These boots were made for puking

Went out on Saturday night with Paul to meet some friends at a bar, which was the first time in months that we’d been able to do so together. Usually we take turns going out to see our friends or just go out to dinner or a movie together when we do get a babysitter. But we talked Paul’s parents into looking after Amelia overnight at their house while we went out on the town. The plan was that we’d stay out until about midnight, then come back to their house and sleep in the guest room so that we were there for her first thing in the morning. That was mistake number one. We should have just gone home and left them to deal with her all morning. Kidding! I kid, I joke.

Paul had to work all day and we were meeting at the bar at eight, so I got myself and Amelia ready at home and Paul’s dad picked us up. I was like a girl getting ready to go out on a first date with a boy she’s liked for ages — I was nervous, kept changing outfits, touching up my makeup, smoothing my hair down and obsessing over whether my jacket matched my skirt and if I needed earrings or not. I was so busy doing primping in front of the mirror that I didn’t have time to eat and because I’d had a late lunch anyway, I decided it would be fine and I’d just get something to eat on the way home. Mistake number two.

I left the house feeling good, wearing my new knee-high brown boots, patterned tights, a faded jade green skirt, brown short-sleeve shirt and little purple jacket with a skinny scarf looped around my neck. I felt cute and just knew it was going to be a great night out. I arrived at 8pm but the others were running late and I wasn’t familiar with the area we were in (Putney) so I waited for them at McDonald’s. Classy, I know, but it was warm and they had a bathroom. We finally met up and made our way to the bar at 8.30. At this point I realised that we only had about 3 hours before we had to leave to get the train back (damn stupid early trains!) so thought I’d better get my drink on if I was to get inebriated enough to dance later on, as this was part of my plan. Mistake number three.

The drinks menu looked promising and I noticed quite a few other people sipping concoctions in martini glasses and got my hopes up that they might actually make a decent cocktail. Mistake number four. Both the margarita and the cosmopolitan I had were terrible (why do I even bother ordering cocktails in England?). I drank them, of course, but they were hideous so I kept switching to something else. I had those two drinks, then a glass of pinot grigio. Then someone else at the table ordered a Jack Daniels and Coke and I thought that sounded like heaven on earth. So I switched to that. And made it a double. Then I thought I’d be all responsible and order a single JD and Coke and a glass of water (which I didn’t touch). While I was at the bar ordering that drink, Tim staggered over to me and demanded that I do a shot of tequila with him. We always drink tequila together so I knew he wouldn’t let me say no. So we did a shot at the bar and I got a pint of beer as a chaser. I had now consumed 6 drinks and was working on number 7. And they were almost all different drinks. And I hadn’t eaten. Do you see where this is going? The mistakes were adding up to equal a trip to the bathroom.

I had one of those “ohmygodi’mgoingtothrowuprightthisverysecond” moments where you have to literally run for the toilet and hold your hand over your mouth as you go. I scrambled/semi-fell down the stairs to the ladies’ room and flung the door open. All three stalls were occupied and there were two or three women waiting. There was no way I could wait. I looked around frantically, trying to decide whether to go for the floor, the sink, or the trashcan. I decided on the trashcan and heaved into that. Thankfully there wasn’t much in my stomach except all the liquid I’d consumed so it wasn’t particularly nasty or, ahem, chunky (sorry, that’s so gross) but I hadn’t gotten sick from drinking too much in absolutely ages, since before I got preggers, so I wasn’t used to that “I just puked and feel even worse now” feeling. Of course, right at that moment, one of the girls with our group upstairs and whom I’d just met for the first time that evening, had to walk in and see this. After hearing me talk about how I would take revenge on my ex-landlady if she didn’t pay me back the money she owes me, which involved bringing dead rats into her restaurant, making fake reservations on the weekends and papering her neighborhood with insulting flyers, and then seeing me puke, I’m sure I won’t be seeing her again!

I don’t remember the few minutes after that or how I got back upstairs, but I vaguely recall crying (how embarrassing) and telling Paul we had to go. We would have been leaving shortly anyway but I just wanted to die and curl up in a ball and go to sleep so I wasn’t hanging around until then. The urge to throw up hit me again as I waited for him to pay his tab but I was closest to the front door and not the toilets this time. I ran outside and puked just outside the door, near the bouncers. There were dozens of people streaming past and more than a couple people shouted “Eww!” I must’ve looked like one of those pathetic teenagers who drink one too many cans of cider and then hurl all over the streets every weekend. Ugh. I wanted to die.

Somehow Paul found me outside and had my jacket and handbag and we left. We’d missed the last train so we had to get a taxi. Paul wanted a kebab but I refused to go inside as I was worried that the smell would make me sick again. I sat outside on a bench and shivered in my way-too-light-for-winter jacket and skirt and, according to Paul, cried some more. He made me walk behind him while he searched for a taxi because he didn’t think one would stop if they saw me staggering around behind him. Normally I would’ve taken offense at this and told him to go screw himself but I knew he was right and just wanted to get to a warm bed so I did as I was told and after a few minutes of searching, he found a taxi to take us home. I passed out as soon as we got inside and don’t remember changing out of my clothes.

Amelia was up at 7am and I wasn’t feeling too bad, I thought. I was being silly, singing songs about bacon and sausages to the tune of Meatloaf’s I Would Do Anything For Love (But I Won’t Do That) and throwing myself around the living room making Paul laugh. But about an hour after being awake, the queasiness hit me again and it was back to bed I went. Thank god we were at my inlaws’ house because they were more than happy to play with her while we slept some more. In the past, I would’ve been embarrassed that they were seeing me so hungover and sick but I just don’t care anymore. I figure we’re all grown-ups here, I’m sure they’ve had hangovers before, and they knew I hadn’t gone out in a long time, so I decided not to lie and just admit that I’d drunk far too much and was feeling like poo warmed over (see, I didn’t swear!). I finally started feeling better at about 2pm and we headed home.

Later that evening, I was unpacking our overnight bag and noticed that my boots had splashes of vomit on them. My lovely new boots. Dang it! But, even more disgusting than that, I was on the phone with my sister when I discovered that there was also vomit on my necklace, which I’d been wearing all day. Abso-fucking-lutely hideous (not swearing didn’t last long). I disgust myself.