For whatever reason, my friends from far and wide seem unduly concerned with the state of my hangover tomorrow morning. In fact (and I hope you’re sitting down for this) I haven’t had a hangover on New Year’s Day for something like eighteen years, except for the time I was staying at Jaime‘s because the fact is that everyone who stays at Jaime‘s wakes up with a well-deserved hangover every single day, which is why it’s so handy he works at Starbucks: the remedy is right there in the vacuum pot.
I like staying at Jaime‘s.
But where was I? Ah yes, why I don’t tend to have a hangover on New Year‘s. Well, for the longest time I was a wage ape at Starbucks, as perhaps you are aware. Now, because I cannot tolerate cigarette smoke and because I am of a certain age that ensured that all nightclubs in my clubbing days were as cloudy as the tilapia tank at T&T, I never got into the habit of going to bars and nightclubs. And Howard and his angels knew that. They looked around their labour force and saw twentysomething clubber after twentysomething clubber, until they came to me.
She’ll work New Year’s Day, they said. She’s not going on a booze cruise the night before, no way. And, sadly, they were right. You know it’s bad when your own mother tells you to loosen up and get out more.
I never listened to her.
Consequently, they’d have me working New Year’s Day, which I did for seven straight years. And every. Single. Time. most of the scheduled workforce would call in with life-threatening hangovers. Every. Single. Time. I’m no fool: I’d called them all the night before, just to remind them they didn’t have to be 100%, but they had to be present, vertical, and soberer than the customers the next morning. I offered presents and free pizza to anyone who showed up on time. Did it do any good? Hell to the no, but where would I be if it had? I’d be desperately casting around for blog fodder, that’s where I’d be!
Now, you may know, if you know anything about me, that I’m a raging bitch, despite my low Wrath rating on the Seven Deadly Sins test. I am also a fully capable stalker type, but only for recreational purposes. So what was my response to these no-shows? 
If the customer flow was slow enough, I would phone them every half-hour, “to check on” them. “Feeling better?” I’d chirp. “I’m worried about you, especially since you said you weren’t going to go drinking. Do you think it’s food poisoning? My friend got that after eating a boiled egg salad with blue cheese dressing. It was room temperature, and it smelled kinda funny but he choked it down and then he went skiiing and blacked out halfway down the mountain when the needle that the paramedi- are you there? Hello? Hello?”
In any case, on the off-chance that you work or live with someone as unbearable as me, here is some good advice for preventing hangovers on this, the hangover-producingest night of the year. But let’s face it: you won’t need this, as you are indeed not out pouring Mai Tai’s, Long Island Iced Teas, and carbonated Shiraz down your throats but instead at home, quietly reading blogs.
To this very sensible advice, I would add only this: AVOID COINTREAU. Avoid Grand Marnier, Curacao, and Triple Sec as well. They are the sword of the angel of death, believe me. As nummy as they are (and they are! Death is a seductive bitch) they are not worth it. They won’t drive you to madness (for that take two Negronis and call me from lockup) but they will drive you to think of suicide. Fortunately, you’ll be too hungover to actually kill yourself.
Oh yes, and Eggs Benedict was invented as a hangover cure. None superior to it has ever been found, so there goes your diet.
Cambridge News tips: if it’s good enough for undergraduates, it’s good enough for you. This one also includes the very sensible “hair of the dog” but neglects to say you should avoid very hairy dogs the next morning; a Chihuahua portion, rather than a St. Bernard, is more than adequate, except if you’re Lindsay Lohan, for whom only a medium-sized Labrador would be adequite. As for the legend that this only puts off the final pain, well fuckit, I’m all for putting off pain indefinitely. As the great Dean Martin suggested, just stay drunk!
1. Pace yourself: if you peak too soon you’ll be taking an early booze bath.2. Eat. Stuff your face with Christmas leftovers before you hit the alcohol.
3. Don’t mix your drinks: stick to your tipple of choice whether it be champagne, beer or sherry. A pint of the black stuff will not sit well on top of a crisp Chardonnay.
and so on.
And here’s LiveScience, with the predictable scientific “drink water, don’t drink booze at all” stuff that is why scientists are known far and wide as the life of the par-tay.
- Try to eat because food will reduce the irritation to your stomach lining. Soups are good for replacing salt and potassium depleted by alcohol, and fruits and vegetables can help replenish lost nutrients.
- You can take pain relief medications such as ibuprofen and naproxen sodium to reduce your headache and muscle aches as long as your stomach isn’t upset and you have no history of ulcers or bleeding problems. Antacids can help ease nausea and gastritis.
- Drink a glass of water in between drinks containing alcohol. This will help you drink less alcohol, and will also decrease the dehydration associated with drinking alcohol.
Follow the link for more sensible tips. No Cointreau, Eggs Benny on standby, Designated Driver, and Bob’s your uncle!
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