Oi, glad yesterday is OVER! St. Patricks Day Body Slam

18 March 2011

376

R. Linda:

So yesterday at lunch, I was subject to the old American standard for St. Patty's Day: corned beef with cabbage and green beer. Last night, I went home and was subject to the same thing, but it wasn't green beer this time; it was green wine. Oh yeah, and I have pictures to prove that. 
     

                                                                             

The St. Patrick's Day Riesling --  oh yeah

This morning, I felt a wee bit green meself. I woke several times during the night to me stomach contents, taunting me to remember them, and the memory wasn't all that good. Then there was cotton mouth, where you felt like your insides had been on the heat as long as the corned beef, and there wasn't a drop of water left in your body. I tried to sit up in bed in the process of trying to convince myself a glass of water would fix that. Only the room began to spin in a dizzying fashion, and I had to lie back down. 

After three more attempts, I got meself in an upright position and found I was swaying, so I held onto the bedpost until I had me balance. I lurched at first towards the door and felt instantly sick, so I stopped. Instead of going to the kitchen, I headed for the bathroom, but I found I could make it by not lurching but shuffling. I turned the light on once there and was nearly blinded by its brightness. I squinted at meself in the mirror and oh horrors, I looked distinctly unwell. I opened the cabinet and got two Ibuprofen tablets and a cup of water. I had four cups of water, which finally got rid of the cotton mouth. By this time, me eyes had adjusted to the brightness. I saw I was still swaying, and the longer I watched meself doing this involuntarily, the more upset my tum was becoming. I shook me head and paid for that with my brain clanging from one side to the other. I turned out the light and decided a cuppa tea was the thing.

I don't remember getting down the stairs, but I was surprised I made it without falling down them. Anyway, the next thing I remember is standing in the kitchen, going through the same darting pains in me eyes as the light I had switched on sent shocks into me head. 

"Too bright, too bright," I muttered, squinting again. I somehow found the kettle, and of course, it wasn't full, so I filled it, put it on the burner and got down what I needed to brew the stuff. I sat holding my head in me hands when me Mam's voice was blaring inside my head: "Get yerself a raw egg dere Gabriel, it does the fixits fer a hangover. Swallow two now, two at noon."

Yes, me Mam full of "Paddyisms" do this, do that, don't do this, or that. Oi! I got up, but we had two eggs, and I wasn't going to be responsible for an egg shortage for breakfast. I groaned and went over to the tea kettle. It was starting to steam, and as I stood above it, I heard Mam's voice again, "Sweat da drink outta dere Gabriel, but drink water! Hydrate, son, hydrate!" The steam would scald the skin off me face so I decided against THAT and returned to the fridge for a glass of cold water. That hurt; the cold was like ice, and me stomach was screaming if you don't stop that, we're coming up! And there she was again, "Eat a pickle or two, Gabriel, da pickle juice will do ya good." Then why don't I just drink it? I asked meself. I opened the jar, took one whiff and almost passed out. No, no, no, put that jar back, my mind was saying, I did.

By this time, the tea was ready. The screaming from the tea kettle nearly sent me through the roof. I burnt me hand taking it off the fire. I could feel tears at the back of me eyes from the pain. I sat waiting for the tea to brew, shaking me burnt hand like the air would help. It didn't. It was like me little apple-cheeked grey-haired Mam was sitting across from me with her cuppa. I actually imagined we were going over a post-mortem of the day before, her shaking her head at me and me feeling sick and sheepish. 

I finished the tea and shuffled into the living room. Got me green blanket and laid meself out on the couch. There was no trying the stairs; no, I'd make do. I tried to sleep, but me head and stomach made it impossible. I thought I'd never get to work; there was no way. I was dying of alcohol poisoning. I mean, what else could it be? Me Mam's voice was saying, "Alcohol poisoning me foot dere Gabriel, ye drank too mooch of da drink ya 'orses arse!" I groaned. If only I could stay home, I kept telling meself, it would all go away and I'd be all right. But it wasn't going away; I got up and went back to the brightness of the kitchen; no, I hadn't turned the light off, and once there, I couldn't remember why I was there. It took a moment of looking around when I spied the leftover glass of green wine.

The last glass

"Oh hell," I muttered to meself. I went over and looked at it all alone on the table. Emerald green and inviting me to take a sip of the hair of the dog. Did I want to? Did I really really want to? No, but I heard Mam's voice saying, "The best ting fer a hangover be ta drink wot started it dere Gabriel, take a healthy sip, down da hatch!" And this I did, and as the alcohol hit the back of me throat, I almost gagged from the burn. Just breathe, I told meself as I started to choke. Somehow. I made it back to the couch and passed out. My wife found me around daybreak.

"You smell like a brewery, Gabe. Do something about that!" she said and walked away. I had to admit, I felt somewhat better. I had coffee, an egg, and some dry toast and off I went. I showered (which felt really good), got dressed and went to me place of employment in relatively better condition than when I woke up the first time.

Now, it's back! I be looking at Boston Harbour through the window and thinking a dip in the ocean would do me a good turn, wasn't it me Mam who said, "If all else fails dere Gabriel, go fer a swim me boyo!" I was seriously contemplating THAT. But it be a hell of a thing, the headline would read: DRUNKEN REPORTER SWIMMING TO GEORGE'S ISLAND TO RID HIMSELF OF HANGOVER IN 30 DEGREE WEATHER. No, can't do THAT. 

I sat there thinking I could die of a stroke because my brain had been prematurely pickled. I had myself to blame AND my American friends who informed me they were Irish yesterday, and so it was the excuse needed to become a raging alcoholic for a day and a night. We don't do this stuff back in Ireland we don't, so how come I got swept up in the craziness? I have notta clue.

Gabe

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