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So, I�m sitting at my desk, thinking about vomit.
Did you ever notice how people love to tell you their vomit stories? Specifically, the vomit stories that are a result of a night of hard drinking. Or, even not-so-hard drinking, which is usually the case with me. But once one person starts talking about that time they puked up vodka for three days straight, everyone has an escapade to relate.
I am no exception.
I started thinking about vomit today for completely benign reasons. Shaela mentioned raspberry Ciderjack in her journal entry. I�ve never tried the raspberry, and was thinking that it might be a good next drink when I�m out somewhere and inclined toward ordering something, when I remembered that I don�t drink Ciderjack any more. Which inevitably leads to my remembering why I don�t drink Ciderjack any more. Which has a lot to do with vomit.
We went out to celebrate my (no longer) friend Michelle�s birthday�Ilana, Michelle and me. After a couple different stops, we settled in to a table downstairs at the Pour House on Boylston Street. We were all dressed up and girls-alone silly. Boys at the bar kept sending us drinks. I�m not a drinker in general, so the Ciderjacks kept piling up in front of me. At one point, I was working on four bottles at once.
By the time Michelle�s boyfriend showed up, I knew I was too drunk for my own good. I was also not alone in that state. He surveyed the situation and decided it was time for us to leave. We started walking back to Michelle�s apartment.
Part way there, I crossed from drunk to sick. I managed to keep it all inside until I reached the apartment�s bathroom.
We got home at Midnight. I vomited every hour, practically on the hour, until Noon the next day. Finally, after crawling back and forth from bed to toilet several times, I just moved my blanket into the bathroom. The cool porcelain floor was my best friend.
I panicked at about 5:00 a.m., when I was still sick and not feeling any better. The closest hospital to Michelle�s apartment is the one I work at. I couldn�t bear the thought of coming in to my own emergency room with alcohol poisoning, but it was looking like a better idea as the morning grew brighter.
At 9, Michelle made me a cup of very sweet tea. I called home to tell my mom I couldn�t join her for the craft fair we�d planned to attend that afternoon. Annoyed, she didn�t notice I sounded like death.
Finally, at about 2:00, Michelle and her boyfriend drove me home. I crawled into my own bed and swore I would never get that drunk again.
Surprisingly, I meant it.
That was number three of the three times I�ve gotten sick from drinking. The other two both ended in the Artboy�s bed. Not �cause I was drunk. Just �cause that�s where I happened to be sleeping at the time.
The first time, we had been at a going away party for our friend Phil, who was joining the army. The Artboy�s ex-girlfriend was there, striking terror in my heart. I drank one Ciderjack and immediately started feeling bad. Against my better judgment, I accepted a second drink from Melissa. Four sips were enough.
The Artboy wanted to ride home in the back of his truck. He had this fantasy about having sex in the back while someone else was driving. Weather-wise, the night was perfect for it. On the way out, he noticed my green face and thought better of it. Halfway home, Scotty K pulled over and I threw up on the front lawn of a church somewhere in southeastern Massachusetts. I walked backwards as I did it, trying to avoid getting vomit on my shoes. The Artboy followed me, holding my hair out of my face. It was a Sunday night, the first night I spent in my then-brand-new apartment. He squashed in my too-small-for-him bed and watched me all night, afraid he�d somehow broken me.
Never did try the back of the truck thing.
The middle time, I was out with Scotty K once again, celebrating the end of a show he and I had worked on with some other friends. The Artboy was at home, waiting for me to come join him. I called him from the bar, begging him to come out with us, but he instead asked Scott to bring me home, knowing the sound of a too-drunk-Jennifer when he heard one. I�d had two and a half Ciderjacks that night.
We left the bar to head back to the house and found an empty space where Scotty K�s car had been. Another friend drove us to the tow lot in Car Hell. If you�ve been towed in Boston, you�ve been to Car Hell, out at the end of Mass Ave, past the weird round building and all the industrial looking alleys. As Scott paid to get his car out of the lot, I vomited quietly out the side door. I made him stop again on Melnea Cass so I could repeat the performance. Back home, I sat with my feet out the door and my head between my knees, afraid to move. The Artboy knelt next to me with a glass of water in one hand and a ginger ale in the other, coaxing me inside. I made it to the downstairs bathroom, where I promptly vomited again. An hour later, he carried me upstairs to his bed where he balanced me carefully near the bucket he�d conveniently set near my pillow. Good thing, too.
That next morning, I woke up to my only real hangover ever (not counting the alcohol poisoning thing�that brought me down to a different low!). I swore as I tried to choke down some breakfast that I�d never drink again.
How many people have made that same promise, in that same situation, looking as terrible as I did that morning?
Obviously, I didn�t mean that, since it was before the Pour House incident.
The first rule is to know your limits.
The second is to live within them.
I don�t drink Ciderjack any more.
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