Top-Secret Cold Remedies (Don’t try this…Ah, well, whatever.)
I’m doing better. Either the bourbon-toddy worked on Thursday, or that was just the moment in the cold’s timeline for the coughing to knock it the hell off, for the most part.

I’m not sure whether going and getting utterly, conclusively (excuse the foul language, Henshaw; no other term really applies, here) shit-faced Friday night and spending Saturday in Hangover Hell helped or hindered.


So, Friday, a friend had a deep-fry party. That’s right: two deep fryers, beer batter, cake batter and the guests provided the items to fry. So, harmless fun, right?
Here’s the thing, though: The party also had said-host refilling my champagne with a freakishly uncanny ability to not raise my awareness. At all. I’m telling you, we’re talking a dealings-with-the-occult kinda invisibility. So, yeah, lotsa champagne.

Then, well, beer, and then I recall a few of us leaning out the porch (the porch in the photo,) inviting the friendly folks across the street to come on up and bring the stray dog they found, too. None of us was actually the host, but I don’t recall that striking anyone as problematic at the time. Back inside, the host was saying, “Why is there a black lab in my house?” And my friend leans over and tells one of the visitors that it might be time to take the dog out.
“Sure, no problemo. He just needs to say the word, man,” says the guy.
“I think that word is ‘now,’” says my friend.
Cute dog.

I won’t say much about Saturday; I don’t think one person’s all-day nightmare hangover is much different from anyone else’s.
(And, for the sake of my own dignity: I have not experienced this level of drinking and hangoverlineses in years, and am not planning to, um, ever again.)

I will say, there is no portion of Hangover Hell that beats the Masochistic Mental Food Parade. This occurs at the very worst moments of nausea, like, three-five minutes pre-bleah. You close your eyes and suddenly it’s a damn TGI Friday’s ad in there. 1950s cookbook images in greasydripping living color. “No, no, no!” you tell the disembodied slice of pepperoni lifting away from the rest of the pizza, tantalizing cheesy strings and all. The steaming-fresh fried poppers rendered by your evil brain in disturbingly crisp contrast. The blooming onion, the aromatic roast chicken -- and the jambalaya you ate before the party last night – remember that? It was Zatarains. Kinda greasy. But you went and added andouille sausage and chicken anyway. And. You. Had. Seconds.

Lord. I’m glad yesterday’s over.