The Big 30

The hangovers one experiences in their teens and twenties really don't compare to what happens after the age of about 25... In your youth you can easily stay out until 4am, drink your body weight in alcohol, pass out by 5 and by some miracle actually feel human the following day. You may feel a slight headache or dehydration but nothing that can't be cured by an ibuprofen and some water. HOWEVER, once you pass the age of say, 25 it's downhill from there. I don't usually do this but this time, in fact, I would like to show you an example of exactly what Im talking about here by adding the following page for your viewing pleasure. Please read the following before I continue my ranting...

http://www.buzzfeed.com/samjparker/the-9-types-of-hangover-weve-all-had

So, as you have now witnessed just how bad hangovers can be past the age of 25, Id say my post girl's night hangover was a number 2.

After 48 hrs of consuming as much coconut water and green juice as money could buy, I was officially 30 years old. Yes, that's right, today was my 30th birthday. I happen to share my birthday with my roommate/best friend and luckily for him, he was at the airport ready to jet off to celebrate with his family in Miami. I however, had already had my one last girls night out, trapped a nerve in my shoulder and sprained my wrist. So, I spent this glorious day alone in my apartment with my dog. Even she seemed to be looking at me with pity and if she could talk, I imagined by the look she was giving, that the words would be something along the lines of..."oh dear, what did you do this time?" Bitch. What's the point of having a pet if they're going to bloody judge you?!

So, as I sat in my apartment, which may I add, was now bleakly empty as I had already shipped all my belongings back to England. I started to ponder on my life. Not a good idea when you are post hangover, alone, turning 30, broken hearted and sitting in an empty apartment with your dog..

It was not a happy time. The only thing that kept me from throwing myself head first off my balcony, was the thought that in a few days time I would be setting off on a jet plane back to London, to start over, a new life, new beginning and no more bloody waitressing! Hurrah.

As I sat there thinking about this and smiling to myself I suddenly remembered the awful and shocking pain that I was in. My shoulder was killing me after my ridiculous drunken bull ride and it was time for some serious pain relief. Now, lets face it, people in LA tend to pop opiate painkillers such as Vicodin etc for simple pleasure and a good night out, but for me, I actually decided I needed to take one for it's actual medical purpose...curing pain. So, I walked over to my bed stand and pulled one out of my drawer, grabbed a glass of water and popped it in my mouth when..... YOU'VE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME? I started choking on the damn thing. That's right, I somehow managed to drink it down the wrong way and the bastard thing got lodged in my throat causing me to choke. For what seemed like one very long and scary second, my whole life flashed before my eyes and I succumbed to the horrific fact that I was indeed  going to choke to death on a bloody painkiller, on my 30th birthday alone with my dog.

In that second I thought, "f**k that"! I know I've had some bad luck in my days and the past few months had not been the greatest...but I'll be damned if this is going to be my legacy. So, with my new found strength I did what anyone with first aid training would do (finally a reason to thank my work for something) I ran chest first into the biggest corner I could find in my kitchen, in an attempt to perform the heimlich maneuver on myself. As luck would have it it actually worked! I choked up the pill and spat it out across my kitchen as I clung for dear life onto the counter that had basically saved my life.

After that, I burst into absolute hysterical laughter. I looked around at this situation... the dog hadn't even budged an inch and just continued to stare at me in sheer disbelief, I was gripping the counter in absolute shock that I had actually remembered how to perform the bloody heimlich in the first place and was just generally amused by what the fuck had just happened.

That was it. I was done. Done with LA. Done with being a bitter angry waitress. Done with my stupid heartbreak and absolutely full on ready to get the mc fuck out of LA and back to London.

Was it a sign? Giving me a fresh start? A new chance to start a whole new life? Perhaps it was. Whatever it was, I didn't give a shit, I was ready to blow this joint!

"Girl's night out" and other disasters...

Okay so where did I leave off? Ah yes, with a couple of days before my 30th birthday; suffering a broken heart and in desperate need of an alcohol induced coma, it was time for my girl's night out. This was to be our one final hurrah before I embarked on the big Trans-Atlantic move back home, so the timing was kind of perfect. See? Every cloud... 

My fellow waitress buddies decided we should do something typically "Los Angelean" touristy for the night. (Vocab/grammar skills are not my forte, but hey, I'm not trying for a Pulitzer am I?) We ended up at the Saddle Ranch on Sunset boulevard. Not my usual kind of hangout that's for sure. But after several shots of Tequila, followed by enforced shots of the dreaded and vile Jaegermeister, I didn't really give two hoots where I was.

The pain of my soldier boy break up was finally starting to get a little blurry and I was determined to say "f**k it" and have some serious fun.

For those of you who aren't familiar with "Saddle Ranch", it is a stinky dive bar with a massive electronic bull in a ring, which drunk people pay to take turns attempting to ride, while a sadistic controller violently bucks and shakes them until they fall off. 

The girls took turns riding it and then decided to gang up on me and convince me to have a go. I am not known for being very adventurous in terms of rides and general cheesy tourist fun, and being totally accident prone, I usually avoid ventures such as these.

Also, let me remind you, I had recently lost my job due to a chronic neck and back condition, and being thrown around on the back of a giant bull probably wouldn't be the smartest idea.

 However, once again I can only blame one thing for what was about to happen... Tequila. 

(I really ought to stop drinking that devil juice). 

So, there I went, drunk as a skunk, riding the bull, while hanging on for dear life as to not be chucked off the damn thing. Finally I let my pride go, gave up the fight and of course came flying off into a crumpled heap on the floor. 

Luckily, with the amount of booze flooding my veins, I didn't feel the pain that I would no doubt be waking up with the following morning.

After we'd all been thrown about enough for one night, we went to onto the next best cliche thing to do after a breakup and with a bunch of drunk girls.... A kareoke bar. It was there, that I decided public humiliation and shame was exactly what the doctor ordered...

I stood alone singing (well shouting) the angriest Alanis Morrisette songs known to man, while I swayed and slurred my way across the stage. Classy. 

Luckily the rest of the night became quite a blur after that. However, in the morning I had flashbacks of some other deeply shameful behaviour that occurred post kareoke bar... Actually that is a lie. Who am I kidding? Tequila and Jaegar? Total blackout. Couldn't remember a thing, and it wasn't until one of my friends emailed me the bloody VIDEO she had taken of my drunken ballads and the other debauchy that followed, that pieces of the night started coming back to me. (Too shocking to even blog about)... THAT is how bad they were.

After crawling out of my shame cave and stumbling out of bed into the kitchen, sporting massive black sunglasses and having my roomate greet me good morning with a "Hey Liz" (as in Taylor). I felt it. Sudden, sharp, excruciating pain in my shoulder and wrist. Oh dear god. What had I done? 

That bloody bollocky stupid bastard wanky bull ride!!!!!! 

 Yup, that's the price you pay for letting loose and trying to drown your emotional pain in booze. 

Genius that I am, I actually managed to sprain my wrist and trap a nerve in my shoulder in the process.

Only three letters came to mind...

FML.

Hangovers are bad enough as it is. With my head pounding, my body screaming in pain and my tongue sporting it's own fur coat I crawled back into bed, downed a shit load of water and about a hundred painkillers as I prayed for sleep.

The next day was to be my 30th birthday and one thing was certain... Tequila was not going to be involved.

She's BACK!

So this is awkward...
Feels a bit like calling an old friend, you know? The one you disappeared on years ago with and are now asking a favour of with your tail between your legs.
Having been MIA for the past two years it would be a miracle if any of you were still listening, however, I do hope that you are! I've missed talking with you and sharing my tales of woe.

As it's been a while since you heard from that cranky, disgruntled waitress... Aka me, there is a lot of drama to catch up on, and as you probably don't fancy reading an essay, I think the best thing to do is give you some bullet points, (in parts over the next few posts), of the past two years in a sort of montage..
**Cue Team America soundtrack**

• After three years of the daily grind at Diner X I ended up in the emergency room one morning, unable to turn my head. Yes that's right, my body had officially decided no more waitressing for me and so began a chronic neck problem. Oh joy. 
• I lost my job due to going from "Hot waitress, wearing fish nets and thigh high boots" to crippled waitress wearing hideous neck collar.
• After spending months unemployed and in gruelling Chiropractic treatment,  I landed in Spain on my Mother's doorstep ready for her to pick up the pieces and help me plan the rest of my life. (That is what mums are for isn't it)?

The following day, after an afternoon of slobbing out on my Mother's couch; feeling sorry for myself, skin broken out with spots, frizzy hair from travelling,  gaunt face from stress, Mum dragged me out to dinner with her friends. Little did I know, the hot, charming son of one of those friends would be there. Hence why I never bothered trying to look better and showed up in no make up and a shit outfit choice.

 I arrive at dinner and OMG! The most gorgeous man Id ever laid eyes on is there. Not only is he a handsome Brit with Turquoise colour eyes, but he is funny, charming and a Captain in the British army. Major SWOON.  I manically grab Mum's handbag, praying there is some kind of make up in there, rush to the bathroom and desperately try to do something with my appearance.
Now, as cliche as this sounds, it was love at first sight :) :)
I was trying, (and think I succeeded) to win him over with my personality that night, in order to make up for my face (which was now sporting Mum's bright pink lipliner and green eyeliner!) and he and I spent the entire leaving laughing our socks off and bonding over dinner. Left our parents to their meal and headed to the bars. By 2am we were absolutely hammered and falling into bed together. Total slut I know. But there were four factors in play here ok?!

• 1. Tequila. 
• 2. Hot soldier boy. 
• 3. Extreme sexual frustration caused by months of loneliness.
•  4. More Tequila.

I wake up the next morning and remember nothing of the previous night. Total blackout. Followed by instant regret and nausea as I peer over to see this gorgeous man sleeping in my bed, knowing he is going to have zero respect for the slut who slept with him on the night they met. All I could think was "You idiot!" Tequila has a lot to answer for.

I then remember I am in my Mother's house and he now has to get up and get out before she sees this situation. I wake him up and assure him this is totally out of character and he is to tell my Mum he slept fully clothed in my bath tub. Good plan, I thought, as about only two of my brain cells appeared to be working at that moment. So, he gets dressed and does in fact assure my Mother that he was a complete gentlemen and he scurries off home.

Now even though the rules say, "Never sleep with a man on the first date." In this particular instance it worked out in my favour as for the weeks to follow he literally couldn't keep his hands off me.
That night was the beginning of a whirlwind romance. We were inseparable after that, I  postponed my ticket back to LA to stay in Spain with him while he was on leave from the Army. He had to go back to London after a few weeks and asked me to come with him, so I did, and we spend another amazing loved up few weeks there together as he prepared to go back for 6 months in Afghanistan.

• After a total of eight glorious weeks together, he announced that he was in love with me (well that happened after week 4 actually) and as I felt the same, I assured him I would wait for the 6 months to be over while he was in the war zone but he said it couldn't happen and would be too hard being so far apart, so as hard as it was, this was to be the end of this romance.  
• The airport was hell. A long tearful goodbye, like something out of a movie, followed by me drowning myself in copious amounts of vodka on the plane back to Los Angeles. The flight attendant was my new guardian angel who, after seeing me going through a million tissues, began automatically re-filling my glass with booze without me having to even ask. Good lad. 

Now back in LA, still jobless and now heart-aching. I didn't know what to do with myself. A mere 48 hours later I get an email from Soldier boy telling me he can't end this. We both love each other and will make it work. So over the next few weeks we exchange daily soppy emails and skype calls. 

Madly in love and still jobless, I decided to say good bye to LA and move back to my hometown. Not just for the soldier boy (although he helped) but due to utter frustration with how my life had panned out.
Look, I moved to Hollywood, like so many other young actors, with dreams of walking the red carpet. However, at this rate, being almost 30 years old with a chronic neck injury and officially unemployed, I realised it was more likely I would be cleaning the bloody red carpet than walking down it anytime soon! So, I made a choice. I decided enough was enough. I wanted to move back to London and start a new life for myself.
So, with everything packed, shipped and sold I was sitting in my apartment with nothing but my dog by my side waiting to embark on my new life. I had to wait an extra two weeks for the pet papers to travel so I had to spend my 30th birthday (which was in a few days), alone. Where were my friends you may wonder? Yes, where the f**k where they? I wondered too. Another reason to leave La La land...

So, there I am a few days before the big 30. Weeks gone by of reading and writing gushing emails back and forth from my man in England, who was now awaiting my arrival so we could spend the summer together before he left for Afghanistan, when suddenly I get an email....

"Im sorry but I've decided it's going to be too hard to do my job and have a relationship at the same time. I must put my boys first".. blah blah blah.
Now, at this moment a few things/feelings crossed my mind...kind of in this order.
1. RU Serious?
2. NICE timing. One week before I finally get to see you AND a few days before my birthday.
3. Via email?!
4. Pussy.
5. Bastard.
6. Utter Heartbreak.
7. Devastation.
8. Anger.
9. Forgiveness.. Ok, so, I have no idea what being the Captain of an army about to head to Afghanistan is like. Maybe he was right, maybe this is for the best. I can't blame him.

So, that was the end of that.
I was officially single again; about to turn 30, unemployed, heartbroken and about to move back to the country I left 12 years ago. There was only one thing for it...

Girls night out.



Watch this space to find out what happened next.....