow fever, the damn half-Asian that she is!). Lisa somehow found her way out to Andy's, still rather pink. I intended to secretly watch Mumford and then did nothing of the sort. By 'secretly' I mean 'while no one is around' (I have a bit of sensitivity about this from years of being asked "Again?" by my father when I'd watch a movie more than once in a fortnight--this from the man who watched Indiana Jones or Star Wars every weekend of my young life).
I fell asleep in my room around 10 pm, passed out, actually. I think I debated bringing Mumford into my room to watch on my laptop, remember none of the reasons why this was a bad and ultimately abandoned idea, and woke this morning to find, when I touched the mouse, that I'd opened the Divx player but nothing came on when I hit play, meaning I'd never queued up anything the night before. I haven't used Divx to play movies since downloading another player better able to handle movie files with bizarre extensions that I get from Bit Torrent. Out of curiosity, I checked on what was the last thing I'd watched whenever it was I'd used Divx.
Turns out, it was porn. Lots of porn. I was a little confused until I remembered that whole episode where I was watching porn and asking personally invasive questions about other people's sex lives about a year ago. Ah, yes. Remind me to remove the Divx shortcut from my desktop. Heaven forfend one of my family members sees that. I had enough of that crap when Devin stayed with us and used my computer and I ended up with a crapload of infected files and a temporary folder in IE that was chock-a-block with porn ads.
So, at 6:30 am this morning when I gave up on sleep, or, rather, my body gave up on it for me, I'd already realized I wasn't going to be able to keep sleeping off this hangover, that my computer was open to a program I'd only ever used for porn, and that I was most likely going to be ill. I took a twenty minute shower, mucking about in the bathroom while waiting to vomit. Didn't happen, so I went back to my room, dragged the rubbish bin closer to the bed and set about wasting time.
I mentioned only just yesterday that I'm terrible at wasting time on the internet. It seems so easy for most people, but not me. I re-read old fanfics that I like, read SomethingAwful, SuperheroHype, browse select sections of the New York Times (unless there's an interesting link on the front page), and check LJ and e-mail so frequently I never log out of either, even at work. Now, that me had two and a half hours to kill before work.
I read a lot more of the Times than I ever did even when I got it delivered--notably the book review section, which sent me off to the New York Public Library website and requesting a hundred books that will all be delivered at once, even though I've got four to get through now. I requested just about anything I thought of or read about. I clicked on links, tabbing it in Foxfire or whatever that browser's called just because I could. Poor Liz M, pity her. I forwarded articles to her that I thought she'd appreciate, but, aside from the one about the gay penguins, I'm not sure she cares. I did find out that they're making Return of the Living Dead Parts 4 and 5. After forcing Heddy to stay in on a Saturday afternoon to watch Part 3, I think most people know I have cause to be excited about this, even if 5, subtitled "Rave to the Grave," resembles the deplorable House of the Dead movie a little too closely (oh, another heads up: there's a sequel being made to that, too, though not by the Uwe Boll guy who blows so very much he makes Paul W.S. Anderson look like a directorial auteur).
It took a lot of this reading to finally make me ill around the time my alarm went off. I like to think that my being sick is a direct result of having to listen to Debbie Gibson talk about her Playboy spread. It makes for a handy excuse, like blaming food poisoning from dated cheese sauce. I've had to clean a rotten beaker of milk buffer today. If I didn't get ill because of bad food from dinner, surely I'll give myself something nasty for lunch no matter how hard I wash my hands.
I snagged a Gatorade on the way to work, managed (I think) not to appear too ridiculous to Eugene and Carrie as they got ready this morning. If anything happened last night after I passed out, they were tasteful enough not to mention it, but I invite them to do so here and now, or tell me later. I missed Lisa calling me, too, to let me know she'd safely gotten to Andy's at 9:30. Huh. I really did think it was 10. She said if I missed her call, it was because I was "Drunk as a box of " and the word at the end sounds almost but not quite entirely unlike 'sknus' or even the proper 'skunks.'
I should be mad at being so thoroughly wasted--and thus breaking my New Year's Resolution--but I'm not pressed about it. At least no one was home to molest or vomit upon, and we're generally pretty good at respecting privacy, so I'm going to assume neither Carrie nor Eugene tried to wake me when they saw my door was closed. My only possible moment of embarassment could have been from walking out of my room in search of my tape player; I wore a robe, though, so no flashing the neighbors, though shirtless guy is just asking for it. Don't ask me why I went looking for the tape player, I'm the last person who would know. I'll assume it has to do with a pressing drunken need to listen to my Powderfinger tape, something I blame on getting wasted too many times in Australia and on being unable to operate anything as complicated as my computer to listen to the mp3s I ripped from Kate. Seeing as I didn't get around to using the Divx player, I'm thinking this theory has a solid foundation.
So far at work, I've managed to pull the stupidest mistake since not putting the DNA in a PCR run, which is pouring a gel into the mold without adding the acrylamide. I had to redo it, but hey, I think I did a better job second time around (even without counting the whole 'missing the main ingredient' piece from the first one). The good news is my boss has gone home to care for her sick daughter (she's vomiting; man, food poisoning's epidemic, I tell you), so, despite having to be around her while I was violently hungover, I at least won't be staying late again, and I'm going to Midtown with Carrie when I get out.
I demand fast-food. That's the problem with having a hangover in our area. There's not a McDonald's for miles. In Australia, I could just run out to the all-night BK, grab a fry with Amy, go back, do another thirty pots of beer, and call it a night. At Columbia, there's always Tom's, but, even better, Evil Mart (aka Morton Williams) had those truly awesome Salt and Vinegar chips that got me over my last hangover. You need salty foods with hangovers. The Gatorade helped though, and I might be genuinely in love with their Fruit Punch. Good stuff. Only $1.75, too. That, as the rest of this has been, was sarcasm, in case any of you missed it.
No, the subject line doesn't refer to my opinion of Constantine (which I apparently called Hellblazer a short while ago, SHAME ON ME--incidentally, I read more about John on a Hellblazer fansite this morning). Who wants to see Constantine this Friday? Turns out I'll be in town instead of on a mini-fellowship of the rum with Heddy (and really, after yesterday, I think that's a good thing).
I'll get back to you guys on times, but I'm not buying tickets en masse. Let's just agree to meet up and have fun mocking and crying all together. Better than crying alone. Or being drunk alone, which I can now comment on with authority.
