Cosmo Karma

I'm not drinking for a week. At least. Two hangovers in one week is more than enough for me -- or really anyone, for that matter -- to handle. Thursday's PBR hangover wasn't too bad since all I had to do was work a princess shift at Pottery Barn (princess shift = four hours, according to one of my six managers). Today's hangover...oh dear...is

so

much

worse.

The nausea and constant on-a-boat (Not in the good, Andy Samberg way, unfortunately) sensation I'm experiencing today (yes, still at 1:15 pm) is all in thanks to a much-anticipated Pottery Barn Christmas party at a manager's killer Northwest Portland pad that overlooks the entire city. I think I can blame the fuzzies in my head to the fact that, prior to cosmo number one, all I had eaten was a carrot raisin oat bran muffin (which is my near-daily indulgence that I get from Zupans and am quite certain that I'm fairly addicted to them), two cups of coffee and a small handful of breast cancer-friendly peanut M&Ms. I can also place blame on the fact that the cosmo was, hands down, the stiffest drink possibly imaginable to man. It was more vodka than juice, packing more of a punch than punch should pack.

By the time cosmo two rolled around, I had taken a few girlfriend bites of a pulled pork sandwich and had snacked on some deliciously salty tortilla chips and home made guacamole (Passing up on anything avocado is heresy in my book). My stomach, that poor, neglected organ of mine, attacked those nibbles of food like Northwest Portlanders attacked the shelves of bottled water during last week's e-coli scare, pushing and shoving to get it all, all, all. Unfortunately (at least for me today), my stomach sucked up vodka at a less-than-desirable rate as well.

I was wasted. Embarrassingly so. I still can't recall what time we left the party last night nor do I remember much of the ride home (Thanks again, Clara). I somehow managed to hang my keys on the light switch, which hangs about six inches to the left of where my key hook actually is. I was also able to lock my door although I do recall fumbling with it for a solid 45 seconds (Which, in drunk-recall time, could actually have been minutes or hours). Negating these so-called feats of mine is the fact that I dropped my new phone, cracking open the back case (No Mom, it's not broken) and had a great conversation -- that I can't really recall fully -- before passing out in my wool tights and flannel dress (That's a terrible description of what is actually one of my favorite outfits).

The worst part about today's hangover is that I am carrying it around with me all day through the, not one, but TWO job interviews I have today. I was able to keep it buried during my first one (I'll attribute that to adrenaline) but now, while waiting for my second one, I'm feeling a bit nauseated again. I've eaten more today than I have in the past two days (Eggle Bagle sandwich for breakfast, pho for lunch and enough coffee to fuel a medium-sized office) and have been popping advil like crazy. I know I should be more excited for this next interview but all I can think about is how wonderfully inviting a pair of big sweatpants, my old man slippers and a baggy t-shirt sound. Add in some bad TV, my favorite fleece blanket and perhaps a few slices of vegan pizza and I'll be golden.

If I can just make it through the next three hours, I'll be golden. Three more hours and I can recoup. Three more hours and I can take off my give-me-a-job boots (Not to be confused with fuck-me boots or fuck-me pumps) and give my hangover the proper attention it deserves. I did work hard for it, after all.

Some might say my priorities aren't straight but hey, at least I have goals in life. Right?