Life Lesson #30: "Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy." - Benjamin Franklin

At four in the morning, I do not look any better sober than drunk. My eye makeup is still halfway down my cheeks, my hair matted in sweat and beer just as much as a typical drinking night. Perhaps my face isn’t bright red, or my eyes tiny slits. But it’s the middle of the morning. No matter what, I don’t look nearly as pulled together as I thought I did when I walked out the door.

So, what then, is the difference between Drunkity Skunkity and Sober McGee? That, my friends, lies in the real-time moment of truth that, yes, indeed, I look like crap.

When drunk, most people just don’t care (or are too incoherent to). A quick flip-over of the hair and forehead pat with a paper towel seem to solve everything. You squint your eyes enough in the dirty bathroom mirror and the optical illusion of hotness is achieved. A quick readjusting of the cleavage and pouting of the lips, and the bar is your oyster. I mean really, who can resist you at this stage of the game?

But sober is a whole different story. You look at your reflection and all you can think is, sweet jesus, someone tell me I don’t always look like this. And a millisecond later, holy crap, I totally look like this and when I’m shit faced, it’s probably even worse.

Being on antibiotics and thus not being able to drink (clearly this whole sick thing I’ve been wearing like snap bracelets in the eighties is penance for some sort of nonsense I pulled in a former life) has led me to this realization. The term Beer Goggles takes on a whole new meaning. It’s not just that the eye of the beholder is so mangled you look hot. It’s that your own eyes are so flooded with alcohol you even think you look hot.

I’m going to even go a step further and say that booze is the best ego booster you can wrap your hands around. Your mom will tell you how pretty/handsome/smart/funny you are ten times a day. The hookup you just got into your bed better throw you a nice compliment or two (if not, then your really know how to pick the assholes, buddy). But all it takes is a couple of drinks, throw in a few shots, and by god, who’s better than you?!

And while by no means do I claim my observations to be considered sound scientific research, I really do believe the only difference between The Sobers and The Drunks is self-perception.

The Sobers Thought Process, post 3:30 am: Oh my god, I look like shit. I just stumbled, again. Everyone saw. I so cannot dance. Jesus, no one is coming home with me. I’m such a loser.

The Drunks Thought Process, post 3:30 am: Oh my god, I am the shit. My dance moves are envious. Check me out. Who’s coming home with me tonight? Yea, that’s what I thought. You all want to. Get in line people, get in line.

The Sobers go home without someone to swap STDs with and they blame it on everything from their bad hair day to that stupid joke they tried to tell.

The Drunks go home without someone and they simply blame it on being too wasted to try hard enough.

So as my doctor-imposed detox regimen comes to an end (don’t think I haven’t been counting down the hours, which is now twenty-four more), what have I learned?

That it’s just so much better to drink.

The world is just a better place when there is alcohol involved. I know the members of AA are going to come down on me (after they strap me to a chair and make me admit I have a problem) and that I’m most certainly going to get the clap in my next life for saying this, but consequences be damned.

With alcohol, we’re a happier, prettier, funnier and much more musically inclined bunch of people.

And really, what’s wrong with that?

A certain level of sloppy is what makes the world go round. With Bud Light comes a new friend. Shots of Tequila bring out the Man Love. Vodka guarantees phone numbers scribbled on napkins. Jagger Bombs help enemies put down their swords.

I’m not saying we should all go around smashed every minute of the day. Although, you know, that could actually be very amusing. As long as people weren’t allowed to drive, operate heavy machinery, or watch small children. Or try to cook things over open flames. What I am saying, though, is that being a little messy now and again is a good thing.

Life Lesson #30: Say that I have a problem (and I’ll probably agree), but I think alcohol gets too much flak. Yea, sure, some people tend to get a little belligerent when drunk and waking up with a hangover is something we all hate. But wanting to toss your cookies is much nicer than getting up with a clear head that will only focus on every negative thing it can conjure up.

So while a period of sobriety and self reflection was great and all, I'm ready to have a nice cold one. And I think everyone should join me. We'll all feel better about ourselves for it.

Life Lesson #29: I am available for an interview at a mutually convenient time. Pretty much, whenever.

Looking for a job is truly a fulltime occupation in itself.

So far, it’s the worst job I’ve ever had. And I’ve had some really crappy ones. As I scour the pages of Monster and shove my resume down the throat of anyone who makes the mistake of opening their mouth to ask if I’ve found anything yet (as if unique and rare forms of employment lie under rocks waiting to be discovered), I thought I’d take a look back on some of the more heinous ways I’ve tried to make a few bucks.

Demon Watcher
My first gig, like most young ladies (snark) from the ‘burbs, was babysitting for my neighbors’ twin terrors. What I made in good money, I lost in general fondness for children.

Nicholas and Damien (no coincidence his name sounds a bit like ‘demon’) spoke their own crazy language, punctuated by bloodcurdling screams and what I’m guessing were premature signs of Tourettes. They enjoyed kicking me in the shins for no good reason. They took immense pleasure in throwing semi-liquid substances, such as mashed potatoes, rice pudding and hair gel, on the walls and got huge kicks out of sticking beads, Raisinets, and the occasional bug up their tiny little nostrils. I think they were physically allergic to napping and eating anything that didn’t consist of some highly synthesized form of sugar.

There was a poop-smearing incident on the screen of the television in the family room. It was the last time I watched them.

Animal Keeper
Sadly, I didn’t quite learn that two kids were two more than I could handle. I strapped myself onto the next rung of the middle-class economic ladder: working as a camp counselor at a yacht club. For five summers.
There’s nothing quite like watching a bunch of organic-only, born-with-a-tennis-racket-in-hand, already-familiar-with-sailing-terms-at-birth kids as their gym-rat moms lounge by the pool only twenty yards away. That’s if you actually meet the moms. It was usually the nannies I dealt with (whom I preferred).

I did gain a little wisdom: I learned how to abuse the privilege of junior counselors. Once I got some younger people working underneath me, I swiftly delegated responsibilities and made sure to have as little hands-on time as possible.

One Night Stander
I was a cocktail waitress for one horrible, humiliating, physically painful evening.

Horrible: A table walked out on me. The tab was just under $100. Which of course came out of my tips. So I went home with seven bucks or so.

Humiliating: I dropped a tray of what might have been ten or so assorted beverages onto some guys lap. Glasses, bottles, liquid: everywhere. Including down my light colored shirt and his fancy (and I’m guessing expensive) pants.

Physically painful: Some dude gave me an ass smack-squeeze. It happened so quickly and violently, I almost toppled over. And while I’ve had my ass pinched, slapped, and brushed up on, it tends to happen one verb at a time. That was the only instance I got the double whammy from a total asshole for all to see.

Needless to say, I lasted one night. I never called them back and look upon the evening with a mix of disgrace and regret. The drive home was worse than many a walk of shame.

Ass Kisser
This was actually a non-paying internship I took in my junior year of college. It was for the New York branch of the highly coveted Endeavor, a talent agency that represents many a tv personality/actor/singer/all around entertainer.

My official title was Intern. I soon learned that really was an umbrella term for some of the following: Painter (of conference room), Cleaning Lady (including bathrooms), Rewinder (for some reason, they were all about vhs and not dvd), Paper Shredder (of really shitty scripts and neglected head shots), Dog Walker (for the head agent), and Copier (of anything, three times, because that’s just how we do things, sweetie).

I actually didn’t mind any of the above. Busy work has never bothered me. Better that than sitting with my thumb up my ass. Rather, it was the Celebrity Management that finally got to me.

Generally speaking, I like to treat most people with the same level of respect. I don’t think someone should be treated with a higher level of esteem just because they can lip-sync well or have a knack for crying on command. If, oh, I don’t know, you’re a NASA pilot or help find cures for deadly diseases, then by all means, you deserve my undivided attention and deep respect. But your show just went into syndication and your launching a new pilot? Sorry, but there is no f-ing way I’m going to stop everything I’m doing just to make sure there are only non-fragrant bath soaps in the restroom and that your chamomile tea is at room temperature. Nor am I going to pretend to like your new song, or that Japanese commercial you just shot.

When I gave Chris Klein the president of the company’s private cell number (thinking it was oh-so-important Kevin Kline) and accidentally hung up on Heavy D, they in so many words fired my ass. Which I couldn’t be more grateful for.

Life Lesson #29: Finding a job is not easy. At all. Especially when you have to steer clear of anything that requires one to be responsible for the lives of little ones or balance beverages on trays.

But I have faith I’ve learned a thing or two from past experience. And eventually, goddamn it, I will find a freakin’ job. In the meantime, if you’d like to pay me to hang out with you or wash your dishes, please, just let me know.

Life Lesson #28: I’ll take a case of Pyelonephritis, please.

“Excuse me, Miss?”

Jesus Christ, please don’t be talking to me. Please.

“Excuse me, MISS!”

Fuck. He’s totally talking to me. I was barely standing, holding my own orange-hued urine in a plastic cup, and the most-certainly mentally challenged teenager in a wheel chair was trying to get me attention.

“MISS!”

I slowly turned around. His chair was totally pointed in my direction.

“Miss! I just got one question.”

“Uh, yea?” I barely whispered. I could see my mom out of the corner of my eye, bent over in laughter.

“Do you need a man?” he slurred.

If there was one moment in life in which I wanted to be struck by lightening, it was definitely Wednesday morning at the emergency room of White Plains Hospital. As I stood on the administration line in a cold sweat from a raging fever that had once again just broke for about the tenth time in the last sixty or so hours, I just wanted it all to end.

Before I could respond, or throw the plastic cup straight at his (or my mom’s) head, the grace of someone up above was momentarily bestowed upon me.

“Penny?” an authoritative woman’s voice called out.

I spun around in the opposite direction to face a nurse holding my chart. Her laminated nametag claimed her to be Patricia, Registered Nurse.

“Yes! That’s me!” I practically yelled.

“OK sweetie, come this way. Oh, you still haven’t passed your sample along? Okay, I’ll just take it.”

I could hear my mom gathering her stuff behind me but waited to pass the first security doors before turning around.

“Are you serious? Did he just ask me if I needed a man?!” I asked her in horror.

Tears were streaming down her face.

“Yep, he sure did. And while you were peeing in the cup, he asked someone to write down the number for some Trim Spa product. The commercial on television had some guy saying he lost sixty pounds and his sex drive had never been better. He yelled out ‘I need to get that!’” she responded through laughter.

“Only me. This shit only happens to me,” I muttered.

We followed Patricia into a room with two beds and a curtain.

“Ok. Here’s a bag for your belongings. I need you to take everything off and put this gown on. Backwards.” She said as she handed me a clear plastic bag.

I began stripping, psyched to get out of my now completed drenched clothes.

“Oh, wait sweetie! Let me pull the curtain closed,” Patricia said.

“Sorry,” I said, not really caring whom the hell saw me I was so freaking hot at this point.

“Now, tell me why you’re here.”

The long version, or the short? I went through the past few weeks as quickly as I could. What I thought was a popped rib or muscle spasm. Which turned out to be traces of pneumonia. Which then turned out to not be pneumonia. Which turned into me getting a wicked fever Sunday evening, followed by vomiting, breaking into a sweat that could fill a bucket, violent shaking and cramping, and moments of completely insanity. Rinse. Lather. Repeat. Give or take one or two of the above. The icing on the cake, what I like to call The Four AM Fire Alarm: when I feverishly stumbled into the bathroom to find that my urine had suddenly become a fountain of Tang.

“So, here I am. I figured someone here can figure out what the hell is wrong with me,” I finished.

“Oh sweetie, that sounds awful. Okay, let’s get you on this bed. Mom, if you don’t mind, please step out of the room for a few moments. Standard procedure. And I’m going to need to take her temperature rectally. It’s more accurate than the machine they use when first checking in,” Patricia said.

Oh great. Let the games begin.

I huddled over into the fetal position and squeezed my eyes shut. This is definitely going to make it into my Top Five Shittiest Days in Your Life List.

“So, just a few typical questions. What do you do for a living?”

“Um, I’m actually unemployed at the moment.”

“Okay. Drink?”

“Yes.”

“Smoke?”

“Nope…”

“Drugs?”

“No.”

“What about sex? Are you sexually active?”

“Yes.”

“Do you practice safe sex?”

“Yes?”

Now, actually, is when I’d like that lightening bolt, please.

“Okay, great. Now I’m going to stick this into your rectum, but it will only be for a few seconds.”

“Great.”

No, I’m sorry. NOW. Right now, I’d like that bolt.

“Okay, great job. Wow, we’ve got 103.2. Good thing you came in sweetie. You can lay on your back now. Get comfy. The doctor will be in shortly. He’s young. And single," she added with a wink.

Try as I might, I just had a thermometer up my butt. Comfort was going to be a little difficult to achieve.

My mom came back in.

“Hey Penny, how you feeling?” she asked as she moved my plastered hair from my forehead.

“Violated. She just stuck a thermometer up my butt. That hasn’t happened since I was like five!” I cried.

“Yea, I have a feeling you’re going to have all sorts of unpleasant things happen over the next few hours. I’m sorry. But hopefully we’ll walk out of here knowing what’s wrong with you.”

Which, fortunately, I did. After being there for about eight hours. Turns out I have a horrible kidney infection. Something my body had been throwing out all sorts of crazy signs to warn me, but until the Tang Flag, no one thought to look for. But I sure did have an eventful day before anyone would step up to the plate and confirm my diagnosis. Let me humor you with just a glimpse of the day's events.

Incident 1: A fight outside my curtained bed between a roughly four hundred pound man, his three hundred pound son, and the nurse on call.

“I wanna go home!” four hundred pound man yells.

“Sir, you can’t go home,” the nurse yells back.

“Listen to the lady, pops. Just take it easy,” three hundred pound son says.

“NO! I wanna go HOME.”

“You cannot go home. You have massive quantities of PCP in your body,” the nurse replies.

“What?”

“You took drugs. Close to the amount to be considered an overdose.”

”I didn’t take no drugs.”

“Well, this is what your chart reads.”

“Nope. Not my chart. I did no drugs.”

Incident 2: Being molested (medically, of course), as well as humiliated by the same questions asked by Patricia, by my painfully skinny, very dorky, slightly stuttering Greek doctor. Patricia, I know I’m a sweaty, unemployed young woman who likes to drink and engage in protected sex, but really? Are you serious? You thought I’d hit it off with Revenge of the Nerds over here? My life is truly in shambles.

Incident 3: Not one, but two cat scans. Because the first one showed what might be a lump on my kidney. (“Good thing we accidentally had you drink that barium, sweetie. Otherwise this wouldn’t have shown up.”) Yea, no lump. Thanks people. For sending my mom and I into mild cardiac arrest though. I’m going to go throw up this chalk now.

Incident 4: More anal probing. To get another temperature read. And then, for the best of all. A Tylenol suppository. Glorious.

Life Lesson #28: With all their fancy tools and hard to understand language, I’ve learned that the medical industry is still a little shaky. They might diagnosis you seven ways to heaven, and still are completely wrong. And sometimes, they’re going to revert to the most rudimentary ways to find out what’s going on inside, like poking a mercury stick up your butt and hitting you in the back a few times to find out where it hurts. If you’re lucky, they’ll eventually figure out what’s wrong with you, then hit you with a nice antibiotic that puts you out of commission for two weeks and a pain killer that wakes you up in the middle of the night with terrifying nightmares. Keep your fingers crossed – it worked for me!