Shame, vomit, and interest rates

"I need to stop drinking this vodka so I don't pee on my stairs tonight" never crossed my mind on this night in 2006 as I was sitting at my favorite local establishment, Cock of the Walk.  Where everyone knows your name and has had sex with all your friends.



Nowadays,  I'm usually at home getting pregnant on Friday nights,  and I don't understand how I thought Cock of the Walk plans weren't refusable. A simple, "I have to work until 8 o'clock tonight and again in the morning at 7:45 in the morning so I think I'll pass, but thank you for the invitation, Kendal!" seems like it would have been met with an understanding nod and wave. But at that time in my life I was on the prowl to get me a husband with one T and everyone knows the only way to find one is at a dingy bar that can't be bothered to install a bathroom stall door that closes. (also, when you are waiting in the line for the women's bathroom you get a champion's view of Oklahoma City urinal wiener every time the men's bathroom door is opened)



Three hours into the night,  I was having so much fun that not even my friend sleeping in a trash can was going to get me in a cab. I probably spent most of the night sitting at a table with strangers, begging them to love me. I really don't remember much from the night, and when I look at pictures all I recognize is shame and failure. And cavities, since my mouth is wide open in 90% of them.

I was so surprised when the lights came on and I still hadn't found my next ex-husband. That means it was 2am. That means I had about 5 hours until I had to be at work.

How did I get home that night? I don't know. But it was someone that decided not to make sure I got into my bed without puking on it first.

I crawled out of the throw up nest at 7, because I needed a shower and I was going to look presentable and open some motherfucking checking accounts. I did not feel well. I did not look well. I was only 23 so one would think I could take a licking and keep on ticking, right?

It was one of the worst days of my life. Honestly. The time was going by so slowly and I had to stay there until four. I laid my head down on my desk and tried to take slow sips of water. I couldn't eat. Thankfully, the lobby of a bank doesn't get too busy in the morning on Saturdays because most people got schnockered the night before and are enjoying sleeping in. At about 10:30 I had just wrapped up a little prayer session with Mr. Jesus and He wasn't complying. My phone rang to let me know there was a woman here to see me to open up 17 accounts and talk about every other bank option we have.

I shook her hand and introduced myself. She had on a decorative scarf and a wool skirt suit and her fake red hair hit her shoulders in a nice little Saturday morning flip. She needed to die.

Suzie: I'd like to talk about some options for my accounts. I was thinking about moving $10,000 from my savings into a ;fkas;dfoi0980nndsfd-090-;a)OQ.

Mary: Excuse me, what? Never mind, I'll be right back.

I went to the bathroom and splashed cold water on my wrists. Please. Get me through this

Mary: Okay, hi! I'm back! Sounds like you need a Titanic account and that will only take about 40 seconds to sign and then you can go! yay!

Suzie: Oh, well I'm not in a hurry, Dear. Let's talk more about the intricate details of the features and benefits of the Mon-

Mary: BLAAAAAAAAAEEEEEEEEEEEGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

I had just picked up my trash can from under the desk and was violently vomiting into it. It wasn't quick or subtle. There were long periods of dry heaving and crying, my forehead resting against the plastic edge of the trashcan. Suzie sat there quietly. She could have at least held my hair back. Or even better, WALKED AWAY AND WENT HOME. Every few seconds I could hear her clear her throat or say "oh dear" under her breath.

I sat back up, black tears overflowing from my bloodshot eyes, snot and spit gathered in the corner of my mouth.

Mary: I'm- I'm sorry- I'll just go clean myself up.

Suzie: Oh don't even worry about it, it's those Bradford Pear trees blooming, they've got everyone feeling under the weather.

I couldn't believe it. I wasn't rubbing my nose or giving a little sneezy. Lemon/lime/vodka/vomit stench was filling up my office and she was ready to keep talking about sassy personalized deposit slips. She jumped right back into business talk, while I sat there shocked and in disbelief. I couldn't even get this woman out of my office by nearly hurling on her.

I stopped her incessant rambling and carried my trash can to the bathroom, where I cleaned up as best as I could and cried on the floor for three minutes.  I kept thinking she would get mad about having to wait and would leave. I peeked outside the door and she was still there, making notes about all her different options. I was going to have to be brutal.

Mary: Ma'am. Hi, yeah, I'm back. Um. I feel really sick and can't continue helping you any more. In fact, I need you to leave. I really am sorry but there's just no way I can talk to you or listen to you talk anymore. You'll have to come back on Monday.

She seemed completely SHOCKED that I was too sick to continue, but not angry at all. She told me they needed to let me go home and give me a sick day every once in a while. Bless her heart. She has never seen a hungover and possibly still drunk person in her 60 something years of living.

I was able to get a hold of a co-worker to come in and take over for me. She even stopped and got me some coffee. (Thanks Lauren!)

Moral of the story is...well...whatever...look at the pictures. Don't drink and work.

Yay! Friends! Fun!

Calm down, 2006 Mary

Close your mouth. Go home!

1:54 AM. Clearly.