We’ve all been there. The sun somehow finds its way around, through or under your curtains, and pierces through your eyelids, zapping your eyeballs and all of a sudden you are very much awake…and very much wishing you were dead. Your room – no, the whole WORLD – is spinning and your head is boom boom BOOMING, oddly in time to last night’s bass. Despite being exhausted, there’s no way you’re going to get back to sleep with that drum solo blaring in your skull. Your Saturday/Sunday/any-day-that-ends-in-y Caribbean hangover has arrived.

Groaning, you flop over onto your side, praying for the end. When at last you’re sadly certain that Death isn’t coming to your rescue, you muster the strength to sit up. Staring at the floor and chewing on cotton, you can’t decide which you need to do first: drink water, pee, or puke.

I normally settle for peeing first, as it allots for more time to sit down with your head in your hands, trying to die or to sleep. Then, depending on the severity of the need to vomit, I’ll either guzzle water like I’ve just trekked the Sahara, or sip it gently, willing my body to accept each drop. Puking is always left as a last resort; no one likes to puke.

No matter the varying specifics of my hungover state, I find that there is always one constant: I am hungry. Not just hungry, but ravenous; more ravenous than any human being has ever been. I want to eat EVERYTHING. Hangover hunger is a force to be reckoned with. Whether it’s Chinese food, a large, greasy pizza, a Crandall’s beef patti, a johnny cake with egg, ham and cheese (or – if you are my friend, Becca – a large bowl of lettuce…don’t ask, I don’t get it either), or all of the above, I want it – pronto.

Therein lies the problem. How am I supposed to get my hands on all this deliciously bad food?! Having grown up on a rock I am astutely aware that there is no such thing as food delivery service. This is a great travesty, in my opinion, and something I have never managed to come to terms with. Chickens crowing in the wee hours of the morning? Won’t wake me up. Goats and cows in the road? Doesn’t phase me. (That’s not normal? Where else are they supposed to be?!) Lizard in the shower? I’ll strike up a conversation about the mosquito in my bedroom. But this lack of delivery service – what the hell?!

There’s nothing worse than being hungover (or, sometimes, still drunk), desperate for food, and having absolutely no desire to go anywhere. I mean, it’s not just lazy, it’s dangerous! Shaky hands, slow reflexes, questionable vision, and obviously poor decision-making skills do not a good driver make.

But it’s not just us hungover folk who are suffering. Forget to pack your kid’s lunch and want to have something delivered to him? Nope. Burned the dessert at your dinner party and want to get something sent over, post-haste? Guess again. Your boyfriend dumped you and you don’t want the world to see your puffy, blotchy face? Grab a paper bag, sister, you’re going out!

I don’t really understand why delivery doesn’t exist here. It can’t be that hard. If the electricity, cable, concrete, etc, companies can find my apartment, why can’t the restaurants? Directions are simple enough; there are none of those pesky street names and numbers to remember. It’s just a matter of stating your landlord’s name, the village or bay you live in, and one or two key landmarks (like a tree or a wall or a goat). Throw in the name of the person who lived there before you and you’re set! I just moved into a new apartment and telling people where it is, is a breeze. As my friend said the other night, “Ha! I figured out the exact apartment you live in, in three questions!” It’s easy. Come on, Simply Delicious; throw that Chinese food in the back of a van and come find me.

I have visions of that scene in the movie Two Weeks Notice  where Sandra Bullock is sitting on her kitchen counter, talking into the phone and ordering six items or so from the Chinese menu that she knows by heart. She places her order (for delivery!), pauses for just a second while she listens to the question posed to her on the other end of the line, and then responds, “Yes, it’s for one.”

I want to be her.

I can see it now: I’m on the phone to Capriccio’s, ordering a Pizza Primavera with no olives, plus pepperoni, one order of bruschetta, and the piadina emiliana.

“Name?”
“Sophie.”
“Sylvie?”
“No, Sophie.”
“How many it fah?”
“Just one. Just for me.”
“Ok dahlin’, soon reach.”