The morning after's always misery
By Debra LoGuercio
©Copyright 2003, Debra LoGuercio, all rights reserved
Oh, poor, dear California. I know just how you feel, girlfriend.
It was one heck of a party and right about now, your skull feels like it shrank two sizes during the night and your throbbing brain is pounding against it, demanding to be freed. Last night's just a fuzzy, confusing, colorful series of snapshots, and you'll probably spend today hugging the toilet and trying to summon Ralph from the depths of your septic system.
It happens to the best of us. Most of us have over-indulged at least once in our lives, and learned the hard way how much "enough" is. I have to say, though, Golden State, you might want to think twice before partying like that again. You really tied one on.
You say you don't remember much? It's all a blur? Well, I don't want to alarm you, but you really outdid yourself this time. There was even a stripper and a midget involved.
Grab an icepack and some Advil for that pounding headache, and I'll fill in the gaps. Brace yourself. It isn't pretty.
First off, you know that drab, drippy guy named Gray who brought you to the party? The one you've been dating forever? I hate to break it to you, but you guys are history. SO history. You flirted with every guy who looked your way, and even a couple girls! And right in front of him! You know, I never really liked Gray much, but I have to admit, I kind of felt sorry for him. You smoked him like a cigarette, babe. Flicked his butt right into the gutter.
But, let's be honest. A lot of us saw that coming. You obviously weren't happy with that guy. He was such a drag. He had the personality of a brown paper bag. Besides, he'd never have been a good provider. He spent money like water. You just can't build a future with someone who can't hang onto a dime, particularly when it's your dime.
Maybe, subconsciously, you wanted to dump Gray for a long time. No one can blame you. But it would've been a lot classier if you'd sent him down the ramp in a more dignified manner, like waiting for just the right time to tell him you'd found someone new rather than doing a drunken veil dance on a tabletop and throwing yourself at every stud in the stable. Guess you can't argue with results, though: he got the message and you got out.
(Get Paul Simon on the phone and tell him you discovered there's 50 ways plus one to leave your lover, and this little stunt puts "slip out the back, Jack" to shame.)
And no, that's not the whole story. Cutting Gray loose is only half of it: You didn't go home alone.
Toward the end of the night, most of your many admirers gave up, but there were still a couple guys buzzing around you like you were the only flower in the garden. They were all losers, if you ask me, but you just couldn't get your eyes off this one muscle-bound muscle-head named Arnold. He set his sights on you when he walked into the room, and you just fell right into his hands like a ripe little plum.
Yeah, you left with him. One night stand? Guess again! Look at your left hand. Yup, that's a ring on your finger, kiddo. You're gonna be stuck with this bozo for quite some time. (Who woulda thunk that the Elvis impersonator in that goofy gang was really an ordained minister?)
There, there, Cali. Dry your eyes. There's not much you can do about it now. You really stepped in it this time, and I'm sorry to say it, but you're a big girl and you're just going to have to deal with it. Try and make the best of it for the time being. Who knows, maybe Arnold won't be so bad. Maybe there's more to him than a pretty face and bulging biceps, and in time he may master the usage of three-syllable words. At the very least, he'll be more interesting than Gray. Let's hope for the best. Maybe in time, you'll learn to love this guy. It could happen.
I know, I know, and pigs might fly.
Just don't beat yourself up over this, California. True, this is probably the most colosally dumb thing you've ever done, but it's not all your fault. You were just so miserable with old Dorky Davis that your finally hit your breaking point. Yeah, you're in a pickle now, but it's only a mistake if you don't learn something from the experience.
From now on, you stay away from those Republican parties. Nothing good ever came from their rowdy get-togethers. And don't go anywhere near that clown Darrell Issa again. If he hadn't handed you that first drink, you wouldn't be in this predicament right now.
For now, old gal, the best thing you can do is get some rest. A lot of it in fact. It's gonna take about three years to sleep this one off.