Sex Bomb

I don't know why I gave this the title "Sex Bomb". This posting will have nothing to do with sex. Ha ha! I guess I just wanted to see if you were all paying attention. Maybe I wrote it b/c that Tom Jones song is thumping through my head like a broken strobe light. Or because my hungover ass is feeling anything but sexy at the moment.

Spent the better part of the morning nursing a whale of a wine headache, something I don't deal with often (thank god). Hangovers nowadays make me feel really out of control. It's like I'm walking sideways on a slanted street in the middle of an earthquake while sucking on some nitris oxide (descriptive enough for you? Oh yeah, and add to that a skull that feels like it's been splintered with a sledgehammer. Yum.) I don't do much drinking these days mostly because no matter how much I indulge on a given Friday night, Lily will still sit upright in bed at precisely 6:30 the next morning, asking if it's Christmas yet. So what's the point? It's enough of a challenge to force a smile and grope blindly for the Cheerios on a normal morning; why complicate things with a searing bullethole to the brain and the unflinching urge to dry heave into the sink?

Occasionally, however, I do do a little playing. Like last night, at the annual wine and cheese party/auction for Lily's preschool. There was and endless supply of red wine---bottles and bottles of it (and vodka...and...bagels? yes, bagels; seems an odd choice but boy did that pumpernickel taste good chasing my cabernet). We, the parents, all swigged out of little dixie-sized cups (they go down awful fast), did some socializing, and sat our big-people butts on our kids' tiny wooden chairs. (Somebody's been sitting in my chair!!! And now my chair is broken!!!) I started to get a little too familiar with one of Lily's teachers; I think I made some comment to her about sex. The principal, with whom I have a close bond due to the fact that I kicked butt on last year's yearbook, kept asking me on the DL if Shawn and I are going to get back together. She seems to have a personal investment in reuniting us that tops the agenda of all four of our parents combined. Dear christ.

We then meandered into the adjoining classroom, where we were given paper plates to use in bidding on a wide variety of donated items. Wine and a checkbook are never good together. That's how come I ended up with a huge basket of newborn baby girl items. Damn it.

At the break, I marched my drunk ass up to Shawn, who was doing a great job as auctioneer (though how he allowed me to end up with a giant basket of pink baby dresses, pink blankets and booties I am still not sure). I felt the need to be taken home NOW. I'd hit a wall. I was finished. I've always been able to do that...call it knowing my own limit (or being able to recognize total shitfacedness), but I've been known, more than once, to walk out of the living room in the middle of my own party to curl up on my bed like a contented cat and be done with the whole thing.

I got home, spent some time chatting with a friend (mainly about lactating), and fell into a peaceful sleep, muttering to myself and clutching a bag of Pirate's Booty. The night passed surprisingly quickly (I think it was about 5 minutes long), and suddenly I was bolting upright in bed, as if just coming to life after being shocked by a passing electric eel (in my bed? What the...?) My pulse was thunking in my chest, my throat; I was afraid if I lifted up my head, the heaviness of it would cause it to rip right off my neck. My mouth felt like a hundred city pigeons had used it overnight as a nesting ground. Fuck. Why, why, why?

Luckily, we had a birthday party today for Lily's pal Addie. At least there were other parents with whom to commiserate.
At one point there were a bunch of us splayed out on the couches in the living room, clutching glasses of seltzer and housing leftover pizza while the kids paraded through the house dressed like dinosaurs and princesses. Addie's dad commented that the room could have been mistaken for a methodone clinic. Ah, misery loves company.

I guess you've got to cut loose every now and then. But there's a reason we don't do the same dumb shit we did in college anymore, now that we are responsible grownup people with kids and homes and school loan payments. We find pleasure in different things. I suppose that's what growing up is all about.