What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells

Ahh... Sunday morning. I found myself awakened this Sunday morning, as I am on most Sunday mornings, at 9:15 to the glorious tintinnabulation of the bells from the Colonial looking church around the corner, calling the flock to gather for worship, or whatever it is Presbyterians flock together to do. At least I assume it involves worshiping the lord and then eventually exchanging stock tips, talking about golf and eating Waldorf salad.

Normally I find this a pretty nice way to wake up. I'm not a church goer myself, as it would be a little deranged since I'm a devout Agnostic, but church bells are OK in my book. It's a hell of a lot better than the ten thousand decibel rhythmic bleating of my alarm clock anyway.

But today I found the bells more like a death knoll.

Fuck. Shut up already.

Slightly befuddled, I also found myself in the guest room.

Slowly it started to come back to me. Last night's outing with Rachel and E to a night club and the two very large, house special cocktails I enjoyed. The server described the drink and the ingredients list of sugary booze was too long to keep track of when I ordered them as a sober person, let alone remember the day after.

I'm hung over (is that one word or two - I'm seeing double)?

I thought that I had downed enough water and waited a reasonable period of time before driving home. I felt fine. Not drunk at all. The only physical sign of ailment from the evenings events was throbbing feet from the bronze patent peep toe slingbacks I had decided to wear. I even stayed up a little bit when I got home and called MDH who is away in Indianapolis this weekend on a corporate Boondoggle for some big deal college basketball thingy, to let him know I was home safe and to whisper lovey-dovey goodnights into the phone.

Next thing I know I'm wrapped up in a polyester comforter on the sheet less bed in the guestroom cursing the goddamn Presbyterians and their goddamn fucking bells. The floor is strewn with my now wrinkled outfit. The shiny slingback resting next to my throbbing head causes me to notice that my feet are still throbbing with tiny blisters on each pinkie toe.

As a side note, the polyester comforter was a wedding present from my mother who never checks fabric content labels. It looks like gorgeous green and gold wide striped silk with gold braided trim, but it itches like a son of a bitch. I have a mark from the braiding embedded on my temple.

Why the guest room? Well, it's not uncommon for me to sleep in there when MDH is away. It's warmer in there as it's smaller than our cavernous master bedroom and for some reason the bed doesn't seem so empty.

Anyhoo... I'm not normally a drinker of giant cocktails containing shot samplings from then entire Bacardi flavors collection served in pint sized glasses. Certainly, I wouldn't normally drink two. I'm more likely to sip one martini, or a glass of red wine with a meal. On special occasions, like when it's blazing hot outside I may, if I'm feeling nutty or on the verge of profuse schwitzing , chug an ice cold beer or two. Who am I kidding? I never finish the second beer.

So hang overs are not commonplace. I probably haven't had one for... shit I don't even remember. I do however remember a time when I could drink half of a $5 bucket of beer all night (they used to serve Milwaukee's Best tap beer, literally in gallon mop buckets at a place I frequented called Mustard's. Come to think of it, it's where I met Dan and Nature Boy) and wake up fine. In fact I could get up, go to work all day and go out drinking all night all over again. I don't remember this head pain or feeling like my ears are numb and my eyes all fuzzy and made of cotton balls.

I'm too old for this. I need a drink.