Flashback Friday!

Happy Friday, Everyone!! (It IS still Friday.) My humblest apologies for the lengthy delays. I've been a busy, busy girl.

I had a couple of options for this week’s edition. Ultimately, drunken idiocy won out over poignant mom stories. (Isn't that the way that always goes?) No worry, though, the poignant mom story will be here next week, so don't think I completely scrapped it.

As noted, however, it's a wild and crazy college years Flashback Friday! So grab a stein and stagger along with me down Memory Lane.
Not having gone away to college may have saved me some money, but there were a few drawbacks. The most significant of which (at least in the day) was that I had to live by my parents' rules while living in their house. DESPITE me being old enough to vote! (And, yes, I fully intend to impose the same restrictions on my oldest daughter next year when she begins her Freshman year at my alma mater.) In any event, when you are the teenager aching for independence, it's a little confining.

And so it was, on one lovely fall evening, that I came to understand how much easier it might have been, had I gone away to school. A couple of friends and I were going to drive across the river to Harvest Homecoming. Now, when I say "across the river", I mean a twenty minute drive from my house, and when I say "Harvest Homecoming", I mean a little fall festival.

Lisa, Dee and I piled into Dee's car and set out for an evening full of adventure. We foolishly believed that was the best KIND of evening. Unfortunately, while I had no Saturday classes, I had to be at work (at my part-time restaurant job) at 6AM the next morning. (Though, honestly, that information was the farthest thing from my mind.) It was far more about finding some boys and finding some beer. Not necessarily in that order.

Now, for Harvest Homecoming (at least this is how it used to be, I haven't been in years) the little town just over the river would barricade a few blocks on the main drag and the street would be filled, on either side with booth after booth. Some filled with arts and crafts, some selling the ever-popular corndogs and funnel cakes, some hosting games of chance, and, of course, at least one beer booth.

Lisa was "legal", so getting the beer was no problem. However, because we were students, we were obligated to test that theory into the wee hours. After leaving the festival, we went to one party...and then another…getting more and more toasted as we went.

At 5AM, I called it a night...er...you know what I mean. I was still feeling no pain, but knew I’d need to get home and take a shower before work. Lisa and Dee took off, presumably to go home and sleep it off, and I headed to my house to get ready for work.

After my shower, I found I was sobering up quickly. In those days, that was accompanied with a pretty hefty hangover. The waves of nausea were cresting before I got to work. But once I started smelling the food, I began feeling dizzy and lightheaded and it didn’t take long before I was rushing to the restroom to throw up. Of course, I was a professional at that, even at the age of 18. The sounds of heaving from within the ladies' room got so bad, I was apparently driving away paying customers. Consequently, my boss was okay with me asking to go home a couple hours later.

The ten minute ride home became thirty minutes, when I had to add on two stops to pull over and get sick before I could even get home. Worse, I vomited in the bushes in front of my parent’s house because I couldn’t get up the porch stairs and into the bathroom quickly enough.

My Dad met me at the front door and asked why I was home from work. I told him I was pretty sick.

“You know,” he began, “pickle juice will take care of a hangover.”

I raised my eyebrow suspiciously, and said, “Really? I’ve never heard that.”

“Oh yeah, works every time. It’ll straighten you right out.”

Now, by “pickle juice”, my father meant the brine from a jar of pickles. I admit, it sounded like a bizarre thing to me, especially at 8:30 in the morning, but I was desperate for some relief. So I trusted my Dad.

I went out the kitchen and poured myself a tumbler full. I’d chugged down about half of it when the volcanic eruptions began. When the vinegar in the brine hit the contents of my sick stomach, I ran, covering my mouth all the way, to the bathroom and fell, genuflecting, before the toilet. My body was alternately shaking and rigid as I emptied the entire contents of my stomach, and possibly a few other organs, as well, into the commode.

Cold sweat was beading up on my forehead, as I continued to dry-heave long after my stomach was empty. I was white-faced and weak. The blood vessels in my eyes were broken from the violent force and my throat was raw.

The knock on the door sounded distant, but then it was followed by a “You alive in there?” I mumbled something incoherent, crawled to the door and opened it a crack.

My Dad looked at me and said, “That’s what you get for staying out drinking all night.” He turned and walked away as I slowly crawled to my room.

He’d been attempting to teach me a lesson. Truly, he did. Because right then, in the moment, the lesson I filed away, was that I would never…NEVER…do that to my kid.

Oh, and I wised up a little about Dad’s home remedies, too. I can honestly say he never got me again.

Now, you guys go out and have a good weekend. And if you get drunk, WHATEVER you do, PLEASE don’t drink any pickle juice. Consider that my public service for the week.