I Carried My Wife Across the Threshold, and She Covered Me In Vomit...

Soooo, last night was muy, muy interessant! I cannot recall if I mentioned this before, but Mike's best friend from home, Diana, is visiting, and last night was supposed to be the introduction of Diana to Trash, our favorite Monday night club. (I know, I know, I make it sound like I go out to clubs a lot, but when I say Trash is our Monday place, it means that the only time I really club any more is when I go to Trash.) When we all got to Tottenham Court tube stop, we emerged to find Jess and Annie trying to keep an extraordinarily drunk Chelsea inside a phone booth, so she would not attract any more attention to herself. Screaming and flailing about, after all, is a key indicator of "American-ness."

Like the good person I oft pretend to be, and with faithful helper Annie, the two of us managed to carry, I mean this quite literally, Chelsea's drunk ass back to our flat. On the journey, we were intercepted by the tube operators who did not want us to take her down, because she was a risk. Then, after convincing them I could take care of her, we had to ask these two disapproving women from Arizona if we could have their plastic bag. They said no, at first, because it was holding the woman's Walker's Shortbread Cookies. Eventually, at the insistence of her friend, and with the possibility that Chelsea could vomit on her at any moment, the woman relented. This was followed by akward small talk, made akward by the fact that I was holding chelsea up with a bag to her mouth.

Upon exiting at Marble Arch, Chelsea began to scream about having to pee. Now, when I say she was screaming, I mean I thought there was a chance we would be arrested. She was not speaking English, that is for damned sure. It sounded more like one of the dead languages from the movie Stigmata. Finally, we got her to the flat.

Now, I have started to realize that this blog is becoming very long, and I don't necessarily think it best to continue in this fashion, but I want to have a complete memory of this, and since I know that barely anyone else reads this POS, I will venture on.

In the flat, we got her to pee, and got her into bed...where she puked...on the bed...and me and annie...and her hair. Then, lord-a-mighty, she passed out. It was the most serene hour and a half of the night, apart from her grotesque snoring. When Diego and Diana got back from Trash, Chelsea somersaulted out of the bed into the coffee table, and was from then on very awake. She had no idea of the time, saying over and over that she had to meet someone and wanted to leave. Then...she peed in the puke bucket....that was in the middle of the living room...in front of poor Diana, who just wanted a relaxing week in London. (At 39 Great Cumberland Place!!! I don't think so, honey) Hell broke loose for the next hour or so, and Chelsea kept trying to break free and go home...alone...without her clothes, purse, phone, keys, or oyster card. Finally, at 4:00 AM, I relented, saying that I would take her home, knowing the only way I would ever get to sleep was to take her home. In fact, every other time I had tried to get her to sleep, the lights would be out for five minutes and she would attempt to bolt, stupidly thinking I was asleep. Clever girl, clever girl.

Finally, at 5 AM we arrived after quite the long and, on her part, very bitter bus ride to West Kensington. She went to sleep, I crashed on my couch, and this morning she was still very drunk, remembering only that she had gone to the tube and never made it to Trash so she could "Dance the night away with Jess" and that she could not find her "dance pass."

Anyways, that was my night last night. I know, that long a blog for one event, but it is a night I will forever cherish as the night I thought about killing my wife. I have forgiven her, my jeans have forgiven her, the bedsheets have forgiven her, but it is her stomach, I'm sad to say, that may never relent.