Jake’s Take:
The greatest generation we are most definitely not, however, past twenty-somethings have not gone through the same hardships of partying like a rock star the night before a major family event. There are few things more difficult in life than missing out on a killer party because you have to go to your cousins first communion, or “bat mitzvah” for the Jewish community. The choice doesn’t even exist, its a non-choice. The fact is that you are going to go to both. The decision was made long before both invites were even sent out. The only obstacle is the balancing act that is to follow.
The best part of the whole conundrum is when you tell your friends that you have something important to accomplish the next day. The discussion that follows is one you only find in the debriefing department of 007 movies. They laugh at you, wondering how in the world you are going to pull off such a feat, all the while knowing full well that they have been in the same exact predicament as you. The wheels are already in motion going over the map of the night, scene by scene, what you and your friends usually partake in. Pretending the whole while that you are going to take it easy, maybe warm the bench on the 4th round of cherry bombs. But that doesn’t happen does it? It seems to be the person that has something to do the next day is usually the General Custer of the group, rallying the troops to fight to the last bullet and til the last Miller Lite bottle drops.
So the next morning, you wake up. Toppers cheese seeping out of your pores, stomach queasy from the last shot of Jamo before bar close. The only thing that is reassuring is that your friends are scattered among the floor, sleeping in what can only be described as someone with a morphine induced pain treatment. You walk around them to get to the bathroom like you were that dude that got his arm blown off in Saving Private Ryan. The sound of the blast still ringing in your ears as you try to get your footing. The mission at hand seems to be getting less and less likely with each step you take. The worst is yet to come, after you flush the morning piss out of your system. You take a couple steps over to the mirror, and raise your head. Complete trainwreck. Your stomach sinks lower than you ever could have imagined.
Lyss’s Bliss:
“Ugggggggggggggh,” you grunt, before you even realize you’re awake. The moans, groans and sighs that erupt out of your vodka infused morning breath are out of your control. You’re afraid to open your eyes, and bask in the final moments before walking the plank that will be this day. You open one eye, awesome, slept in your contacts. The other eye does not open so easily. Perfect, you didn’t manage to wash off your makeup, sure fire way to show the world how you really live your life.
For a brief moment you think you pulled it of. You managed to have a Ke$ha kind of night and wake up feeling like someone your parents would be proud of. Then the flashbacks start. You look to your left and realize you are not in bed alone. Red flag number one. To your right you see a full glass of water, which you could have sworn you downed before passing out in a last minute effort to re-hydrate. That’s red flag number two. And finally, you step out of bed to trudge your way to the bathroom and need the wall to support the impromptu case of vertigo that hits you, unable to really focus on anything. Strike three my friend, you’re out. But guess what? It’s go time. It’s too late to make up some pathetic excuse on why you can’t show up. The only thing worse than showing up hungover, is having your entire family know exactly why you aren’t there and the shitstorm of guilt, humiliation and the CIA terrorist-style interrogation that will greet you at these gatherings for the next 2 years. It’s showtime.
Jake’s Take:
With both hands propping yourself up, standing over the sink, you gaze blankly in the mirror trying to decipher if indeed that is your face. Staring aimlessly as if you are trying to realign the Rubik’s cube of your reflection. Splashing water on your face only helps for the fraction of a second it takes to douse yourself. Looking at the clock you have about 25 minutes to get a location that is 27 minutes away and you have woken up from a drunken stupor about 18 seconds ago. You devise a game plan in your head. Step one, no time to shower. Step two, power grab your toothbrush.
Lyss’s Bliss:
Life will feel so much better if you just accept that fact that you are going to throw up and spend the next hour or so dry heaving, or bile burping. After dramatically wiping away the tears that formed after your last dry heave, take a look at the shower and realize there’s just no way it’s going to happen. Stand in front of the sink, your entire body convulsing, and exhale. Brush your teeth and wipe off the eye makeup on your cheek. Don’t even think about washing your face. The bend and snap motion will give you a concussion. Instead, opt for dry shampoo (just make sure to brush out all of the white powder or expect an actual intervention to take place) and cake on more foundation. Why start over when last night you looked so good (yes you are still drunk and yes that is still drunken confidence)? *winks at self in mirror* You got this.
Jake’s Take:
When you wake up in this situation and showering is not an option, you pray to your god that you drank enough vodka to ‘not reek’. Against all myths vodka does have an odor, however you tell yourself it doesn’t on this day. Personally my next step is to throw on the crispest v-neck I can find. Obviously, gonna wear the same pair of jeans I went out in, because I already have my keys and wallet in there. Dabble on some cologne to cover up the gasoline radiating off of your skin, grab your sunglasses and out the door.
Lyss’s Bliss:
The key here is deception. You need to look like you put an effort in to your appearance. If you didn’t already plan your outfit the night before… well that’s just cute. A few recommendations: anything ironed (wrinkles imply you slept in said outfit), accessories (they provide the optical illusion that you put in the extra umph) and shoes with at least a 3” heel (that way if you stumble your way into the house/restuarant/church/synagogue, just look down, shrug your shoulders sheepishly and blame the shoes). When it comes to scent, typically less is more. In this situation, more is still not enough. You need scented lotion, perfume and hairspray. If you leave your room not high off fumes, you’re not doing it right.
Jake’s Take:
The car ride will be the last moments of freedom you have for the next few hours before you are tortured with a constant barrage of boring stories about how your aunt started buying her pickles from Sendicks. Blast Kanye West or whatever you listen to you, and hopefully it’s the time of year you can roll down the windows and just cruise. I like Kanye West or rap music to pound out whatever partying I have hanging out in my bowels. This is the biggest chance I have of some piece of shit glancing at me doing the west coast gang sign. Either that or I am completely and utterly out of it and I can’t even properly make a left hand turn. In which case I turn off any and all noises and try to make there.
Lyss’s Bliss:
By this point you’ve already fallen down the stairs, told anyone (including animals) within earshot that you just, “can’t” and dropped your keys a minimum of three times before successfully locking up your apartment and harlem shaking your way to the car. There will be no such thing as a comfortable temperature. You will alternate between sweating out and shivering your booze pores. You’ll flip through every genre of music before finally giving up and shutting all noise off completely. It’s just you and the open road. And the plastic emergency bag you brought with “just in case.” PSA: if anyone ever tells you it’s impossible to throw up on yourself while driving, it’s false. Don’t ask me how, I just know.
Jake’s Take:
Pulling into your destination you turn off your car and try to milk the final moments before you have to walk in. After you finally decide to drag your sorry ass into this sorry excuse of an event, you check your breathe and pucker up your asshole to get nailed with some serious mind fucking. To no one’s surprise, when you walk in your mom somehow knows that you have gone out the night before you even uttered hello. She gives you that look and asks how you are feeling, you glare at her like she can literally go fuck her face. Finally smelling the vodka you were desperately trying to hide, you walk over to the relatives pretending to be happy to see them and hope they don’t know what vodka is. Tiptoeing through the gauntlet that is your family, you realize how much better your friends are than the people you actually share the same blood line with. How could they not be subjecting themselves to the form of torture that you did? Don’t you want to be in the miserable state that I am in? Going out the night before and being extremely hung over today was the best available option. The thing to do is just to hang out around the food and hope that one of your cousins is in the same boat you are. Have fun, you are in a concentration camp.
Lyss’s Bliss:
Life sucks. After using GPS to find your way to the home you literally were born and raised in, you opt to park on the side of the street, do not trust your park job in driveway. You put on way too much shiny lip gloss and step outside, upon which the wind blows your hair into your lips. “Fuck it,” you think, or maybe say out loud, you’re just not sure at this point, “I made it.” You walk in and immediately hate everyone you were with last night. What were they thinking when they let you take that last (those last) shot (3 shots) of Apple Pucker (Rumpleminze). You hope they all throw up on themselves today as you imagine your friends on YOUR couch watching YOUR Netflix. Oh well, it’s too late for bitterness. You’ve been chosen as the human sacrifice. You open the door and a barrage of dogs, babies, and women too loud for their own good swarm to you like bees to honey. Only you’re not honey. You’re still drunk. You smile, swallow down last night’s Toppers and hug them. Thankfully there’s one sibling present who has your back and knows to hand you a mimosa, bloody mary, glass of wine or just a glass of alcohol. You can do this. Just remember, whatever you do, do NOT hold a baby. Don’t look at a baby. Don’t even say any words that start with the letter B. Not only is this for your own good, this is for the welfare and future of that child. Congratulations, you’ve hit rock bottom. See also: rehab, dante’s inferno, Miley Cyrus concert, vegan restaurant, dry wedding.
So what you’re telling me is we have the time to invent the Double Down, glue that can repair a hole in a parachute AND a bra that can triple a woman’s cup size, but still haven’t found an easier way to package and distribute CDs? I thought this was America. Here are some things I challenge, neigh, beg, someone to simplify (before I lose what little is left of my sanity).
I don’t understand how these bow tie wearing teenage movie theater employees expect me to get my properly balanced salt to Sour Patch Kids ratio on when they give me an overflowing bucket of yellow goodness and expect me to somehow manage equal sodium distribution. The best I can do is salt the top like a Senor Frogs margarita. Cut me some slack here and throw some salt on that bitch half way through.
Conch Potatoes 
