A House Is Not a Home Until People Pass Out In It

Thursday night was the big Housewarming party. I went to a lot of trouble in preparations. I provided burgers, dogs, buns, and a shit ton of beer. I have a shit ton of beer left. What the hell am I going to do with a shit ton of beer?? There's only so much beer I can put on my hair to make it soft and shiny.

Surely I can find a home for a case of Bud Lite. Will trade for Dr. Pepper!!

I told people to bring side dish, dessert, or some other beverage in the event they didn't like beer. Most people like beer, which is why I provided it. I wanted to be a good hostess and be accommodating. So, when I went to the store before the party to buy said beverages, naturally the elderly couple standing in front of me at the checkout were Mormon missionaries from Utah. They glanced back at my cart, eyeing my contents.

Lite Beer
Potatoes
Wheat Beer
Fruit Salad
Tequila
Frozen fish sticks
Blue Curacao
Diet Dr. Pepper (free with coupon!)
fingernail file

I could tell by the look on their faces that they were sizing me up as a Midwestern Lush and were debating whether to hand me a Book of Mormon or not.

So, party time arrives and so do people. Fortunately, it stopped raining for my party so we were able to grill out. Everyone brought food, and there was TONS of food. More on that later.

Party winds down so there is only a handful of night shift nurses there. Someone notices the unopened bottle of tequila and thinks shots are a fine idea. After half the bottle is consumed, music is played and said nurses decide to dance in my living room. And the window shade was open.

I'm pretty convinced I've been branded the neighborhood lesbian. As if my dating life sucked before...I'm never going to land another date until I'm in a nursing home and the only guy who is interested is senile...and impotent. His only attraction to me will be my big hooters...which will be hanging down to my knees by then.

Eventually, the rest of the tequila bottle is drained, and three of us remain. I hide the keys of one who is entertaining the thought of driving home. She passes out on the couch. Red and I sit on the back deck and lament at how lame relationships are before she adjourns to the spare room, and me to my room.

I'm pretty sure I called Paul's house, but I don't know what sort of message I left.

Then, I proceed to vomit with the force of a F-16. Feeling better about life, I went to bed.

The next morning, I tried the throw up my pancreas, but all that came out was stomach bile and water. That taste was hideous, so then I was just tossing air. I was clinging to the toilet lid for support because when I throw up, I put my whole body into it...which is why I would never make a good bulimic.

Still in good hostess mode, I went downstairs and made my guests each a breakfast sandwich (I washed my hands first). They went home, and I went back upstairs and threw up the breakfast sandwich. By this time, I have popped all kinds of little blood vessels in and around my eyes and I look like someone has beat me in the face. Life isn't so great anymore, so I fall asleep by the toilet.

So, I've been going between extreme nausea, and extreme vomiting all day. Remember all that food my guests brought? Well, they left it all here. Whenever I would open the fridge for a Sprite or some Gatorade, the sights and smells would hit me, and off to the bathroom I would go.

Serves me right, I know.

I'm never, ever, ever going to touch tequila again. The mere thought of it makes me want to go visit my porcelain best friend. My stomach has a memory, so if someone tries to give me a drink with tequila in it...rest assured they are going to be barfed on.

Next time I have a gathering, I'm drinking Crystal lite...in water.