further adventures of rocket bride: may 21, 2001.

may 21, 2001.

XI.
No, I was not happy to wake up the next day at 8 a.m. There was absolutely no help for it either: I had personally promised to see that the apartment was clean after the weekend. And then there was the abysmal amount of packing that awaited us. Tym, Palaver & the Boy were still drunk when they woke up; I was hung over and wondered who had the worst deal. It's almost like an Aesop fable - a drunk boy & a hungover girl have to pack. Who would be better at it: Mr. Giddy or Little Miss Nauseous? As it turned out, the Boy quickly defected to Team Laundry and set about gathering the various soiled towels. I packed as much as I could, stopping every once in awhile to let the spinning of the sick world slow down. Team Laundry took their time about everything, finally returning with a tray of hot saving nectar from the local convenience store. Everything ground to a halt as we sat about quietly sipping hot chocolate (me) and coffee (everyone else), feeling life slip back into our bodies.
I realized at this point that you can have all the good intentions in the world, you can have your back against the wall, you can have any motivation in the world - but you still can't clean very quickly with a punishing hangover. This was vaguely worrying, as the bathroom absolutely reeked of vomit, and I had no idea if I would have the chance to clean it up. Nobody could remember who had puked, although they were rather defensive. "It doesn't matter who did it," I insisted, "it's an empirical fact that the bathroom smells like vomit. Like if Descartes were here, he'd back me up." We wondered how often Descartes was asked to confirm facts of this nature after he had put out his philosophy.
Of course I had no time for a shower. I decided to turn this into a virtue. After all, why should I pretend that I wasn't at the end of a 4-day Edmonton bender? Why should I clean up & act polite & sweet? Fuckit. I put on a black slip, the velvet dress Stacy made me, my deteriorating purple-and-black-striped tights & the ubiquitous 8-hole docs. I painted new, darker makeup over the stuff still clinging to the dry creases of my eyes and mouth. This was the beginning of my Courtney Love phase. Use your imagination.

Fig. 18: I'm such a dirty dirty rockstar.

lesson XI: hey descartes, come smell this
waking up next day
one hour to pack and go home
bathroom stunk of puke.

XII.
Lady Preacher Lisa showed up, clean and wonderfully sharp-witted. Although I'm told that she drank a heroic amount of alcohol at the wedding, she showed no sign of stress as we packed our stuff into the car. Tymothi:J, the Boy & I had the same departure time, so we were convoying to the airport together. One last goodbye hug with Palaver and we were heading south for the airport. By this time I was feeling downright puckish, if not perky - the hot chocolate & fresh air had gone a long way to reviving my spirits, and I was able to fully enjoy Lady Lisa's dry acerbic wit. God, she's a cool chick. I very rarely meet girls whom I admire and fear at once; never because of their keen wit. I loved it.
On the way, we stopped at a convenience store for gas and aspirin. I stayed in the car, knowing that I would be unduly tempted by the glossy rows of potato chips (those display racks are an attractive nuisance). The Boy returned, grimly struggling with a dizzying hangover now that the drunkenness had worn off. "Did you get something for your stomach?" I asked like a properly solicitous wife.
"They didn't have gravol, so I bought beef jerky," he mumbled before biting off a chunk.
It turned out that all three of us were on the same plane, which was an excellent way to finish the weekend. Tym asked our first seatmate to switch with him, and the man was more than happy to do us a favour. We dominated our centre row, telling silly jokes, making lewd comments & leaning all about - several things you can't (or usually shouldn't) do when there are strangers next to you. Our personal spaces heterodyned; it was the most comfortable, roomy flight I've ever been on.
Since I was already shabbily dressed and a little smelly, I took the opportunity to play up the brat queen rock star persona. Mostly this involved wearing my sunglasses at all times (excellent for hangovers as well), and cheering wildly when the captain announced that they had loaded headsets incompatible with the first class seat jacks. Silent movies for the capitalist pigs! It was a pinko brat dream come true.
We got our only bright idea at the end of the flight. This was staging a 'mile-high club' photo to take advantage of our rare convergence on an airplane. And once again, we exploited Tym's confessed crush of long ago…on my husband. He he he.

lesson XII: the airplane
flying with tym:j
we faked a 'mile-high' photo:
him and my husband.

Everything after this was sleepy tedium and a gradual let-down. For all my bitching & moaning, I knew that I would never again experience such a profound (and profoundly tiring) sequence of events. I am truly blessed.

	may 21, 2001. XI. No, I was not happy to wake up the next day at 8 a.m. There was absolutely no help for it either: I had personally promised to see that the apartment was clean after the weekend. And then there was the abysmal amount of packing that awaited us. Tym, Palaver & the Boy were still drunk when they woke up; I was hung over and wondered who had the worst deal. It's almost like an Aesop fable - a drunk boy & a hungover girl have to pack. Who would be better at it: Mr. Giddy or Little Miss Nauseous? As it turned out, the Boy quickly defected to Team Laundry and set about gathering the various soiled towels. I packed as much as I could, stopping every once in awhile to let the spinning of the sick world slow down. Team Laundry took their time about everything, finally returning with a tray of hot saving nectar from the local convenience store. Everything ground to a halt as we sat about quietly sipping hot chocolate (me) and coffee (everyone else), feeling life slip back into our bodies. I realized at this point that you can have all the good intentions in the world, you can have your back against the wall, you can have any motivation in the world - but you still can't clean very quickly with a punishing hangover. This was vaguely worrying, as the bathroom absolutely reeked of vomit, and I had no idea if I would have the chance to clean it up. Nobody could remember who had puked, although they were rather defensive. "It doesn't matter who did it," I insisted, "it's an empirical fact that the bathroom smells like vomit. Like if Descartes were here, he'd back me up." We wondered how often Descartes was asked to confirm facts of this nature after he had put out his philosophy. Of course I had no time for a shower. I decided to turn this into a virtue. After all, why should I pretend that I wasn't at the end of a 4-day Edmonton bender? Why should I clean up & act polite & sweet? Fuckit. I put on a black slip, the velvet dress Stacy made me, my deteriorating purple-and-black-striped tights & the ubiquitous 8-hole docs. I painted new, darker makeup over the stuff still clinging to the dry creases of my eyes and mouth. This was the beginning of my Courtney Love phase. Use your imagination. Fig. 18: I'm such a dirty dirty rockstar. lesson XI: hey descartes, come smell this waking up next day one hour to pack and go home bathroom stunk of puke.

	XII. Lady Preacher Lisa showed up, clean and wonderfully sharp-witted. Although I'm told that she drank a heroic amount of alcohol at the wedding, she showed no sign of stress as we packed our stuff into the car. Tymothi:J, the Boy & I had the same departure time, so we were convoying to the airport together. One last goodbye hug with Palaver and we were heading south for the airport. By this time I was feeling downright puckish, if not perky - the hot chocolate & fresh air had gone a long way to reviving my spirits, and I was able to fully enjoy Lady Lisa's dry acerbic wit. God, she's a cool chick. I very rarely meet girls whom I admire and fear at once; never because of their keen wit. I loved it. On the way, we stopped at a convenience store for gas and aspirin. I stayed in the car, knowing that I would be unduly tempted by the glossy rows of potato chips (those display racks are an attractive nuisance). The Boy returned, grimly struggling with a dizzying hangover now that the drunkenness had worn off. "Did you get something for your stomach?" I asked like a properly solicitous wife. "They didn't have gravol, so I bought beef jerky," he mumbled before biting off a chunk. It turned out that all three of us were on the same plane, which was an excellent way to finish the weekend. Tym asked our first seatmate to switch with him, and the man was more than happy to do us a favour. We dominated our centre row, telling silly jokes, making lewd comments & leaning all about - several things you can't (or usually shouldn't) do when there are strangers next to you. Our personal spaces heterodyned; it was the most comfortable, roomy flight I've ever been on. Since I was already shabbily dressed and a little smelly, I took the opportunity to play up the brat queen rock star persona. Mostly this involved wearing my sunglasses at all times (excellent for hangovers as well), and cheering wildly when the captain announced that they had loaded headsets incompatible with the first class seat jacks. Silent movies for the capitalist pigs! It was a pinko brat dream come true. We got our only bright idea at the end of the flight. This was staging a 'mile-high club' photo to take advantage of our rare convergence on an airplane. And once again, we exploited Tym's confessed crush of long ago…on my husband. He he he. lesson XII: the airplane flying with tym:j we faked a 'mile-high' photo: him and my husband. Everything after this was sleepy tedium and a gradual let-down. For all my bitching & moaning, I knew that I would never again experience such a profound (and profoundly tiring) sequence of events. I am truly blessed.