If There is One Thing a 1-Year-Old Respects, it is a Hangover

I can’t adequately explain how amped I was to see my daughter at 05:30am, central standard time, Sunday morning. I was out to dinner the night before with a friend who is basically the Rain Man of wine. When you go to a BYO restaurant with him, he does not show up with a magnum of Barefoot Chardonnay. Oh no. He comes loaded for bear with three different bottles of wine in some sort of carrying case, and his own glasses. His own fucking wine glasses. “Here are your glasses……oh, did you bring your own?” Yes, we came in hot with our own beverage service, now fuck off will you. Add his three bottles to the one I brought, and I think you are starting to get the picture. Apparently, based on limited field research on the subject, baby hominids–or Homo sapiens if you’d prefer–do not drink to excess nor do they give a shit either way if you have. They will be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at whatever hour their own internal clock tells them to flip the ON switch (and hopefully your own flicks theirs at much later hours than our little angel has chosen to her entire. fucking. life.), making sure that you are well aware that Abby of Sesame Street fame is flying in whatever God-awful song she is said to be flying in on the suicide-inducing album that we listen to between 4 and 27 times daily. And just in case it isn’t sinking into your wine-soaked morning brain, she’ll fly Abby herself around and directly into your skull a dozen times as visual reinforcement.

I made a semi-valiant effort in ignoring her and pretending to still be asleep because I felt as though I was viewing and listening to everything going on in the bedroom from beneath approximately 12-16 inches of water. This is as pointless an endeavor as one can pursue given the child will not tire of telling/showing you the adventures of Abby, which combined with the aggressive storming about and turning on of lights by the wife in protest to your lack of assistance in child rearing during your self-inflicted Irish Flu condition, is a potent 1-2 punch of morning coffee, let me assure you.

Once up you know that to attempt to focus on something, anything, actual physical coffee will be required, which is not the ideal time to realize that you are freshly out of beans. As I kept opening and closing various cabinets in the kitchen that coffee has never been kept in at any point during the 6 years we’ve lived there, the baby began in no uncertain terms demanding “ABC’s. ABC’s. ABC’s. ABC’s.” This is her way of informing us that we will all be listening to the aforementioned Sesame Street album which has an “ABC’s” song until our brains slowly ooze out of our ears and we go on a killing spree. It was at this point when my fight-or-flight instinct kicked in and I decided to fly. Although I knew the treadmill at the gym would present its own torments in my present condition, they paled in comparison to the Sesame Street rendition of “She’ll Be Coming Round the Mountain” with a guest spot by “Polly Darton” which is their cheap knock-off of Dolly Parton. As I labored through 5 miles at a fat person’s pace and choked back puke burps for 45 minutes I was never more sure that I’d made the right decision. If someone out there, anywhere, has found a way to translate the following to a 1-year-old, please advise: “DaDa consumed too much strong drink last night and feels like your shitty diapers look. Please play by yourself, both quietly and safely, in another room, and I’ll be with you in 4-6 hours. Thanks sweetie.”

About Zach

Male homo sapien. Warrior poet. I live in Chicago with one wife, one offspring, and Scout the dog. I enjoy various stuff. Besides skinny skiing and going to bullfights on acid, I also enjoy running, reading, drinking, eating and procrastinating on many things, such as starting this blog. I have a mom, a dad, and a younger brother who recently produced a sister-in-law. I'm the only person in my family, sister-in-law included, who doesn't have a post-graduate degree. I guess that makes me special. I grew up in a small to medium sized town in the middle of Ohio. In fact the even smaller town next door has a sign which reads "The Geographic Center of Ohio". Given this is what they choose to boast you can only imagine how exciting that town is. My town is infinitely cooler. For example on weekend nights people from my town and the surrounding villages and hamlets converge on the public square to "cruise" in their souped-up mini trucks, some bearing Confederate flags, despite growing up and living rather safely north of the Mason-Dixon line. This is high-minded stuff we're talking about here. I graduated sometime during the Clinton presidency from the local high school where I played football and participated in absolutely nothing else. This strategy paid huge dividends when I applied to numerous colleges on the eastern seaboard which were highly selective. When you show up to the admissions table with "HIgh School Football and Nothing Else" on your application, you get respect. After graduating from Ohio University with a degree in Economics that I've used for absolutely nothing, I moved to Boston. Boston is a lovely city. I was doing things I'm not proud of for beer money and I left after 16 months. My next move was to Chicago and 10+ years later there I still reside. I write this blog for therapeutic reasons. Much like some people paint to relax or smoke crack to unwind after a stressful day, I record my thoughts on Al Gore's World Wide Web for 9 friends, 4 family members, 1 person who accidentally clicked through after an unsuccessful Google search for something else, and a guy named Patriot1 who lives in a silver Air Stream in the Nevada desert and broadcasts his own radio show. Is there a point to all of this? I doubt it. Years ago and in a galaxy far, far away (College Park, Maryland, then Athens, Ohio) I was toying with the idea of being a journalism major. I enjoyed writing so it seemed the obvious fit. Then I attended career day and learned that journalism majors could look forward to a salary of $EA,TSH.IT per year with the promise of a fatal heart attack at 47 years of age. I'm not falling for that trick, I told them (them being no one, and told being saying it in my own mind in the shower). Approximately 15 years later here I sit declared the big winner in that battle: I never made any money doing anything else and now I'm writing entirely for free. So suck balls, journalism career day. The views expressed in this website are mine and mine entirely. I don't wish to be an even bigger black eye to my family than I probably already am. As a result of this I will never be able to run for public office and I accept that reality. But this website is a very dignified, well-dressed skeleton full of witty retorts and honorable deeds compared to the disheveled, stenching, staggering and loud skeletons who would come marching out of the closet to White Zombie's "Thunderkiss '65" if they ever unearthed the college years. So enjoy your train ride, your hangover day at work, your AA meeting or your dump. I'm here to serve.
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