You haven’t experienced life until you’ve vomited popcorn. I was happier before I experienced life.
A couple people have quit at my job recently (one of whom I actually work with and will miss), and to celebrate their tenure and to wish them luck on their future endeavors, someone set up an after-hours get-together on Wednesday. Yes, you read that correctly –Wednesday – as in, that day in the middle of week that isn’t adjacent to a delightful weekend that can be spent emptying your stomach contents into a bucket and nursing a raging hangover if necessary. Beyond the complete irrationality of celebrating anything on a Wednesday night (unless your baby is born a Wednesday or something [I was born on a Wednesday]), this bash fell exactly two days before the official last day for both of these soon-to-be former employees. If you made it through kindergarten, you’ve no doubt figured out that their last day falls unsurprisingly on Friday, a day perfect for toasting to new beginnings and giving a proper goodbye to a job they’ll never show up for again.
When I got the email invite to this little fete, I had no intention of going. There’s an unspoken rule in the world of working people that when a person quits, you celebrate their last day on their last day. If he or she is retiring, it’s acceptable to organize a formal party beforehand, because unlike the quitters, the retiree managed to stick it out, and that deserves some cake on company time.
On the weekdays when I leave work, I just want to go home, take off my bra, and eat dinner. No frills, nothing fancy, just a free boob extravaganza and foodies. I know there’s a common depiction of frazzled office workers heading to bars when the clock strikes 5:00 and having “Happy Hour,” but I define a “Happy Hour” as 60 minutes spent away from the people I spend nearly eight hours with every single day. The thought of schmoozing with a bunch of people I work with on a Wednesday night knowing I’ll be seeing them again on Thursday morning is pretty disgusting. Unfortunately, the rest of my team decided they were going to go, and my fear of missing out or becoming the Carrie of the office convinced me to go with them.
To be honest, I did want to celebrate with the coworker I like who’s leaving, because after Friday I’ll probably never see her again. Sure, we’ll do that nice thing where we’ll tell each other to “keep in touch!” and maybe we’ll send the odd text or Facebook message over the next few months, but eventually she’ll evaporate out of my life like so many other people I’ve worked with over the years who have quit. That sounded a lot more depressing than I intended, but all I meant was that the relationship changes when people go from being coworkers united in a struggle keep their sanity at the same office to being just regular friends who used to work together—the transition doesn’t always pan out.
The four of us bundled up and went over to a café/bar on the first floor of the Chicago Board of Trade, a building where I expected there to be a lot of trading going on (possibly some Pokémon cards? Or Spaces? Those are the only two trades I know.), not the locale of a quaint, after-work hangout. Our team was the first of the party to arrive, which was a little surprising since we didn’t organize any of this, and we were already fifteen minutes late. We told the hostess we’d probably have about ten people, and right on cue, she sighed in exasperation and beckoned us to follow her. Because it was still before 5:00, that twilight time before the city becomes crowded with off-the-clock working people singing the chorus of “I’ve Been Workin’ On the Railroad,” there were approximately seven people in the entire establishment, yet the hostess disapprovingly looked at sea of empty tables shaking her head as if she had no idea where could possibly seat us. I didn’t know if some Sixth Sense shit was happening or what, but even a couple of guys drinking beers nearby remarked, “Why doesn’t she just push some tables together? There’s nobody in here.”
Eventually our confused hostess identified a suitable area for us to occupy, and a waitress, who would later become my new best friend, came around to promptly collect our drink orders. My coworkers each ordered beers while I struck out on my own and ordered my go-to mixed drink: a cosmopolitan made with Absolut. A different waitress, that one of my coworkers insisted looked like Rachel Maddow (I personally didn’t see it), brought baskets of popcorn to the table, an apparent trademark of the café according to Yelp.
Because this celebration was devastatingly pushing back boobs loose and hunger free, I wasted no time grabbing a fistful of popcorn. I’ve never been that impressed by popcorn (any food you typically eat in the dark in front of a humongous screen can’t be that savory), and this instance was no exception. If your café’s trademark is going to be serving unlimited popcorn, I would think you’d shoot for gourmet popcorn, or if not gourmet, popcorn that’s special in some way. Maybe toss in a little basil or something (because I know so little about cooking, I assume “toss in a little basil” is the answer for everything). This mediocre popcorn wasn’t even movie theater quality, and I’m including any popcorn that might’ve missed the mouth of some careless preview-loving gourmand and fallen into a sticky Sprite stain that was never cleaned on the theater floor. Orville Redenbacher wouldn’t even want to put his name on this stuff. …But I ate a ton of it anyway because it was better than nothing. Unlike Valeria Lukyanova, I’m not on the light and air diet.
Our waitress, and my future best friend, brought our drinks, and mine came in a regular tumbler accompanied by an empty martini glass with a twist of lemon nestled at the bottom. Apparently reading my dual glass confusion,
“You get a lot more booze when they make it in the tumbler,” she explained. Say no more.
I was grateful, but I should’ve been wary, because the last thing a lightweight like me needs is more booze.
This story should end here. I should have sipped my one booze-filled cosmopolitan, had a few nice conversations, put on my coat, walked to the train station, and had a quiet ride home, contented by the warm and fuzzies that come of socializing without embarrassing yourself in front of your coworkers, your boss, a random man on the train, and your mother.
Sadly, that’s not what happened. What happened instead was three additional and unnecessary cosmos, a miserable train ride, calling my mommy, and using a bucket.
Mistakes and Spoons
I was drunk after I finished half of my first cosmo. Before you scoff at how much more alcohol you can consume than me, please know that I don’t really eat an official lunch at work; I just graze on fruits and veggies throughout the day so I can use my lunchtime to hit the gym.
My stomach was pretty damn empty, okay?
But I just kept drinking because I actually felt totally okay. Not even okay–I felt great! (But I wouldn’t go as far as saying I felt grrrrrRRRREAT!) The floor I’m on at work is so quiet that I don’t get many opportunities to talk to people about things other than the weather or my weekend, which dreadfully means there are very few opportunities to demonstrate just how witty and awesome I am. So it was at this social occasion that I decided to really showcase my personality by proudly defending stealing silverware form restaurants, especially wide spoons. I regaled my coworkers with insight as to why spoons are the most effective eating utensil when it comes to retaining flavor, because the tines of a fork, while great for picking up food, poke air holes in each bite and compromise the flavor! Why do you think people always taste homemade pasta sauce with spoons?! THE SURFACE AREA MAKES ALL THE DIFFERENCE! Spoons are even great for cakes!
I talked about more than just spoons, and I’ll add that I didn’t seem the least bit crazy when I discussed all my spoony business (in my opinion). Maybe I was a little heavy on the spoon talk, but that really wasn’t a drunken topic of conversation for me. I really do like spoons that much, in a utensil context. I have a favorite spoon at home I stole from my grandpa’s house before he passed away 15 years ago. Here it is pictured below (I’m not drunk right now, either):
Sometime later our waitress came back, and told me that I better use that martini glass because she brought it out for me, and we had a really cool exchange that made me feel like I was guest starring on an episode of Girls, except my tits weren’t out, and I wasn’t being really fucking annoying. (Okay, maybe just the tits part is true.) She was totally kidding about using the glass (maybe), but I poured the remainder of my drink in the martini glass just in case. You can tell martinis are really not meant to be a drink get drunk on, because from a utilitarian perspective, the glasses are not conducive for inebriated use. They’re not deep enough and they’re so wide at the top at the top that you’re bound to spill if not from your unsteady drunk hands bringing the glass to your lips, then from someone scooting their chair back from the table.
Eventually more people that work for our company (allegedly, I didn’t know the names or job titles of most of the other people that came, and I’m okay with that) showed up, and I saw that one girl who I see running at the gym sometimes. I proceeded to tell that one girl who I see running at the gym sometimes that I see her running at the gym sometimes, no less than three times. I now I hope I never see her running at the gym again.
I chatted, I drank, at one point I had a heart-to-heart with our waitress (most of which I don’t remember, but I do recall her saying something about her dream would be to open her own talent agency, which I thought was kind of a shitty dream–anyway, we really connected, because normally I don’t talk to waitresses about their dreams) and about three hours too late I decided it was time to cut myself off. I let someone else figure out how much I owed, and hurried out of the café because I had exactly 15 minutes to walk five city blocks to catch my train. If I missed it, I’d be stuck wandering around Union Station drunk for an hour and a half. Time was of the essence.
The Worst Train Ride Ever
When the sun sets, downtown Chicago seems like a ghost town compared to the hurry and traffic of normal business hours. When I stumbled out onto the relatively deserted street, I should have hailed a cab to the train station, but drunken Katie has a tendency to become idealistically convinced of her abilities. I started rushing down the street, feeling my compromised balance causing my path to zig-zag across the sidewalk. I was like the ball in pong bouncing between the street curb and skyscrapers.
Approaching my first cross-street, I saw the stick figure pedestrian illuminated for the crosswalk. I moseyed as quickly as I could across the white striped lines to the other side of the street. In my harried stupor, I realized my phone had fallen out of my pocket. I reached the other side of the street and stood on the corner trying to make the obvious connection that four cosmos had turned into a Rubix cube of suppositions and conclusions in my brain. I kept grasping my pocket trying to understand why it was empty now. For a second, I seriously considered continuing on my way, because despite knowing my phone was in my pocket and feeling it fall out while I was making haste, my drunken self reasoned, “It must be in your purse or somewhere else because your pocket’s empty!” Luckily, before I blindly jumped aboard that batshit crazy train of thought, I got the brilliant idea to retrace my steps.
I found my phone lying on the street in the middle of the intersection, where it would have been a finders keepers trinket whose possession would be transferred to a homeless man by morning.
Miraculously, I avoided any other debacles whose solution would be impacted by my impaired problem solving abilities. I managed to get through several halls and two escalators without wiping out, which is a marathon obstacle course for a person as drunk as I was. I toppled into the first car and collapsed in the closest seat I could find, which happened to be right across from the train bathroom. Everything was spinning, and I knew puking was inevitable. I put my feet up on the seat across from my, only to be chastised by the conductor when he came through for tickets. As I slowly lowered my legs to the ground, I wasn’t sure if I was closer to tears or screaming at him that he’s lucky I don’t blow chunks all over the floor and force him to bust out the first aid kit.
I ride the train every day, yet tonight I was acutely aware of every bump and screeching sound of the train on its track. Each time we merged onto a new set of tracks, it felt like going over the highest point of a rollercoaster and regretting ever getting in line for it in the first place. Out of necessity, I had to boldly go where I’ve never gone before: the train lavatory.
I don’t like using toilets that aren’t connected to pipes and real water. This includes porta potties and any bathroom on a moving vehicle, like a train. I was lucky enough to be on the car with a large, wheelchair accessible restroom. I went in and slammed the sliding door shut behind me, and because I couldn’t figure out how to lock it, I figured pushing it shut was sufficient. With so few people on the train, what are the odds of someone having a bathroom emergency and using the toilet on this car?
I tossed my bag on the floor and sat next to the toilet trying to start a tempest of stomach bile, but nothing materialized. My ears were ringing, and I was so dizzy that for the first time in my life, I decided to try to make myself throw up. I tried violent coughs. I started poking my fingers in the back of my mouth near my tonsils and hangy ball (that’s a scientific term), but none of it had any effect. I kneeled on the floor in front of the toilet hoping that getting into position would inspire my stomach to turn, but all was still on the digestive front.
This was but the latest in a series of unfortunate events that, at the time, seemed to make the Baudelaire family seem like a bunch of wimps (sober note: I don’t still feel that way).
I was sitting on the bathroom floor of the train, trying to touch as little as possible and pressing my back against the wall to brace myself from all the jostling. I had sent my boyfriend several texts asking him to pick me up, but when I called and his phone when straight to voicemail, I knew his battery was dead. At the height of my misery the bathroom door flew open to reveal a man who was probably just trying to take an innocent piss. Instead of an unoccupied restroom, he was met with a pathetic, drunk girl on the floor in front of the toilet. “Oh—I’m sorry!” he stammered. I wanted to reach out to him and beg him to help me, but he had already rolled the door shut again. This time I found the latch that signals “occupied” and slid it into the proper position, shielding myself from any other accidental disgraces.
I was going to have to call my mother, and she’d never seen me drunk before. The rare times I’ve been as drunk as I was on this Wednesday, I snuck into my house casually and quietly puked in my bedroom behind closed doors (and I’m apparently still naïve enough to believe that the sound of me retching never woke her up). After my exploits walking to and riding the train, I had transitioned from drunk acting a fool to drunk hold my hair back, but it was still going to be uncomfortable. I knew there was no way I could survive the half-mile walk home, so it had to be done. I pathetically called and asked her to come pick up, and I somehow had the presence of mind not to miss my stop or bust my ass getting off the train.
I don’t remember much about getting home, except that I headed straight for the bathroom without even taking off my coat. I sat on the floor and waited for that sudden rush of heat followed by the violent wrenching feeling in your stomach, but it didn’t come. Knowing you’re definitely going to throw up after drinking but not knowing when is like being trapped in a contemporary Greek tragedy with no oracle to consult.
At some point I made it into the living room, clean bucket in hand, sipping water and eating saltine crackers. It turns out the water and crackers were all I needed, and pretty soon my plastic bucket wasn’t so empty, and I was reunited with that mediocre popcorn.
Something’s Seriously Wrong Because My Bra Is Still On
I wake up and lift my heavy head off the pillow. Everything from my neck up was killing me, but more distressingly, I had no memory of going to bed. I dejectedly rested my throbbing head back down on the cold space of my pillowcase, trying to encourage my exhausted brain to piece together how and when I went to sleep. I noticed I didn’t have my retainer in (which, considering my commitment to dental maintenance, only happens when shit gets real), and upon repositioning my arms, I made another worrying discovering: I had sleeves on. In bed. That’s the second worst thing you could find in bed with you (after socks). I felt my shirt’s material in the darkness and discovered I was still wearing the clothes I wore to work the day before. The bra I so looked forward to unhooking at the end of the day was still firmly harnessed to my chest.
I sat up to fully take stock of how miserable I felt. I grabbed my puke bucket, which had thankfully been emptied at some point in the night, and a bottle of water and went to sit on the couch. Eventually my mom (now nominated for sainthood) emerged.
“How are you feeling?”
“Not good… When did I go to sleep?”
“Around 10. I had to walk you in there. You kept nodding off on the couch, and I kept telling you, ‘You have to get up now and go into your bed, okay?’ You were very agreeable, but you kept falling asleep on me.”
“I don’t remember any of that…”
“Are you going to work?”
I wanted nothing more than to convalesce at home with some greasy food, four more hours of sleep, and reality TV, but because my boss came out to this abominable Wednesday celebration, I knew that he’d know exactly why I didn’t make it in to the office, and I’d rather him not know what a lush I am. Besides, who takes a sick day on fucking Thursday only to come back to work on Friday? This was all Wednesday’s fault.
I decided to hydrate myself with a ton of water and some more saltine crackers, but just like the night before, it didn’t work out, and pretty soon my pristine bucket was befouled again. I decided to give up and go back to sleep for a while longer before I had to get ready for work.
I woke up again feeling 37.3% less miserable than before. I could move my body without feeling nauseous, and I figured that was enough to get me to work that day. I made myself presentable for the world slowly and deliberately as not to test fate, and I walked to the train feeling baptized by the cool morning air. I spent much of that train ride holding my head. Ironically, I was once again sitting across the lavatory, a place I sincerely hope I’ll never have to spend any time in ever again. That same asshole conductor who chided me last night was on the train again, but he didn’t seem to remember me. I’m getting my revenge by vowing never to smile politely at him again.
I got downtown to the train station, and I was looking for a sign from the universe that I was doing the right thing in going to work. I was seeking reassurance that everything was going to be okay, and that I’d feel like a real person again eventually. As if to answer my innermost thoughts, as I walked to the escalator, I came upon a group of people in orange shirts handing out lollipops and brochures. One of the girls called out,
“Does anyone want a sucker this morning?”
This was it. The sign I had been looking for. This sucker was the answer! A sucker isn’t really food, so it can’t make me puke (probably)! When I saw the reason these suckers were being handed out, I felt a little guilty:
To anyone suffering with Multiple Sclerosis or who knows anyone suffering from MS, I am so sorry I took advantage of your awareness month to soothe my hangover. I had no idea that’s why they were giving out these suckers, and while I did think of you as I looked at the brochure, I want to say I’m sorry for ultimately throwing it away at work, because I didn’t know what else to do with it. You’re in my thoughts–especially because you got stuck with orange for your awareness color, which also happens to the nastiest flavor of Tootsie Pops (but it sufficed in my time of need).
That Tootsie Pop empowered me to feign alertness at work Thursday morning, and for that I’ll forever be grateful.
I made it through the entire day at work without falling asleep or vomiting all over my keyboard, so I chalked it up to just a typical productive day for me. When I finally felt like it was safe to eat a real meal by lunchtime, everything came full circle when I got an awesome soupspoon from Panera:
I’ll never get drunk on a Wednesday again.
