Blog Dis
Ya drunken fool
2025-03-17
Given that today is St. Patrick's Day, this post is highly apropos, and a day early, rather than my regular schedule of posting on Tuesdays. Many will be happily imbibing w/ great fervor all throughout the pubs in my fair city. But not this kitty-kat because Monday is a work day for me, which regrettably is followed up by another work day the following day, and so on. When I was a free-wheeling lassie in her 20s, I'd happily line up outside my favourite Irish pub (Molly McGuire's) in the ByWard Market at 10 am, waiting for the doors to open @ 11:30 am in order that I could get at it, and keep at it all the green-beer day long.
I am wise now, and hopefully more mature to the point that I am mindful of the amount of alcohol I consume. I had my moments in the past, like everyone, where I made a proper fool of myself. One memorable incident comes to mind where I got as drunk as a skunk at a Spa products demo party for the ladies. After six or eight glasses of wine, I recited a limerick and sang Bugs Bunny tunes for the crowd, who found my bubbly personality quite a delight. I never intended to over serve myself but these things happen. Sadly, however, I am also highly susceptible to suggestion and toward the end of the day, I was an easy mark for the seller, who walked away with my new membership to become a product seller! 😍 This wasn't an ideal outcome, and I've since learned from this fiasco.
Yes, drunkenness has its good and bad points. The bad points ofc are moments that lead to humiliation. I've adopted the attitude for some while and maintain it to this day, that I can only take myself so seriously because as long as you live on planet Earth, the more years you survive the greater the odds you have of engaging in behaviour that will lead to humiliation. I had my worst of the worst moment at 21, while working for a Canadian high-tech company, in the public relations department.
From this point onward, it's best I utilize point-form here to highlight the sequence of events, all for the purpose of instruction, you see, to better equip you to handle yourself in future - and to know, from the experience of someone possibly older than you, to enlighten you on what to avoid:
1. Young, vibrant lassie (me) falls head over booties into unrequited love with her boss (not good).
2. The boss holds a holiday party for the department (already getting worse); seems simple enough.
3. Said young lassie (me) arrives single and nervous and immediately begins to consume alcohol. 🥂
4. Five Irish coffees later, I am totally plastered, tho' oddly wide awake too.
5. More glasses of wine later, I'm coming to the drunken conclusion that I'm severely drunk.
6. The evening is moving smoothly along and we smoke some pot (why not?).
7. Not only was I totally plastered but I slipped into a state of paranoia, convinced that everyone knew I was drunk and so therefore they must also know that I was in lust with the boss... they must have, mustn't they?
8. Two colleagues insist on driving me home, showing great concern for my drunkenness.
9. I sit in the back seat of their very clean and tres-cher (expensive car) and I am compelled to lose my cookies. Do I ask them to pull over? Of course not, because that would be too logical and I'm drunk and stoned to boot.
10. Casually, with an air of purpose and grace, I unzip my purse and vomit quietly and then zip up.
11. The driver and passenger (his wife) turn their heads and are clearly in distress, "Patricia, do you need us to pull over?"
12. I assure them that I'm perfectly fine and dandy and that they should continue to proceed driving me to my home. God bless them. Minutes later, I unzip my purse again and throw up a second time.
13. I throw up and third and final time and close the purse, which ironically was built with exactly three compartments. I count my good fortune! 🍀🍀🍀
14. My wonderful drivers deposit me at home and I bid them a good night, my vomit-filled purse slung over my shoulder without so much as a drop of vomit spilled anywhere in the car or on myself. I felt proud for refusing to vomit all over their upholstery.
15. I unlock the front door, and go to the bathroom, and open my purse and instantly vomit in the sink from the God-awful stench of my own vomit. As I pull out my wallet, keys, glasses and such, with everything covered thoroughly in vomit, I throw up again, and again, afterward drunkenly going to bed and pass out.
Come Monday morning, as I arrived into work looking fresh and rested, one colleague was anxiously waiting to speak with me. What on earth could they have to talk about that seems so urgent, I asked myself?
"Where did you hide the vomit?" asks my colleague, mystified how I did it, and not bothering to hide her smile.
"How did you know I threw up?" I ask in return, stupidly, and growing scared.
"We could smell it, Patricia!"
Yes, indeed, vomit carries a distinct smell. Silly me! I was so blindly drunk and hopelessly in love that all reasoning went out the window with my good common sense. And every time I looked anyone in the eye in the Public Relations department I knew what they were thinking - where did she hide the vomit? I was too humiliated to tell them the truth! No doubt they thought I threw up in my clothes or my purse because my colleague admitted that when they got home, they pulled up the back car seats and flashed a light but couldn't find any vomit whatsoever. Very quickly my pride in expertly avoiding soiling their car had turned to abject horror at the realization that these colleagues of mine would be standing around the coffee machine talking about the big department party and how Patricia was so hammered yet she still somehow had magically hid her own vomit.
I was beyond humiliated. How could I? How would anyone live down such humiliation? I realized I had to go, so I did. I quit working in the P.R. department, and sold every possession, except my album collection, then gave up my apartment, moved out West to British Columbia and took up with a pot-smoking waterbed salesman. Do you see the moral of this story?
Humiliation is liberation disguised as realization.
Happy St. Paddy's Day, my darlings!!!!!!!!
I'll be celebrating with a gin and tonic after work, to include one lime for the green, but only just one drinky-poo. I hope you're able to do the same. Keep your purse at home, please, wink, wink.
I am wise now, and hopefully more mature to the point that I am mindful of the amount of alcohol I consume. I had my moments in the past, like everyone, where I made a proper fool of myself. One memorable incident comes to mind where I got as drunk as a skunk at a Spa products demo party for the ladies. After six or eight glasses of wine, I recited a limerick and sang Bugs Bunny tunes for the crowd, who found my bubbly personality quite a delight. I never intended to over serve myself but these things happen. Sadly, however, I am also highly susceptible to suggestion and toward the end of the day, I was an easy mark for the seller, who walked away with my new membership to become a product seller! 😍 This wasn't an ideal outcome, and I've since learned from this fiasco.
Yes, drunkenness has its good and bad points. The bad points ofc are moments that lead to humiliation. I've adopted the attitude for some while and maintain it to this day, that I can only take myself so seriously because as long as you live on planet Earth, the more years you survive the greater the odds you have of engaging in behaviour that will lead to humiliation. I had my worst of the worst moment at 21, while working for a Canadian high-tech company, in the public relations department.
From this point onward, it's best I utilize point-form here to highlight the sequence of events, all for the purpose of instruction, you see, to better equip you to handle yourself in future - and to know, from the experience of someone possibly older than you, to enlighten you on what to avoid:
1. Young, vibrant lassie (me) falls head over booties into unrequited love with her boss (not good).
2. The boss holds a holiday party for the department (already getting worse); seems simple enough.
3. Said young lassie (me) arrives single and nervous and immediately begins to consume alcohol. 🥂
4. Five Irish coffees later, I am totally plastered, tho' oddly wide awake too.
5. More glasses of wine later, I'm coming to the drunken conclusion that I'm severely drunk.
6. The evening is moving smoothly along and we smoke some pot (why not?).
7. Not only was I totally plastered but I slipped into a state of paranoia, convinced that everyone knew I was drunk and so therefore they must also know that I was in lust with the boss... they must have, mustn't they?
8. Two colleagues insist on driving me home, showing great concern for my drunkenness.
9. I sit in the back seat of their very clean and tres-cher (expensive car) and I am compelled to lose my cookies. Do I ask them to pull over? Of course not, because that would be too logical and I'm drunk and stoned to boot.
10. Casually, with an air of purpose and grace, I unzip my purse and vomit quietly and then zip up.
11. The driver and passenger (his wife) turn their heads and are clearly in distress, "Patricia, do you need us to pull over?"
12. I assure them that I'm perfectly fine and dandy and that they should continue to proceed driving me to my home. God bless them. Minutes later, I unzip my purse again and throw up a second time.
13. I throw up and third and final time and close the purse, which ironically was built with exactly three compartments. I count my good fortune! 🍀🍀🍀
14. My wonderful drivers deposit me at home and I bid them a good night, my vomit-filled purse slung over my shoulder without so much as a drop of vomit spilled anywhere in the car or on myself. I felt proud for refusing to vomit all over their upholstery.
15. I unlock the front door, and go to the bathroom, and open my purse and instantly vomit in the sink from the God-awful stench of my own vomit. As I pull out my wallet, keys, glasses and such, with everything covered thoroughly in vomit, I throw up again, and again, afterward drunkenly going to bed and pass out.
Come Monday morning, as I arrived into work looking fresh and rested, one colleague was anxiously waiting to speak with me. What on earth could they have to talk about that seems so urgent, I asked myself?
"Where did you hide the vomit?" asks my colleague, mystified how I did it, and not bothering to hide her smile.
"How did you know I threw up?" I ask in return, stupidly, and growing scared.
"We could smell it, Patricia!"
Yes, indeed, vomit carries a distinct smell. Silly me! I was so blindly drunk and hopelessly in love that all reasoning went out the window with my good common sense. And every time I looked anyone in the eye in the Public Relations department I knew what they were thinking - where did she hide the vomit? I was too humiliated to tell them the truth! No doubt they thought I threw up in my clothes or my purse because my colleague admitted that when they got home, they pulled up the back car seats and flashed a light but couldn't find any vomit whatsoever. Very quickly my pride in expertly avoiding soiling their car had turned to abject horror at the realization that these colleagues of mine would be standing around the coffee machine talking about the big department party and how Patricia was so hammered yet she still somehow had magically hid her own vomit.
I was beyond humiliated. How could I? How would anyone live down such humiliation? I realized I had to go, so I did. I quit working in the P.R. department, and sold every possession, except my album collection, then gave up my apartment, moved out West to British Columbia and took up with a pot-smoking waterbed salesman. Do you see the moral of this story?
Humiliation is liberation disguised as realization.
Happy St. Paddy's Day, my darlings!!!!!!!!
I'll be celebrating with a gin and tonic after work, to include one lime for the green, but only just one drinky-poo. I hope you're able to do the same. Keep your purse at home, please, wink, wink.
