One

Buzzzzz…
Beep-beep-beep-beep…
Vvvvrrrrrrrnnnnnnggggg…vvrrrrnnnnnnnggggg…

Oh. My. Freaking. Goodness. I am going to kill someone. Preferably soon. Preferably in a very bloody, violent manner. As soon as my head stops spinning. And throbbing. And good LORD, what is the matter with my stomach?

“Mmphh. Urg. Blpehr. Enhhhhh….”

I seem to have lost the ability to speak. Perhaps because someone shoved a freaking cotton ball in my mouth. More like ten. Big ones, not those little cheap-ass ones you buy in bulk at the big-ass store with the parking lot the size of Beirut. How big is Beirut anyway? And why is my bed suddenly making like the Good Ship Lollipop. I swear there was not an ocean in my room last night. Wait. Last night….?

Buzzzzzzz…

That NOISE again. What is it? Wait… I think I should know what it is. Something is vaguely coming back. I remember dresses… tears… lights… loud music. Martinis. Beer. Wine. Champagne. Champagne! Curse it! Champagne always does this to me. It turns me into a Drunk Evil Genius.

Trying to sit up is a little too much work right now, so I turn off the alarm clock next to my head, and then fling it across the room at my stereo, which is set to the most annoying buzzing sound ever. Ahh, peace.

Now. I need to remember exactly what happened last night. There was a wedding. Yes! My sister, Hannah, married the man of her dreams in a fantasy princess-like wedding, followed by the most elaborate reception imaginable. Complete with an open bar. And a really cute bartender, who made really strong apple martinis. I told that man to cut me off once I’d had three! Jerk! I blame this headache on him. This headache will now be known as: “Bartender at the Reception, whose name may or may not have been Bob.” Serves him right.

What I can’t immediately remember is why I set my alarms. Rather, alarms. Plural. I must have had some reason. My Evil Genius champagne-drinking self is really quite sharp along with being totally masochistic.

Vvvrrrrnnnnnnggggg…

Fuck!

Vvvvrrrrrnnnnnggggg…

Shit!

Sabrina. I’d promised Sabrina that I’d go with her to the dog park this morning to scope out her new flavor of the month. Rather, Evil Drunk Genius promised that I’d get up to go to the dog park. At seven. In the morning. And in return for not showing up at said dog park, with two venti vanilla lattes (one skim), Drunk Evil Genius had promised to let Sabrina name my third child.

Thus the setting of the alarm clocks.

I hate you Drunk Evil Genius Girl!!!

“Hell.” Seems like a fitting greeting this morning.

“Hilda. Bertha. Queen Yolanda Cream Puff! Assuming you have a girl that is.”

“So my third one’s a girl, huh? Queen Yolanda will have a good time with her older brothers Basil Merriweather and Ferdinand Sissy Pants. Good morning, Sabrina.”

“I am standing here, in the dog park, seriously in need of caffeine, and seriously in need of some moral support. Why are you not here? You promised that you would be here.”

“Brina. Darling. Heart of my hearts. We’ve been over this. Do not accept promises from Drunk Evil Betsy. She will only disappoint you. You realize that Drunk Evil Betsy turns into Majorly Hung-Over Betsy, don’t you?” Majorly Hung-Over Betsy who would perform serious acts of heinous crime for a tall glass of water and about one million milligrams of Ibuprofen. It’s time to stagger out of bed.

“I know, I know. It’s just that you seemed so, you know, sober last night. You totally said that four hours of sleep would be enough to re-energize you enough to get to Starbucks at least, for the latte, and then here to help me! You don’t even know how cute this one is. And his dog! He’s got the sweetest little Jack Russell terrier named Frasier – isn’t that cute? Like the TV show, but on the show the Jack Russell was named Eddie, and this guy’s name is Eddie, so he couldn’t name his dog after…”

Sabrina is a wonderful friend, but she does not understand the state of hung-overness in which I am currently mired. Sabrina is lucky enough to be one of the people who gets drunk and sick at the same time. Thus forcing many a helpful love-struck man to hold back her flowing locks from her delicate face as she ralphs in the flower bed. Or, when the love-struck man is sulking, forcing me to toss her a hair tie while trying to direct her away from anything that wouldn’t take well to vodka-soaked vomitus.

I, on the other hand, have a stomach of iron the night of. I can drink until I’m in a stupor, or until I turn into my Evil Genius counter-part and start mucking up what could be a totally serene, if not totally pleasant morning after. Because the morning after is never pleasant for the Santorini family. As I helped Hannah discover when she turned a ripe 21, the morning after for us consists of head-swimming, stomach-roiling, brain-aching nausea and all over miserableness. And, surprise, surprise, there is rarely a love-struck man or helpful friend to assist in the holding back of hair while we make a deposit in the porcelain bank. They all go home with the people who’ve already gotten it out of their systems. Like Sabrina.

“…and he catches a Frisbee with his teeth, and shakes it around like he’s trying to throw it to Eddie, and it is really just adorable.”

“Uh-huh…”

“Elizabeth Angelina Santorini!” Why I ever told her my full name is beyond me. “You have not listened to a word I’ve said!”

“I’ve been listening!” Of course I haven’t been listening. There is a man with a jackhammer living right behind my eyes.

“Oh, yeah? What was I just talking about?”

“You were saying that Eddie catches a Frisbee in his mouth and tries to throw it.”

“Eddie is the boy! Why would he catch a Frisbee in his mouth? That’s Frasier, the dog who does that. I don’t even know why I try sometimes. Call me when you’re sober.”

“I am sober! That’s the problem!” I whimpered vehemently at the phone, but she’d already hung up. No matter. Sabrina is actually very understanding. As long as I shower her with attention for the next couple of days, she’ll get over it. She may even rescind the Queen Yolanda Cream Puff monstrosity. If I bring her chocolate.

For the life of me, I cannot figure out why Drunk Evil Genius doesn’t do anything productive with all that energy. Like: clean the house, water the plants, take the garbage out. There are a myriad of things that need to be done around my condo, but she wastes her time setting alarm clocks and leaving the phone on. Occasionally, she’ll swing by the store to purchase, and eat, an entire box of Krispy Kremes. There is no rhyme or reason. Drunk Evil Genius is what she is. Damn her.

My kitchen is like fine art. There are so many dishes piled on top of each other, with so many different meals stuck to every conceivable surface, that it looks as if Jackson Pollack was experimenting with a new art medium. I consider it to be my own personal security system. If a thief actually made it through all the actual security my father had installed, he (or she, let’s be politically correct) would be so appalled at the state of my kitchen’s cleanliness, or lack thereof, that they’d turn right around and run away in terror. As an added bonus, they’d tell all their thief friends to stay far, far away from Ms. E. A. Santorini’s residence.

Unfortunately, the Leaning Tower of Cereal Bowls was impeding the way to the all-hallowed Ibuprofen. If I had been less… hung-over, I may have gracefully moved the bowls one at a time, but it seemed more efficient to just knock them over. Big mistake. After a few seconds huddled on the ground shielding my ears from the awful crash, I was able to hoist myself up to get the bottle. Once, long ago, I’d found myself in a similar state and had been unable to open the child-proof cap. I’d remedied that situation with a hammer and chisel from my tool kit. So, now it is a much easier task to get to the gel-caps of salvation.

I poured a few into my mouth and gracefully gulped water straight from the faucet. Now, I needed to find a soft flat surface to lay down on in a warm, dark area. Bed! I started to stagger back towards my bedroom when I noticed the oddly dressed lady sitting on my bar stool.