I woke up this morning with what felt like an entire crew of tiny, malicious little humanzees beating the ever loving fuck out of the inside of my skull. I immediately stumbled downstairs, tripping over cats, and blearily made my way to the Excedrin, thinking that I must be some kind of idiot to end up with a hangover, even after all the preparation I took last night.
I’m in no way, shape, or form an expert alcohol drinker. I’m a big boy, so I can pack ’em away, but I learned back in my college days that there are ways to avoid being sick as a Mapplethorpe photograph the next day (discovered after I turned 21, if my mother is reading this. Hi, Mom!). Mostly it involves re-hydrating yourself well and good before finally passing out for the evening, and I thought I’d handled that before finally stumbling home, plopping down in the computer chair, and laboriously typing out a mea culpa post sometime between 3 and 5 PM – it’s hard to tell exactly how long that took, by the way, because a rotating schedule of cats strolled across the computer desk like a zoetrope, taking turns flopping down in the no man’s land between keyboard and monitor and just generally being furry little attention whores.
So imagine my chagrin upon waking up today and having what could only be described as a blinding headache. If I hadn’t felt so miserable at the time, I would have been mortified at my rookie mistake. At the same time, I couldn’t figure out what had gone wrong – I’d taken all the necessary precautions, after all – and as I stared at the ruins of myself in the bathroom mirror (which was difficult enough, considering I’d left my glasses upstairs), I realized that the sun wasn’t out.
“Aha,” I whispered (because shouting would have hurt), and peered out the window blearily. It was overcast, chilly, and drizzling, while yesterday had been 80 degrees in the shade and clear as the complexion of one of those “real customers” they use in those Proactiv commercials. I wasn’t hung over, I realized – I was simply suffering a pressure headache brought about by a rapid onset of the shitty weather. It happens from time to time, especially when a low pressure system moves in really fast, like it did somewhere between 5 in the morning and when I regained consciousness, so I felt vindicated.
No way I was going to be laid low by a few shots of Jäger and Rumple Minze, affectionately known as a Screaming Nazi when taken together. A vile concoction tasting strongly of of NyQuil and mouthwash, it’s my shot of choice – mainly because when people ask me, “What’s in a Screaming Nazi?” I can say “a bayonet.”
Of course I had learned last week that there is an optional third liquor that can be added to the already potent combination, a final member in a trio that could only be considered the Axis Powers of hard drinking: Goldschläger, that bizarre cinnamon schnapps with the flecks of real gold foil floating around inside. Apparently when you drop a small amount of it on top of a Screaming Nazi, you get something referred to in common parlance as The Third Reich.
Unfortunately, we had none available last evening, which is probably a good thing. I’ve got an unhealthy fascination with Nazi paraphernalia as it is, as evidenced by my conflicted glee over the Hitler Chic movement in the Pacific Rim. Kind of a strange thing to find an interest in, especially when I’ll be most likely wearing a yarmulke at my wedding. I don’t look forward to trying to explain to my Polish grandmother how it’s a chuppah, not “a lovely little awning.”